Page 19 of The Lady Has a Past

Simon studied the squiggles and shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. Just some doodles, the kind you make when you’re waiting for a long-distance phone call to go through. Let’s try the bedroom.”

Lyra sensed Luther hesitating, as if he did not want to have to walk into that room. She did not blame him. It was Raina’s personal space, an intimate space he had shared with her. But he said nothing. Instead he led the way upstairs. Without a word, Lyra and Simon followed him.

The bedroom was an elegant boudoir done in shades of cream punctuated with splashes of red and gold. A pair of glass-paned doorsopened onto a romantic little balcony trimmed with wrought iron. But unlike in the rest of the house, the signs of rushed activity were everywhere.

Shoe and hatboxes had been taken down from a shelf in the closet but not replaced. Drawers stood open. The items on the dressing table were in disarray.

Lyra glanced into some of the open drawers and then studied the closet.

“Looks like Raina took a few items of lingerie, a nightgown, and at least one change of clothes,” she announced. She moved to the bed and raised the lids of some of the boxes. “But she didn’t pack any high heels or evening shoes. She didn’t take any hats, either.”

Luther surveyed the boxes scattered across the bed. “She was in a hurry. Why did she waste time pulling most of the shoeboxes and hatboxes out of her closet?”

“Because she was looking for something,” Simon said. “Whatever it was must have been hidden at the back of the closet.”

He moved around to the far side of the bed and contemplated a closed shoebox. After a few seconds he reached out and touched it as if it were a live grenade. Lyra could have sworn she felt a shiver of energy in the atmosphere.

Intrigued, she moved closer to Simon to get a better view of the shoebox.

“Why that one?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” Simon looked at Luther. “I think it’s important. Do you want to open it or shall I?”

Luther hesitated a beat.

“I’ll do it,” Lyra said. “That box belongs to Raina. I think another woman should open it.”

Luther nodded. He looked relieved. “Go ahead.”

She reached out to take the lid off the shoebox. The spectral fingerson the back of her neck made her hesitate. This time she had no difficulty interpreting the message from her intuition. There was something bad inside the box.

Aware that both men were watching, their eyes riveted on the box, she took a firm grip on her nerves and removed the lid.

For a few seconds she gazed down at the small pile of yellowed newspaper clippings. Then, very gently, she dumped them out onto the quilt.

Simon picked up one of the clippings. “The dateline is Bar Harbor. The date is 1925. Thirteen years ago.”

He read the rest of the article aloud.

Local Woman Swept Out to Sea. Feared Dead.

Jean Whitlock, the wife of Malcolm Whitlock, is believed to have vanished at sea during the recent storm. She is reported to have taken the couple’s sailboat out by herself. Authorities fear she was caught by the sudden turn in the weather. Her husband is said to be distraught. The Whitlocks were married for less than a year.

The way Simon handled the clipping gave Raina the impression he was doing more than just reading the chilling report. It was almost as if he were trying to learn something simply from touching the brittle paper. She remembered what Luther had said about Simon’s ability to pick up the feel of a scene.

Luther read another clipping.Search for Missing Woman Called Off.

Lyra picked up a clipping. “This one is from a Boston paper. It’s dated eighteen months later.”

She read it aloud.

Grief-stricken Husband of Woman Lost at Sea Dies in Tragic Accident

Malcolm Whitlock was found dead in his Boston home early this morning. The family reports the cause was a fall down the stairs.

After the loss of his wife in a boating accident off Bar Harbor, Mr. Whitlock moved back to Boston and went into seclusion. He never appeared in society. His family said he was in deep mourning.

Luther looked at Lyra and Simon. “Raina brought almost nothing of her past with her when she moved to California. Clothes, some money, and the list of contacts she had worked with in the course of her secretarial job in New York. She has no family. No friends from back East, at least none that I know of, and no clients except the ones she has here in Burning Cove.”

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