3

EFFIE

May 1901

HER FINGERNAILS had been bitten to the quick, but that didn’t stop Effie from gnawing at them when no one was looking. There were some things a person must do to manage their nervousness, and for Effie this was one of them. Her father had all but dragged her back to 322 Predicament Avenue. The hubbub was fast growing as curiosity seekers noted the doors of the abandoned house open, men coming in and out, and now a plethora of onlookers had gathered. Murder. The word spread quickly once spoken, and there was no stopping it. Regardless of the creepy tales that hovered around the property, there had never been a proven homicide in Shepherd, Iowa. It was a peaceful small town where everyone knew everyone, where churches were central to daily life, and evildoing was thwarted.

Effie stood just outside the front of the house on Predicament Avenue, staring up at its two-story frame that seemed to tilt toward the east as if it were tired of standing. It wasn’t a very old house; it had been built maybe thirty years prior. But it was a tired house. A dying house.

“Are you all right?” A woman sidled up to Effie, who stepped away from the unwanted attention.

“Yes, of course.” Effie nodded quickly, avoiding the searching gaze that was filled more with curiosity and inquiry than concern. Word had spread—by whom and how, Effie wished she knew. Yet immediately after she’d reported the incident early this morning, somehow it had leaked. Polly had collapsed into a catatonic state of shock on arriving back home. Effie’s shouts for help had awakened the James household and turned their world upside down. “This is why there are standards of decorum and etiquette!” Mother had wailed before collapsing onto a velvet settee with a handkerchief clasped in her hand. In spite her theatrics, however, Mother was a strong woman and had summoned the tenacity to tend to Polly and send one of their brothers for a doctor.

Father had been less than understanding—not that Effie could blame him. She had behaved like a hooligan, not a young woman of marriageable age, and not at all with the standards expected of a lady of society, such as she was. The daughter of the bank president. Others would be more forgiving toward Polly. And that was another troublesome burden altogether.

“Was there blood?”

“Hmm?” Effie swung her head around to look at the insatiably curious woman. She frowned, registering the question. “No. I mean . . . gracious!” Effie leveled a look of sheer censure on the woman, who had the decency to offer a sheepish smile and leave Effie alone.

Effie watched as the woman joined a few other townsfolk. The small group began poking around the perimeter of the house. One of them pressed her face against a window, not unlike Polly had done only hours before. A shudder ran up Effie’s spine. Polly had not shared what it was she’d seen, but Effie could imagine. The woman’s screams, followed by silence? It all bespoke of violence and outright death.

“Why did I have to return here?” Effie muttered under her breath. A willow tree in the front yard waved its branches like a ghoul hovering over it as a silent witness. Her father stood on the front porch, his coattails pushed back and his hands at his waist. He was in an animated conversation with the constable.

A man exited the front door, his trousers tailored to his cut figure. He glanced at Effie, then said something to her father and the constable.

“Effie.” Father’s commanding baritone jolted her into obedience, and Effie moved through the growing crowd of gawkers.

Father extended his hand to Effie as she went up the stairs. She recognized the third male as Rand Fletcher, a local businessman who lived down the street from 322 Predicament Avenue. He was handsome in an angular sort of way, and Effie had been only a few years behind him in school. He shifted his eyes away from her as she looked up to meet his gaze.

That didn’t bode well. Effie tried not to squirm. Mr. Fletcher had always been friendly, if not warm, and confident. He had a habit of meeting women with a direct expression as if they were his equal. Now Effie felt diminished beneath the aversion of his attention. As though she were indeed beneath him—or was foolish or had done something horribly wrong.

Carlton James, Effie’s father, glowered at her from beneath his bushy gray brows. “Be honest now.”

“I’m nothing if not honest,” Effie responded, biting her tongue at her father’s darkening expression. She had acted immaturely, caught up in her sister’s mission to be adventurous and take risks before . . . well, Effie had never been an adventurer, nor was she a risk-taker. She was a good Christian woman with ideals and hopes of having her own home one day, and it certainly wouldn’t be anything like this dreadful house on Predicament Avenue that—

“Euphemia!” Carlton James’s bark was worse than his bite, Effie knew, but when her father used her full name, she not only listened but felt thoroughly chastised.

The constable, whom Effie recognized as Constable Talbot, cleared his throat. “Miss James, you have raised quite the alarm in our community.”

Effie exchanged a glance with Rand Fletcher. Once again, he averted his eyes.

