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It was completely dark outside as Josie continued to catalogue the contents of one of the trunks in the attic by the bluish glow of four battery-operated hurricane lanterns. She had been at it for hours and her back ached, but she loved discovering the treasures of her house. Whenever she managed to pry open a lock, she always paused before revealing the contents, hoping she’d find something other than old notebooks, or, in the case of one trunk, the creepy results of Wells’s experiments with taxidermy.
Josie closed one trunk, which contained parts of a china set, then pried open the next. This one was a very old cedar chest with a top layer of protective muslin. She carefully removed the muslin and a layer of tissue, revealing a beautiful silver and blue beaded gown. Josie’s breath caught as she carefully removed the dress to examine it. It had spaghetti straps, flapper fringe and intricate beading, which made the sexy dress shimmer in the low light.
She held it up to her, then looked in the full-length mirror only to see a flash of movement behind her. She quickly turned, but nothing was there. Figuring it was a trick of the low light, Josie turned back to gaze at the gorgeous dress.
The length was perfect, hitting just above the ankles. Then she wondered if there were shoes. A thorough search of the trunk revealed a pair of two-inch heels in dark navy silk, with sequined tassels to match the dress.
Now she had to try everything on.
She took off her jeans and t-shirt, then pulled the slinky dress over her head, letting the weight of the beads pull it down her body. It was a bit tight, but the effect was spectacular. She looked in the mirror and couldn’t believe the reflection.
She was five foot six, slim and a B-cup. It was the perfect build for a dress which was meant to hang straight down, but accentuated her chest as the silk clung to it. Her shoulder-length brown hair was loosely tied back at the nape of her neck, giving the illusion of a wavy bob. She rarely wore anything other than jeans and a t-shirt. Looking at herself now, she had to wonder why she never dressed up.
She had a feeling the shoes wouldn’t fit, since she’d outgrown her mom’s shoes when she was still in middle school and she knew people had impossibly small feet in the past. As she gingerly put one foot in, she was surprised to learn it was snug, but not unbearably so. She put the other one on, then looked back in the mirror. There was no doubt about it. The clothes from the 1920s were terrific. She twirled once, then twice, loving how the heaviness of the dress swirled around her legs, then back the other way again.
Then she looked at the Victrola and the tango record.
Half an hour later – after wrapping the dusty Victrola in muslin and being very, very careful with her dress – Josie had moved the heavy thing downstairs into the largely empty ballroom. The Victrola was set up, the hurricane lamps had been placed strategically around the room and the Argentine tango record was in her hands.
Josie blew on the record to get rid of the remaining dust, then carefully laid it on the turntable. She tried to crank the Victrola, but disuse made it difficult. She kept trying until she finally made one full rotation. The next revolution was a bit easier and, finally, she was able to wind it enough to get the heavy turntable spinning. She carefully placed the needle on the record and was amazed when the tinny and slightly warped sounds of a tango played.
Josie had taken dance lessons as a kid, then convinced her husband to take a few ballroom classes in preparation for their wedding. He’d complained the entire time, which was yet another reason why they probably hadn’t been destined to go the distance. She didn’t understand people who didn’t like dancing.
She could dance the tango, but still felt a bit silly as she took her first few steps alone. However, she quickly got over that as she felt the slight flare of the beaded dress wrap around her legs as she turned. There was an advantage to living on your own in the middle of nowhere and that was being able to tango by yourself and not have to worry about anyone walking in and thinking you were weird.
It was fun – the most fun she’d had in a while – and she realized she should do things like this more often.
Then her phone rang. A glance at the screen showed it was her ex-husband Gary. She almost didn’t answer, but did it, anyway.
“Hey, Gary.”
There was a pause at the other end. “I’m surprised you picked up.”
“So am I.”
They hadn’t spoken for a while and the sound of his voice still managed to stir something painful inside her. She hated that she was still susceptible to him.
“Yeah, well I thought you’d screen,” he said.
“Obviously, I didn’t.”
“Maybe it would have been easier if you had.”
Josie inhaled slowly to calm her sudden nerves. Whatever he had to say wasn’t going to be good. She tried to remind herself that he had already hurt her about as badly as possible. She’d truly been in love with him, despite their problems. They had gone through two miscarriages together and when you share that type of loss with someone there’s a bond. It had been heartbreaking to learn he’d not just been cheating on her, but cheating on her with one of her closest friends.
