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When Josie awoke, she could tell it was day. Her eyes were still closed, but she knew sunlight was streaming into her bedroom. And she was in her bed. She was sure of that. Whatever had happened the previous night hadn’t been real. And she should take this as a sign to cut back on her drinking, which had never been a problem until her divorce, which reminded her of her conversation with Gary the previous day. Then she wondered how close to lunch she was so she could have a glass of wine.
Her head truly ached, another bad side effect of drinking too much red wine. She carefully opened her eyes, not wanting the sunlight to make her headache worse. Her room looked much as it usually did, though the wallpaper didn’t look quite as faded today and the wood around the windows looked much shinier. Had she gone into a drunken fit of cleaning the previous night?
Josie continued her slow perusal of the room until she saw a woman reading a magazine in the corner. Josie sat bolt upright in bed, then immediately regretted it because of her pounding headache. She didn’t know how she’d fight this intruder when she could barely move. A part of her wondered if it might be better if the woman simply knocked her out so Josie could go back to sleep.
But the woman didn’t look like an intruder. She was much too calm. And then she smiled.
“Good,” she said. “You’re awake.”
The woman looked vaguely familiar, but was wearing a dropped-waist linen dress, stockings and kitten-heel shoes. Her strawberry blonde hair was in a stylish bob. And she was reading what appeared to be a brand-new copy of the Saturday Evening Post with a Norman Rockwell cover.
“Who are you?” asked Josie, reaching beneath the bed and still not finding the fireplace poker.
The woman approached the bed in as non-threatening of a way as possible for someone Josie didn’t know and who was dressed for some type of costume party. “You fell and hit your head last night. You must have a terrible headache.” She poured Josie a glass of water from a pitcher on the bedside table.
Josie took the water and sipped, mostly to give herself time to think. As she looked at the rest of the room, she realized that it both did and didn’t look like her bedroom. She recognized the view outside the window as the same one from her room, but this one had more furniture in it and Josie’s personal effects were missing. “Where’s my phone?”
“There’s a phone downstairs,” said the woman.
“Not ‘a phone,’ but ‘my phone.’”
“I don’t understand.”
“My cell phone.”
“Your what?”
“My phone.” Josie moved her hands apart to indicate size, then held the imaginary phone to her aching head, which only made the woman more confused.
“I don’t see how you could have a phone here. This is David Remington’s house.”
“This is my house.”
The woman frowned slightly, somehow making herself even more beautiful. “Oh, dear, you must have really hit your head hard. You appeared last night in the ballroom, fell, then David carried you up here. Don’t you remember any of this?”
It did sound vaguely familiar, though it didn’t make any sense. Fortunately, the woman didn’t seem like an intruder who wanted to hurt her. If anything, the woman might be trying to gaslight her – who had a perfectly-preserved copy of the Saturday Evening Post, then sat around reading it? Josie didn’t think this was a dream, but it didn’t seem like reality, either. Then she realized her dress was gone and she was wearing a white cotton nightgown. “Where’s my dress?”
“I hung it up,” said Constance, pointing to the dress hanging outside the wardrobe which Josie recognized as hers, but in considerably better shape than the old piece of furniture she’d had to strip and re-stain. “I lent you my nightgown.”
Josie felt the heavy cotton and realized it had been ironed. This definitely wasn’t a modern-day woman. Who ironed nightgowns?
“You don’t remember anything?” the woman asked with some disappointment.
Josie didn’t remember much and felt inadequate because of it. She thought hard about what she did remember and tried to make some sense of it. “I remember...the ballroom, and falling. My head hurts, so I guess I remember hitting it.”
“You poor thing. Perhaps it would help if we introduced ourselves. I’m Constance Andrews.”
Constance Andrews. The only Constance Andrews Josie knew was the one in the newspaper stories about the Tycoon Murderer. How could that be possible? This had to be a dream, even though she was certain she was awake. There were a great many questions Josie wanted to ask, so many things she needed to know to make any sense of this. But just now, she couldn’t quite figure out what to say or what to do. The best she could come up with was a rather lame, “My name is Josie Matthews.”
