15

NORAH

Present Day
Shepherd, Iowa

A STICK BROKE beneath Norah’s feet as they crossed the yard toward the graves that dotted the back lot before merging with the woods that stretched at least ten acres before running into the property of the neighbors to the north of Predicament Avenue.

The small neighborhood was both private and pleasant. And with the historical cemetery keeping the property larger than most and respected by all, 322 Predicament Avenue had an aura of stepping back into time. Into an era when life was slower. It was why Otto and Ralph had spent years here, gardening and trimming. It gave them something to do that their own personal half-acre plots down the street didn’t offer. Aunt Eleanor had been grateful to have the boys managing her yard work, and over the years this place had almost become as much theirs as Eleanor’s.

But today, Norah observed Sebastian as he strode ahead of her, intent on the stones that marked each grave. Harper had opted to stay inside, and Norah couldn’t blame her. Last night had grown long after Norah awakened them with her screams. The discovery of Naomi’s library card was still eating at Norah’s insides, but for now she would welcome Sebastian’s attempt to distract her. Besides, it had to be a coincidence. There was no way Naomi’s ghost—or Isabelle Addington’s—had been in her room last night. She’d been half awake. The library card must have fallen from wherever it had been tucked behind all these years. Or maybe when Norah had used that old handbag yesterday, it had fallen out of it? Norah was probably wrong in believing Naomi had kept the card in her missing wallet. She tried to recall thirteen years back as to whether she had borrowed the library card. The purse she’d used yesterday was certainly from that era. It was possible that—

“That’s an old grave.” Sebastian pointed to the grave that dated back to the eighteenth century. Its crudely carved epitaph had withstood the weather and time’s passing better than some of the graves that were dated a hundred years later.

“A lot of folks don’t believe it’s for real,” Norah said. “They don’t believe a man of European descent would have been buried in Iowa Territory back in that time period.”

“Europeans hadn’t come this far west yet?” Sebastian asked, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, his stare fixed on the headstone.

“They had, but only a few here and there. There weren’t any settlers as yet. This land still belonged to the Indigenous peoples, and any Europeans around these parts were mostly French explorers, trappers, and traders.”

“So then who is this bloke?” Sebastian asked.

“No one knows,” Norah answered. “His story has been lost to time.”

Sebastian nodded. “Like so many.” He moved down the row, eyeing each stone, reaching down to right one that was leaning badly to the side. “She’s not goin’ to move.”

“No. Aunt Eleanor once talked about having a grave restoration service come and work on preserving the graves, but that never happened.”

“Do most believe Isabelle Addington was buried here?” Sebastian shifted an expectant look on Norah.

She pointed to the back of the graveyard near the edge of the woods. “Some think she’s buried back there along the tree line. Others say no one ever found her body, that it’s all just a hoax.”

“So there is a gravestone?” Sebastian asked.

Norah grimaced and stepped respectfully around the grave of a child who had passed away in 1863. “There’s a marker, yes. Whether it’s hers or not depends on which version of the tale you believe.”

“Are you saying some think her marker was put there just to make the story more intriguing?”

“Let me show you.” Norah approached Isabelle Addington’s grave marker, Sebastian coming to a halt near her. Too near her. His arm brushed hers, and while he didn’t seem to notice, Norah did. She stepped to the side a bit to put some distance between them. Pointing at the stone, she read it aloud: “I. A.—died May 3, 1901.”

“That’s different.” Sebastian studied the flat-topped stone that had lichen growing in the etchings and around the edges, with little pillows of soft green moss at its corners. “Only initials.”

“Right.” Norah bent down and chipped away at the lichen with her thumbnail. “That’s part of the debate as to whether it’s really Isabelle’s grave.”

“The date is correct.” Sebastian had pulled out his phone and was thumbing its screen. “Your town has a decent online archive of citizen records. It lists an Isabelle Addington as having died here May 3, 1901.”

“No one contests she died here.” Norah was successful in removing a piece of lichen in the A on the stone marker. “Just whether or not this is her grave.”

“When did the sightin’s of Isabelle begin?”

Norah shook her head. “They’ve always been.” She shot Sebastian a pointed look. “Isn’t that how ghost stories work? But who’s to know who’s telling the truth? Otto claims he’s seen her, and I’ve never known him or Ralph to lie.”

“An’ your aunt? Did she ever see an apparition?”

Norah returned her attention to the lichen more for something to do to avoid Sebastian’s inquisitive stare. She wasn’t sure which side of him she preferred more. His easygoing side or this investigative side where he asked way too many questions.