“I merely reported what I . . . what my sister witnessed.” Effie felt her throat tighten with a growing desperation she couldn’t explain. “We heard screaming, and then there was just . . . nothing. Pure silence. But Polly had looked through the window and—”

Rand cleared his throat, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb toward the innards of the house. “There is nothing inside, Miss James.” He skimmed his gaze across Effie’s face. “No body. No woman injured or dead.”

“Which matches what I saw when I first arrived here,” Constable Talbot concluded.

“Me too!” Gerald Ambrose piped up, a member of the town council and owner of the local drugstore. He stomped his feet on the porch as if to clear mud from his already clean shoes. “Except I did step in some moldy food on the floor in the kitchen.”

“That has no bearing on this.” Constable Talbot dismissed the comment. Two ladies approached the bottom of the stairs, stealing Constable Talbot’s attention for a moment. “Mrs. Jarvis, Mrs. Clements.”

“We’re here to offer our assistance with cleaning up after the body.” The older women exchanged glances, but Effie could see the curiosity etched into the fine lines of their powdered faces. Murder did that to a town. Everyone and their mothers’ brothers would turn out to tour the murder house, to see the bloodstains and speculate on what had happened.

Effie recalled reading in the paper about a town not much different from Shepherd, where over three hundred people gathered and made their way through the home where a family had been axed to death in their beds. Of course, the victims had been removed, but only after twenty or so had already viewed them, attempting to help the police.

It was what people did when a serious crime had been committed in their small town—offer their help while pretending not to be curious. In the end, though, it was mostly a fascination with the macabre. And it sickened Effie.

“Constable,” Effie broke in, desperate to end this growing carnival before it became newsworthy. “My sister and I may have acted foolishly, but my sister has taken to her bed and—”

“Enough.” Her father’s hand on Effie’s arm stilled her. She shot her father a questioning look. What was to be secretive about Polly’s condition? Everyone knew the truth about Polly, and now? The events of last night had been too much for her. They had paralyzed Polly, stolen her words, shocked her into a weakened stupor . . .

Effie’s eyes burned with tears. No one, not even her own father, could comprehend why she’d followed Polly last night, and why now she was growing desperate for the others to understand the terror they had been through.

“Mr. Fletcher, are you certain you saw nothing—?” Effie’s words broke off as Rand Fletcher stifled a cough.

“Really, I’ve no more to do with this.” Mr. Fletcher’s expression toward Effie was a mixture of apology and concern. “I will leave you to it,” he said to the constable. “Pardon me.” Mr. Fletcher pushed past Effie, nodding at the two women who still waited with eagerness to clean up the bloody mess left behind by the alleged murder.

Constable Talbot held up a hand toward them. “Ladies, I appreciate the offer, but I won’t be needing your services today.”

Disappointment creased their faces. Mrs. Jarvis tried once more. “Might we not come inside and help make sure you didn’t miss anything?”

“Nothing to see, ladies. Please move along now.” Mr. Ambrose waved them off, also dismissing another five onlookers who’d gathered beside them. “There’s no murder. Nothing inside to see that you probably haven’t seen already.”

Murmurs rippled among the folks as they withdrew. Effie cast urgent looks between the men before her. Her brow furrowed with growing horror. “We did hear a woman scream.” Effie ignored the squeeze of her father’s hand on her arm. She stiffened, insisting that she be heard. “My sister saw something. Something awful right there in the kitchen.” Effie waved her arm at the house.

“Did you see it?” the constable asked. “The assumption of murder is quite a leap.”

Effie was brought up short. “Well, no, but I—”

“And your sister isn’t in any condition to speak of what she saw?” The constable’s eyes shifted to Effie’s father.

“My daughter is not well.”

Not well? Effie reared back to stare at her father. Not well was an understatement to say the least. Polly was so terrified that she’d been whimpering while curled up like an infant in her bed! Any expression of energy and strength had been drained from Polly, like someone had opened a valve and released her spirit, leaving only her soul to remain.

This was far sooner than Effie had wanted. Far sooner than she thought it would happen. The horror of what Polly had witnessed had snatched from Polly the last remnants of her will to continue marking off the dreams of her wish list. The things she wanted to do before . . . well, 322 Predicament Avenue had been one of Polly’s wishes. Effie had accompanied her because it was what a loyal sister did when the other one was dying.

The men stared at Effie. Father cleared his throat. Mr. Ambrose crossed his arms over his chest.