“Should I call back and this time you won’t pick up?” asked her rather spineless ex.
“Say what you have to say, Gary.”
There was a long pause on the other end. Then finally, he began. “Remember how you made me promise I’d tell you if Beth and I got married?”
Josie had known this day would come, but it was still difficult. “Yes.”
“Well, her divorce finally came through.”
“And?”
“You’re really going to make me say this?”
“Apparently, I am.”
“We’re getting married.”
Josie thought she’d been prepared, but it hurt more than it should. It seemed like the knife, which had plunged into her gut when she’d walked in on them in bed, had just found her again.
“And we’re having a baby.”
For a moment, it was like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. This time it wasn’t a knife plunging into her but the whole house caving in. Her wonderful new house in the middle of nowhere.
Gary continued. “I know this is probably tough to hear, but I thought you should know. We both did. I mean, you two were friends for a long time and I hope we can all be friends again some day. We both care about you in our own way.”
Josie put her hand to her stomach, as she often did when the wave of loss overwhelmed her anew. But this time, instead of falling into the abyss she felt the cool sequins of her beautiful dress.
“Are you still there?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he added softly, “We never meant to hurt you.”
The dress seemed to give her strength. “I hate it when people say that instead of apologizing and accepting the uncomfortable fact they hurt someone they once loved. Not meaning to hurt someone just means you’re not a sociopath. Sleeping with my best friend for a year still makes the two of you assholes, even if you didn’t mean to hurt me.”
“There’s no need for name calling.”
“You and I will just have to agree to disagree on that. Do you have anything else to tell me?”
He sighed. “Yes. There’s more.”
“How could there possibly be more?”
“I can’t send you proceeds from the sale of the house because Beth and I are going to live in it.”
“Aren’t you already living in it?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Then buy me out or pay me rent.”
“Money’s tight right now, especially with the baby coming. I promise I’ll get you the money eventually. And, besides, you’re making money on the B&B, aren’t you?”
Josie looked at the house which needed so much work. She wouldn’t make a profit for a long time to come.
“Josie, I know all of this is hard on you. And I hate causing you more pain when you’re already so fragile, but...”
The rest of what he was about to say was lost as Josie hung up on him. She took a deep breath, hoping the tears wouldn’t fall. She had already cried enough for this guy. She looked around at the beautiful house which still needed so much work, felt the gorgeous dress which was perfect on its own, then went to the kitchen to retrieve another bottle of wine.
She poured a rather full glass, then turned on her tablet and did what she always did when she was sad. She read articles about Remington Mansion.
She pulled up an article from just ten years earlier from a Portland newspaper. It was a good sign for the future success of her inn that there was still regional interest in the mystery. The headline was, “Old Murders Still a Mystery,” with a color picture of the house looking even worse than it had when she’d bought it. Apparently, the most recent owners had done at least a little work on it. The article didn’t mention anything she didn’t already know. The mystery remained unsolved, though the Wall Street tycoon, David Remington, was still the most likely suspect. No one knew why he’d done it, which only added to the intrigue.
Josie looked at the man in the black and white photo. He seemed to be in his mid-thirties, with his dark hair slicked back in the style of the 1920s. In his tuxedo, he was the type of guy you’d expect to see at a Great Gatsby party. With a slightly different haircut, he could pass for a modern-day movie star in Hollywood. She wasn’t sure they needed a motive for his actions. Hot guys were always trouble.
There were a few articles dated after his disappearance, offering tidbits about his life. Silent movie star Clara Bow detailed a love affair she’d had with him years earlier. J. Edgar Hoover mentioned him by name as proof of the corruption of public morals. There were even some conspiracy theorists who blamed him for the stock market crash, though it occurred two months after he disappeared. There were occasional sightings of him for decades, including at a Hollywood party in the 1930s and in an air raid shelter during the London Blitz of World War II. But there was never anything definitive, no proof that David Remington survived beyond the time he was believed to have committed the murders.
She moved on to an article from the local paper six months earlier, featuring a picture of Josie standing in front of the house. It had been big news that someone had finally bought it and was fixing it up. Josie had done the interview because she could use all the publicity she could get.
