Blue Moon: Mundy's Landing Book Two

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “I heard him,” Rowan replies, ignoring the man and texting their pizza preference to her son. Then she stands back and holds the door open. “You can go on in.”

  “Is Ora up in her office?”

  “No, she wasn’t up for climbing all those steps. She’s in the kitchen. You know the way.”

  “Thanks, Rowan.” Annabelle can’t help but feel smug as she and Oliver step over the threshold, leaving the crowd of strangers outside in the rain.

  Blinking into the harsh glare of light that spills from above, Indi wishes the others would shut up. But they both started screaming when the trapdoor opened, ignoring their captor’s guttural commands for silence.

  Above the screams and his voice, she hears a telltale scraping sound overhead. The ladder.

  He’s bringing another girl to join them, she realizes, opening her eyes.

  The light is indirect now; not nearly as harsh. It still makes her eyes ache, but she forces them to stay open, watching as he lowers the ladder into the cell.

  But he doesn’t descend grunting and lugging a limp female figure.

  He comes alone, leaving the flashlight propped overhead so that the cell is illuminated.

  His face is twisted into a hideous scowl.

  He reaches into the bag he’s carrying and tosses several objects at Indi’s feet. A bottle of water and some bread. He drops the same beside Kathryn, cowering and wailing on the ground.

  He fixes his gaze on Juanita, kneeling between them, screaming in Spanish for God to save her.

  Indi watches as their captor removes a key ring from his pocket and strides over to her.

  “Shut your mouth, Juanita, and open your eyes. Now.”

  Those words, laced with a lethal calm, reach her. She falls silent and still.

  Indi sees the object in his hand before Juanita does. Blinking away the unrelenting darkness, she gazes up at him, but she can’t possibly see the pistol pointed squarely at her head.

  “You’re going to do exactly what I tell you to do. All of you. If you don’t . . .” The sound of a weapon cocking is unmistakable.

  Juanita gasps. Kathryn shrieks. Indi swallows a lump of bile, trying to think logically.

  He has the keys.

  Is he going to let them go?

  No—he let them see his face. They’re never getting out of here alive. Either he’s going to shoot them all right where they are, and unlock their shackles so that he can dispose of them . . .

  Or he’s going to unlock us first, and take us someplace else to kill us.

  If that happens, then the first two who are freed can try to overpower him while he’s unlocking the third. It might work if he saves tiny Kathryn for last. If not . . .

  It’s still worth a try, unless . . .

  Indi looks at the ladder. If he were to unlock her first, would she be able to climb it before he could shoot her?

  That’s unlikely.

  It’s even more unlikely that if she did manage to make it to the top, there’s a wide open door to freedom. Trapped up there, she’d be a sitting duck for him and his gun.

  Much better for two of them to jump him. Maybe they can wrestle the gun away, or grab the ladder and hit him with it.

  She tries to catch Juanita’s eye to convey the plan, but her head is bowed, and he’s holding the gun pressed to her temple with one hand while he fumbles the keys with the other. She’s trembling violently, hyperventilating, and Kathryn continues crying hysterically.

  “Don’t move, do you hear me?” he tells Juanita, as the keys clank against her shackles. “Don’t you dare move. Stay still.”

  He manages to unlock first one arm and then the other. She stays utterly still, crumpled on the floor.

  Indi holds her breath. Please let me be next. Pleasepleaseplease . . .

  Kathryn is still shrieking. He gives her a hard kick. “Shut up! Shut up!”

  Her cries abruptly give way to a yelp of pain, and then a forlorn whimper.

  He turns away, satisfied.

  I’m next, Indi thinks as he looks toward her. Thank goodness.

  Even if Juanita doesn’t rise to the occasion, she’ll try to take him herself. Adrenaline rushes through her veins. She’s good and ready, bracing herself. When he puts the gun against her forehead, she can’t lose focus. She has to stay calm, ready to attack.

  “Let’s go,” he says, prodding the gun into Juanita’s neck. “Get up. Now.”

  Wait—what is he doing?