Constable Talbot chose to dismiss Effie’s insistence and instead address her father. “There’s no evidence of anything out of the ordinary here. I appreciate your willingness to help us by coming here.” He turned to address Effie. “And I appreciate that you brought it to our attention. While I can’t say what exactly your sister saw or you heard, Miss James”—he managed a thin smile, likely meant to appease her—“it’s apparent it wasn’t a murder. Thank the Lord for that.”

“Yes,” Mr. Ambrose agreed.

Effie and her father bid the men goodbye and slipped through the thinning crowd back toward their carriage. The driver assisted them inside and closed the door. With a jerk, the carriage started moving forward, the horse’s shoes clopping along the cobblestone street.

Effie eyed her father, who stared out the side window, tapping his finger against his bearded chin. He was agitated, that much was certain. His gaze seemed to linger on the graveyard behind the house on Predicament Avenue, and then it shifted to his gloved hands.

“I’m sorry, Father.” Effie said what she knew her father expected and preferred she’d say.

Her father turned his dark eyes on her, the seriousness in them spearing her. An uninterpretable expression passed over his face, and then his jaw clenched. He ran his hand over his peppery-gray beard. “I didn’t expect this from you, Euphemia.” Carlton James’s direct conclusion landed squarely on Effie’s shoulders. “You are supposed to look after your sister, not follow her in her shenanigans.”

He had a point, but then how did one tell Polly no? Polly, who was the pride and joy of the James family. The effervescent and delightful Polly who was the thread that wove the entire family together into a cohesive unit.

Carlton cleared his throat. “She wasn’t well to begin with.”

“I know.” Effie’s admission sounded small to her own ears.

“And this—whatever this was—only toppled the last of her strength and reasoning.”

Effie didn’t answer. Her father wasn’t wrong, but he didn’t understand either. He didn’t grasp how Polly had pleaded with Effie to go to Predicament Avenue, just like they had whispered and conspired to do when they were younger. Yet they’d never been brave enough, most assuredly not Effie. Effie had always told Polly it was foolhardy and inappropriate. But last night? The sunken paleness in Polly’s expression spoke louder than her pleas. Time was oh so limited.

“And to report a murder?” Carlton’s disapproval was clear. “With no evidence of—”

“There was evidence!” Effie interrupted, shifting in her seat in the carriage. “Polly saw—”

“What?” Carlton frowned. A father’s censure. “She cannot tell us now, can she? Did she tell you? Did she detail for you what she saw?”

“I heard the woman scream, Father.” Effie’s insistence didn’t carry with it the conviction she felt. The fact was, no matter what Polly had seen, and no matter what she had heard, as of now the house on Predicament Avenue was empty. There was no corpse whose blood had soaked into the floorboards. There was no mangled woman lying exposed to confirm Effie’s story. There was no crime, no murder, nothing but the empty shell of 322 Predicament Avenue. “A woman was murdered, I know this.” Effie’s statement hung in the air between them.

Drawing in a breath, her father finished the conversation in a tone rich with disbelief. “So you say, Euphemia. So you say.”

Mother preferred to take her tea inside, read a book inside, and recline inside. It was the ladylike thing to do. Effie smiled as she reached for the book on the top of her pile. Perhaps this was a rebellion of her own making, not influenced by Polly’s mischief. The out-of-doors was a haven, the sky a canopy of light, and the breeze God’s whisper.

After two days, the debacle had decreased in its drama as far as the town was concerned. But inside the James manor, nothing was as it should be. Mother held a vigil by Polly’s bedside. Effie’s brothers came and went in silent solemnity. Father proceeded to treat life as normally as possible while attempting to dispel any lingering wagging tongues and discrimination against his daughters’ untoward behaviors. Effie believed it all to be a continuing nightmare.

The terror of that evening had been overshadowed by Polly’s condition now. She had yet to respond to anyone. Her eyes remained closed, her skin grew paler, she writhed and whimpered—either in pain or from being haunted by the visions of what she’d seen—and Effie could hardly bear it. Polly hadn’t been healthy, but Effie had contributed to pushing Polly over the edge. Were they now waiting for her to die? Plagued by the last visions of her life being the taking of another life?

It had happened, Effie knew. With all of her heart she knew. Yet she lacked Polly’s ability to convince others to believe her. Effie was straightforward, reserved, cautious, and bookish. In the shadow of her younger sister, she had no talent for persuading others to believe an outlandish story of murder. Especially with no evidence to support her claims.

