Blue Moon: Mundy's Landing Book Two

by Wendy Corsi Staub

Ora, who’s known Katie Mundy all her life, considers asking how she’s feeling. Rowan had mentioned yesterday that she’d been sick. But she doesn’t have the heart for conversation right now, and she’s sure the girl is fine. Otherwise, her mother wouldn’t be here.

  “Yes,” she tells Rowan dully. “People are still coming.”

  But today, she couldn’t bear the sight of them. She didn’t want to watch all those strangers traipsing through the house or answer their questions; didn’t want to share with them her insight or anecdotes, let alone her prized collection.

  He might have been among the hundreds of visitors she met yesterday. He might very well have walked through the special exhibits room and decided to come back later and help himself to its contents. Maybe he came back today to gloat, or to look for something else to steal.

  That’s not going to happen. Officer Greenlea told her that the police are heavily patrolling The Heights as it is.

  “I know the gala is tonight,” he said. “You’re going, aren’t you?”

  “I was supposed to, but now . . .”

  “Don’t worry about the museum, Ms. Abrams. I’ll make sure an officer is stationed right here for the duration, and that someone escorts you into the house afterward. You can’t be too careful.”

  Just yesterday, Ora would have argued with that. But he’s right. She thanked him and told him it would be much appreciated.

  “I’m really sorry about your loss,” the young cop said at the door, after concluding his investigation and writing up a lengthy report.

  It didn’t escape her that he’d uttered the same words people say when someone has died. She appreciated them, along with the irony when it struck her later: she’s grieving the stolen muslin nightgown perhaps more than anyone ever grieved the dead girl who wore it one hundred years ago today.

  Sully and Barnes spent the better part of the morning preparing for this evening’s gala. It took her all of five minutes to pick out a dress from Rowan Mundy’s closet, while Barnes spent well over an hour selecting a tux at the nearest formalwear rental place, located in a mall across the river. They wisely opted to grab lunch at the food court, correctly assuming that the restaurants back in town would be swamped.

  Upon their return, they find the Village Common alive with activity. The cafés are indeed jammed. Throngs of pedestrians browse merchandise on sidewalk sale tables. A magician performs in one corner of the sun-splashed park and a yoga class stretches on another.

  They can’t find a parking spot anywhere near their destination, the Elsworth Ransom Library. They leave the car back in the driveway on Church Street and walk back to town.

  A group of teenagers loiter against the bike rack out front of the library, which is located on Fulton Avenue in the heart of the hubbub, facing the square. Several women perch on the wide stone steps licking ice cream cones and chatting, watching their toddlers climb up and down, up and down, clinging to the railings with sticky hands.

  Beyond the large glass doors lies a hushed sanctuary.

  The elderly woman at the desk calls out to Sully and Barnes like long-lost travelers. “Hello, hello, do come in! Have we met?”

  “No, I’m Sully, and this is my friend, Barnes.”

  The woman introduces herself as Miss Agatha Beanblossom—inserting the Miss the way Sully would have inserted Detective. But of course, she opted not to flash a badge or mention that they’re here to investigate a case. Because they’re not, according to Barnes, who is along for the ride and refusing to admit that he’s just as tantalized by the old mystery as she is.

  Everything about Miss Beanblossom is gray, Sully notices. Her hair, her clothing, her eyes—even her pale skin tone, probably tinged with blue as she shivers in a wool sweater beneath the air-conditioning duct fluttering papers on her desk.

  “So what brings you and Barney into the library today, Sally?”

  Fighting back a smile, Sully doesn’t bother to correct the mispronunciation. “We’re fascinated by your local history and we came to do some research.”

  “Oh, this isn’t the historical society anymore. It used to be in the basement here years ago, but now it’s over on Prospect Street.”

  “I know, but we were hoping you might have a collection of books on local history,” Sully says, as the other half of her we rocks back and forth on his heels and inspects a mosquito bite on his forearm, “and we’d love to use a computer to look up some information, since we don’t have a connection where we’re staying.”

  Miss Beanblossom is delighted. “It’s so nice to see young people making good use of the library. Come right this way.”

  “Young people?” Barnes mutters as she laboriously hoists herself from her chair and reaches for her cane.

  “Embrace the compliment,” Sully returns, sotto voce.

  Miss Beanblossom insists on giving them a tour of the cavernous rooms. She points out the dark woodwork and ornate plaster moldings, original fixtures, marble fireplaces, and tall windows with stained glass panels. They admire it all—loudly, because the old dear is hard of hearing, and dutifully, as Sully is anxious to get down to business with her research. As for Barnes, he’s “not a fan of old things,” he reminds her when they finally find themselves alone in the research alcove.

  “Oh, Barney, you young people have no appreciation for history and culture. Now hush.” She indicates the placard on the wall. “Can’t you see this is the quiet room?”

  “Can’t you see we’re the only ones here other than Miss Fartblossom?”

  “Behave yourself,” she says, but she grins as she opens a search engine on the computer, with Barnes settling into a chair beside her to peruse a stack of local history books.

  He goes through them, keeping an eye out for anything that might pertain to the Sleeping Beauty murders. Every so often, he looks up to share some historic tidbit with her—none of it relevant in the least.

