by Leigh Perry
“Like what?”
“No idea. I just thought that since the body was found at their house, they might be connected.”
“I never thought of that.”
“You didn’t miss anything. The only dirt I found was the literal kind, meaning several news stories about the condition in which the house was found after Mrs. Nichols passed away. That got me started reading up on hoarding disorder and watching the show Hoarders: Buried Alive. After two episodes, I couldn’t stand it anymore and started cleaning up my space.”
“You’re not a hoarder, Sid.”
“Most hoarders don’t realize that they’re hoarders.”
“Seriously?”
“Okay, the bad ones do, but most people kind of slide into it over time, with a small amount of stuff, then some more, a little more, and then boom! Hoarder! I wanted to make sure I wasn’t starting to slide down that slope.”
“I’m impressed.” I also told myself I was going to have to do some decluttering of my own when I got a chance. I used to move so often that I never had a chance to accumulate much detritus, but Madison and I had been at my parents’ house for long enough that the amount of stuff I owned had been slowly increasing.
Sid said, “Another big part of hoarder symptomology is hiding and shame. They’ll do just about anything to keep people from knowing.”
“Which explains why Mom never knew how bad the Nichols house had gotten.”
“Exactly. Psychologists used to think hoarding disorder was an offshoot of OCD, but now they consider it a separate disorder. They don’t know what causes it. It seems to be genetic with some people, but for others, it seems to be a response to emotional trauma.”
“Like maybe Professor Nichols’s death?”
“It could be.”
“So what does all this stuff about hoarding have to do with Rose’s death?”
“Don’t get caught up in the details, Georgia. It’s early days yet.”
In other words, he didn’t know that it did.
“Did you talk to Charles?” he asked.
“I called him, and he didn’t have time to meet with me today, but he left a letter in my faculty mailbox.”
“Why didn’t he just email it?”
“Security?” I said.
“As if leaving it in a mailbox was more secure,” Sid scoffed. “Anyway, what did the letter say?”
“I haven’t opened it yet.” I waved a thick envelope at him. “I thought you’d want to read it with me.”
“You are the perfect partner,” Sid said. I took a seat on the couch, and he plopped down next to me as I opened the envelope.
“Oh my spine and femur,” I said. “It’s handwritten. That’s why he didn’t email it. And look at the writing. Sid, he used a fountain pen.”
“I know you adore the guy, Georgia, but he is nuts.”
“Sometimes I think he should have been born in a different era.”
The first page was a note to me.
Georgia,
I find it easier to express my recollections about Rose in writing. I trust this does not hinder your investigation. Feel free to ask for more information if needed.
With warmest regards,
Charles
He’d labeled the rest of the pages “Clues to Rose’s True Identity” and created a bulleted list.
Rose was approximately five and a half feet tall. I didn’t measure her, but in comparing her height to my own, I feel reasonably confident in my estimate.
I’m a poor judge of age, but from her appearance and the things she said, I gathered that she was my age or a year or two younger. I was thirty-seven at the time.
“That matches what Yo determined in her examination, doesn’t it?” Sid said.
I nodded, and we continued.
Rose’s eyes were dark brown. Her hair was a rich chestnut shade that hung to her shoulders. (It was her natural color—there was ample time for her roots to begin to show.) Her coloring was Caucasian, neither pale nor tanned, but a rosy peach.
Though not classically beautiful, she was very attractive, and her smile transformed her face.
Rose’s build was what is often known as full-figured or curvy. I would describe her as having a classic hourglass figure.
“Charles was really smitten with her,” Sid said.
Since Rose was in hiding, given the way in which women are often mistreated, my first thought was that she was escaping an abuser of some kind. However, I never saw any physical signs of this. Of course, even after our relationship deepened, I could have missed injuries or they could have healed before I had an opportunity to observe them, but she never showed any signs of experiencing pain.
Rose didn’t say where she was from, but her accent was that of a New Englander.
Rose had no car that I ever saw.
Rose was a strong woman, so I doubt she was a desk worker of any kind. Her hands, though entirely feminine, showed signs of good, strong labor.
“That is the sweetest way ever of describing callouses on a woman’s hands,” I said.
“Smitten.”
I suspect Rose was college-educated. Her knowledge was strongest in history, particularly European, and she knew a great deal about art. She seemed less well-versed in literature and never mentioned math or any of the sciences. Her knowledge of philosophy was less indicative of formal study than of a person making her own observations.
Rose said her parents died early, and she had no siblings. She never mentioned any other family connections.
Rose made vague references to a checkered past. I believe her exact phrase was, “I’m no angel, Charles.” I disagreed.
Rose had no pets.
Rose was right-handed.
Rose’s cooking was, I fear, not outstanding, though some allowances must be made for our limited equipment.
During the times when I was away from the house, Rose spent her time reading and sketching. She was shy about showing me her work, but from what I remember, she was quite talented. Though I confess that I could be biased.
