13

EFFIE

May 1901

THE DOOR OPENED, and Effie all but pushed past a stunned Gus. “Please. Is Anderson here? Mr. Anderson, I mean.” Effie was quick to formalize his name, for it was only in her mind that she’d been casual toward him.

Gus opened his mouth to answer, but the elderly man was interrupted by his employer ducking into the entryway. Concern creased his face. “Effie?”

The use of her first name surprised her. Perhaps murder and shock were enough to put aside such formalities.

Effie had first gone to the boardinghouse to find Anderson. He hadn’t been there. She’d been redirected by a far too inquisitive boardinghouse owner that Mr. Anderson and his assistant had checked out of the boardinghouse and rented a small house on 10th Street—the one owned by the Charlemagnes. Of course. The Charlemagnes owned a lot of property, some rentals, some for sale, some industrial. They made their money that way. But for Anderson to rent a house meant he intended to stay for a length of time

“Please, I need your assistance.” Effie looked between the two men.

“I’ll put the tea on,” Gus stated in a no-nonsense fashion, then shuffled away.

“Are you all right?” Anderson’s brows drew together as he eyed Effie. She knew he was taking in the marks on her neck that were impossible to hide. Bruises that extended the width of fingers.

“No. I am not all right. I need your help.” Effie went ahead of him into a small sitting room. When she took a chair, and Anderson the chair opposite her, she made efficient work of informing him what had happened the night before.

“And you’re here? Alone? Have you gone mad?” The concern in the man’s voice thickened his accent and deepened the creases beside his eyes. “No escort? Where is your father? Should you even be up from your bed?”

Effie had not anticipated the barrage of questions, nor the worry that laced the man’s features. She toyed with the strings of her purse that rested in her lap. “My father is at the police station insisting that they grant us a security guard. But it wasn’t me the intruder was after—it was Polly!” Effie’s voice was scratchy, her throat sore, her body aching from the attack, but she had no intention of admitting that to anyone. “My mother will not leave Polly’s side and rightfully so. The night nurse has agreed to stay on to assist, but Polly is still unresponsive. I can no longer sit back and do nothing. My sister has been targeted for what she saw. The paper has done nothing to provide any help in protecting her. Please. I need your assistance.”

“To accomplish what?” Anderson was guarded, and yet he swept his gaze over her again as if to convince himself she was indeed all right.

“Go with me to Predicament Avenue. To see if anything’s been missed. More clues. Who is behind all this? I must know. I must protect Polly!” Her words ended in a whimper, and for a moment Effie thought Anderson was going to move to sit beside her. He started forward and then, as was proper and necessary, leaned away from her.

His eyes darkened. “Miss James—”

“Effie.”

“Effie,” he continued, “my wife is dead. This is only the beginning, and until the culprit is caught, danger abounds. I made an error taking you there the first time. An error of judgment as to your reputation, and an error of judgment regarding your safety. Forgive my bluntness, but you added little to what we discovered. Had you not been there, I still would have found the remains of the violence.”

Effie’s head snapped up to frown at him. “I was the one who indicated we must look in the kitchen, which is where the knife was found. If not for me, the weapon that inflicted all the violence would still be behind the stove and out of sight. And if he comes after Polly, she can’t . . .” Effie’s voice caught as tears threatened to surface. “Please, I dare not go back there alone. I know that doing so would be foolish. But with you—”

“No.” Anderson shook his head.

“But—”

“There are other ways to find answers.” He shifted in his chair. “Ways I’m already exploring on my own, no thanks to the police who seem to find it an embarrassment that we discovered what they did not at Predicament Avenue.” Anderson paused, then added, “However, you are welcome to accompany me to the Opperman home.”

“The Oppermans?” Effie’s startled exclamation took him aback.

“I’m told they own the property at 322 Predicament Avenue.”

Effie nodded. “Well, yes, but no one really associates with the Opperman family. They’re not very friendly.”

“How is it then they own 322 Predicament Avenue and, I understand, quite a few other properties around town? At some point in time, they must have had some influence here in Shepherd. And I assume they know what is going on at their own property.”

Effie shook her head, reaching up to tuck a wayward wisp of hair behind her ear. She noticed Anderson’s eyes followed her movement. “Mr. Opperman was influential years ago. Before I was born even. But after he died, all his assets were left to his wife, and she’s . . . not in good health. In her mind, that is. No one knows why she’s neglected Predicament Avenue or left her other properties to be abandoned. Father says the Charlemagnes have tried to purchase them from her, but she refused. Foolish pride, he says.” It was the only explanation she could give Anderson.

“Be that as it may, someone must be tending to the house and the cemetery behind it. If you want to find out who is hunting your sister in the middle of the night, and if I’m to have any hope of finding . . . well, we must interview them.”

“They won’t speak to you,” Effie insisted. Most everyone in Shepherd knew this to be true. The Oppermans were known more by the legalities of the Opperman Trust that owned various properties than by any congenial relationships to the remaining living Oppermans.

“Not to me, no, but they will speak to the man affianced to the daughter of the man whose bank manages their land trusts and holdings.”

