Chapter Twenty-Two
I slept poorly, Terry’s request sounding in my ears. Would I tell him when it was time to run? No, I would not. If Binder and Flynn had enough to arrest him, I’d let justice take its course.
Would I tell Chris, which might be tantamount to telling Terry? That was a harder one. Chris’s and my relationship had been one of peeling away secrets, getting to greater levels of intimacy. We were in a good place now, and if I found out Terry was about to be arrested I wouldn’t keep it from Chris. He had hated Terry’s crime—or what he’d believed his crime to be. I could trust Chris to do the right thing, whatever it was.
It took a long time to work it all out, and I woke up feeling tired and down.
In the morning I had an appointment to meet Floradale Thayer at Mom’s garage so she could decide if there were any of Lilly Smythe’s belongings she wanted to take for the Busman’s Harbor Historical Society. Tallulah had volunteered to help, so I went into Mom’s house to get her.
“How did you do on the Web?” I asked her.
“You were right,” Tallulah answered. “I couldn’t find a Lilly Smythe anywhere in Maine or Massachusetts after 1898. I can’t bear the idea that she killed herself.”
“You wouldn’t find her by that name if she married,” I pointed out. “You don’t know what happened.”
Tallulah shivered, the only indication I’d ever seen that she was cold, though I doubted that was why she did. “But the sealed room. I think it means something terrible happened. It must have.”
We went out to the unused third bay in Mom’s garage where the belongings moved from Lilly’s room were stored. I’d told family members to take something as a remembrance and most of them had. After all these decades we felt someone should honor the poor young woman who had been so terrified and alone. I had selected her wire-framed spectacles. They were personal and a reminder of her vulnerability.
Tallulah helped me open the double doors to that part of the garage. The sun shone onto the pile of objects. It didn’t look like much, the plain bureau, writing desk, nightstand, disassembled bed frame, rolled up mattress, and three plastic crates. Back in Lilly’s room in their original places, the pieces looked like they belonged in a museum. Piled like any other family’s cheap hand-me-downs, the stuff seemed destined for a booth at the Busman’s Harbor Stop ’n’ Swap. I doubted the historical society would have an interest.
“We should have brought Mrs. Thayer out to the island,” I muttered. “I would have if there hadn’t been a murder.”
“What?” Tallulah asked.
“Nothing. Talking to myself.”
A metallic cough came from the driveway and Floradale Thayer’s old blue van sputtered into view. The springs groaned as Floradale alighted. I glanced at Tallulah, hoping she wouldn’t stare, but of course she did.
Floradale Thayer was enormous, well over six and a half feet tall with the shoulders of a linebacker. She wore a khaki skirt and olive green sweater that stretched across her broad chest. In her midsixties, she walked in a ramrod-straight posture that might have come from the military, but instead came from Miss Lyon’s Ballroom Dancing School for Young Ladies and Gentlemen.
We greeted each other and I introduced Tallulah as my cousin.
“Cousin you say?” Mrs. Thayer knew the genealogy of every family in town, with special emphasis on the prominent summer families like the Morrows. “You’re one of the Boston family,” she said to Tallulah, who nodded. The story of how I’d discovered two branches of my mother’s family tree she never knew existed was well known around town and especially by Mrs. Thayer, who had helped me with my early research.
“What have you got here?” She looked into the garage.
“We found this at Windsholme,” I answered.
“In a sealed-off room,” she said. We had already covered this ground on the phone. “Most interesting.”
She dismissed the desk, bureau, nightstand, and iron bedstead out of hand. “There’s one of these in half the cottages on the peninsula.” Only a slight exaggeration. “But let’s see some of the personal effects.”
I opened the first of the plastic bins, which contained most of Lilly’s clothes. Mrs. Thayer pulled them out one at a time, unfolding them. “Marvelous,” she said, holding the bathing costume in front of her. She handed it off to Tallulah, who played along, holding out her arms to receive them like a salesperson in a high-end boutique. By then Mrs. Thayer was on to Lilly’s skirt and blouse. “Fantastic,” she said. “Likely a governess. Late eighteen-nineties.” She knew her stuff. “I’ll take all the clothes.”
When she pulled out a nightgown a shiver ran down my spine. It had a whole new meaning now that I knew about the awful entry in Lilly’s journal.
“Have you ever heard of a governess at Windsholme in 1898 called Lilly Smythe?” I asked Floradale. If word of Lilly’s suicide had gotten around town it wasn’t out of the question Mrs. Thayer would have known about it.
“Can’t say as I have,” she replied.
“It’s spelled S-M-Y-T-H-E,” Tallulah said helpfully.
“Is she local?” Mrs. Thayer was barely paying attention. She was bent over the second container, the one filled with the books and personal items.
“We think she came from Boston,” I said. At least that was where she’d met the Morrow yacht.
“No, sorry.” Mrs. Thayer shook her head. “What happened to her?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Tallulah answered. Then she and I, alternating and filling in details, told the story we had found in the journal.
Mrs. Thayer furrowed her brow. Mysteries from the past were her bread and butter. Every day during every season people turned up at the historical society having traced their origins to a grave in the Busman’s Harbor cemetery where the trail ran cold. She helped everyone she could.
“I can tell you what happened to Frederick Morrow,” she said at last. “He drowned. During a boat race at the yacht club. He was drunk and fell out. Even though there were many witnesses, he was out of sight by the time the sailboat came about and returned to the spot. His body washed up in the marina ten days later.”
“Seems like rough justice,” Tallulah muttered, an icy cold assessment given her sunny disposition, though accurate, I thought.
“Did this governess mention any surnames of the other servants that summer?” Mrs. Thayer asked. “Because if they were local, there may still be family around. They may have heard stories. It’s a long shot, but what have you got to lose?”
