Blue Moon: Mundy's Landing Book Two

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Oh, and they can’t be from affluent families. People who have money can hire private detectives if the police don’t give high priority to a missing persons case. Then again, they invariably do just that when an upper-middle-class female goes missing.

  Yet not for young women like Juanita Contreras and Kathryn Donaldson and Indigo Edmonds. They’re a dime a dozen as far as Holmes is concerned, and the authorities feel the same way. They come from impoverished or broken homes. They hang around with the wrong people. As a result, sometimes they run away; sometimes they walk away. It makes little difference in the end, right?

  Of course Holmes has seen the missing persons posters for Juanita and Indigo, but most people won’t even look twice.

  And Kathryn—has anyone even noticed she’s missing?

  A fragile wisp of a girl, she’s the true throwaway case. Born to a prostitute junkie who’s been in jail for years, she’s bounced around the foster system from Albany to Buffalo and back again. Her frame is scrawny, her skin is sallow, and her teeth are bad—crooked, one broken, another missing. Almost fifteen, she looks a few years younger. All she does is cry, cry, cry.

  For Holmes’s purposes, she and Juanita are interchangeable. When he descended into the vile-smelling pit with a flashlight and pistol to fetch the first of the three Beauties, he wasn’t even sure which of them he was going to choose.

  But then he thought of Catherine, the girl he’d seen the other night on Bridge Street, and he decided to let the other Kathryn live a while longer. Just because . . .

  “Because I can,” he says aloud with a shrug.

  Juanita is filthy, with matted hair, wearing rags. It’s going to take considerable cleaning to make her presentable for tonight.

  I don’t have time for this now. Dammit.

  “Get up!”

  She whimpers.

  “Or don’t,” he says with a shrug. “It’s fine if you don’t want to get up. You can be on your hands and knees if it’s easier. Go ahead.”

  He prods her with his black dress shoe, pushing her in the right direction. She scuttles away from him like a frightened kitten darting for a safe corner. “That’s right. Over there. A little more.”

  The blue tarp makes a crinkling sound as she crawls onto it. Hearing it, she goes still.

  “It’s all right,” he tells her. “I put that down so that we don’t make a mess of the place, and I’ll be able to wrap you up and take you right down to the boat. No fuss, no muss.”

  “No! Please, no . . .”

  “Be quiet,” he snaps, and just like that, she is.

  He reaches into his pocket for the antique razor blade.

  The weapon is as synonymous with Mundy’s Landing as Lizzie Borden’s axe is with Fall River. A hundred years ago, S.B.K. used one. Six months ago, in a delicious turn of events, so did another vengeful killer who visited Mundy’s Landing—like an opening act, Holmes thought at the time.

  Now, at last, it’s his turn to take the stage.

  He leans over the cowering, violently trembling girl. She’s in a fetal position now, her arms, their wrists rubbed red and raw from the shackles, clutched against her forehead.

  He wonders, belatedly, whether S.B.K. shared any profound words before dispatching the three victims. Interesting. What should one say at a time like this?

  An apology might be fitting, but for Holmes, it wouldn’t be sincere.

  He isn’t sorry at all. Nor does he have any misgivings.

  He felt very much the same the last time he found himself in this situation—only then, it was a spontaneous act.

  It happened not long after Mother died. Needing a change of scenery, he’d taken a long-awaited trip to London. Sherlock Holmes might have been a fictional character, but Baker Street, where he’d lived, is a real place. So are plenty of other settings Sir Arthur Conan Doyle used in the mysteries.

  When Holmes set out to see them all, he was armed only with a map. But he soon picked up a couple of souvenirs the detective would have carried, according to the author: a pipe, a walking stick, a riding crop.

  Somewhere along the way, on a murky, midnight street, he crossed paths with an ugly whore who first propositioned him, then accused him of being crazy when he turned her down. There may have been more to the conversation, but that’s what Holmes remembers.

  Get away from me, you crazy son of a bitch!

  That, and the rain.

  And calmly beating her to death with the riding crop.

  How satisfying to leave her on the cobblestone pavement in a puddle of rain and blood. The block, little more than an alleyway, was deserted. He strolled back to the hotel, cleaned up, and caught his scheduled flight home a few hours later.

  His only regret was having to part with the riding crop, tossed into a Dumpster behind a nearby pub. By the time anyone found it, Holmes would be an ocean away.

  Even his detective hero could never have traced that crime to him.

  As for this one . . .

  Grinning down at Juanita Contreras, Holmes lifts the blade.

  Holmes’s Case Notes

  Going about my business today, I crossed paths with Mrs. Rowan Mundy. I immediately recognized her due to her role in last December’s incident, when a notorious criminal mastermind intended to make her his next victim.

  It was Mrs. Mundy who once suggested that I be tested for—among other things—a cognitive condition called prosopagnosia, also known as face blindness. To Mother’s credit, she told Mrs. Mundy to mind her own business. Mother assured me that I simply don’t bother to pay attention to most people because they are insignificant. She said that I have no reason to note, much less find reason to memorize, the facial features of those who will never matter.