“Aunt Eleanor didn’t believe in ghosts. If she saw or heard anything she couldn’t explain, she always chalked it up to being a shadow or a reflection or just her imagination—something like that.”

“You said you an’ your sister stayed here as children?”

“As children and after we graduated high school.” Norah shifted uncomfortably, losing her balancing in her crouch by the grave and planting her knee in the damp grass to steady herself. “My dad traveled a lot. Mom liked to go with him. But we loved Aunt Eleanor, and we loved Otto and Ralph. They spoiled us.” Norah couldn’t help the fond smile those days evoked for her . . . before violence and horror stained everything.

“Did you see signs of Isabelle?” Sebastian asked.

They’d been through this round of questioning before. Norah countered his question with one of her own. “What does it matter if we did or didn’t? You’re trying to solve Isabelle’s cold case, aren’t you? Not sensationalize a ghost story.”

Sebastian was unfazed. “True. Call it curiosity then.”

Norah rolled her eyes. “No. I didn’t see any apparitions as a kid or I’d have never stayed here. Naomi didn’t either.”

“But you do now?”

Norah stilled. She looked at Isabelle’s supposed grave. The date stared up at her like a bad omen. She ran her fingers over Isabelle’s initials. “She comes now. Every so often.” Norah allowed herself to be vulnerable from her position beside the grave. She looked up at Sebastian. “I feel for her. It’s as if she can’t rest . . . and neither can I.”

Harper’s phone chimed that she’d received the text. Norah avoided looking at her in the sun visor’s mirror so as not to call attention to Sebastian—who was behind the steering wheel—of her texting his daughter.

Did you tell your dad yet?

Norah waited, covertly checking her phone, which she’d silenced. Soon a text came through from the back seat of the car.

Heck no.

Norah waited a few seconds and then responded.

Are you going to?

Yeah. Just need to figure out the best timing. He gets cranky with me.

Norah hadn’t seen the crankier side of Sebastian, but she’d heard its potential in the overtones. And “cranky” was probably an understatement for what his reaction would be when he learned his baby girl was to have her own baby.

Are you feeling okay?

Norah had to ask. She’d always taken care of Naomi, and now it seemed only natural to offer the same to Harper.

Nauseated, but so far nothing too bad. Just don’t offer to make bacon tomorrow morning, please. I almost puked this morning from the smell.

Norah bit back a smile.

Sebastian flicked on his turn signal, but he’d caught her smile from the corner of his eye. “Somethin’ funny?”

Norah looked out the window at the homes passing by, which were fewer and farther between as they neared the outskirts of Shepherd. “No,” she answered. “I just saw a funny meme on my social media.”

“What’s it say?” he pressed.

“Umm . . .”

“Dad, is that a cow?” Harper pointed out the window as if a cow grazing in a pasture, surrounded by at least ten others, was a rare sighting.

He gave her a suspicious glance in the rearview mirror. “Moo. It is. An’ that’s excitin’?”

“I-I guess it’s just been a while since I’ve seen cows,” Harper fumbled.

Norah kept staring out the window.

Silence.

“Why do I get the feelin’ you both are hidin’ somethin’? Should I be frettin’?”

“No!” Both Norah and Harper responded simultaneously.

Sebastian pressed his lips together as he steered the vehicle into the Opperman driveway. “You both think I’m doolally, but I’m not. I’ll get it out of you.”

“Dad, we aren’t hiding anything that you need to worry about.”

“Why don’t I believe you?” He shifted the SUV into park and killed the engine. “Never mind now. We’re here an’ we need to get inside.”

“How did you connect up with these people?” Norah asked, already regretting agreeing to come along. It wasn’t just the awkward interlude she and Harper had barely escaped, but it was the fact that she was outside of her comfort zone. Way outside.

“A bit of research goes a long way, lass.” Sebastian shut his door with the toe of his shoe. “The town records from back in 1901 might’ve been destroyed, but there’s still the locals. And these people are often willin’ to help.”

“Just say you called the county land office,” Harper said with a toss of her hair over her shoulder. “Dad, you make it sound loftier than it is. People don’t realize how much of your info you get online and from a few simple phone calls. They just subscribe to your podcast ’cause you have an accent and it sounds sexy.”

“Oof! Right in the heart!” Sebastian melodramatically clutched at his shirt as they hiked up the sidewalk to the front wrap-around porch. “Not to mention smarmy. Callin’ me sexy with me bein’ your father.”

“Hey, I’m just quoting your reviewers.”

Norah smiled to herself. The playful banter was refreshing after the scare of two nights ago and the tension she’d felt yesterday at the grave of Isabelle Addington.

