Holmes glances at the dashboard clock as a brilliant scheme takes hold. It’s already 5:17.
Schaapskill Nature Preserve is five minutes away. He’ll have to hurry.
Slipping into the large bedroom at the end of the long, dark hall, Annabelle reminds herself that she doesn’t believe in ghosts.
No, but if she did, this is where she’d expect to find Augusta Purcell’s.
Stripped of its claw-tattered fabric—draperies, rug, even the window seat cushion—the room is eerily hollow. The air, as in the rest of the house, wafts with old wood, cats, must, and blooming perennials. But here, it’s infused with a hint of something else, too. Annabelle recognizes it from the nursing home whenever they visited Trib’s father: a blend of pharmaceuticals, toiletries, and food . . . all, like the lives within, past their prime.
Institutions are depressing. But so is the thought of poor Augusta spending all those years isolated in this house, in this very room, surrounded by memories . . . and by family secrets?
Annabelle hurries across the dusty hardwoods.
The tall windows above the built-in seat face the brightening eastern sky. Dim light filters in to throw ominous shadows from a couple of tall moving boxes that sit beside it. In the far corner are the newspapers she stashed here to get them out of the way in a halfhearted effort to make the house seem tidier.
One stack is carefully separated from the other two by a couple of feet of floor space—and a hundred years. It consists of recent papers that need to be tied and recycled. Annabelle was careful not to mix those in with the other two piles, both of which are fragile with age. One consists of 1916 editions Trib borrowed from the Tribune archives shortly after the move, because they contain articles pertaining to this house and its role in the Sleeping Beauty murders.
The third pile draws Annabelle now, however. She picks up the yellowed, crumpled paper on top. Squinting, she can’t make out the date, even when she tilts it toward the window. The room is still too dark, the type too faded to see.
She hurries over to press the mother-of-pearl button on the wall. An overhead fixture floods the room with light. In the moments it takes for her eyes to adjust, she thinks of the rainy Sunday last month when Trib knocked out the wall in the master bedroom to make it larger.
“Hey, Annabelle,” he’d called, “come look at this!”
She’d been painting the trim in Oliver’s room. Her son was supposed to be helping her, but was frightened by the resounding thuds of Trib’s swinging sledgehammer, so they’d sent him down the street to Connor’s.
He’d sealed off the bedroom with plastic sheeting. Pushing past it, she found a gaping hole in the interior wall. Bits of plaster and lath clung to what was left of the framing around the perimeter. Trib wore a mask over his mouth and nose, protection from the thick dust swirling in the air.
He held out a stack of newspapers.
“What are those?” she asked.
“Copies of the Tribune from around the turn of the century. I found them in the wall. It was pretty common back then to use newspaper as insulation.”
“The house was built in the 1860s,” Annabelle pointed out. “So this was one large bedroom, and the Purcells built the wall to divide it.”
“Exactly. I was feeling bad about tearing down walls, but it turns out we’re just restoring the house to the way it used to be.”
He asked her to save the newspapers until he has a chance to go through them. The Tribune archives are missing copies from certain dates, and he’s hoping to fill them in with these.
Annabelle’s eyes adjust to the bright light. At last, she’s able to see the dateline.
November 12, 1903.
The Purcells had built the nursery seven years before their first child was born. Why?
Maybe it hadn’t been a nursery after all.
Could it have served as a . . . what? A dressing room? A study?
That doesn’t make sense. The house is enormous, and only Florence, George, and his father were living here at that time. Even with live-in staff still occupying the servants’ quarters, there would have been several vacant bedrooms on the second floor.
A nursery would be logical, given that there are no windows and it opened only into the master bedroom.
Either Florence and George were being extremely proactive, or in late 1903, they found themselves expecting a baby.
That’s certainly plausible. They’d been married three years by then.
Is it possible that Annabelle overlooked something when she was searching? Yes.
