Blue Moon: Mundy's Landing Book Two

by Wendy Corsi Staub

He motions her to be quiet as he escorts her out the back door into the night.

  “But what about Oliver? He’s upstairs all alone,” she hisses as soon as they’re away from the house.

  “No, he isn’t. I already got him out.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Waiting in my car on the next block.”

  “Do they have guns, too?” she asks, referring to the mythical band of thieves she believes are prowling through the house.

  “Yes. That’s why I had to get you out of there right away. Shh, careful not to make any noise. I don’t want them to know you got away.”

  “What were they going to do to me?”

  “Don’t worry about that, Catherine. You’re safe now.”

  “How do you know my name?” she asks, and even in the shadowy yard, he can see suspicion in her eyes.

  A wailing siren erupts in the night and panic sweeps over Holmes.

  There’s no time to waste. He has to get Catherine into his SUV and away from here.

  “Come on,” he says. “We have to run.”

  “But that’s the police. They’re coming.”

  “Forget it. I’ll carry you.”

  “What? What are you—”

  He slams her in the temple with the butt of his gun, and she crumples to the ground.

  Staring down at the old-fashioned script in faded ink, Ora is dumbfounded.

  All these years, she could only have dreamed of such a discovery. But how on earth did it get into the time capsule?

  Charles Bingham is leafing through his notes, shaking his head. He leans in, away from the microphone he’s holding. “I don’t see any mention of a journal included in the contents, Miss Abrams.”

  “I suppose it was a last-minute addition,” she says slowly.

  Feeling all eyes upon her, she turns the stiff yellow pages with a trembling hand, scanning the dates. A curious rhythm emerges.

  The first part of the journal consists of detailed daily entries that span the first two weeks of August in 1893. They become sporadic after that, with many months and often years passing between passages that seem to mark milestone events: a commencement, a wedding . . . the birth of a child.

  The final batch of entries span the early summer of 1916, and they are again painstaking, though the penmanship becomes increasingly illegible. From late June into mid-July, a chronicle of the murders, interspersed with fragmented lines scribbled in an increasingly jagged slant as if to mirror the author’s descent into madness. Several entries consist only of the foreboding phrase “I must do something,” underlined on one page with such a vicious stroke that the pen slashed through the paper.

  And then, at the end, a rambling missive—a confession?

  If only Ora had thought to preview the capsule’s contents before now. She could have grabbed this artifact before it became public knowledge. There’s no way to keep it to herself now. The world will know the true identity of the Sleeping Beauty Killer.

  “Who wrote it?” Mayor Cochran leans in.

  She closes the journal, realizing that she might as well make the most of the moment. At least, she thinks, the news is coming from me.

  After a lifetime of keeping the secret, she lifts the microphone and opens her mouth.

  But before she can speak, a uniformed police officer hurries into the room and approaches Stanley Vernon, who is standing off to one side of the podium. The officer whispers something to him, and he in turn motions to the mayor. As the three confer briefly, Ora becomes aware of sirens in the night—and of a cell phone ringing in the audience.

  And then another.

  Something is happening.

  All around the dimly lit ballroom, splotches of electronic glow appear as people take out their phones to look at incoming text messages or answer calls. The crowd stirs, murmurs. Mayor Cochran strides away with the police officer. Stanley Vernon is back at the podium.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the mayor has been called away on . . . an emergency. We’re going to take a little intermission and give you an update shortly.” He clicks off the mike and looks from Trib to Ora.

  “What is it?” she asks, thoughts whirling madly, wondering whether there’s any way this sudden commotion can possibly be tied to the journal in her hands. Not likely, considering that it’s been locked away for a hundred years.

  “I don’t know how to say this any other way,” Stanley tells them, “so I’ll just tell you exactly what I’ve been told. The body of a young woman just turned up in a bed at 65 Prospect Street.”

  Holmes’s Case Notes

  I never knew my father, a predicament shared by my mother—not in terms of her own father, whose mental illness was the bane of her troubled childhood, but in terms of the man who impregnated her. I presume that she knew his name, but as far as I can tell, I am the product of a one-night stand in Woodstock, where she was living at the time. We moved across the river to Mundy’s Landing before I started kindergarten in the mid-nineties, as the public school district was good, real estate was still affordable, and Mother had an easy commute across the river to the boutique where she read tarot cards and created astrological charts for customers.

  As outsiders in a small, insular village, we kept to ourselves for the most part. I was an excellent student with a passion for history, as well as an avid reader. Mysteries were my favorite, not just modern children’s series like Encyclopedia Brown or the Three Investigators, but classic tales about Miss Marple, Hercule Poirot, and of course, Sherlock Holmes.

  Captivated by the unsolved local crimes from a young age, I was determined to unravel the truth as any of my fictional sleuths would surely have done.

  I had long guessed that two of the murders might have been staged to cover up the third. When I gained access to records not made public, I found that indeed, the second Beauty bore telltale signs of a personal connection to her attacker. That fact, combined with her young age—another detail I obtained from private records—led me to believe that the dastardly deed had been carried out by someone with ties to—or perhaps, within—the Purcell household.

