20

NOW THAT SEBASTIAN had planted the thought in her head, Norah’s fear of life took on an entirely different level of intensity. Was she potentially in danger? If someone was leaving Naomi’s old things at 322 Predicament Avenue, was it to taunt and tease, to help solve the case, or was it some sort of desperate plea? Did they want to come forward and confess and just didn’t know how?

Still, that didn’t answer the other question swirling around in Norah’s mind. Isabelle Addington and her ghost. The murder from 1901. Otto had seen a woman’s face in the attic window. She had seen a woman that night in her own bedroom, then again last night in the cemetery. Could the female form in the graveyard have been human? Possibly. Yes, probably. But the one in her bedroom?

In her mind’s eye, Naomi could still see the woman’s figure floating through the open door. She hadn’t been transparent, but she hadn’t looked real either. Not flesh and blood. But then sleep was a strange twister of reality. She wasn’t sure which she preferred, a spirit that could be anything from wandering soul to poltergeist to demon, or a human being that could be anything from some weirdo wandering off the street to a murderous stalker who had stood over her while she slept, staring down at her, considering how to kill her.

Now she followed an extremely determined Harper and Sebastian Blaine to the local county historical society. They’d already been to the police station. Dover had questioned them. He’d examined Naomi’s wallet, her library card, and the look he’d leveled on Norah was one of sympathy and even pity. Yes. They’d investigate, he promised. But the tone in his voice made it sound as though they could run in circles searching for ages and still get no closer to solving anything.

The historical society was both a distraction and a necessity. Once inside, the historian, Brandon Hill, led them to a room with large volumes already open on a table. “It’s so great to meet you, Mr. Blaine.” Brandon fawned over Sebastian, viewing him as a celebrity. “I listen to your podcast regularly, and I can’t tell you how excited I am to help with this case.” He glanced at Norah. “I know you’re the owner of 322 Predicament Avenue, and who in Shepherd doesn’t know that story?”

Norah hadn’t the stomach to ask which story he meant, Isabelle’s or Naomi’s.

Brandon kept on chattering. He was balding but had to be barely in his thirties. He looked as though the proverbial history nerd, complete with sweater vest and khaki pants. “So, when you emailed about wanting to find out more about who Isabelle Addington was, I thought a good place to start would be to show you some documents that were written in the local paper around that time, which survived the devastating tornado back in the thirties.” Brandon pulled on white cotton gloves and ran his finger along the newsprint inside a logbook. “This is a report on the investigation the day after the James daughters, Euphemia and Polly, stated they heard a woman’s screams.”

Sebastian held the page as Brandon read aloud, “‘No evidence of a crime was found at the site. Multiple members of the community toured the home and repeated having seen nothing out of the ordinary.’”

“Wait.” Harper scrunched her face up in confusion. “They let just anyone go into the house and look around?”

Brandon smiled, his mustached upper lip stretching thin. “Yeah. That’s how it was back then. No CSI to cordon off the place. It was open season for crime solving. Entire communities would often show up when there was an act of violence.”

“An American coliseum,” Sebastian muttered.

“Sort of.” Brandon nodded. “Now, flip over a couple of days and there’s a new report. A Mr. Lewis Anderson of London, England, and none other than Euphemia James, who originally reported hearing a woman screaming and informed the authorities they’d found evidence of a crime. I’ll read it for you.”

Norah noticed Brandon didn’t wait to see if they wanted to hear it.

“‘After revisiting 322 Predicament Avenue, the police have confirmed that evidence of a violent crime has indeed been found. Mr. Anderson and Miss James took it upon themselves to relocate furniture within the home under the assumption it may have been repositioned in order to hide the crime. The startling discovery was made that the old house was splashed with blood from the floor to the backs of furniture. A bloodied butcher knife was also recovered. It is presumed to be the work of tramps, but Mr. Anderson believes the victim to be his wife, Isabelle Addington. No body, however, has been recovered, and so the tragedy at Predicament Avenue remains a mystery.’”

“And that was all?” Harper asked before Sebastian or Norah could respond.

Norah found a chair along the wall and eased onto it. Sebastian noticed and offered her an encouraging smile.

Brandon was oblivious to the weakness in her knees. “No. Another page here states—and this is a mere few days after—that Mr. Lewis Anderson was again seen in the company of Miss Euphemia James. It’s quite insinuating, a woman and man together, unchaperoned in that era?” Brandon chuckled. “It’s newspaper meets gossip rag.”

“But this Mr. Anderson was claiming the supposed victim, Isabelle, to be his wife,” Harper argued.