“Pardon me?” Effie drew back. Certainly she hadn’t heard him correctly.

Anderson looked over his shoulder as if checking to be sure Gus had not entered with tea and would overhear. “If we use the influence of your name, and Mrs. Opperman believes I am your betrothed, it wouldn’t be untoward of us to approach her with questions. Especially in light of recent events . . . that is, your attack.” His mouth was set in a grim line. “They owe us any assistance that can be given.”

Effie struggled for words. His reasoning made sense, but posing as her affianced? It may give him credibility if aligned with the James surname, but . . . “But you’re married! And if they’ve read the paper—”

“Let us not fool ourselves, Effie. My wife is dead.” A look of sadness flickered in Anderson’s eyes.

“There’s no body, though.”

“Nevertheless, my wife is dead.” He emphasized each word, his unblinking eyes boring into hers. Anderson slid forward to the edge of his chair and reached for her hand. It was the first expression of kindness she’d seen from him, the first physical touch that sent a pulse through her, and the first moment she dared to look at him. Truly look at him. She allowed herself to peer into his eyes, to glimpse behind the polished English façade. And for a brief moment, Anderson allowed her.

She saw grief there. Loneliness. And, lurking in the depths, fear. The sort of fear she couldn’t understand or place. It was not for her. It was darker than that. More urgent. And Effie knew then that Anderson had more secrets than he was prepared to expose.

“One thing you must learn, Miss James—Effie—and that is to trust me.” Anderson squeezed her hand. “I’ve been searching for Isabelle for months. I’ve crossed the ocean to find her. I’m well acquainted with having to obtain information creatively. And to be frank”—he released her hand—“nothing will stand between me and Isabelle.”

“I know,” Effie acknowledged. “We need to find her. Or—” she hesitated—“her body.” Effie searched the man’s face, the crevices on his forehead, the depths of his eyes, the angular cut of his unshaven jawline.

“Will you trust me?” Anderson’s voice dropped an entire octave.

It sent ripples through Effie as her eyes locked with his. In that moment, her own plans and intentions to try to find whoever had broken into Polly’s room faded away. She noted the determination in Anderson’s eyes. Determination plus something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. “Yes,” she breathed, “I will trust you.”

Her gloved hand rested lightly in the crook of Anderson’s elbow. She could feel the warmth of his arm through the material of his suit coat. He shot her a look that was neither reassuring nor was it a warning. Instead, it was almost as if he was making certain Effie wasn’t going to run away. He must have felt the way her body tensed as she descended from their rented carriage after arriving to the Opperman homestead.

It seemed Anderson was ignorant about the Oppermans and how intimidating they could be. He also didn’t know how reclusive they were, the numerous times the family had refused to mix with the community of Shepherd. That they had money was obvious given the property on which she and Anderson now stood. Anyone who lived in Shepherd knew that the Oppermans were not churchgoing folk, nor were they—dare she say it?—normal. Effie wasn’t certain how else to describe them.

Anderson was soon to find out.

The front door opened, and a rush of musty air flooded them, smelling like old laundry that had been wet for days. The great room behind the woman who stood in the doorway was cloaked in darkness, and Effie could tell that all the curtains had been drawn, the windows shut. No interior lights glowed as well, whether by flame or electricity.

Mrs. Opperman eyed them through squinted eyes. Her features were narrow, lined, with thin lips and a slender neck. She wore a black silk dress, buttoned to the throat. Though Mr. Opperman had passed on five years prior, it seemed Mrs. Opperman had no intention of leaving her mourning behind. “Yes?” She spoke to them through the screen door.

Effie looked at Anderson, her eyes pleading for him to take the lead.

“Mrs. Opperman, I presume?” he responded.

Mrs. Opperman’s eyes narrowed even more. “Yes.” Her voice was high and matched the sallowness of her complexion.

“My name is Lewis Anderson, and this is Miss Euphemia James, my fiancée and the daughter of Mr. Carlton James of—”

“I know who they are,” Mrs. Opperman snapped.

Effie looked down at her shoes. Anderson’s attempt to deceive in hopes of gaining Mrs. Opperman’s trust and goodwill would not be as easy as he might have expected.

“Let me get straight to the point,” Anderson continued.

“Please do.” Mrs. Opperman pinched her lips together.

“I’ve been told you own the property at 322 Predicament Avenue, yes?”

“This nonsense again?” Mrs. Opperman pushed open the door and stepped onto the porch, letting it slam shut behind her.

Effie tried not to wince as she caught a whiff of cat urine drifting from the house.

“We’ve already spoken with the police about it, and we know nothing.”

“I understand that. I was hoping to get the names of the individuals who have recently stayed there.” Anderson was infusing a disingenuous politeness into his tone, and Effie was afraid if Mrs. Opperman snapped too much at him, he might well lose patience and bark at her.