Sebastian knocked on the door, and it swung open. A middle-aged couple greeted them with smiles. The man was shorter than Sebastian, balding, with glasses, sporting a green polo shirt and khakis. The woman had permed hair with speckles of gray through it, her dress very 1950s in style. She even wore a ruffled apron at her waist.

“Come in, come in!” she cried, beaming. “You must be Sebastian Blaine!”

“Yes, ma’am. An’ this is my daughter, Harper, an’ my . . . friend Norah.”

Norah noticed the pause in his introduction and wondered why the hitch in his voice. Had he wanted to introduce her as the owner of 322 Predicament Avenue but then thought better of it? Or was it something else?

“Do come in.” The woman waved them inside as her husband led the way through the entryway of the old but remodeled farmhouse.

“I know we met Mr. Blaine on the phone earlier,” he explained to Norah, “but in case he didn’t bother to tell you, I’m Ron Daily, and this is my wife, Betty. She’s who you’re probably most interested in talking to, seeing as it’s her family line that owned this place and the property on Predicament Avenue.”

“You’re an Opperman?” Harper interjected as Betty motioned for them to take seats around their dining room table. She had definitely prepared for their visit. A plate of cookies sat in the middle of the table, a pitcher of iced tea and lemon slices, along with a sugar bowl in case they wanted it sweetened. Each place had an empty glass.

“I am!” Betty smiled again. Her face was pretty but lined. Norah assumed she was probably in her early sixties. “My father was Chuck Opperman, and my grandpa was Aaron Opperman.”

“An’ they owned this farm that you live on now?” Sebastian took a cookie offered to him by Ron.

“Yes.” Betty poured tea in all their glasses without asking if they wanted any. Norah hoped she didn’t notice her not drinking it. She wasn’t a fan, plus iced tea didn’t seem like a good pairing with chocolate chip cookies. Betty was pouring tea into Harper’s glass. “They owned this farm back in the 1900s. My grandpa’s mother owned it. Mabel. She lived here along with my great-uncle Floyd, who . . . what are the right words to use these days?” She looked at Ron.

“He suffered a brain injury,” Ron said. “We were told he was kicked by a cow as a child. It happened on farms, you know. A tragedy.”

“Ah.” Sebastian looked to Betty as she set the pitcher back in the center of the table and picked up the sugar bowl. She offered it to Harper, who took it and then sent Norah a lost look as though she’d never put sugar in her iced tea before.

Betty swept her dress around her hips as she sat down. “Yes. My grandpa had gone off to college around the time of the events you’re inquiring after.” She broke a cookie in half on her plate. “When Mabel Opperman, my great-grandmother, passed away in 1923, that’s when Grandpa inherited this property.”

“And that’s when most of their properties were sold off,” Ron added, “including the place on Predicament Avenue.”

“What happened to Floyd?” Norah asked.

“Well,” Betty answered, “unfortunately back in those days, if family wasn’t up to the task, then there were places for them.”

“Institutions.” Harper’s tone was flat.

Norah became very interested in her cookie, picking at a chocolate chip. Every part of her wanted to scream in repulsion on behalf of this Floyd Opperman she had never met and who was now long deceased.

“Yes. My grandpa didn’t know how best to care for him, and at the time they trusted those places to be fair and kind.”

“Some were.” Ron tried to make it better.

It didn’t work. Norah set her cookie down. She’d lost her appetite.

“Anyway . . .” Betty brushed off conversation about Floyd and continued, “My grandpa said his mother refused to sell off the Predicament Avenue property even though she also refused to invest a penny into it. The place became run-down and abused. People came and went. It was like a shelter for the homeless, only there wasn’t any supervision. People just did as they pleased there. My grandpa said he was glad to be rid of it after his mother passed.”

Sebastian nodded. “An’ he sold it to . . . ?”

“Oh, I’m not sure he even bothered to sell it. Just let the bank take it in payment for a defunct loan.” Betty took a sip of her tea. “It stayed in the hands of the James family then—they were the bank owners and president—until it finally got sold in the seventies to Eleanor.”

“You knew my aunt Eleanor?” Norah straightened, looking directly at Betty.

“Of course I did! We went to church together. She was about twelve years my senior, but the sweetest lady. You’re a blessed girl if she was your aunt.”

Ron nudged his wife with his elbow. “Remember how Eleanor would bring flowers to put on the altar for Sunday morning and that one service we all ended up swatting bees?”