  “No,” Juanita sobs, staggering to her feet. “No, please . . .”

  “Start climbing. Climb!”

  He’s taking her, Indi realizes. He’s taking her, and he’s leaving us. But why?

  It takes Juanita several tries to make it up even a few rungs. Every time she falls, he kicks her hard and forces her up again. He jabs her with the gun, right behind her.

  Finally, she makes it to the top. He gives her a hard shove, pushing her up and over the edge. Then he scrambles after her. The trapdoor slams with a thud, and the light is gone.

  For a long moment, left behind, Indi is bitterly disappointed.

  Then relief trickles in, along with the certainty that she’ll never see Juanita again.

  Clasping a mug of chamomile tea on the antique kitchen table, Ora wishes she’d brewed a cup of strong Earl Grey instead. A few months ago, when she was having heart palpitations, her doctor warned her to stay away from caffeine, and she’s heeded that advice ever since. But today, she could use a little something to pep herself up.

  She was awake late last night putting the finishing touches on her special handout: “A Walking Tour of The Heights.” She proofed it several times, making sure she hadn’t left out any sites relevant to the 1916 crimes.

  No, they were all there: the three Murder Houses along with countless local landmarks that had played a role, from the site of the old police station, now a private home, to the cemetery behind Holy Angels Church where the three victims are buried. She added a time line and graphic imagery that included several artifacts that are part of the exhibit. After printing several hundred copies of the guide on yellow paper and folding them pamphlet style, she finally collapsed into bed.

  She’d deliberately waited until the last minute to create the maps, knowing that the locals won’t be pleased. She hadn’t even mentioned the project to her committee members or volunteers, knowing she’ll hear nothing but complaints once the community gets wind of it.

  So far, that hasn’t happened. She’s spent the morning chatting with the visitors who have filled the place and assuring every police officer and fireman who’s stopped by that she’s strictly adhering to the occupancy laws. People aren’t thrilled about being kept outside in the rain, but they’re resilient enough to wait. And so far, no one has complained about the map—probably because none of the visitors live around here. Today, the locals wouldn’t be caught dead in—

  “Ora?”

  She looks up.

  Well, speak of the devil, she thinks, seeing a familiar face peeking into the kitchen. She knows the woman—yes, of course she does—but it takes a moment to place her. That’s because she’s cut her hair very short, Ora realizes, and she’s coloring it brunette again after having gone gray. The chic, sporty style looks wonderful on her, taking years off her pretty face.

  “Mary! It’s wonderful to see you!”

  The woman’s smile fades. “It’s me, Annabelle. Mary was my mom.”

  “Annabelle! Of course. I’m sorry, dear. That’s what I meant.”

  It is what I meant, Ora assures herself.

  Of course she knew it wasn’t her dear friend Mary, who passed away years ago. This is Mary’s lovely daughter, who recently bought the Purcell house after that old sourpuss Lester refused to sell it to Ora.

  “Come in. Is this your son?”

  “Yes, this is Oliver.”

  “You’re growing up, young man. How old are you now? Eight? Nine?”

  Dismayed, he says, “I’m twelve.”
/>   “Ah, of course, you’re twelve.” Lest they conclude that she’s senile, she explains that because she never had children of her own, she sometimes finds it impossible to guess their ages.

  Annabelle seems to buy that explanation, though the boy still seems offended.

  “I know you’re busy, Ora. I’m sorry to just show up in the middle of all this.”

  “At least you’ve announced yourself. That isn’t always the case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve had a few late night visitors this week. It’s that time of year, isn’t it?”

  Annabelle looks down at her son. “Oliver, did we tell Mrs. Mundy we wanted pepperoni on the pizza?”

  “We said plain.”

  “Would you run and tell her we’d like pepperoni, please?”

  “I don’t like pepperoni.”

  “But I do. Tell her we’ll just have it on half.”

  He hesitates, eyes wide behind his glasses, looking over his shoulder at the expanse of rooms that lie between here and the door.