“Right.” Brandon held up his index finger as if they were close to unveiling a mystery. “Here’s where it gets really interesting.” He turned more pages in the logbook. Instead of a newspaper article, he revealed a photograph of a woman posed in a chair, wearing a high-necked silk dress. Her eyes were open but appeared glazed over. Even from where she sat, Norah could tell the woman was dead.

“This is Isabelle Addington.” Brandon poked the woman in the picture with his gloved finger, smiling as if they all understood.

Sebastian tucked his chin into his chest and eyed the historian, rolling his lips together expectantly. When Brandon still didn’t say anything, Sebastian urged him on. “Soooo?”

“She’s dead,” Brandon said. “In the photograph, I mean.”

“That’s . . . um, obvious.” Sebastian sounded wary as he eyed the photograph.

Brandon’s brow furrowed. “Oh. Well,” he hurried to explain. “The story goes that her body was never found. It’s even a question as to whether anyone is even buried in the grave on your property.” Brandon looked to Norah, who stared back at him. “What the story doesn’t mention is the logical conclusion that Isabelle Addington was found dead. Her body was cleaned and dressed. As was the practice at the time, a postmortem photograph was taken and then, yes, she was buried on the property at Predicament Avenue.”

Harper leaned closer to the photograph. “She doesn’t look murdered.”

“Stab wounds would be hidden by clothing,” Brandon explained. He pointed at the corpse’s throat. “A high collar like that would hide any slashes to the neck.”

“And how do you know this is Isabelle Addington?” Norah inserted incredulously.

Brandon smiled. “Because her name was penned in ink on the back of the photograph. See?” He turned it over to reveal spidery handwriting.

“So we can’t know for sure it’s her. Just that someone claimed this was her dead body,” Norah concluded.

“An’ why isn’t this part of the story—that Isabelle’s body was found and photographed?” Sebastian asked.

Brandon tapped the photograph again. “People didn’t want that part of it to be known. The Opperman family of Shepherd owned a lot of property, along with the Charlemagne family. The Charlemagnes were wealthier and more respected, while the Oppermans were reclusive and mysterious and unfriendly. They also had a son. Well, two of them, but the one in question was named—”

“Floyd?” Norah perked up.

Brandon nodded. “Yes. See?”

No. Norah didn’t see at all.

“Okay.” Brandon was trying to connect the dots. “The Oppermans owned 322 Predicament Avenue, where supposedly Mr. Anderson’s wife, Isabelle, was murdered. Years later this photograph, with the name Isabelle Addington written on the back, was found by an Opperman descendant. It was stuffed in a trunk with most of Floyd’s belongings. Floyd had been sent to an institution. After he died, his belongings were returned to the Opperman family. No one wants that information out in the open. Institutions back then are not something we’re proud of in American history. Anyway, once Floyd’s trunk was opened, it was the first time anyone had ever seen this photograph. People left that part out—perhaps out of respect for Floyd.”

“Why would Floyd Opperman have a photograph of Isabelle Addington?” Harper mused aloud.

“Why didn’t Ron and Betty Daily tell us about the photograph?” Norah’s suspicion spiked.

Brandon waved her off. “Oh, they probably don’t know about it. I believe that Aaron Opperman, Floyd’s brother, would likely have kept most of it on the down-low. At the time, cases of people with intellectual disabilities weren’t handled well. So, Floyd’s trunk was placed in a family attic, then later Chuck—Betty Daily’s father and Aaron Opperman’s son—donated it to us here at the historical society. Back in the sixties, people started reporting the atrocities being committed in such institutions, and I think Chuck wanted his uncle Floyd to be remembered, not shamed. It was meant to be noble—donating Floyd’s belongings to the historical society.”

“Who found the picture of Isabelle Addington?” Sebastian asked, and Norah could tell his mind was spinning trying to keep up.

Brandon nodded as if he’d figured that out too. “The Opperman family donated the belongings of Floyd Opperman—who’d been institutionalized not long after Isabelle Addington’s death—to the historical society. They were picked through and then stored. When I moved to Shepherd and came on staff a year ago, one of my jobs was to go through articles that still needed to be preserved. I came across Floyd Opperman’s trunk and discovered Isabelle Addington’s postmortem photograph.”

“So, you’re the only person in Shepherd who knows this picture exists?” Harper seemed skeptical, and Norah couldn’t blame her.

Brandon gave an embarrassed little shrug. “Well, I’ve mentioned it to several people. We’ve logged the photograph in our inventory. It’s not been kept secret, but we haven’t made a big thing of it either. I don’t have an answer for you as to how Floyd Opperman acquired a photograph of a murder victim. I also can’t tell you if anyone ever found out that Floyd had seen Isabelle Addington after she died. But the picture doesn’t lie.”

“Unless that’s some random lady’s photograph an’ someone scribbled Isabelle Addington’s name on it as a lark,” Sebastian said.

