Page 14 of Night Falls on Predicament Avenue
Entering the Millers’ room, Norah paused just inside the doorway. Thankfully the bed had been stripped of its linens. She had enough in the linen closet to put clean ones on the bed, as well as a replacement mattress pad. The plastic cover she had every guest mattress encased in was also missing, the mattress clean underneath. Should she replace the entire mattress? Who would want to sleep in a bed a man had just died in?
Norah moved to the window and pushed back the flimsy white curtains. The street below was empty save a single car that drove by. The yard was patchy brown with green grass poking up through last year’s remains of a lawn. The windowpane fogged from her breath. Norah rubbed her sleeve across the glass to clear it, then checked the hinged lock on the bottom half of the window. Locked. No one had snuck into the room through the window and terrified Mr. Miller.
Norah knew what had happened. She didn’t want to admit it, but she knew. It had happened to her before too. It was the place between dreaming and wakefulness when a person wasapt to see things that weren’t really there, and yet they seemed so real that they became instant memories.
Norah had seen Isabelle Addington before.
She had seen her for the first time shortly after Aunt Eleanor had died a year ago.
Mrs. Miller wasn’t wrong. There was a ghostly apparition that would stand beside your bed and stare down at you. You could feel its presence there even before you opened your eyes. And when you finally did, the shadow woman would vanish almost as soon as you spotted her.
Norah understood the terror of that moment. She understood how someone with a weak heart might have a physical reaction to the shock and fright.
What she didn’t understand was why anyone would want to know more about Isabelle Addington or about the history of 322 Predicament Avenue. She didn’t understand her houseguest’s fascination with the first murder of Shepherd, Iowa, and she didn’t understand why, nearly thirteen years later, Isabelle Addington could return to haunt her, but Naomi couldn’t.
5
EFFIE
May 1901
Shepherd, Iowa
THEDINNERPARTYwas long and drawn out. Effie found it secretly amusing, watching those around her parade about as if they were royalty. Royalty in Shepherd? A small Midwestern town where, if they were to travel to another town a hundred miles away, no one would know them. They would have little influence over the world at large, only here in this small patch of earth where nothing interesting or extraordinary ever happened anyway—except for a bit of haughty gossip perhaps.
Effie hid behind a potted fern that brushed her shoulder. Her dress was green with lace at the elbows and at her neckline. She’d worn her rather plain brown hair swept up with a silk flower on one side. Her gloves were white. Her feet hurt in the “delightful little shoes,” as Mother called them. She longed forBen-Hur, a cup of tea, a blanket, and the peaceful crackling of a small late-spring fire in the fireplace. Instead, she was here at the Charlemagnes’ dinner party, pretending everything was as it should be and ignoring the glaring fact that Polly was home convalescing in bed, with Mother beside her anxiously praying that somehow Polly would regain her sense of reason.
But the Charlemagnes were important people, and so were the James family. With Mother preoccupied with Polly’s care, it was Effie’s duty to accompany her father, to carry on the façade that everything was fine. To raise her chin and defy any chatter that she and Polly had caused a stir over nothing and had clamored for attention by crying “murder.”
It was more than for her own amusement that Effie hid in the corner by the plant. It didn’t matter that the incident at 322 Predicament Avenue had supposedly blown over. She could still see some of the women tittering behind gloved hands.
Oh,what that Euphemia and Polly James wouldn’t do for attention!
How indiscreet to be out at night, alone, as young women!
The audacity of Euphemia James! We didn’t think she had it in her. Poor Polly, though it is completely understandable. The poor, wretcheddying girl.
Effie squelched a scream. She would keep up pretenses for Father’s sake. She would be everything she needed to be for Polly’s sake. And right now, that meant drawing attention from Polly and taking any blame on her own shoulders. Even if that ruined her hopes of meeting a fine young man, being courted, marrying, building a home—everything honorable and yet so far from being attainable at the moment.
She shifted her attention back to the hosts of tonight’s event. Mr. Charlemagne, owner of Charlemagne Steel and Wire Company, a manufacturer of telegraph wires, boasted that the nation was connected by message because of the Charlemagnes of the world. It was a silly boast, but one that Effie’s mothertook to heart, especially since Patrick Charlemagne—son and eligible bachelor—was home from the university and his travels.
“He would be a suitable match,” Mother had told Effie as Effie prepared to leave the James manor that evening with her father. She’d fluffed the lace around Effie’s elbow, untucking it from where it had snagged and hidden itself under the silk sleeve. “He’s the eldest, a fine Christian young man, and the family is of good standing, known for their integrity.”
Effie could argue with none of that, and now she watched Patrick carefully. He was of average height and build, with kind blue eyes, carefully styled dark brown hair, his trim mustache making up for a thin upper lip. Mother was right. He would make a good match, for his wife would enjoy stability, kindness, and most likely affluence. And they were already familiar with each other. Friends even. It was good to see Patrick again.
She adjusted her gloves. Hiding behind a potted plant would do nothing to increase her chances of securing a marriage with Patrick Charlemagne.
“So we meet again.” The distinct baritone rumbled in Effie’s ear. She yelped and twisted to look up into the cavernous eyes of Mr. Lewis Anderson.
At a loss for words, Effie cleared her throat instead.
Mr. Anderson didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. “Stuffy things, dinner parties. Don’t you agree?”
“No.” Effie shook her head. “I rather enjoy them.” Perhaps not the whole truth, but she felt irked at Mr. Anderson’s sudden appearance.
“Hmm. Never mind then.”
Was he goading her? Effie tilted her chin up a tad. “May I help you, Mr. Anderson?” Best to deal with the man now. Was he a journalist? He must be. His story of a missing wife hadn’t set well with her. It pulled at her empathy, and Effie didn’t appreciate that—especially if it were a falsehood so as to garner a story.