Effie was thankful to be alone now with her thoughts, where she could be completely honest with herself and with God. She opened her book, smoothing the first page with a tender caress. Ben-Hur. She had already read it once, but the adventure, the devotion, the faith . . . it spoke to her very soul. Such a story should be heralded. Effie could imagine the chariots, the Romans, the leprous sister, and the mother. She could fathom the agony and the tragedy and the—

“Miss James?”

Startled, Effie slammed the book shut as if she were reading one of Polly’s romance novels Mother so disapproved of.

She noted a carriage had stopped beneath the arched canopy of the drive that curved around and offered shelter at the entrance of the James manor. Before her stood a stooped elderly man dressed in a well-tailored suit, his hat in his hands, wisps of white hair rising from the age-dotted skin of his mostly bald head. He had a round nose, a white beard, and a mustache so full she could hardly see his mouth.

“I apologize for being so forward.” The old man’s tone was confident in spite of his breaking of etiquette. “Do allow me to introduce myself.” His voice was accented and polished. British.

Curiosity piqued, but with her reservedness arousing caution, Effie stiffened, clutching Ben-Hur in her hands. “May I help you? My mother is inside, and my father is not at home.”

The older gentleman smiled, and it warmed his expression.

Effie rather liked him immediately, regardless of her suspicion of the stranger. She looked beyond him to the carriage, noting the form of another man waiting inside it.

“Miss James,” the man began, drawing her attention back to him. “My name is Gus Cropper. I’m the assistant to Mr. Lewis Anderson of New York.”

She perked up at hearing the name Lewis and rubbed her thumb absently over the matching name of Ben-Hur’s author. It was a name she’d long admired. She nodded politely. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Mr. Cropper cleared his throat. “Mr. Anderson was inquiring as to whether he could have a moment of your time?”

“My time?” Effie heard the surprised squeak in her voice. Never had a stranger—and a man at that—requested any time of hers. “Are you certain he’s not looking for my father?” Having a prominent bank president as a father could leave her at a disadvantage at times due to the fact that businessmen might seek to approach her by means of persuading her father concerning a financial investment. It was a ploy sometimes used, but never so direct as to approach her prior to a proper introduction—at her private home, no less.

“Yes. You, Miss James,” Mr. Cropper clarified. “He has some questions for you regarding your experience the other evening.”

A pall settled over her. The book slipped from her grip onto the blanketed ground. “I’m afraid not,” Effie replied. She had so hoped the fiasco had blown over.

“It’s of grave importance,” Mr. Cropper added.

“Be that as it may, I see no need to revisit the experience with a complete stranger.” Effie lifted her chin a bit in hopes of appearing firm in her response.

Mr. Cropper locked eyes with her. “Lives hang in the balance, Miss James.”

“They do?” Effie couldn’t help but ask, then bit her tongue at the audacity she’d shown to challenge him.

Instead of being offended, Mr. Cropper tipped his head toward the carriage. “Perhaps my employer could best answer your question?”

Mr. Cropper turned and started back toward the carriage. Effie followed, though warily. This was unorthodox to be sure, and she was in no position to make any more errors in judgment.

The door of the carriage opened, and a lean form stepped outside. The man was wearing a tailored suit with a silk kerchief of azure blue in his chest pocket. He removed his hat and brushed back sandy-brown hair from a broad forehead. His deep-set eyes were piercing, and Effie couldn’t determine whether they were shrewd or something else entirely. Either way, intelligence was etched into every crevice of his face, his chin, his jawline.

After Mr. Cropper made the introductions, Effie found her voice—and the etiquette her mother had drilled into her from an early age. “Mr. Anderson, welcome to the manor. Would you like to come inside? I can have tea and cookies served.”

There was no change in his expression. He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, but no, Miss James. If I could have but a moment of your time?” His words were also distinctly British.

“Very well.” It was all so affected and stilted, Effie sensed every warning rising within her. She didn’t know this man, and he refused her proper invitation into their home where his visit would be overseen by house staff as well as by her mother. Not to mention, what business was any of the recent events to him?

Still, Effie extended her arm toward a black iron table and chairs that sat just off the brick driveway amid what would be rose gardens come summer. If Mr. Anderson wished to ask questions, Effie owed it to Polly to try to understand. She noticed Mr. Cropper hung back at the carriage.

Taking their seats, Effie swallowed back nervous energy caused by the unorthodox meeting and the equally mystifying reason why this stranger thought she could offer him anything about the other night.