Mrs. Opperman frowned. “How am I to know who has stayed there? Hobos and transients come and go, and they can have it. I merely keep it because it is part of my late husband’s trust, and I’d be wretchedly upset if one of those Charlemagnes were to get it. They want to own the whole town—them and people like your father.” Mrs. Opperman leveled a glare on Effie. She was surprised at the animosity in the woman’s expression. She’d not known anyone to dislike her father. He was a good man. Ethical. Fair. Wealthy? Perhaps, but then so was Mrs. Opperman.

Anderson drew a careful breath. “You’ve no idea then who may have been—?”

Mrs. Opperman held up a hand to stop him. “As I said before, I’ve no concern over that property as long as it stays in the trust. So no, I’ve no idea who may or may not have been staying there.”

“And the cemetery behind the house?”

“What about it?” Mrs. Opperman eyed them suspiciously.

Effie couldn’t help but hold on to Anderson’s arm a bit tighter.

“Do you have any family buried there?” he asked.

Mrs. Opperman sniffed. “Family? Absolutely not. Those graves have been there since my husband’s great-uncle first settled in Shepherd.”

“Why then don’t you sell the property if it is such an annoyance and there are no familial attachments to it? Would it be that much of a disappointment if it were sold to someone such as Miss James’s father?”

Effie looked between Anderson and Mrs. Opperman. She was unclear as to what Anderson was attempting to accomplish. At first, she’d thought he hoped to gain some names or insights as to who may have been in the house the night Effie and Polly heard the screams. But now his line of questioning had Effie herself questioning.

Mrs. Opperman hesitated only a moment, but it was enough for even Effie to notice the hitch. The woman’s chest rose and fell. Her voice lowered and became a thin thread of irritation that threatened to snap at any further questions.

“We are Oppermans. We don’t sell.” She spun, whipping open the screen door and marching inside. Again the door slammed shut behind her, followed by the resounding slam of the main door.

Anderson looked down at Effie. “Well, that settles that.” Turning, he guided her back down the steps toward the carriage.

“What do you mean?” Effie’s confusion was palpable.

“Mrs. Opperman was remarkably defensive, and she cut short the conversation. The question is why? Why care so much about a property you don’t keep maintained, a property where you allow strangers to drift in and out of? What is it about 322 Predicament Avenue that is so important to the Oppermans? And is it important enough for someone to kill for it?”

Effie was astounded by Anderson’s insight. She hadn’t gathered that at all. She’d merely ascertained that Mrs. Opperman was peeved and verging on infuriated. “Maybe the two are unrelated?” she offered as Anderson helped her up into the carriage. “Perhaps the Oppermans have a vested interest in the property beyond just ownership, and the violence there the other night has nothing to do with them.”

Anderson rounded the carriage, running his hand along the black horse hitched to it, and swung up onto the seat beside her. “The deeper question is, what business did Isabelle have at 322 Predicament Avenue that would bring her such harm?”

Effie stiffened at the thought. “I’ve put faith in you, that the woman Polly saw was Isabelle. But what if the woman Polly and I heard wasn’t your Isabelle? What if it were someone else entirely?”

Anderson stilled, not flicking the reins in his hands that would urge the horse forward. He stared down at them instead, his fingers toying with the straps of leather. Finally, he took both reins in one hand and reached into his inside coat pocket. Pulling out a folded piece of paper, he handed it to Effie.

She gave Anderson a hesitant look, suddenly feeling as if she’d pushed too far with her question. Yet he didn’t appear angry or annoyed. He merely waited.

Effie unfolded the paper, noting a feminine penmanship to the letter inside.

I am sorry. Please forgive me. Your songbird is here. You will find me in Shepherd, Iowa.

Isabelle

Effie pulled her gaze up to meet Anderson’s. “It’s all right there. In the message!”

He offered a grim smile.

“She sent this to you in London?” She stared at him, ignoring the way the breeze lifted his hair from his forehead.

Anderson took the letter back and tucked it into his coat pocket. “She did. On receiving it, I immediately booked passage to come retrieve her.”

Effie nodded. “Is ‘your songbird’ Isabelle? Is she referring to herself?”

Anderson’s expression instantly darkened. His body tensed, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. Adjusting his grip on the reins, he flicked them against the horse’s back. The carriage jolted forward. “You know enough,” he stated.

Effie sensed Anderson pulling away—perhaps not in body, but in spirit. What little warmth and comradeship that had evolved between them today had been withdrawn under his protection.

Isabelle Addington was dead. She had to be. Effie knew this to be true. Knew the letter in his pocket was his last missive from her. But why had Isabelle left him? And why was he coldly willing to assume her death without demanding proof of her body? Instead, what echoed in Effie’s memory were his words “My wife is dead.”

But was Isabelle Addington the woman Effie and Polly had heard that night? Assumptions had been made, yes, but they were based on reasoning and circumstances.

That Isabelle was dead? Yes. One couldn’t fathom the bloodstains left behind wouldn’t have almost drained a corpse empty.

Effie jolted as the carriage hit a rut in the Oppermans’ driveway. She looked toward the Opperman farmhouse. As she did, a curtain quickly fell back into place, but not before Effie saw the beady stare of Mrs. Opperman, her expression thick with accusation and malice.