  Upon discovering the inscription on the stone statue, I knew that Augusta had placed the piece to commemorate the child victim. I formed an interesting theory as to the second Beauty’s identity, and visited the Rockland asylum where Florence Purcell was committed when she finally lost her mind. There, I used a creative means to gain access to medical records of her stay. In the written account of Florence’s tormented ravings, I learned details that were meant to be disclosed only to medical personnel.

  That is how I was able to confirm Z.D.P.’s identity—as well as S.B.K.’s.

  Chapter 19

  When she saw the police officer scurrying toward the podium, Sully—like everyone else—knew there was trouble. Sure enough, the mayor fled with him, leaving a roomful of people to wonder what in the world is going on.

  The speculation doesn’t last long.

  Annabelle’s husband—listed in the program as Charles Bingham, but called Trib by everyone including the master of ceremonies—hurries back to the table, cell phone in hand.

  Jake Mundy voices the question on everyone’s mind: “What the hell is going on?”

  “The pet sitter just found a female corpse at the Yamazaki house, tucked into the bed in Evelyn Yamazaki’s bedroom. It isn’t Evelyn.”

  As the others react with horrified gasps, Sully turns immediately to Barnes.

  “Isn’t that the house—”

  “Yes,” she confirms, cutting him off, already on her feet. “Let’s go.”

  “But we’re not even—”

  “I know. But if this is a copycat killer, the locals are going to need all the help they can get.”

  Annabelle’s heart pounds as she dials their home number.

  Beside her, Kim is frantic. “She’s not picking up her cell! Where is she?”

  “Calm down,” Ross tells her. “Maybe she’s busy with Oliver.”

  “She has that phone in
her hand every second of her life!”

  Trying not to panic as the home phone, too, rings unanswered in her ear, Annabelle looks at Trib and shakes her head.

  “Do you want to call Oliver’s cell?” he asks, checking his watch.

  “He’s got to be in bed, and if I wake him up, what would I tell him? I can’t say that—”

  “Annabelle, you need to call your house!” Kim clutches her arm. “I need to talk to Catherine.”

  “I just called. She didn’t pick up, but I’m sure she just didn’t hear it.”

  “Why wouldn’t she hear it? Why wouldn’t she hear it?”

  “We only have two phones, and it’s a giant house. We’re always losing track of them.”

  “Annabelle’s right,” Trib jumps in. “If we left both phones upstairs and Catherine is downstairs, she wouldn’t—”

  “They found a girl. What if—”

  “No, Kim, that’s crazy.” Ross puts a firm hand on her arm although he, too, is beginning to look alarmed. “There’s no reason to think it’s Catherine.”

  “She’s not answering her phone!”

  “The two of you are barely speaking to each other right now,” her husband reminds her. “She’s angry. She’s probably ignoring you.”

  “I texted her that it’s a matter of life and death.”

  “She’s probably thinking that everything is a matter of life and death with you these days, Kim. You’re smothering her with all this overprotective—”

  “Shut up, Ross! Just shut up!”

  Mouth pursed, he shakes his head and looks at Annabelle.

  She touches Kim’s hand. “I’m sure she’s safe and sound at our house with Oliver.”

  “Your Murder House?” Kim flings back at her.

  Digesting that, Annabelle grabs her evening bag and looks at Trib. “We need to get home and check on the kids. Please. Right now.”

  “I guess this means the program is over,” Stanley Vernon tells Ora, gesturing at the mass exodus from the ballroom. “I presume your ride has abandoned you?”

  She nods, having arrived in Cochran’s limo. But as she clutches the precious leather-bound journal and absorbs the news about 65 Prospect Street, getting home the is last thing on her mind.

  “I’ll drive you. I have to go collect my keys and my wife—and that might take a while,” Stanley adds with a fleeting smile that belies the troubled expression in his eyes. “Should I also see about having someone move this chest back to the police station for the time being?”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s probably for the best, until we figure out what’s going to happen with . . . everything.”

  As he hurries away, Ora sinks into the nearest chair and opens the journal again, flipping to the final entry, dated July 16, 1916.

  No longer does the phrase I must do something screech through my muddled brain.

  It is done.

  Yet I now find myself wrestling as much with my conscience as with the dilemma of what to do with this damning written chronicle I have created. There were times when I questioned my urges to incriminate myself, if only on paper with words meant to be read by no other eyes but my own. However, the writing itself has been cathartic, allowing me to sort my jumbled thoughts, outline my plans, and—perhaps most importantly—safely unburden my soul so that I might avoid the daily temptation to lash out and thus give myself away.

  Having unleashed my pent-up rage when I dispatched Zelda from this world, I no longer have use for this journal. I have considered burning it, but the prospect turns my stomach. While I have always believed that I was writing it for my own benefit, much as a budding artist takes brush to canvas, it would be as unconscionable to set flame to these pages as it would be to reduce a vibrant Belle Epoch masterpiece to black cinders.

  If I keep it in my possession, however, in the midst of an active police investigation, there is a chance that it might be discovered. I can think of only one safe place to hide it.

  Thus, I have reached a decision that is perhaps shocking even to myself.