“But why do that?” Brandon challenged. “What would Floyd Opperman gain from doing so if he was in a hospital for the remainder of his life?”

Sebastian shook his head. “The bigger questions are: Wouldn’t a photo like this have been taken almost immediately before decomposition began? Who took the photo? Where was the body in between the time the photo was taken an’ when she was buried in the cemetery behind the house, if indeed she was buried there? Wouldn’t people have noticed a fresh grave? Not to mention, who was Isabelle Addington—if anyone—to Floyd Opperman?” Sebastian met Norah’s troubled gaze. “An’ why would Lewis Anderson from England be searchin’ for his wife, but then so readily seem to attach himself to another just days after his wife’s murder?”

Brandon looked blindsided by the list of questions Sebastian had thrown at him. He coughed. Cleared his throat. Then he nodded, a form of apology perhaps. “I wish I could answer all that for you.” He carefully closed the book of scrap papers. “This story has always had me intrigued. The fact you’re making a podcast of it and trying to solve it once and for all? It has me in a tizzy!”

“I see that.” Sebastian’s expression was grim.

Brandon didn’t seem to notice. “Oh! One more thing. I did some tracing along the way about Lewis Anderson from England. I’m not sure if I’ve done an accurate evaluation of his family tree, but if I’m right, Lewis Anderson was of the gentry.”

“The gentry?” Harper interrupted. “Like lords and ladies and such?”

“Mm-hmm.” Brandon nodded. “His title and full name was Lord Lewis Anderson Archibald Mooring. Lord Mooring, to be exact. Upon arriving to the United States, he changed his name to simply Anderson. In fact, you can ask the Andersons more about it. They might know.”

“The Andersons?” Norah gripped the arms of her chair.

Brandon, a proud smile on his face, responded, “Yeah. LeRoy Anderson here in town—he’s Lewis Anderson’s grandson three times removed.”

Norah sagged in the chair. Not even a hacksaw could unravel this confusing mess of loose ends and tangled threads.

“I’m not leavin’ you here alone with all that’s goin’ on.” Sebastian was being overprotective.

“No one is going to try anything in the daytime.” Norah bit her fingernail, sounding far more confident than she felt. “Besides, no one’s tried to hurt me. We don’t even know if—”

“It’s human, lass. You can’t convince me it’s Isabelle’s ghost.”

“I’d rather be dealing with a ghost.” Her voice sounded small even to her own ears.

“I know.” Sebastian held her gaze for a moment, then added, “You can wait in the car if you want. I’m not expectin’ you to meet up with the man you think hurt your sister. I just want to talk to him about his ancestor, not Naomi.”

“But Naomi will come up. You know she will. I’ll come up. You can’t separate Isabelle Addington and Naomi. Even if LeRoy talked to you, it’d be all lies.” The phone rang, and Norah snatched the receiver off the wall, the vintage phone cord slapping her leg. After a few minutes, she’d taken down information for a new guest to check in the following month. Good. That would help business. Get things back to normal.

She noticed that Sebastian hadn’t moved. He’d patiently waited through the entire call, arms crossed over his broad chest, glasses poised perfectly on his nice nose. Wavy hair flopping over his forehead, his craggy face not so much handsome as it was warm and inviting. His dark eyes watched her.

“What?” Norah was feeling snappy. Very snappy.

“How can we fix anythin’ if we do nothin’?”

“Fine.” Norah waved him off. “We’ll go. Meet my sister’s murderer face-to-face.”

About an hour later, they were parking outside LeRoy Anderson’s green ranch-style house. It was as unimpressive as Norah remembered LeRoy being. The bushes out front were untrimmed. Of course, not everyone was blessed with people like Otto and Ralph, who helped maintain the greenery, but still. The lawn was unmown and already had dandelions spiking up through the crabgrass and going to seed in puffs.

Norah gripped the seat belt. “I can’t do this.”

Sebastian turned to her. She wasn’t able to hide the trembling in her hands no matter how tightly she gripped the seat belt. “You don’t need to come inside, Norah. He knows I’m comin’ an’ he knows why, but I never told him I was bringin’ you.”

The front door opened before Norah could respond. The world rewound itself to thirteen years prior as she stared out the window at the man. He hadn’t changed much, and yet there was a weariness in his face. Evidence that he’d once been good-looking had since been marred by time and maybe too much alcohol. Life had been hard on all of them the last thirteen years. Even so, Norah felt little sympathy for LeRoy.

As his eyes met hers, his expression shifted from wary to shocked. He ran a hand over his brown goatee in a nervous gesture while his other hand lifted in a halfhearted wave to Sebastian, who’d exited the vehicle.