Is it possible that the 1905 census taker failed to include not just a houseful of servants, but a toddler born to George and Florence before Augusta Amalthea came along? Or that whoever answered the door at 46 Bridge Street that day failed to mention the child?
Anything is possible, Annabelle supposes. But plausible?
It’s more plausible that if they were indeed expecting a baby, the pregnancy hadn’t gone to term—a sad fact of life, then and now. Or that the child hadn’t lived very long.
It doesn’t solve the mystery of the stone angel, though.
If indeed it’s meant to memorialize the Sleeping Beauty who was found in this house in July 1916, then Augusta must have known her identity, and chosen—or promised—not to tell.
Schaapskill Nature Preserve is right next to the Pleasure Park ruins. Holmes doesn’t have time to leave the car at the shopping center and hike down the highway. Nor does he park at the fishing pier and paddle over in the rowboat. The river is still shrouded in early morning fog, but it’ll burn off quickly once the sun comes up.
It shields him now as he boldly drives between the stone markers leading to the preserve, bumping west along the rutted lane. Amanda had mentioned the bike path the day he bought the chocolate bars. Years ago, it was a railroad track, but it’s long since been paved over to create a riverfront trail used by bicyclers and runners.
He turns off the headlights as he draws closer to the spot, and pulls off into a thicket where the vehicle will be well concealed. He’ll go the rest of the way on foot, staying away from the road.
He steps out of the car and begins moving toward the water and the faint bleat of a foghorn. The misty woods are alive with the chatter of birds and insects—and, as he slips closer to the bike trail, of women and children. He can hear them talking and laughing, but he can’t see them through the trees until he’s dangerously close.
There they are, about a dozen of them altogether: mothers and daughters, their faces too shadowy to discern in this light even if he thought he might recognize them.
Only one matters.
He looks for her as the group traipses back and forth to a couple of large SUVs, removing plastic flats containing bright-colored annuals. Then they break up into smaller groups and begin to plant flowers along the edges of the path.
Occasionally, someone jogs past, or a bike whizzes by. Invariably, the approaching runner or cyclist calls out a terse warning—“On your left,” or “Coming up behind you!” And invariably, Holmes notices, with growing irritation and restlessness, the mothers and daughters either don’t hear, or simply ignore the warning.
“Is it just me?” someone whines, eventually. “Or are these people trying to mow us down?”
He recognizes the voice. It’s Amanda’s mother, Bari.
What a pleasure it would be to silence her by slicing her throat good and hard. Would it make up for this morning’s disappointment?
He feels in his pocket for the razor blade.
It wouldn’t even matter if he hacked away through muscle and bone until he cut her head right off. He doesn’t need it, or her. She doesn’t have to be presentable. She isn’t a Sleeping Beauty. Her eyes can gape, or he can gouge them out. She’s utterly dispensable.
His fingers tighten around the handle of the blade that’s nearly an exact replica of the one on exhibit in the historical society. S.B.K.’s actual weapon was never found, but it would have been very simil
ar, Miss Ora Abrams once said, to the one on display.
As far as Holmes knows, S.B.K. used that weapon only three times.
Before and after the summer of frightfulness, the killer lived an exemplary life.
And that, Holmes reminds himself, is how one quite literally gets away with murder.
After months of meticulous planning, he’s allowed himself to stray into dangerous territory.
This is a public place. There are potential witnesses. Even if he managed to discreetly grab the woman or her daughter and drag her off the path, he’d have to cover a lot of ground to get her back to his car.
And what then?
He can’t take her to the icehouse. He has no use for her there.
Nor can he leave her dead in the woods, where someone will come across her in no time. That discovery would, in turn, preempt, or even eclipse, his Sleeping Beauty’s debut.
Still, he can’t simply go on his way and allow this intense dissatisfaction to fester. That would lead him further into temptation, and next time, he might not have the presence of mind to curtail his urges. He has to figure out what was missing this morning, so that he can get it exactly right next week at 46 Bridge.