I thought back through the stories, but Tallulah, who’d read each entry at least twice, beat me to the punch. “The cook was Mrs. Stout and the housekeeper Mrs. Franklin.”
Mrs. Thayer shook her head. “Not familiar.”
“Mrs. Stout worked for William Morrow in New York City. My grandmother remembers her. Mrs. Franklin wasn’t a good housekeeper according to the journal. I doubt she lasted long.” Tallulah paused, scrunching up her face. “There were maids who came from Busman’s Harbor, but I don’t think even their first names are mentioned in the journal.”
“Well, it was worth a thought,” Mrs. Thayer said.
“Wait!” Tallulah’s eyes lit up. “There was also the captain of the Morrow yacht. He was a former naval officer. His name was Beal, I think. Captain Beal.”
“Well, that’s different,” Mrs. Thayer replied. “There’s Beals all over the place around here. If I were you, I would start my inquiries with Bill Beal. He’s the family history buff. Stops in the society all the time. I’ll call you with his contact information when I get back to the office.”
“Thank you!” Tallulah was excited. I worried she had her hopes too high. A family legend about the suicide of a governess who’d spent less than three months on an island in Maine a hundred and twenty years ago? It seemed far-fetched there would be family stories anyone would remember. But any clue was better than none. That was certainly the way Tallulah viewed it.
Mrs. Thayer repacked the books. Tallulah refolded the clothes and prepared to return them to the other container. “Wait, there’s one more thing in the bottom of this bin you haven’t seen.” Tallulah lifted a pair of bloomers out of the container. They were still folded with the same sharp creases they’d had in the drawer. Since they were the third identical pair, we’d never unfolded them. As they unfurled something fell out, splat onto the driveway.
Tallulah and I spotted it at the same moment. “Another volume of the journal!” She pounced, picking it up. The notebook was identical to the one we’d read from every evening the past week.
Floradale Thayer eyed the cover. “Would you want to donate that to the historical society? We’d be happy to take it, along with the other. They would be a valuable reference about life in a Maine summer residence.”
“Not now.” Tallulah clutched the journal close.
“Maybe someday,” I added.
* * *
Tallulah and I helped Floradale load the three plastic bins into her wheezy old van. Then we went into Mom’s kitchen to clean up and get something to drink. Marguerite and Mom were at the kitchen table with cups of coffee in front of them.
“We found another volume of Lilly’s journal, Granny!” Tallulah practically danced. Marguerite put out her hand. Tallulah gave her the notebook and then went to the kitchen sink to wash off the dust. I filled Mom in on what Floradale had taken from the garage while Marguerite turned the pages of the new volume.
“We’ll donate the bed and the other furniture,” Mom said, “if no one in the family can use them.”
“And take the mattress to the dump,” I added.
“This book is blank.” Marguerite sounded bitterly disappointed. “There’s nothing in it. This must have been an extra notebook Lilly brought with her for the summer but never used.”
Tallulah poured a cup of coffee and joined them at the table. “I was so hoping we’d get answers.”
While I took my turn at the sink, my phone rang. I stepped into the hall to answer it. It was Floradale Thayer with Bill Beal’s contact information as promised. I returned to the kitchen and told the others about it.
“Bill Beal from the East Busman’s General Store?” Mom asked.
“Yes. Mrs. Thayer said the phone number at the store was the best way to reach him,” I answered.
“Marvelous. We should all visit him there,” Mom said.
East Busman’s was a charming village a few miles out of town. At its center, homes and shops faced a lovely green with a large millpond. There were two antiques shops, a small gallery, and a fancy restaurant.
The general store was the heart of the village. It was the best parts of a supermarket, convenience store, hardware store, and boat shop, with a post office window that would sell you stamps or mail your packages. It was the place to go if you lived on the east side of our peninsula and didn’t want the bother of going into town to get your errands done, especially during the summer when parking was at a premium. It was also rightfully renowned for its pizza, which was the best in the area, and its ice cream, which came from a dairy on the next peninsula.
“We’ll have lunch there,” Mom said. “And if he’s in, we’ll pick Bill Beal’s brain for any family stories. We’ll bring the journal. Julia, do you want to come?”
I was about to say yes when Marguerite spoke. “There is writing in the back of this notebook, but it’s not Lilly Smythe’s.”
That stopped us all.
“Look.” Marguerite held a page out for us to inspect.
“Is that some kind of code?” Tallulah asked.
Marguerite shook her head. “No. It’s Cyrillic, the alphabet used in Russian and related languages.”
“Do you read Russian?” I asked. Was there no end to how amazing this woman was?
Marguerite laughed. “No. I recognize the script is all. And it’s modern. These passages were written with a ballpoint pen.”
“Can I see it?”
Marguerite handed me the notebook. There were five pages of writing in blue ballpoint pen. Toward the end of the text, the letters lightened and then petered out, like the pen had run out of ink. Whoever had written it had pressed down hard, leaving impressions of the letters on the blank pages all the way to the back of the notebook. Because the letters were from an alphabet different from my own, I couldn’t tell whether the handwriting was masculine or feminine.
My heart began to beat wildly. The notebook had been left in the sealed-off room. It was modern, written with a ballpoint pen, so that meant it had been left there sometime after the demo crew had opened the wall. Dmitri had been in that room. Perhaps he had left the note to indicate where he had gone or what had happened.
Fortunately, I knew someone who could translate it for me.
“I’m going to take this,” I told them. “The three of you work on the Beal angle.” I put the notebook into my tote bag.
“Suit yourself,” Mom said. “Wherever you’re headed, our assignment is going to be more fun.”