Why did LeRoy agree to meet with Sebastian? Was he so naive as to think Sebastian would only want to ask him about his ancestor’s connection to Isabelle Addington? Had he been enjoying his game of cat and mouse, and now, thirteen years later, he saw an opportunity to play it all over again? To flaunt his freedom while Naomi lay in the grave?

Norah unbuckled the seat belt, flinging the door open and jumping out of the SUV. She charged past a surprised Sebastian, infused with gumption.

“Norah, I—”

“Why are you doing this?” Norah stopped just shy of slapping LeRoy across his smug face. Only he didn’t really look smug. Sheepish was more like it, though Norah wanted to believe otherwise.

“Doing what?” LeRoy held up his hands. He cast a nervous look toward Sebastian, who had approached as well. “What am I doing? You called me!”

“Norah.” Sebastian’s hand rested on her shoulder.

She shrugged it off, glaring at LeRoy. “Do you think it’s funny? Taunting me like this? Her wallet! Her library card!”

“What are you talking about?” LeRoy looked genuinely perplexed. Enough so that Norah took a step back and allowed Sebastian to ease in front of her to create some space.

“I thought you wanted to talk to me about some sort of ancestry or something?” LeRoy’s shock was wearing off and turning into offense. “Cornering me with Naomi Richman’s sister? Not cool, man.” LeRoy’s accusatory glower settled on Sebastian.

“I’m sorry, mate. Let’s all take a moment an’—”

“Why’d you kill her?” Norah spat out the question that had been eating her alive for the last thirteen years. “Was it the baby? You didn’t want to be a father?”

“Okay!” LeRoy reared back, his face twisted into an affronted scowl. “That’s it. I don’t need to take this. For thirteen years I’ve had to carry the label of your sister’s murderer when I didn’t do anything to Naomi. That was my kid too, you know!” He swore and spun to retreat into his house. The door slammed in their faces. Sebastian and Norah stood shoulder to shoulder staring at its chipped white paint.

“That went well.” Sebastian sounded none too happy.

Norah worked her mouth back and forth, afraid to cry. Afraid to feel. She hadn’t intended to fly off the handle like that. Hadn’t intended to even get out of the car. “I’m sorry,” she gulped.

Sebastian spun on his heel, obviously irritated by her lack of self-control. “You know, he might’ve helped us. Guilty or not, there are things he prob’ly could tell us that would send us in a proper direction. Now you’ve gone an’ ticked the man off. Lot o’ good that’ll do us now.”

Norah hurried after Sebastian, eager to defend her actions. “He killed my sister!”

“You don’t know that!” Sebastian shot over his shoulder.

“I do! Who else would’ve done it?”

Sebastian stopped abruptly, and Norah almost ran into him. He twisted to look at her. “You don’t know he did it, Norah. There’s not enough evidence. You read the case files. Just ’cause he doesn’t have an alibi an’ she was pregnant with his baby doesn’t mean he went an’ killed Naomi. Besides, you wrecked my chance at gettin’ in thick with him. This is what I do, Norah. When I find out what happened to people, I have to get close to fellas I may not like. May not be doin’ what I like, but I do it anyway.”

His accent had grown thicker with his frustration.

Norah had nothing to say. She’d ruined Sebastian’s attempts to not only help her but also continue with his livelihood, which was his historical crime-solving podcast.

“I have a life too, you know. If you care at all, let me have it.”

Norah wrapped her arms around herself like a shield. “You have a life?” She stared at him. Every part of her had to refrain from spilling Harper’s secret. Sebastian’s life wasn’t going to be his much longer if he had any fatherly responsibility left in him. He was so keen on her splaying out her past and moving forward and trying to heal, but did he? He stayed behind his casual façade, his easygoing lifestyle, and he included Harper in everything but in his deepest self. She’d not seen Sebastian show his daughter any affection.

“Your life stopped being yours when you had Harper.” Norah let the words slip out as they stood by the car, one on each side, staring each other down.

Sebastian’s look was one of confusion. “What does that have to do with anythin’?”

Norah deflected her anger on to him. “You’re so keen on your podcast. So quick to come to my aid even. But what about your daughter?”

“What about her?”

“When are you going to be her father? Really her father?”

“That’s got nothin’ to do with LeRoy Anderson and your sister’s cold case. I shared my past with you ’cause I wanted to be your friend, not have you throw my own daughter in my face. I have an ex who can do that, thank you very much.” Sebastian got into the car and slammed the door. He waited, leaned forward, and looked out the window at her. “You comin’ or do you want me to leave you in LeRoy’s front yard?”

Norah bit her tongue and climbed into the car. She wanted to cry. She wanted to rant and kick. Life wasn’t fair. Not for any of them. And that was what hurt the most.