  After an hour of this, Sully cuts him off when he says, again, “Here’s something interesting—”

  “Is it about the case this time? Because I really don’t want to be treated to details about yet another shipwreck.”

  “It’s about one of the houses involved.”

  Okay—that’s better. She looks up expectantly.

  “It says here that the house at 46 Bridge Street was rumored to be haunted by the ghost of a young girl. There are eyewitness accounts from people who saw her filmy white figure lurking in a window on the top floor. They said she was the ghost of a teenage girl named Augusta Pauline Purcell who committed suicide in the house on the Fourth of July in 1893.”

  “Are you sure about the date? Because an Augusta Purcell died in the house before the new owners bought it a few months ago,” Sully tells him. “She was over a hundred years old.”

  “Did your pal Nick tell you that?”

  “No, my pal the old lady at the historical society told me that, when I was there yesterday.”

  “Maybe you got the wrong name.”

  “I didn’t. But maybe she was named after the other Augusta Purcell. What book are you reading?”

  Holding his place with his finger, he closes it to show her the cover.

  “Ghostly Tales of the Hudson River Valley?” she reads the title aloud. “What does that have to do with anything, Barnes?”

  “It’s interesting, and it’s got great illustrations. And it’s really old.”

  “How old?”

  He turns to the copyright page. “It was published in 1915. I guess that explains why nobody thought the ghost at 46 Bridge Street was a Sleeping Beauty.”

  “Right—it hadn’t even happened yet. Listen, Barnes, I like ghost stories as much as the next ghoul, but you’re supposed to be helping me look for clues.”

  “Did you find anything yet?”

  “Only that I was on target when I guessed that Mundy’s Landing was hardly a hotbed of illicit activity back in 1916. There might have been ghosts, but there were no hookers.”

  “So if the vic
tims were working girls, then the killer must have trolled for them in the cities where they were.”

  “They’d been dead less than twenty-four hours when they were found, so they were killed nearby. I’m wondering if they were already in the area. Maybe there was some sort of convention nearby, or a carnival, a sports tournament . . .”

  “Right. Something that would make prostitutes gravitate to Mundy’s Landing.”

  “Let’s go through the local history time line for June 1916,” she suggests.

  Five minutes later, they have their answer: Valley Cove Electric Pleasure Park.

  “Bingo. Hundreds of strangers were descending on Mundy’s Landing every day,” Sully says.

  “Sounds familiar.” Barnes shoots a pointed look toward the window overlooking the Village Common.

  “I’m going to guess the killer was among them—and so were his victims.”

  “So there you have it.” Barnes pushes back his chair, stretches, and yawns. “I need a nap.”

  “No, you need coffee. You can get some on the way. Let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “First we’re stopping at my favorite bakery. You can get your coffee there. Then we’re going to the police station.”

  “So that you can visit your—”

  “No,” she cuts in. “So that we can look at the crime scene reports.”

  “What makes you think they’ll let us do that?”

  “What makes you think they won’t?”

  In the kitchen, Annabelle offers Lester a glass of iced tea, and is surprised when he accepts. She finds two clean glasses, makes room for them on the counter, and opens the fridge, conscious that he’s taking in the kitchen in all its disheveled glory.

  “I’m sorry about the mess,” she says. “We’re still getting settled, trying to figure out where everything goes.”

  “Well, there’s certainly no shortage of space.”

  “No,” she agrees, deciding now isn’t the time to mention that space doesn’t necessarily equal storage. “There’s just been a shortage of time.”

  As he runs his fingers over the old Formica countertop, she wonders whether he’s testing for dust or feeling nostalgic.

  “Did you consider keeping the house after your aunt passed away, Mr. Purcell?”

  He doesn’t invite her to call him Lester. Nor does he hesitate to answer the question with a decisive “No. I’m on a fixed income, and I live alone. Even if I wanted this much house, I certainly couldn’t afford to heat it or maintain it.”

  I’m not so sure we can, either, she thinks, and changes the subject, asking where he’s spending the summer.

  “I rent an apartment just outside of town, over near the college campus. During the year, students live there. When they leave, I arrive.”

  “That sounds like a good arrangement,” she tells him as she pours the iced tea, adding, “I used to coach swimming at Hadley.”

  “Mmm,” he says again, and she realizes he isn’t interested in her. He’s interested in the house, or maybe just in the statue.

  Time to get to it. She asks him what he knows about the stone angel.

  “Not a lot. Why are you asking about it, Mrs. Bingham?”

  “You can call me Annabelle.”

  He responds with a noncommittal “Mmm.” And then, “Do you think it’s . . . notable?”

  “Notable?” Frowning, she turns to look at him.

  “I went through everything in the house after Aunt Augusta died. The statue looked ordinary and I’d assumed she bought it from a garden statuary shop, but I suppose I could have been wrong.”

  Annabelle realizes, with a trace of amusement, that he’s thinking he may have overlooked a lost masterpiece, like the Michelangelo sculpture in one of her favorite childhood novels, From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. That possibility hadn’t even occurred to her, and she’s fairly certain it’s not the case.