As Mr. Anderson folded his body into the chair beside her with both ease and confidence, she noticed he was taller than she’d thought when first approaching him. “You’ve just recently arrived in Shepherd, have you?” Effie struggled for polite conversation.

Mr. Anderson’s hazel eyes seemed to summarize her with one look, draw a conclusion, and tuck it away in his mind for later. Though it was disconcerting to have someone form an opinion about her with no foreknowledge, somehow Effie had the distinct impression that whatever conclusions Mr. Anderson drew, they would be correct. And that was more unsettling than she wished to admit.

“I’ve been in America for a few months now. Mr. Cropper and I arrived in Shepherd yesterday. It was then I heard about your experience of a few nights ago. I’d like to ask you a few questions about it—that is, if you’re willing.”

Effie nodded stiffly. “I’m not sure what you want to know that I could provide.”

“Anything you think insignificant might be of interest to me. I would like to hear of the events you witnessed.”

“You believe I witnessed something?” Effie asked. He seemed to have expectations that she might regale him with some sordid tale of crime and gore, neither of which was available to offer.

“Did you?” he asked in return.

Effie folded her hands in her lap to avoid the urge to begin gnawing at her fingernail. “My sister did. I did not.”

“You saw nothing?” Mr. Anderson looked at her with narrowed eyes.

Effie swallowed uncomfortably. “I . . . no. I heard something, but the authorities have confirmed there is no evidence of harm coming to anyone in spite of what I heard.”

Mr. Anderson shifted in his chair. She caught a whiff of tobacco mixed with nutmeg. “What did she sound like, this woman?”

Effie stared at him for a moment. He didn’t even pause at her declaration that the police believed nothing had happened. Instead, he assumed her story was accurate. Effie hesitated. The man was drilling her with his intense stare, apparently weighing not only her words but also her movements, her expressions. Effie squirmed and gave in to the need to bite her fingernail.

Mr. Anderson’s eyes dropped to her finger.

Effie dropped her hand back in her lap. “Sound like? Well . . .” How should she answer that? She fumbled for words. “She . . . she cried out no a few times.”

A shadow passed over his face.

Effie hurried to continue. “But perhaps I imagined it? I’m not certain now. It was the middle of the night. There were screams, and then my sister and I ran away.” Like any proper-minded woman would. No. A proper-minded woman would never have been there to begin with.

Mr. Anderson leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, folding his hands in front of him as if going to prayer. Instead, he burrowed his gaze into hers. Effie noticed blue flecks in the hazel that were more predominant than green or yellow. “Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”

Effie attempted to recall because the intensity of his stare was so interrogative that she felt she had no choice. “Not really. Everything seemed normal until we heard . . . until Polly saw—” Effie bit her tongue. The flicker of interest in his eyes was obvious.

“Saw?” Mr. Anderson inquired.

Effie chose her words carefully. “My sister saw something, but she is very ill and hasn’t been able to elaborate on it.”

“Is there any way I could perhaps speak with your sister?”

Effie pictured Polly in the upper level of their home, curled beneath her bedsheets, unresponsive and in a weakened state. The image made Effie stiffen and look down her nose at the stranger whose questions were obtuse and vague. “Absolutely no way,” Effie stated through pursed lips.

But Mr. Anderson was not intimidated by Effie’s attempt to appear severe. He almost looked as if he found humor in it. “Well then.” He pushed off his knees with his hands and stood.

Effie quickly followed suit.

“Thank you for your time, Miss James.”

“You’re welcome.”

Mr. Anderson turned back toward the carriage. He took a few steps, but Effie stopped him, unable to squelch the question she felt she had every right to ask.

“Why do you want to know these things, Mr. Anderson? You’re not even from Shepherd.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “My wife has been missing for ten months, Miss James. I have reason to believe she was last here in Shepherd. My fear is that the cries you heard were hers.”

Effie’s hand flew to her mouth. She regretted being so blunt.

Mr. Anderson’s lips pressed together with what appeared to be suppressed grief, also a hint of anger. “Have you ever heard the name Isabelle Addington?”

Effie shook her head, wordless.

He gave a quick nod. “Had you heard of her, you would remember. As it is, perhaps you did hear her. That is why I’m in Shepherd, Miss James. When one’s family disappears without a trace, only the brutally detached let them go. I am the opposite. I am fiercely devoted, and I will find Isabelle. I will bring her home.” He heaved a sigh. “Even if she is dead.”

With that, Mr. Anderson strode toward his carriage.