Reluctantly, he loosens his grip on the blade.
As he lets go, his fingertips brush something else tucked into his pocket: the buffalo nickel wrapped in a scrap of muslin.
As he slinks away through the trees, heading back to his SUV, a new idea takes hold—one that may, indeed, allow him to remedy the situation.
If Barnes weren’t sleeping on her sofa downstairs, Sully would have gotten up an hour ago. That would have been a full hour after she’d awakened from a nightmare about Manik, for the first time since she arrived in Mundy’s Landing.
Barnes will probably assume his presence here brought it all back. Or maybe she’ll just let him think that, if he gets on her nerves today.
But the more she’s considered the situation, the more she realizes that it was likely triggered by her afternoon at the historical society. Throw an unsolved case at any detective—even one who’s determined to get away from it all—and that detective is going to plunge right back into crime-solving mode, with all the accompanying baggage.
The night sounds beyond Sully’s window may not consist of sirens and traffic barely muted by twenty stories and a layer of glass, but she might as well be back in the city. Her head is aching, her body is tense, her mind racing over the facts.
No, it isn’t her case. And everyone involved is just as dead as the victims themselves. The killer will go unpunished. Unlike in Manik Bhandari’s case, justice will never be served.
So what’s the point of losing sleep over this?
A fifty-thousand-dollar reward?
Hell, maybe that’s all the incentive she needs.
She keeps going back to the three unidentified girls buried right next door in Holy Angels Cemetery.
Yesterday, she’d promised herself she’d take a walk over to the cemetery. Maybe now is a good time. The sun will be up soon, and the tourists probably aren’t stirring yet.
She gets out of bed, throws on her clothes, and heads into the bathroom. Splashing cold water onto her face—because it takes too long to wait for hot—she sees that her green eyes are once again underscored by a lovely shade of purple. Her tousled red hair valiantly resists her attempts to wrestle it into a barely presentable drugstore elastic band.
Good thing it’s only Barnes, she thinks as she creeps down the stairs carrying sneakers that are still wet—and perhaps a little smelly—from yesterday.
The living room is dark and silent. She tiptoes past the couch, not allowing herself to glance in that direction. She doesn’t want to feel guilty about Barnes being unable to stretch out his lanky body. He’ll sense her weakness and go for the jugular, and the next thing she knows, he’ll be sleeping in her bed and she’ll be on the couch tonight.
Crossing the threshold into the kitchen, lit by the bulb beneath the stove hood, she can still smell coffee. Last night before bed, after searching the cupboards hoping to find a stray can of Maxwell House and turning down the tea she offered to brew for him instead, Barnes strolled to the mini mart a few blocks away to buy some.
“Gas station coffee?” she asked when he came back with an extra large cup and a couple of Krispy Kremes.
“It’s better than the stuff we make at the precinct.”
“That’s not saying much,” she pointed out.
Now, yawning deeply, she decides that it’s not fair the man can drink a vat of undiluted caffeine and sleep like a baby.
She wonders if she dares set the old-fashioned teakettle on the flame before she goes out the door. It would be nice to have water hot and waiting when she gets back—but it might whistle and wake up Barnes.
Then again, so what if it does? This is, after all, her vacation cottage. He’s a mere squatter.
She runs water into the kettle, sets it on the stove, and turns on the burner. After a click-click-click, it ignites. She checks her watch, wondering if she can be back here in the seven or eight minutes it will take to boil.
Definitely. The cemetery is right next door, and it’s not as though she’s going to exhume the bodies. She just wants to take a look at the graves to see if anything jumps out at her.
Which isn’t exactly a comforting thought when you’re talking about a cemetery, she thinks, starting for the door, but—
“Going somewhere?”
Sully gasps.
“Dammit, Barnes!”
He’s been here all along, fully dressed and sitting quietly at the kitchen table in the shadowy corner.
