Chapter Seventeen

Fortunately, the rest of the day was quiet, with few patrons and even fewer problems. I was even able to send a few funny texts to Sunny, hoping to cheer her up, until she finally responded: “Don’t worry, I have wine and the grands are looking after me. Put down the phone and get back to work!”

It would be a long day for me, since we closed at eight on Mondays and I’d arrived at seven that morning. Usually whoever was scheduled to stay late arrived midmorning, but today that had been Sunny. When I’d called Aunt Lydia to inform her of the schedule change, she’d said she’d stop by around six to drop off something for my dinner, then hang out in the library until eight so she could drive me home.

“That’s not really necessary,” I’d told her, but she’d insisted. Since I’d walked to work so she could have the car, I’d relented without much fuss. There was still the possibility that a murderer was lurking in the area. I didn’t think I was in danger but preferred not to walk home in the dark.

Around three o’clock, when one of our volunteers showed up to cover the circulation desk, I decided to satisfy my curiosity over Fiona Muir’s statements concerning Paul Dassin’s research into the disappearance of Ada Frye and Violet Greyson. After the events of the past summer, Richard had donated all the papers he’d uncovered in his great-uncle’s attic, in addition to his mother’s collection, to the archives, so if any of Paul’s information on the missing girls existed, I should be able to find it. Of course, Paul might not have saved any of that research if he’d decided not to write the book, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt for me to take a look at his collected papers.

In the archives building, I surveyed the Paul Dassin file boxes with a practiced eye. Neither Sunny nor I had yet created detailed finding aids for the collection, but I knew that the material was at least arranged by years. Based on Fiona’s comments, I assumed that anything related to a book on the missing girls would have been from a later period in Paul’s life and retrieved the three file boxes that spanned the ten years before his death in 1985.

After pulling on a pair of white cotton gloves, I began flipping through the file boxes, sliding out the materials just far enough to check for any mention of the 1879 incident. I spied no references until I reached the box covering 1981–1985.

Fiona was right—it was a project Paul Dassin had only embarked on late in his life. He must’ve already been in his eighties before he started gathering any research on the subject. I lifted several acid-free folders from the box and sat down at the table to peruse their contents.

The material consisted of handwritten notes, which made reading it quickly a little more difficult. I knew that I’d probably end up carrying the boxes into the library to look through them more closely later. But curiosity drove me to continue to skim over the notes, hoping to at least narrow down my search. If I could find any references to foul play in the disappearance of the girls …

“There it is,” I said aloud as my eyes focused on a page that appeared to be transcripts of interviews Paul Dassin had conducted with older members of the Frye clan. One of the speakers, identified only as “C. F.,” mentioned long-held, secretive rumors that had circulated at family gatherings when she was a child.

“Didn’t understand it at the time,” the speaker had told Paul. “I was too young to catch the innuendoes. But now that I’ve lived through so much, all the changes in society and all, I think I can make sense of it. I can see why all the old folks were so anxious to keep it hushed up, especially back then.”

I leaned in, peering at the scrawled script with a frown. That was odd. Even a child should’ve been able to understand rumors that concerned possible murders. Flipping over the page to read more of the interview, I sucked in a quick breath. There was a sticky note pasted to the paper. That was disconcerting. No one should have marked these pages in any way.

Another secretive search, I thought. Because if Sunny or I had approved it and then refiled these documents, that sticky note would’ve been removed. I examined the note. “Important!” it said in a broad scrawl. I was not entirely surprised to discover that it matched what I’d seen of Mona Raymond’s handwriting.

So she’d rifled through these papers without asking, as well as the other historical files. I made a huffing noise and pulled away the note to read the text beneath it.

“I didn’t grasp what my grandmother and great-aunts meant when they said that Ada and Violet were ‘far too close,’ ” C. F. had told Paul. “And at the time I had no idea what ‘Sapphic’ meant either.”

I sat back in my chair, staring at the page lying flat on the table in front of me.

So that’s what Mona had been referencing when she’d talked about a scandal. Considering Ethan’s words about her biases, I supposed in her mind such a thing would appear scandalous, although the notion that two young women in the late nineteenth century had fallen in love was not something that seemed particularly salacious to me.

But think about how a conservative family member might feel if such information was shared. I slid the document back into its folder and refiled it in its proper box. I didn’t know enough about Delbert Frye to guess his reaction to such news, but given his age and hermitlike ways, it was entirely possible that he would do something drastic to keep this type of information buried.