The woman – Constance Andrews? – looked hopeful.
Josie decided to repeat it, to make the woman even happier. “My name is Josie Matthews and this is my house.”
Now the hope was dashed and Constance Andrews’s confused look was back, along with, if Josie didn’t miss the mark entirely, some irritation. Constance patted Josie’s arm. “Don’t worry too much if you can’t remember everything. They say getting hit on the head can really change a person, though occasionally the effects are short-lived. I don’t think you should worry overly much right now that you’ll never recover and suffer serious side effects. I’d try to get some sleep and see if you feel better later.”
“But I am Josie Matthews and this really is my house.”
Constance drew the shades, reducing the room to a tempting darkness. “Try to sleep. Perhaps you’ll remember more when you wake up again.”
“But I live here.” Josie suddenly realized just how tired she was. Perhaps this was all a dream and she simply needed to let her mind let go of it. Her head ached and the darkness felt so much better. So, she lay back down, closed her eyes and drifted back to sleep.
* * *
Constance Andrews! David Remington! Constance Andrews was the Tycoon Murderer’s girlfriend! Josie sat up in bed. The room was dark, but she could glimpse daylight outside through the curtains. Now she knew why those names were familiar. David Remington was the Tycoon Murderer and Constance Andrews was his distraught girlfriend from the news photos. Josie couldn’t explain what was happening, though she knew now this wasn’t a dream.
She got out of bed and felt the strange white nightgown, still impressively wrinkle-free, billow around her. She went to the window, then carefully peeked out from behind the shade. There were a dozen people on the front lawn and it looked to be mid-afternoon. A few were dressed in black uniforms and were passing out drinks. But the rest were in summer clothes from the 1920s. She knew she was awake but had no idea what was going on.
Then she saw the magazine Constance had been reading. There was a cover of a grandfather and grandson fishing, called Catching the Big One, by Norman Rockwell. The date was August 3, 1929. This made no sense. She’d seen enough magazine props in Hollywood to recognize when something had been mocked up to look real. This wasn’t that. This seemed like the real Saturday Evening Post from almost ninety years earlier – she couldn’t tell the exact time difference since her head hurt too much for math.
She needed to find out what the hell was going on, but she couldn’t go downstairs in Constance Andrews’s nightgown. She eyed her sequined gown, but it seemed too formal for the afternoon.
Hoping to find some sign of her life, she opened the wardrobe, only to find it empty. Same thing with the dresser. That’s when she noticed a dress and stockings laid out on a chair. It was a light blue cap-sleeved, drop-waisted linen dress which looked like it’d hit just above her ankles. She wondered if it had come from Constance. It seemed to be about the same size as the nightgown, and just as well pressed. It felt odd to wear someone else’s clothes, but she didn’t have much choice.
The dress fit well enough, though she had to wear her own shoes from the night before. She tied her hair back in what she hoped was an approximation of a bob, then quietly set out to discover what the hell was going on.
As she ventured into the hall, there was every indication this was Remington Mansion, but of a much-earlier era. It was in excellent shape and she’d give anything to have her house look like this one, though there were some differences. The sconces on the wall were gas, and even if she had her phone, there’d be no place to plug it in because there weren’t any outlets. That was alarming. If the impossible had truly happened and she was in the 1920s, she couldn’t imagine being without the internet.
She looked out over the foyer to see that the front door was open, letting in the fresh pine scent of an Oregon summer. As she cautiously made her way downstairs, a maid in black with a white apron saw her, then quickly scurried away.
Great. She was a ghoul of a guest. She continued walking until she heard a voice from above. She looked up to see Constance Andrews coming out of the room Josie had just been in.
“There you are,” said Constance. “I was just checking on you. I see you found the clothes I lent you. I figured we might be a similar size, except for the...” She delicately pointed to the bust area. “It’s a little roomier on you.”
Though it was difficult to tell with the loose, dropped-waist style, it did appear that Constance Andrews’s chest was larger than Josie’s. And how kind of her to point that out. “Thank you for the loan of your dress.”