  This may or may not be the case. I’ll confess that I have since done some research into prosopagnosia and wondered whether Rowan Mundy did indeed have a point.

  There are many people whom I fail to recognize on sight no matter how many times I’ve met them. When they seem to know me, I pretend to know them.

  In any case, despite this potentially crippling disability, I’ve proven myself to be a superior detective. I excel at scrutinizing people who matter.

  Annabelle Bingham does, now that she and her husband are living at 46 Bridge Street. Like a handful of other steadfast locals, she’s lived in Mundy’s Landing all her life and probably intends to die here, too. That may happen much sooner than she imagines.

  It’s not part of the plan. S.B.K. didn’t harm the residents of the homes he visited. But if an unforeseen obstacle pops up, I’ll have no problem adjusting accordingly.

  Chapter 11

  Annabelle’s cell phone rings as she and Oliver walk up the puddle-pocked driveway with their cardboard pizza box, under the disconcerting scrutiny of strangers congregated out on the sidewalk.

  Here, at least, the flowerbeds lie well within the property, beyond reach of any hands that might grasp through the bars of the tall black fence. But the peonies that had been lush and lovely when they left the house have since been bent by pelting rain—pretty maids keeled over all in a row, delicate pink heads lying in the mud.

  Annabelle takes the phone from her pocket, hoping it’s not Kim, who’s been texting her for the past two hours.

  It isn’t.

  “Good, it’s Dad,” she tells Oliver. As they were walking, she’d made the mistake of wondering why he hadn’t responded earlier. Naturally, Oliver had immediately assumed something awful must have happened to him. That’s how his mind works: zero to sixty. She’s been trying to reassure him ever since.

  “Hey,” Trib says, “Sorry I didn’t get in touch earlier, but I’ve been holed up trying to finish an op-ed. What’s going on? Did you get a chance to fix those third-floor windows?”

  “Not yet. Oliver and I went for a walk and stopped at the historical society.”

  “Today? Really? Why?”

  “Rowan was working and I wanted to say hi,” she improvises, not wanting to bring up t
he stone angel in front of Oliver.

  “Did you see the time capsule?”

  “We did.” They’d snuck a quick peek at the large, prominently displayed wooden chest, before they left. “Did you finish writing your speech about it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “When are you going to do it? The gala’s tomorrow night.”

  “I know when it is, Annabelle,” he snaps.

  Trib is scheduled to address the crowd during the evening’s featured event. He’ll recap the Tribune’s historic coverage of the time capsule’s creation and burial ceremony in 1916, all front-page news written by his great grandfather, the first Charles Bingham. Then, as the capsule is opened, Trib will read from the itemized catalog of its contents.

  It’s an honor, but hardly a welcome one. Never comfortable in the spotlight, he’s been concerned about the pivotal role ever since Ora Abrams invited him.

  Changing the subject, Annabelle says, “Listen, you’ll never believe what Ora Abrams did.”

  “What did Ora Abrams do?”

  “She made a map of The Heights to hand out to people. Our house is prominently featured.”

  “I’m not surprised,” he says mildly. “It’s not as if people can’t find us anyway, right? We expected the gawkers.”

  “Yes, but this is . . . I mean, she might as well load them into buses and drive them past giving a bullhorn tour.”

  “I thought you liked Ora.”

  “I love Ora,” she assures him, glad she found out about the map long after she’d left her old friend in the kitchen.

  When she collected Oliver at the door on her way out, a nice man at the head of the line was teaching him how to fold a paper airplane under Rowan’s watchful eye. They were using a yellow sheet of paper that Oliver carried along with him. When he sailed it into a puddle—splat—Annabelle fished it out for him, and was dismayed to see what it was.

  Still talking to Trib, she herds Oliver into the house, locking the door behind them.

  “Leave your shoes right here on the mat,” she tells him, and he obediently steps out of them as she explains to Trib, “The driveway is a mess, and we’re covered in mud. Good thing we’re in for the rest of the day.”

  “The rain is letting up,” he comments, crunching something in her ear. “Maybe you can still go to the pool.”

  “I don’t think so. We’re basically trapped in our own house.”

  Oliver looks up at her, alarmed.

  “I don’t mean trapped.”

  Yes, she does.

  “Oliver, go upstairs and find some dry clothes, okay? You’re soaked. No video games, though. Come right back down. I’ll heat up the pizza.”

  “Pizza? How’d you get pizza?” Trib asks, as Oliver heads for the stairs and she carries the box to the kitchen. “I can’t get near any restaurant in town. My lunch is a stale granola bar I just found in my drawer.”

  She explains about Rowan Mundy’s son, Mick, which reminds her—“I just want to give you a heads-up that Katie hasn’t been feeling well. In case she bails on us tomorrow night.”

  “Why do you sound like you want her to bail on us?”

  “Of course I don’t. But you know Oliver. He’s already a little freaked out about our going out for the night.”

  “He’ll be fine. He’s twelve.”

  “He’s Oliver.” She puts a couple of pieces of pizza on a plate and sticks it into the microwave, then makes her way to the front parlor. “And you’re not here, Trib. You can’t see what’s going on, thanks to this map. There are hordes of people out there looking at us.”