  “Come on, Oliver. I’ll walk you back to Mrs. Mundy. Then you can hang around with her and help her count people while I talk to Ms. Abrams.”

  “I don’t think she needs help counting. She’s a great counter.”

  “Well, so are you. Let’s go,” his mother says firmly.

  Good for her. She seemed to be coddling the boy for a moment there, not doing either of them any favors. But now she seems to have remembered who’s in charge.

  Mother and son disappear for a few moments, and Annabelle returns alone. Whatever she wants to discuss is obviously unsuitable for a child’s ears. Ora’s interest is piqued.

  “Sorry, Ora. He gets spooked easily.”

  “Yes, well, who doesn’t?” she asks with a smile, though the truth is, she doesn’t.

  Two nights ago, she again heard noises on the first floor after she’d gone up to bed. That time, they were distinct footfalls. But she was too darned tired to go down to investigate.

  Or maybe she was afraid she wouldn’t find anything if she did.

  An intruder, she could handle. But no one at all—or worse yet, Rip Van Winkle. Or Papa . . .

  Hearing things, seeing things: that’s the beginning of the end.

  If it’s going to happen, just let me get through this last convention.

  But maybe it isn’t going to happen. Maybe there really was someone there. That’s why she mentioned it to Annabelle, hoping she’d agree and maybe even mention that she, too, has experienced prowlers this week.

  “I know this is the worst possible time to barge in on you, Ora, but believe it or not, this might have something to do with . . . well, the case.”

  “What is it, dear?”

  “You know Trib and I moved into the Purcell house, right?”

  “I do. In fact, I’ve been meaning to bring you a little housewarming gift, but I haven’t had a chance.”

  “Have you ever been inside the house?”

  Ora shakes her head firmly. “Never. Augusta and Lester made sure of it. And their parents, before them, kept Aunt Etta away as well.”

  Annabelle seems to believe her, because she says, “I don’t think it was just you and your aunt. I think they probably just guarded their privacy after what had happened. Especially Florence, raising young children. That reminds me—did you know that according to the 1900 census, the Purcell household had six live-in servants before she married into the family? And no servants at all in 1905 and 1910?”

  Ora did know. And of course, it makes perfect sense. But not for the reason Annabelle is thinking, nor the one Ora provides for her.

  “Domestic life changed drastically after the European immigration wave slowed down. Factories popped up and hired men and women who would have otherwise been working as household help. Then the war came. By then, the servant class dwindled all over America, Annabelle, to half of what it had been.”

  “But I’m not saying the Purcells went from a full staff to fifty percent. I’m saying they had none.”

  “And you know this . . . ?”

  “Because of the census.”

  “Perhaps the census taker didn’t bother to count the servants.”

  “He was supposed to count every person in the household, and he did in every other house on the block. I checked.”

  “The Purcells’ staff may have lived out.”

  “Maybe, but they lived there in 1900. There’s a huge servants’ wing upstairs. I think that after poor Florence came along, her husband and his father decided she should do all the work.”

  She goes on about poor, put-upon Florence Purcell, until Ora can’t help but tell her that by the summer of 1917, the woman was marching up Market Street behind Carrie Chapman Catt.

  “Who was she?”

  “The president of the National American Women’s Suffrage Association.” Ora doesn’t add that the historical society’s photo archives clearly show that a Votes for Women banner isn’t all that was visible against Florence’s starched white shirtwaist that summer.

  “She became a suffragette? Good for her.” Annabelle gives an approving nod.

  “Yes, she was the same age as my aunt Etta, and they shared interest in feminist literature.” She doesn’t mention that a few weeks before the murders, Florence had borrowed Aunt Etta’s copy of a recently published book called Poems of the War, by the noted British poet and essayist Alice Meynell, an early supporter of women’s rights. Ora later perused its musty pages for passages that provoked Florence’s later metamorphosis and tragic final days.

  “I couldn’t find much information about the rest of her life,” Annabelle is saying, “other than a death certificate for the late 1930s. She died fairly young.”