“Oh, heavens!” Betty’s laughter filled the room. “I do recall that! A big bouquet and poor Eleanor had no idea how many honeybees were hiding in it. Poor pastor had to cut the service short so the ushers could rush off and get bug spray.”

Norah bit her bottom lip and smiled. She vaguely remembered something about “Eleanor’s bees.” She’d never understood it, but now it all made sense.

“What can you tell us about Predicament Avenue?” Sebastian palmed his glass of iced tea. He’d already drank half of it sans sugar.

Betty nodded. “Well, aside from the obvious story of the murder that took place, my family was always tight-lipped about it. But I was able to find some photographs for you.”

Ron handed his wife a manila envelope. She opened it and pulled out a set of old black-and-white photos, some with stained edges and the images rather blurred.

“This is my great-grandmother Mabel.” She handed the photo to Sebastian, and Harper leaned over her father to look at it.

“Wow,” Harper mumbled.

“Right?” Betty gave an exaggerated wince. “She was not a kind-looking lady. In fact, around Shepherd, after her husband died, Mabel . . . well, all the Oppermans, didn’t have the best of reputations. Thankfully, my grandpa and daddy changed that in the years that followed.” Betty handed Sebastian a few more photographs of her grandfather and of the farm in the 1940s.

“Mabel Opperman wasn’t cooperative in the investigation of Isabelle Addington’s death?” Harper asked.

Norah was happy to let the Blaines interrogate their hosts. She took a tenuous bite of her cookie and listened.

Ron took over this part of the conversation. “From what we’ve been told, there was quite a kerfuffle about the entire situation. Mabel wanted nothing to do with it. Probably wise too.”

“Why’s that?” Sebastian raised a dark brow.

Ron leaned back in his chair and exchanged looks with Betty. “Because apparently the night in question—the night Isabelle Addington was murdered—two young women were witnesses to the murder.”

“At least a portion of it,” Betty corrected.

“Right. Betty’s father told me the story was passed down that one of the women connected with a recent newcomer to town who claimed that Isabelle Addington was his wife. As the story goes, he and this young lady might’ve had something between them too.”

“Not exactly the grieving widower,” Betty concluded.

“Do you know the names?” Sebastian pulled out his phone to take notes.

Betty nodded. “The women who witnessed the murder were the daughters of the Jameses, the ones who owned the bank and who eventually came to own 322 Predicament Avenue. I believe Daddy said the one girl who caused the most scandal was named . . . um, Evie—”

“Effie,” Ron corrected. “Her given name was Euphemia James.” He pointed at Sebastian’s phone. “You’ll want to refer to her as that if you’re searching the records.”

“Yes, that’s it.” Betty drummed her fingers on the table as she recalled the details. “The stranger in town was an Englishman like you, Mr. Blaine. Not much was known about him, and I’m not sure what happened to him. Daddy didn’t seem to know either.”

“And they never found out who murdered Isabelle?” Harper dared a sip of her iced tea. Her eyebrows rose and she took another sip.

“No.” Ron shook his head. “Leastways not that we know of.”

“They never even found her body!” Betty clarified.

Norah thought of the grave marker in her backyard with Isabelle Addington’s initials etched in the stone.

“How have you come by that information?” Sebastian must have been thinking the same thing.

Betty sighed. “I know there’s a grave, but my daddy always said they just put that there ’cause Isabelle needed a gravesite to be remembered by. The only things linked to Isabelle’s death were the bloodstains and a butcher knife. Of course, without DNA and all that science stuff, the knife was just a knife. There wasn’t any way of telling for sure who killed the woman.”

“What was the name of the Englishman who got together with the James woman?” Sebastian asked, typing something into his phone.

“Went by the name of Anderson. Not sure what his first name was.”

“Anderson?” Norah stiffened. Her little outburst caused four sets of eyes to swing in her direction.

“It’s a common name, Norah,” Sebastian stated, “but do you recognize somethin’?”

“Maybe. I mean . . .” Norah tried to control the roll in her stomach. “One of the people questioned after Naomi’s death was a LeRoy Anderson.”

“That’s right.” Betty’s fingers pressed against her lips.

“I’m sure there’s no connection.” Ron quickly tried to downplay it. “Probably coincidental is all.”

“Yeah, Anderson is a very typical surname.” Harper reached across the table as if to grasp Norah’s hands.

Norah knew they were right. That nothing about Isabelle Addington’s case had anything to do with Naomi’s own murder decades later. But the similarities, the location, and now the name . . . it was bringing it all back.

She could no longer reason away the library card left on her dresser, nor the woman who had floated through the doorway.

The house at 322 Predicament Avenue held secrets, and they were screaming out to be revealed.