“No kidding!” Sid said.
“Don’t make fun. He was in love.”
As far as I knew, Rose had no plans for the future. And in truth, I did not push her. Our sojourn together seemed timeless, and the world outside our walls unimportant. Had we not learned that the house was to be demolished, I almost believe we could have lived there forever.
The events of our last days together may be of particular interest, so I will describe them in some detail. On the morning of the twenty-third, I went out to get us a hot breakfast, and I picked up the Pennycross Gazette as well. That’s when we saw the announcement that demolition was imminent. We were both quite concerned, but I had to put worry aside. I was teaching at McQuaid that semester, and thanks to spending time with Rose, I’d fallen behind in my teaching duties. Since I still had papers to score and grades to post, I had to leave her alone while I worked on campus. When I came back, she seemed calmer and said that perhaps things would work out after all. I should have pressed her for more information, but I was mulling over a decision.
Georgia, I shall never forgive myself for not telling Rose that I would have been honored to make a home with her, but in my defense, I had nowhere to take her. I was up all night considering my options, and by the next morning, I’d decided to damn the torpedoes, as it were.
I left her at the house to do some Christmas shopping, and again, was gone most of the day. By the time I returned, she was gone.
Sid said, “Do you think he went to get a ring for her?”
“I can’t imagine what else he would have rushed off to buy at a time like that.” I folded up the pages and put them back into the envelope. “I feel so bad for him. They had that one month together, and then he spent ten years wondering what had happened. Now he finds out she’s dead.”
He patted my shoulder. “We’re doing what we can for him, Georgia
, and maybe it did him good to talk about it, even on paper.”
“I hope so.”
“So what did he tell us that might help us?” Sid said, making a steeple of his hands in his favorite time-to-detect pose.
“One thing stands out. How did Rose know the Nichols house was vacant?”
Sid said, “There may have been something in the news. I can check that online.”
“I don’t think it would have been reported anywhere other than locally. So that might mean Rose came from this part of the state, at least.”
“That leads to another thought. No matter how she found out about the Nichols place, why did she go there?”
“She was on the run and needed a place to hide out,” I reminded him.
“That’s what she said, but maybe she wasn’t really on the run. Maybe she was searching for something hidden in the house.”
“Deborah said it was cleared out.”
“The cleaning crew could have missed something. Hoarders are all about hiding stuff.”
“That’s something to consider. Though if it is true, I don’t want to be the one to tell Charles she was at the house under false pretenses.”
“Maybe she came for a MacGuffin but stayed for love.”
“I think Charles could accept that,” I said. “Suppose Rose was making one last hunt for the MacGuffin when she was caught and killed by a competing thief. Or she did find it, and the competing thief found out and killed her to get it.”
“Or somebody came to buy the MacGuffin and decided it was cheaper to kill her and steal it.”
“Whatever it was, if it exists.”
“Which it may not,” Sid concluded. “We know that she didn’t have a car. How far do you suppose she could have walked?”
“It depends on how cold it was, how much snow there was, and how physically fit she was. For me, on a good day, a mile or two. Madison could walk further, but cold bothers her more. Deborah could go for miles.”
“I’ll check the weather and the bus schedules for that date. Of course, I won’t be able to track her if she hitched a ride.”
“I doubt she’d have hitchhiked. She was about the age I am now, and I wouldn’t hitchhike if I had any other choice. Given that she was on the run, I think she’d be even less likely to rely on the kindness of strangers.”
“That makes sense. Still, I’ve got a few things to look for online: weather, bus routes, MacGuffins, and more missing person reports.”
“How are you going to look for a possibly nonexistent MacGuffin?”
“It requires mad search engine skills that are far too sophisticated to explain to the layperson.”
I just looked at him.
“Okay, I’ll probably skip the MacGuffin and go on to the missing person reports. Which are really depressing, by the way.”
I patted his scapula in sympathy. “Why don’t you take the night off. We haven’t watched Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer or Olive the Other Reindeer yet this year.”
“And The Grinch Who Stole Christmas? The animated short, of course.”
“Absolutely!”
Between dinner with the family and our Christmas DVD orgy, we managed to shake off my sadness about Charles and Sid’s about all the missing people, but I was sure that Sid would go right back to work as soon as I went to bed.
Chapter Eleven
The next day was a busy one thanks to classes and meetings with students to help them fine-tune their final papers. I felt more than a little guilty when I got home, and after greeting Madison and my parents, I headed upstairs. I was sure Sid had been working on the case nonstop, and I hadn’t so much as texted him to see how it was going.
Then I got upstairs and found him playing a computer game.
“Hang on,” he said without looking up. I waited for him to finish his game of Bejeweled Blitz, expecting him to stop when he was done. Instead he started a new game. And a third one after that. Sure, they were only one minute long each, but he knew I was standing there.
“Should I come back later?” I said with a certain sense of irritation.