“Is that localese? Good morning would be nicer, but I’ll go with it. Dammit, Gingersnap!”
“Not funny. What are you doing up?”
“Having coffee.” He sips from a paper hot cup. So it wasn’t last night’s brew she smelled after all.
“You’re becoming a regular down at the gas station,” she observes.
“Nope, it was closed. But there’s a Dunkin’ Donuts on Colonial Highway. Open twenty-four hours.”
“So I guess New York isn’t the only city that never sleeps?”
“A Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through does not a city make.” He sips again. “But if you’re headed in that direction, I’ll ride along. I could use a refill.”
“It’s not where I’m headed.”
“No? I’ll ride along anyway.”
“We’re not riding, Barnes. But come on if you’re coming.”
“Where are we going?”
“You like graveyards?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Wrong.” Sully reaches back to turn off the burner beneath the teakettle before stepping out the door. This might take a while.
Ora Abrams startles from a sound sleep.
What on earth was that?
A muffled thumping noise barged into her slumber . . . unless it was just part of her dream?
No. In the early morning light, she can see Briar Rose perched at the foot of the bed, facing the closed bedroom door, spine straight, tail and ears twitching. Ordinarily, she’d be stretched out across the quilt, eyes closed, paws splayed and belly up.
She, too, was awakened by something.
The cat leaps from the bed and goes to the carpeted platform post beside it, where she stretches her front paws and begins scratching her claws.
Another thump, directly below.
The cat stops scratching. Ora’s breath catches in her throat.
That’s the special exhibit room. The one she ceremoniously unlocked yesterday for the steady stream of visitors. All day, all night, they paraded slowly past the case that holds the museums prized bloody relics.
Ora’s volunteers took turns policing the crowd, making sure no one snuck photos or lingered too long, holding up the line. Many paused to take notes and ask questions, looking for clues.
Maybe one of those would-be detectives resented being hustled along and came bac
k for a closer look, or to snap forbidden pictures.
Technically, a few photos aren’t a problem. Ora established the rule against photography more to preserve the room’s air of mystery than the items within, having found little evidence that camera flashes damage artifacts.
That doesn’t make it acceptable that an overzealous visitor—harmless or not—is sneaking around after hours—or rather, before hours, Ora amends, now that a new day has dawned. Should she go down and confront whoever it is? By the time she makes her way across the floor, he’s sure to flee.
Maybe she should simply call the police. But if she does that, they’ll become even more of a nuisance than they were yesterday—poking around, asking questions, acting as if they were expecting to find her violating the maximum occupancy laws.
They’re lazy, she thinks. That’s their problem. If it weren’t for her, they might not even have jobs. They should be grateful for their fat overtime paychecks, but instead, they’re resentful for the extra work caused by—
The thought is shattered by the unmistakable sound of glass breaking on the second floor.
Ora’s old heart takes off at a gallop, but her legs won’t seem to move. She manages to reach for the telephone on her bedside table and hurriedly dials.
“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”
“It’s Ora Abrams over at the historical society. Someone has broken in. Please hurry!”
Holmes’s Case Notes
Visiting the museum this morning was genius—pure genius—and as gratifying as my predawn adventure at 65 Prospect. Perhaps more so.
I went in through the basement window, same as before. This time, I wasn’t interested in prowling around or spooking Ora Abrams.
I found the door to the special exhibit room locked, as is always the case at night and even, most of the time, during the day. But of course it was propped wide open to visitors all day yesterday in honor of Mundypalooza, just as it is every year. I’ve visited many times. I’ve committed the contents of the room to memory and knew exactly where to find what I needed.
Ora likes to make a big show of ceremoniously unlocking that door every summer as if opening a portal to King Tut’s tomb. But the old-fashioned lock is original to the house, and it’s laughably easy to pick with a skeleton key. I’ve been doing it for years.
Blue Moon: Mundy's Landing Book Two Page 23