  “Do you remember when the pool was built?”

  “Yes. I remember that my father was opposed.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my aunt was eccentric, and Father didn’t think an indoor swimming pool was a wise use of . . .”

  “Money?” she contributes when he trails off.

  “Money, time, space, resources.”

  “I thought she built the pool because she had arthritis, and the doctor told her that swimming would help.”

  “That’s the case, yes. But my father told her that she could have done that at the local Y.”

  Annabelle doesn’t point out that there is no local Y, and never has been, as far as she knows. Lester’s father sounds as judgmental and ornery as she’d assumed Lester himself to be. Now, however, she can’t help but feel a bit sorry for him.

  “I can imagine that your aunt might not have been comfortable in a public place. She was pretty reclusive.”

  “Reclusive, and exclusive.”

  Annabelle raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  “My mother always said Aunt Augusta didn’t trust many people, but my father didn’t mince words. He said she just didn’t like people, and so she excluded them from her world as much as possible.”

  “Outsiders, you mean?”

  “I mean everyone.” He shakes his head. “She was estranged from family. She never worked. She had no friends.”

  “So she and your father weren’t close?”

  “My father wasn’t close to anyone. It isn’t his way. But he had acquaintances and colleagues.”

  “Did he ever see your aunt?”

  “He’d look in on her, but not very often. They were two of a kind. He didn’t want to be here, and she didn’t want him here. She liked to be alone.”

  Alone with her memories, and, perhaps, with her secrets.

  “My father passed on when he was in his eighties, and I took over with my aunt. But again . . .” He shrugs. “She wasn’t comfortable having anyone inside the house.”

  “Some people are like that.”

  She finds herself wanting to ask him more about his past, and his family life, but senses she’d better tread carefully. He isn’t quite the grouch she expected. Perhaps just reserved, and socially awkward. Maybe it runs in the family. Like his aunt, he never married, and keeps to himself.

  She hands him the iced tea. “I’d invite you to sit down to drink it, but . . .” She gestures at the table, which, along with the chairs, remains piled with the contents of moving boxes. She’s been trying to put things away all morning, but hasn’t managed to make a dent.

  He shrugs and takes a sip.

  “I’ve been wondering how much you know about your grandparents, Mr. Purcell?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I can’t help but be curious about the nursery.”

  “Nursery?” He eyes her over the rim of the glass.

  “The little room off the master bedroom.”

  “Oh, that. It wasn’t a nursery. It’s been empty for as long as I can remember. There was a crib in the house when I was a little boy, and my father said it was his, but it was in a different room, down the hall.”

  “Maybe that room was used as a nursery for your aunt, then. Or for other babies.”

  “I can assure you that there weren’t very many babies in this house, Mrs. Bingham. Just Aunt Augusta and my father, and their father before them, back in the eighteen hundreds.”

  “Your great grandmother died giving birth to him, right?”

  “I think that’s right.”

  “And your grandfather had an older sister who was also named Augusta, but she died in her teens, back in the late 1800s.”

  Lester tilts his head and looks at her. She can’t tell whether he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, or is wondering how she knows all this.

  He says nothing.

  “There was a lot of sorrow in your family, Mr. Purcell.”

  “Every family has its share of sorrow. Back then, it was common for people to die young.”

&
nbsp; “That’s true.”

  He’s cagey, but not closed off. Does she dare ask another personal question?

  Yes, she dares: “Do you know whether your grandparents lost a child before your father and your aunt Augusta were born?”

  “No.”

  “No, they didn’t? Or no, you don’t know?”

  “I don’t know for certain, but I’m almost positive they didn’t.” He sips from the glass, looking uncomfortable.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Purcell. I don’t mean to pry. I’m just . . . I love this house, and I’m fascinated by its past.”

  “The house’s past? Or my family’s?”

  “They’re intertwined, aren’t they?”

  “Not irrevocably. My father certainly managed to extract himself.”

  The implication is that Frederick had made an escape—from the house, the family, the past—while his sister had not.

  Lester’s eyes shift to the left and right as if he’s making sure no one is eavesdropping before he sets the glass on the counter and says, “Tell me more about the statue.”

  “I can show you. It’s right in there.” She gestures at the door, then adds, feeling a bit foolish, “I guess you know that.”

  “Like I said, I didn’t spend much time here, Mrs. Bingham.”

  They cross through the mudroom. Lester sniffs the air and informs her that it smells like cat.

  “Your aunt fed strays. They keep coming around.”

  “I thought I got them all. Just don’t take the damned things in. They’ll destroy the place.”

  She has to bite her tongue to keep from saying, Maybe you should have included a clause in the real estate contract about that, too.

  Not feeling quite so sorry for him now, she wonders what he means about getting them all.

  She opens the door to the natatorium, explaining, “We’re having some work done to restore the pool. Watch your step.”

  “I’m glad someone will get some use out of it after all these years. You said you coached swimming?”

  “Yes.” So he was paying attention after all. She can’t decide whether she likes him or not.

  You don’t have to decide, she reminds herself as they pick their way across the cluttered floor along the side of the pool. It shouldn’t really matter what kind of person he is.