“You said your name was Josie. Is that short for something?”
“Josephine, but no one ever calls me that.”
“Well, Josephine, I’m glad you’re doing better. We’re all dying of curiosity as to how you came to be here at the party. David hasn’t said much. But isn’t that just like him?”
“Quite,” said Josie, thinking the less said the better about how she’d come to be there, especially since she had no idea how it had happened.
Constance continued. “Why don’t we find David? Maybe he can clear this up.”
* * *
Mikey Corrigan was on the edge of a forest in Oregon. It was pretty enough, but being in the country gave him the creeps. He much preferred his own town where he knew where all the danger was. Here, a guy could get killed and not ever expect it.
The woods next to David’s property were so dark it looked like night when you were in them, and he was only standing on the very edge. He still had the feeling someone was watching. Someone who wanted to do him a great deal of harm.
“I’m bored.”
Mikey looked over to where Lucy was staring out at the trees, wearing her favorite fox stole, even though it was the middle of summer and for all they knew, some live foxes could charge out of the woods, mad as hell that Lucy was wearing some of their dead relatives.
“If you’re bored, go play one of them fancy lawn games like croquet.”
“I don’t want to play a lawn game, Mikey. I want civilization.”
“I thought you’d like spending some time in the country. You’re always complainin’ that I don’t take you nowhere.”
“I meant you should take me somewhere interestin’. Not to the land of big trees and no cities.”
“Maybe Paul Bunyan will come out of them woods.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
“When are you gonna tell me what’s got you spooked?” asked Lucy as she took a long look at a caterpillar, then slowly backed away.
“What makes you think I’m spooked?”
“Because I know you better than you know yourself.”
Mikey hugged Lucy, then gently kissed her. He had a fearsome reputation in Chicago and even tough guys rarely crossed him. They’d all be surprised to see just how much he loved his girl. Sometimes it even surprised him. “It’s true that I wanted to see Remington and I don’t even mind seeing Barker, in limited doses. But the truth is, I also got a bit of business to take care of.”
Lucy narrowed her eyes. “I knew it! I knew there was some reason we had to sit on a train through state after state of big vast nothin’ to get here. You coulda met David Remington back home or in New York. But somethin’ brought you out here and it ain’t just the woods. Are you gonna tell me what it is?”
“No. And before you start jawin’ at me, it’s for your own good. Now give me another kiss.”
She kissed him, then looked over his shoulder. “I still can’t believe that’s Kurt Franklin in the flesh.”
Mikey turned back to where the handsome silent picture star was talking with some of the other guests near the porch. Several maids stood nearby, star struck.
“I still don’t know what’s so special about that guy,” grumbled Mikey.
“That’s okay,” said Lucy, giving him another kiss, “I know enough for the both of us.”
* * *
Josie’s first glimpse of David Remington was from the back, as he stared into the woods from his lush green lawn. To be more accurate, it was her first glimpse since bumping into him, then gracelessly falling down and hitting her head. Last night he’d been in a tuxedo, just like the pictures in the news articles. But today, he was dressed informally, but not like the shorts and flip-flops of the Twenty-First Century. This was casual by 1920s standards, which meant classy.
He was wearing fitted tan trousers, a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a vest. And his body was just as lean and strong as she remembered from bumping into it. Granted, she didn’t have much contact between bumping and getting knocked out, but it was an exceedingly pleasant memory.
She shook her head to clear it. This was the Tycoon Murderer, the ultimate bad boy, and she really had no business thinking he was hot.
“David,” said Constance, who had all but dragged Josie across the lawn to see him. “Look who’s finally awake.”
David Remington turned to face her and Josie realized the newspaper photos hadn’t done him justice. His eyes were an odd – but appealing – combination of brown and green, in contrast to his dark brown hair. As he studied her, Josie felt his gaze go right through her. He had an odd look on his face as if he were trying to put together a puzzle. Then he smiled, revealing one dimple which made him look like he should be someone’s dessert. “I’m glad to see you up and about,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Josie, as she shook his hand. His grasp was firm but gentle, and wholly unnerving.