And perhaps “bury” anyone who threatened to expose the truth.

I stood, cradling the box in my arms. I’d carry it inside and read through the documents more thoroughly, but even this quick perusal had turned up an additional reason for Delbert Frye to want to silence Mona Raymond.

After closing up the archives, I walked back into the library, still considering this angle. To me, old gossip wasn’t enough to consider killing anyone, but I knew that wasn’t true for everyone. If a decades-old scandal in my own family had been enough to drive one of my older cousins to kill several people, a forbidden relationship between Ada and Violet, along with their possible murders by someone in their family, might be enough of a motive for Delbert Frye.

It was another bit of information to tell Brad Tucker, at any rate. I set the archival box on a shelf in the workroom and called him to share this latest revelation.

*   *   *

“I would’ve asked Richard to come and get me this evening,” I told Aunt Lydia when she showed up with sandwiches, two bags of baby carrots, and bottled water, “but he has a late rehearsal at school.”

“It’s no problem,” my aunt replied, spreading some paper towels over the worktable. “I needed to pick up some books anyway.” She glanced over at me as she unwrapped the sandwiches. “How’s Sunny doing?”

“Like I told you, she’s pretty upset. Not really because of Brad, though.” I hovered near the workroom door so I could keep an eye on the desk. “It’s more about not ever finding anyone who can love her just as she is. It seems crazy to me, because I think she’s so amazing, but it seems her being herself is not what most men want.”

“That’s a tricky thing.” Aunt Lydia unscrewed the lid on one of the bottles and took a long swallow of water. “I thought Andrew and I loved each other just as we were, but it turns out that wasn’t exactly the case. Well, the error was more on my part than his, I suppose.” She set the bottle on the table and laid out the two packages of carrots. “Sometimes I think finding the right companion is really more luck than anything else. Meeting your best match seems so difficult, and yet it often happens by chance. Who would’ve thought I would find my best partner so late in life, and in such an unexpected way?”

“You and Hugh are perfect for one another.”

“But you have to admit that it was just luck that we met. Like you and Richard.” Aunt Lydia looked up at me from under her lowered lashes. “I like to think Sunny will experience the same good fortune one day. But it might take a while.”

“Not too long, I hope,” I said as the bell at the desk rang. “Hold on, let me handle this.”

I spied a tall figure with white hair as soon as I stepped behind the desk. “Hello, Kurt, what brings you here?”

“I had a little business in town and thought I’d pop in and see if you were working this evening.” He spread his hands wide. “I would’ve called you later in any case, but since you’re here—how would you like to visit Mary Gardener tomorrow afternoon? She’s been talking about you ever since our last visit, so I’m sure she’d be delighted to see you again. Oh hello, Lydia,” he added, as my aunt stepped out of the workroom. “Volunteering tonight?”

“No, just bringing Amy something to eat and then driving her home after work. Sunny had to leave suddenly, so Amy needed to stay later than she’d planned.”

Kurt frowned. “I hope everything’s all right with Ms. Fields.”

“She’s fine,” I said. “She just needed an afternoon off for … reasons. As for tomorrow, I think I can swing that. We close at five on Tuesdays now, and I’m sure Sunny will agree to handle things if I leave early. If you want to go in the afternoon like we did before, that is.”

“That would be perfect. And Lydia, if you’re free, perhaps you’d like to join us? I think you might enjoy the visit. Mary is a wonderful storyteller and knows a great deal about local history. She may even have some tales to tell about your parents that you’ve never heard.”

“I’d be delighted,” my aunt said. “Should we just meet you out front, say around three?”

“That will work.” Kurt’s gaze swept over Aunt Lydia before coming to rest on me. “I hope you didn’t have too painful a time at my dinner party the other night.”

“Oh no, it was lovely,” I said. “I mean, you’re not to blame if …”

“Some of my guests behave like boors?” Kurt flashed a grin. “I would be inclined to believe that Richard was adopted if it weren’t for the fact that he bears such a strong resemblance to Paul Dassin.”

Aunt Lydia sniffed loudly. “That only proves that Fiona is his biological mother. I think I might’ve sought out someone else to father my child if I were her, so who knows?”

“Aunt Lydia, the things you say sometimes …” I shook my head as Kurt burst out in a loud guffaw.

The Nightingale, perusing the “New Books” rack, shushed him, but he simply offered her a gallant bow and left the building, still chuckling to himself.