“Sorry,” he said, but he still finished his game. When he turned around, I noticed his bones weren’t attached as tightly as usual. Since Sid is held together purely by attitude, if for some reason he is feeling unsure of himself or worried, his bones become looser. During rough times, they barely hang together at all. His current condition wasn’t that bad, but it wasn’t good either.
“What’s the word?” I asked.
“Weather’s supposed to be cold tonight, but there’s no snow in the forecast. They’ve got sleet down in Boston this afternoon, and the traffic is a mess, but the storm won’t make it this far.”
“That’s good. But I was talking about—”
“Of course, it would be great to have some snow on the ground for Christmas. It makes everything look Christmas-y.” He actually hummed the first bars of “White Christmas.” “Don’t you think it would be odd to have Christmas in Australia where it’s summer in December? Do they put up fake snowflakes and stuff like they do in Florida and California?”
“I have no idea.”
“Speaking of Australia, I found a slew of great videos of quokka. I thought it was pronounced to rhyme with rock-a, but it really rhymes with mocha. They are such cute animals and so friendly. I’ll send you some links.” He started to type on his computer.
“Sid!”
“Hmm?”
“Did you find out anything about Rose?” I asked.
“Maybe. I don’t know. It probably doesn’t mean anything.”
“The way you’ve been avoiding talking about it tells me that (a) you think it does mean something and (b) you don’t want me to know.”
“It’s not that I don’t want you to know. It’s just that I don’t want to be the one to tell you. I should also remind you that coincidences do happen.”
“I know that. What coincidence did you find?” I remembered his list of tasks from the night before. “Was it something to do with the weather, bus routes, or missing person reports?”
“No, though I did check all those out. The weather was cold, but there wasn’t much snow, and there are a lot of buses that come into Pennycross, so when you factor in connections, she could have come from anywhere in New England. The bus depot is less than a mile from where the Nichols house used to be, and she could easily have walked that far. In other words, I got nothing useful. So I went back to the missing person reports, and despite working my fingers to the bone—literally—I had no luck.” He started popping his fingers off, then putting them back on.
“And? Don’t tell me you found a MacGuffin.”
“Of course not. I have too much sense to waste time on that.”
“Then what are you upset about?”
“I wish you couldn’t always tell when I’m upset.”
Normally that would have called for a joke about being able to see right through him, but I didn’t think the timing was right. I settled for, “I have known you a long time.”
“True. I’m the kind of guy who’d wear my heart on my sleeve if I had either a heart or sleeves.”
“I can also tell when you’re stalling.”
“A bit. To continue, after I ran out of things to try, I went back and reread Charles’s letter to see if we’d missed anything.”
“Had we?”
“One tiny thing. He said that the day before Rose disappeared, they read the newspaper and found out that the house was going to be demolished, which made them both super stressed. Charles went to work, but by the time he came home, Rose seemed calmer. So what happened in those few hours?”
“She could have just pulled herself together, or maybe she suddenly got a brilliant idea.”
“Brilliant ideas require inspiration. She wouldn’t have had a cell phone or a computer handy because Charles would have taken his with him, so the only things in the house that might have sparked an id
ea were their books, her sketchbook, and that newspaper Charles had just bought.”
“I’m guessing it was the newspaper.”
He nodded. “The Pennycross Gazette has online archives dating back decades, so it wasn’t hard to find the right issue, but I did have to go through it several times before I spotted what Rose saw. Or might have seen. I don’t know for sure, Georgia, but it’s the only thing in that newspaper that hinted at where Rose might have come from or where she might have gone. But maybe you’d rather look for yourself. I can access the archive again.”
“Sid, just spill it.”
He sighed heavily, or at least made a heavy sighing sound for effect. “North Ashfield had a big Christmas Festival that year.”
“Okay.”
“With Santa, decorative lights, a parade, and a carnival.”
“So you think Rose was a carney?”
“It would make sense, wouldn’t it? Say she got in trouble with a local and had to get away. Or somebody at the carnival itself was after her. Or she’d decided to join the carnival to get away from town.”
“All reasonable possibilities, and some of them would explain why there was no police report. I just don’t know why you were so worried about telling me.” Then I realized what he was getting at. “Which carnival was it?”
“It was Fenton’s.” He showed me a printout of the ad, which included a familiar logo.
Fenton’s Family Festival was the carnival where I’d first encountered Sid, but the reason Sid hadn’t wanted to tell me was because it was owned and managed by the parents of my ex-boyfriend Brownie Fenton, who still worked there part of the time. No wonder Sid’s bones were loose.
I was on good enough terms with most of my ex-boyfriends that I would have had no hesitation in reaching out to them. It was different with Brownie. For one thing, we hadn’t broken up that long ago, and for another, the circumstances were more awkward than usual.
Even if I were best buddies with Brownie, it would still have been ticklish having to get in touch with his parents. I had no reason to believe that they would be any happier with me than I was with the boy who’d dumped Madison back in September.