Then she went through the archives filled with black and white pictures. One of her favorites was from a Hearst newspaper, with the typically understated headline “Bootlegger Death a Gangland Hit!” along with a graphic picture of a mobster in a pool of blood, dead on the ground. He was identified as 35-year-old Mikey Corrigan, one of Chicago’s rising underworld stars.
Another old article showed a woman in an elegant dress, crying into a handkerchief with the headline “Socialite Barely Escapes Reaper.” Constance Andrews had been a guest at the party and a particular friend of David Remington. She was said to have been in hysterics over both the murders and the disappearance of Remington.
There was another article from a Hearst newspaper with the headline, “Hollywood Heartthrob Heaven Bound!” The picture was of silent movie actor Kurt Franklin in his casket, dead at twenty-five. Josie didn’t recognize the name, but he must have been pretty popular because his funeral procession down Hollywood Boulevard had been mobbed by thousands of young women, more than a dozen of whom had to be hospitalized for that most popular of female medical conditions, “hysteria.”
A final article proclaimed “Tycoon Killer on the Lam! Hoover Says Shoot on Sight!” There was no clue to where David Remington had gone or why he had killed two of his guests. Over the years, various psychics had claimed to know his whereabouts. There was even a Native American chief who claimed that his grandfather had helped Remington escape years earlier. But there was nothing definitive to show what had happened to one of the richest men in the country.
With wine bottle in hand and no need for a glass, Josie returned to the makeshift ballroom where she cranked the Victrola again and began her tango. It was a bit less joyous than before, but she was still on her grand adventure in her beautiful dress.
An hour later, Josie was fairly drunk and her body was feeling the effects of having worked so hard in the attic all day. She turned off the lamps, walked through the moonlit first floor, then climbed the stairs to her room. She lay on her bed without undressing and promptly fell asleep.
* * *
Josie awakened in the middle of the night, once again shaken by an earthquake. She was also more than a little hungover from too much wine.
“Damn it,” she said, as she sat up and fumbled for the light, which she couldn’t find. But she did manage to find a glass of water on her bedside table, which she gulped down. She was about to lie down again when she heard a faint noise downstairs. But this time it wasn’t the rhythmic thumping of a rocking chair in the wind. It sounded like music.
She fumbled under the bed for the fireplace poker, but it must’ve rolled too far underneath and she was in no shape to find it now. She carefully made her way into the hall, then peered over the stairs to the landing below. It was dark, illuminated only by moonlight, though there was a faint glow coming from the direction of the ballroom. And she was definitely hearing music. Figuring the Victrola had somehow wound itself up again, Josie walked downstairs, then made her way through the dark house to the ballroom. When she reached it, the Victrola was definitely playing, though it wasn’t the tango from earlier. She couldn’t quite figure out how that had happened since she only had the one record. The room seemed to be spinning a bit. That did make sense, since she had polished off almost an entire bottle of wine earlier.
But after a moment, she realized something wasn’t quite right. At first, the spinning was happening around her, like a carousel of indistinct figures. But then they started getting clearer as if there were couples dancing around the room. She stood and watched as the figures became more distinct and the walls became lighted with sconces, even though her walls didn’t have those particular fixtures. It was as if Josie was familiar with the room, but also seeing it for the very first time. It was her ballroom, but it was clean and the entire thing was filled with perhaps a dozen people in formal wear from the 1920s. People were now noticing her and slowing down as they wondered what the hell was going on.
She wanted to know, as well.
Josie knew it had to be a dream, but it didn’t seem like one. She could feel a summer breeze wafting through the French doors, bringing the smell of pine trees with it. She could hear voices murmuring and someone somewhere dropped a glass. Her fingers glided over the beading on her dress and she felt increasingly unsteady on her feet. Dreams were visual, but this one fired up all her senses.
The dancing couples were now standing still and pointing at her. It couldn’t be real, but she knew it wasn’t a dream. Something had turned her world upside down and she had to get out of there so she could breathe. She turned to flee, then crashed into a tall, strong man in a very nice tuxedo. She bounced off him and though he reached out to catch her, he was just a bit too slow. As Josie fell to the ground she looked into the face of David Remington from the newspaper articles.
All she could think about was, murderer or not, he was even better looking in person than in the pictures.
Then her head hit the floor with a resounding crack and everything went black.