“Constance,” he said, slowly letting go of Josie’s hand. “Can you please speak to the cook about tonight’s dinner? She has some questions for you.”
“You mean, now?”
“Yes, if you please.”
It looked like Constance wasn’t pleased in the least to be asked to leave, even if it had been done so politely. But she took the hint with the smallest modicum of grace and departed.
Then David turned the full force of those odd eyes on Josie. “Who are you? And why shouldn’t I have you arrested?”
Josie wouldn’t have thought that someone with murder on his mind would be all that interested in contacting the police. But not much of anything was making sense at the moment. “On what grounds do you think you could have me arrested?”
“Trespassing, for one thing. I didn’t invite you to this party. I don’t even know you.”
“How can you be sure you haven’t met me but simply forgot?”
“Because, somehow, I don’t think I’d ever forget you,” he said quietly.
Damn. The Tycoon Murderer was a smooth talker. “If you’re sure we haven’t met, why haven’t you had me arrested?”
“It seemed ungentlemanly to have you arrested while you were passed out.”
“Passed out makes it sound like I was drunk. I hit my head.”
“After arriving here uninvited.”
“You don’t think it’s ungentlemanly to keep pointing that out?”
He smothered a laugh, while keeping up his stern demeanor. “I’m not known for allowing people to crash my parties.”
“Then why’d you make an exception for me?” Josie probably would have called the police if someone had suddenly appeared in her ballroom.
He looked out at the woods for a moment as he considered the question, before turning back to her. It was difficult to read his expression, but he looked concerned. “I guess I thought you might be in trouble. You did hit your head pretty hard. How do you feel now?”
“It still hurts a little, but I don’t have any permanent damage, as far as I know. But it’s not like I’ve had an MRI to confirm that.”
“A what?”
“Never mind.”
“Why are you here?” He was studying her with an unnerving intensity.
“I’m not here to cause trouble.”
“I hardly think you’d admit to it if that was your goal. How did you get here? I didn’t hear a vehicle arrive and there’s no sign of one now.”
Those were all excellent questions with a total lack of good answers. “I’m not sure how I got here.”
He frowned. “How can you not know?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I’m relatively intelligent. Why don’t you try to explain it?”
Josie didn’t know how to even begin. “You wouldn’t believe me if I did. I’m not sure I believe it, and it happened to me.”
“Try me.” When she still didn’t answer, he continued. “Let’s start with an easier question. Where are your things?”
“I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?”
“Didn’t I just say I hit my head pretty hard?”
“Hard enough to dislodge your luggage?”
Josie couldn’t very well blame him for distrusting her after she’d appeared from nowhere. But it had been a rather confusing twelve hours and her head still ached. She wasn’t purposely trying to hold anything back. She just had no idea what was going on. “Look, if you want me to leave, I will. But I honestly don’t have any answers for you. Not right now, at any rate.”
It looked like he was considering asking her to leave, which was alarming since she had nowhere to go. At least here she had a place to sleep and some borrowed clothes. Out there she had nothing.
Finally he said, “Where would you go if you left here? You don’t even have any luggage.”
“Why are you obsessed with my luggage?”
“Do you live around here? Is that why you don’t have any luggage with you?”
She didn’t know how to tell him she lived here, but almost a hundred years in the future. “I’d say this is like living in the Twilight Zone, but you wouldn’t know what that is.”
“You talk...strangely. And don’t blame it on your head injury.”
“Do you want me to leave, or not?” Josie hoped he didn’t because she had nowhere else to go.
He thought about it for so long that Josie was thinking of begging him to let her remain. “You can stay.”
Josie’s relief was immense, despite the fact two murders were about to occur and, for all she knew, she might be a third victim. But it was better than the alternative of leaving with no money or clothes. She didn’t know how she’d get back to the Twenty-First Century, but she had a feeling she needed to be near this house for it to happen.
Her relief might be short-lived, because he was now staring at her with his unnerving gaze. “You can stay here until you feel better, but sooner or later I’m going to want some answers.”
Not as much as she wanted them. She didn’t know what was going on, but she needed to figure it out soon.