  Ora shrugs. “People didn’t tend to live into old age back then. My aunt Etta knew Florence. She was ill for many years, and she was widowed back in the early 1920s. Now, why were you asking about whether I’ve visited the house, dear?”

  “Because I found something . . . interesting.”

  “Oh?”

  “Do you know anything about a stone angel statue?”

  “A stone . . . angel? No.”

  She listens intently as Annabelle tells her about the one that sits beside Augusta Purcell’s indoor swimming pool, looking for all the world like a gravestone.

  “Is that what you think it is?” Ora asks, careful to keep her voice level. “Do you think someone is buried beneath the pool?”

  “It did cross my mind,” Annabelle admits. “I even thought it might have been one of the Sleeping Beauties, but I know they were laid to rest at Holy Angels. I mean, that’s well-documented, isn’t it? There’s no chance one of the bodies wasn’t actually buried there?”

  “No, Aunt Etta was at the service when they were buried. They’re all there, in the cemetery. Why would you think it might be one of them?” Ora asks, her pulse racing to keep up with the possibilities darting through her head.

  “Because of the birth and death dates on the statue. I mean, I’m assuming that’s what they are. For someone who died at only twelve years old.”

  Ora’s breath catches in her throat.

  “The death date is July 7, 1916,” Annabelle goes on, “which is the day the dead girl was found in the Purcell home. She was described as a young teenager. I know she was never identified, but there are letters on the statue, too, and I thought maybe they were initials. Maybe Lester knows something about it. I was hoping he would—”

  “What are they?” Ora cuts in. “The initials? And the birthdate? What is that?”

  “Z.D.P. The date is March 31, 1904. I’m probably reading too much into this, and maybe they’re not initials at all, but if they are, then I’m guessing the P stands for Purcell, and the Z—well, there were two Zeldas in earlier generations of the Purcell family.”

  “Yes, there were,” Ora murmurs.

  “What do you think?” Annabelle is asking. “Am I way off base with all this?”

  O
ra lifts her mug, feigning casual indifference, but feeling as though she’s just run a marathon. Her hands are trembling so badly that she quickly sets down the tea before it sloshes over the rim.

  “I have no idea what it might mean,” she tells Annabelle. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t mention anything to Lester. Or anyone else, for that matter. Not with so many curiosity seekers around town right now. You don’t want someone to decide the angel would be a nice Murder House souvenir and make off with it. And you don’t want Lester to decide it has sentimental value and take it back, do you?”

  “I doubt that will happen. He left behind every clunky thing he didn’t want to bother moving—the clock, the piano, and that ginormous telescope in the cupola.”

  “A telescope?” Again, Ora plays it cool. “Really? Is it in working order?”

  “Yes. If you want it for the museum, I’d be happy to donate it.”

  “That would be nice, dear. We’ll talk about it after all this hullaballoo dies down.”

  I’ll offer her a nice sum to take that old statue off her hands, too, Ora decides. That will be the crowning glory of my personal collection.

  Holmes was planning to wait until after dark to move the first Beauty from the icehouse. But after overhearing the Home Depot cashier recommending his sanctuary as a free campground, he realized he’ll have to do it in broad daylight. Hopefully, it won’t take long.

  He’s well prepared. He keeps a rowboat stashed in the tall reeds along the riverbank, near a dirt parking lot used by the predawn fishermen. They’re long gone by now.

  “Why did you unlock me?” the girl asks him in accented English, still lying on the floor beside the trapdoor.

  He ignores the question, busy answering a text on his phone. He shouldn’t be here. He should be—

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  “Shut up!” he says, sending the text with a whoosh and shoving the phone back into his pocket.

  “Please . . . Please don’t—”

  He shuts her up with a good hard kick, and she cries for her mother.

  “I want my mommy,” he mimics, shaking his head in disgust.

  Her name, he knows, is Juanita Contreras. He’d chosen her because she was an easy target: walking alone through the nearly deserted parking garage of a White Plains mall. If it hadn’t been her, he’d have found someone else who fit the bill physically. They only have to be small enough for him to carry, and pretty, with long hair.