Page 15 of Night Falls on Predicament Avenue
“I’ve already told you—anything you remember from the other night would be of help.”
Effie eyed the man. “Are you a journalist?”
“Are you telling the truth?” He raised an eyebrow.
“You question my honesty?”
“I question why there was no sign of what you claimed happened at the house on Predicament Avenue and yet you insist you heard a woman screaming.”
Effie pursed her lips.
Mr. Anderson ignored her lips and kept his eyes boring into hers. “If you were caught in a lie, you would gracefully, if possible, back away from it. The shame and embarrassment of having this sad little town turn out to gawk at a bloody scene only to find nothing? Pure poppycock, and you at the helm! Completely and reprehensibly misguided of you and your sister to claim such untruths. And you, the daughters of a respected banker?”
He’d definitely done his research. Effie fiddled with her gloved fingers.
Mr. Anderson continued. “You continue to claim youdidhear something that night and your sister is in ill health because of it? A strange falsehood to cling to in light of your position in Shepherd. Therefore, I must pose the question again, Miss James. What did you see and hear? And please leave no detail unaccounted for.”
“You’re a detective then?” Effie asked, feeling every ounce of confidence seep away under the Englishman’s intense stare.
“Hardly. I told you the truth, just as I believe you have told me the truth. So, with the truth established, shall we move forward?”
“Move forward?” Effie frowned.
Mr. Anderson issued a small sigh that either meant he was becoming exasperated or more likely indicated he couldn’t catch a decent breath due to the clouds of perfume emanating from the ladies in the room. “Yes. Explore what you know to be true,what I believe to be true, and what evidence will prove is true.” The dark spears of his eyes rattled Effie, leaving her shaken.
“I-I...” She was flustered now. “There was no evidence.”
“So we’ve been told.” Mr. Anderson leaned in closer, his breath brushing her ear. “But do you wish to let the entire town believe your sister is capable of such dramatics and lies?”
Effie drew away from him, incredulous as confusion sliced through her. “What do you mean?”
“There are those here tonight expressing sympathy for your ill sister. Others, though, claim this is all theatrics. That your sister has always loved attention, grappled for it, and now she convalesces in order to have the condolences and empathy of the people of Shepherd.”
“My sister is doing no such thing!” Effie cried.
Mr. Anderson lifted his finger to his mouth to shush her. “Then you must prove it.”
Effie stared at him. Had he really just taunted her by questioning her sister’s honesty? Polly, whom everyone loved and adored, who was facing the last months or year of her life, curled up in her bed, unresponsive and traumatized? How dare he! How dareanyoneaccuse Polly of manipulating events for attention! Claiming a woman was murdered? It was appalling and horrible and—
“I see you’re coming to understand why I have approached you once more.” Mr. Anderson broke into Effie’s swirling thoughts. “Only you and I believe something actuallydidhappen, and if it did, then two people’s welfare are at stake. That of my wife’s, Isabelle Addington, and that of your sister, along with her good reputation.”
“Sir...” Shocked, Effie struggled to find her voice again. “Whatever I did or did not hear is of no matter. Nothing was found in the house. Absolutely nothing. There is no way to prove my experience.”
“I don’t believe it.” He turned his gaze onto the minglingguests. “I don’t believe you to be the type of woman to allow her sister to be spoken ill of.”
“Excuse me?” Effie wasn’t sure if his statement was a compliment or pure insult.
Mr. Anderson’s expression did nothing to imply his intent. His face was one of stony seriousness that both frightened and intrigued Effie. More frightened, she confirmed to herself, and less intrigued.
“You may be my only hope, Miss James.” Mr. Anderson was still perusing the guests, eyeing them with unspoken censure.
“How?” Effie noticed the lines beside his eyes, his hair that tapered over his ears as though he was two weeks beyond when he should have last had it cut. The shadow of his whiskers made his long face appear stronger, more mysterious.
“Will you accompany me there?” He turned abruptly to face her. “My man Gus will go as well. I would like to walk through the house and see if anything strikes you as different, or suspicious, or perhaps inspires a clearer memory of the night’s events.”
Effie frowned. “I never went in the house that night. I barely made it to the bottom stair of the back porch.” She noticed Patrick Charlemagne across the room. He was engaged in a lively conversation with Bethany Todd, and Effie knew instantly that her hopes of becoming part of the Charlemagne family were dashed. Bethany was the epitome of beauty, grace, and kindness. She was also—aside from Polly—Effie’s dearest friend.
Bethany deserved a pleasant, strong man such as Patrick. Effie wished the same for herself, but no. Apparently her behavior with Polly the other night had doomed her to doing penance with a strange Englishman who could easily be mistaken for an undertaker while at the same time be oddly and almost seductively handsome.