  “Hordes?”

  “Okay, not hordes. There were hordes in front of the Yamazaki house, though.”

  “I heard they left town.”

  “Really? Where’d you hear that?”

  “One of the neighbors saw them packing their car last night. Mr. Yamazaki said they were fed up, but they don’t want anyone to know they’re going away because the house will be empty.”

  “So the neighbor told the local reporter?” she asks as she leans over the computer, clicking the mouse to wake the screen.

  “He mentioned it because we live in one of the Murder Houses. I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone about the Yamazakis. Make sure you don’t, either, okay?”

  “Who would I tell? Oliver?” She sighs, waiting for her e-mail to load. “Maybe we should go, too.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know . . . a hotel?”

  “There isn’t one, unless we drive for miles. And I have to work. You and Oliver can go. Although we can’t afford it.”

  “Forget it. It’s just that I feel like people can see us through the windows.”

  “We’ll cover them with sheets or something tonight. Why don’t you get out of there for now?”

  “And go where?”

  “What’s Kim doing?”

  “She keeps texting me, wanting to know if I want to go to the mall with her and Catherine.” And Annabelle’s been ignoring the texts, hoping she’ll get the message.

  “You should go.”

  “What about Oliver?”

  “What about him? Last I heard, he hadn’t been banned from the mall.”

  “Very funny. He’ll be bored.”

  “At least he won’t be scared.”

  True. The mall is one place he never minds going. That’s because there’s a video game store, and a place where you can buy pretzel nuggets to dip into warm icing.

  “Kim will want me to try on dresses for the gala.”

  “You need a dress for the gala.”

  “I have dresses. I spent the whole morning looking through boxes of clothes.”

  “And did you find a dress?”

  “No,” she admits. “But what about dinner? It’s getting late, and—”

  “And I won’t be home for dinner. Go shopping, Annabelle. Buy something for tomorrow.”

  “With what money?”

  “You always have Macy’s coupons, and you can put it on the store charge. That’s not maxed out, is it?”

  “Nope. Only the Home Depot one.”

  “Awesome,” he says flatly. “Listen, I have to run. I’ll see you . . . late.”

  Not later. Late.

  “I miss you,” she says, and expects him to say something like You just saw me.

  But he doesn’t.

  He says, sounding just as wistful, “I miss you, too.”

  They hang up, and Annabelle checks her e-mail, still standing beside the computer. No response from Lester. That’s okay. She’s no longer in the mood to solve mysteries.

  Back in the kitchen, she stands in front of the microwave, watching the pizza spinning around through the glass window and thinking about Trib.

  It isn’t just that he’s working late again tonight.

  It isn’t even that she misses him, exactly.

  No, I miss us. The way we used to be.

  Perfectly in sync. Perfect for each other. There was a time when they had time.

  “We’ve got nothing but time,” they’d say. That, and each other. What more did they need?

  Back then, not much.

  These days, Trib’s working so hard to keep them afloat financially, and to keep a locally owned newspaper thriving now that most people get their news—even local news—online.

  He’d dreamed of a big career, graduating with honors from one of the top journalism colleges in the country, Newhouse in Syracuse. After working abroad for a year as a foreign correspondent, he came back to Mundy’s Landing when his mother became terminally ill. It was supposed to be temporary.

  His return coincided with Annabelle’s graduation from Iona College. She’d been recruited as a Division I swimmer and received a full scholarship—good thing, because her mother couldn’t have paid tuition. She’d majored in business and been accepted for grad school at Columbia, but had to defer a year in order to afford it. Only when she was home again did she realize that as much as she’d enjoyed the past four years,
she’d had enough. Enough academia—for a while, anyway—and enough time spent in the New York City area. She wanted to settle in her hometown, get married, and raise a family.

  The marriage part came naturally. She and Trib ran into each other almost immediately after their mutual return, easily and swiftly finding their way into each other’s arms. The family, though, was hard-won. When, after a few years of marriage, they decided it was time for her to get pregnant, they were still young. They tried casually at first. Then earnestly. Then desperately.

  It was no longer true that they had nothing but time. Time was running out.

  They tried to convince themselves that if it was just the two of them forever, they’d be okay. Still together. Still a family.

  The doctors claimed there was no good reason they shouldn’t be able to conceive. It was “just one of those things.”

  They’d given up hope and were trying to figure out whether they could afford either infertility treatments or foreign adoption—coin toss—when she got pregnant just after her thirty-fifth birthday.

  Now they’re living happily ever after in this big old house with a child they love as dearly as they love each other.

  Everything is good. Everything is great.

  They have everything.

  Everything that matters.

  And yet . . .

  Sometimes everything is just too much. Oliver’s illness, the constant worry over their son’s constant worry, the house, the overwhelming bills that go with all that.

  They both had the potential to make far more money than they do—especially Annabelle, considering that her current income is zero. But having lost three of their four parents well before they married, along with Trib’s older brother, who had tragically died in childhood, they learned early on the far greater value found in things money can’t buy.

  Now those things, too, seem to have fallen by the wayside, and their lack of money keeps cropping up to threaten their solid marriage and the perfect life they were supposed to be living.