  This afternoon, I am slated to join several fellow dignitaries in placing a large collection of items into a wooden chest that will then be sealed, not to be opened for one hundred years. By that time I will have long gone on to my eternal reward or damnation, having been judged by the almighty power upon which my fate rests and not by those who might read these words and fail to understand why I did what I did.

  It is for them that I leave this record. I shall hereby reiterate that my motivation stemmed in love and not in hate. From the moment—

  “Ora?”

  Stanley Vernon touches her shoulder and she looks up, startled. He’s holding his keys, trailed by his wife, Roberta.

  “I’ve arranged for two men who are much stronger than we are to carry this out to the car.”

  “Thank you.” She closes the journal and starts to tuck it under her arm, but Stanley reaches for it.

  “Here,” he says, “I can put that back inside for safekeeping. Did you find a signature?”

  She did, at the bottom of the last page.

  “No,” she lies, compelled to guard her secret for a precious while longer.

  The drive back to The Heights, which should have encompassed five minutes, takes more than twenty. Everyone fled the gala at the same time, and they’re all headed in the same direction. Sitting in the backseat of the Winstons’ car in the line of traffic snaking along Battlefield Road, Annabelle holds tightly to Trib’s hand. In the front seat, Kim is alternately crying and dialing her phone. She even called the police, begging them to send someone over to 46 Bridge Street.

  “They said they would,” she frets as Ross steers the car onto State Street at last. “Why aren’t they calling me back?”

  “Obviously, they have their hands full,” he says grimly, gesturing at the scene ahead.

  For the second time today, a police barricade has been set up at the intersection of Prospect Street. This time, though, it isn’t due to a robbery at the historical society.

  Trib has been texting his sources for more information about the incident at the Yamazaki house, which appears to have been staged to mirror what happened there a hundred years ago today. A bit of encouraging news—that the victim is a brunette—is unconfirmed, but it seems to have kept Kim from crossing the brink into hysteria and hurtling herself out of the car.

  Now that they’re at a standstill, however, she flings open her door.

  “What are you doing?” Ross protests before she slams it closed, hikes up her gown, and takes off running toward Bridge Street.

  He rolls down his window and calls out to her as she covers only a few steps in her stiletto sandals before twisting her ankle and falling.

  “It’s okay, I’ll go help her,” Trib says, already out of the car.

  Annabelle takes a few seconds longer, bending to take off her own high heels and grab her keys from her bag. “I’m sure the kids are fine,” she tells Ross as she, too, jumps out.

  But she isn’t really. As much as she’s willing to believe that Catherine might ignore her mother’s phone calls and texts, would she also neglect to answer the Binghams’ landline?

  As Trib pointed out, they’ve occasionally misplaced a handset. But she’s almost positive she remembers leaving the downstairs receiver sitting in the charger base this afternoon. Catherine should have heard it ring, and she should have answered it.

  But maybe she was wearing headphones. Or maybe she was asleep.

  Asleep . . .

  Annabelle can’t help but think of the girl tucked into the bed at 65 Prospect.

  Annabelle’s peaceful little neighborhood has been invaded once more. Police radios and sirens drown out the crickets. Whirling red and blue dome lights, spotlights, flashing strobes, and cameras overshadow the porch lamps and fireflies. The media is already on the scene and the gawkers are out in force, clogging the sidewalks and the streets in their frenzy over this incredible development.

  “I’m going
home,” she calls as she passes Trib, trying to help Kim to her feet. Apparently, she’s unable to put any weight on her ankle.

  “Annabelle, wait, I’ll go!”

  She shakes her head, running as fast as she can. If, God forbid, something horrible has happened, Oliver needs her. Nothing is going to keep her away.

  Not even the uniformed police officer who steps squarely into her path as she reaches the corner of Bridge Street.

  “Wait a minute, where are you going?”

  Forced to stop, she pants, “I’m Annabelle Bingham. I live at 46 Bridge. We met at the bus stop the other day, remember? I was going to get my son, and you were directing traffic?”

  He nods, still in her way.

  “I have to get to him now.” She quickly explains the situation, but there’s no hint of empathy or urgency in his boyish, freckled face.

  He doesn’t have kids—he is a kid, she thinks.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, “but I have to keep everyone back right now, because an ambulance is about to come through.”

  For a dead girl?

  She makes a snap decision and pushes past him.

  “Hey, wait! Ma’am, this is an active investigation. You can’t—”

  “My son needs me!” she yells over her shoulder as she runs on.

  “Hey, Greenlea, what the hell is going on?” she hears another officer shout behind her.

  “She’s worried about her kid,” the young cop calls back. “She lives in the Murder House around the corner.”

  “Then go with her!”

  Footsteps pound on her trail. He’s fast, but Annabelle, still athletic, is faster.

  The Murder House around the corner.

  The words chase her as she weaves in and out of the crowd. Turning onto Bridge Street, she’s reassured to spot her house looking just as it should—not that it means anything. But still.

  For once, there’s not even a crowd gathered on the sidewalk out front. Drawn to the latest crime scene, they’ve lost interest, for now, in this one.

  The Murder House around the corner.