Page 17 of Night Falls on Predicament Avenue
Mr. Anderson hopped down and offered Effie his arm. She took it, but only after a surreptitious look in both directions up and down Predicament Avenue. It wasn’t a busy street, for that she was thankful. Effie caught a whiff of tobacco on Mr. Anderson’s coat sleeve. A pungent, sweet, and warm scent that didn’t match his aloof demeanor.
The house at 322 Predicament Avenue tilted farther toward the east, as if the recent kerfuffle there had burdened it even more. The old willow tree in the front yard waved its feathery branches like a specter in the daylight. A rickety-looking swing hung from one branch, its ropes frayed and threatening to snap if anyone attempted to sit on it. Effie stared at the peeling paint on the white-turned-gray side of the house with its two large windows. They were fogged and stained with dirt and time, like a brittle old man with rheumy eyes and horrible secrets.
“Shall we go in?” Mr. Anderson rubbed his gloved hands together, more in impatience than anticipation. “Are you afraid?” His voice cut through her hesitation.
“Of course not,” she said and gathered her skirts. She wasn’t afraid of the house—well, that wasn’t entirely true. But he needn’t know that she was also leery of him. Leery of all of it. But if she could findanythingto corroborate Polly’s claim that she’d seen a woman murdered, then Effie would grit her teeth and go forward.
Mr. Anderson’s eyebrow rose as he extended his arm toward the front door. “Well then?”
Effie gave him a narrow-eyed look. He might as well realize she was here only for her sister and not for him. She climbedthe few steps of the porch, watching her footing. Mr. Anderson followed with Gus trailing.
Pulling the wobbly screen door open, Effie reached for the doorknob, then hesitated, her hand hovering over the tarnished brass knob that was loose in its bore hole. “Why must I go first?” she inquired.
“Because I was being gentlemanly.” Mr. Anderson dipped his head toward the door. “If you prefer that I be heroic, I am more than willing to go first.”
Effie glared at him and then wavered as she saw the twinkle in his eye. He was teasing her! In the middle of searching for his wife, he was practicallyflirting! Effie sucked in a nervous breath and coughed. His mouth quirked in a grin.
This was highly inappropriate—as was the rush of attraction that flooded her for this mysterious andmarriedstranger!
Effie beseeched God for stamina and wisdom as she twisted the knob, the door giving way easily. It was silent as it drifted inward, a methodical swing that made Effie wonder if there were a ghost on the other side assisting its movement.
She paused in the doorway. With daylight and sunshine, there should be nothing at all terribly frightening here, but somehow the moment the door stopped opening, Effie was the recipient of a strange brush of air that smelled of must, of time, and of something tangy and inexplicably unpleasant. Effie dared to look over her shoulder at Mr. Anderson. “Perhaps you should go first.”
“Are you asking me, or will I offend you if I acquiesce?”
Englishmen were so pompous!
“This was what my great-great-grandfather fought against in 1776,” Effie muttered rebelliously under her breath.”
“Pardon?” Gus piped up from behind.
“It’s nothing,” Effie responded quickly, but she saw the spark of something in Mr. Anderson’s eyes. He’d heard her remark against the Crown.
“You’re quite the colonist, Miss James.” This time, Mr. Anderson’s mouth didn’t quirk even the hint of a smile. “Now that we’ve established it is best that an ocean separates you from me most days, shall we proceed?”
Effie hovered a leather shoe-clad foot over the threshold.
“I’ve no qualms about going first, Miss James.”
At the sound of a distant carriage, Effie recalled the need to remain out of sight from prying eyes. She surged ahead into an empty entryway. A hallway to the left led to an equally vacant sitting room, while a hall to the right led to the kitchen.
Her footsteps echoed on the marred hardwood floor. Cobwebs hung from the corners of the doorway to the kitchen. She scanned the room to get her bearings. Like the farmhouse itself, the kitchen was square. It consisted of a sink, a cast-iron stove, a window with a broken bottom-right pane, and a simple oak table with no decorative embellishments. On the table were two plates with gray-and-brown mounds of moldy food. A cloth napkin lay wadded on the floor beneath the table. More food was scattered across the floor, with a tin plate upside down nearby as if it had been thrown there.
Mr. Anderson moved past her, being careful with his steps. He crouched and dipped his fingertip in the food mess on the floor, then lifted it to his nose. Sniffing, he brushed his hands together to rid himself of the filth. He rose to his feet. “Did you smell any food?” he asked Effie.
“Excuse me?” She looked around for Gus and noted the old man was still at the front door. Apparently, he had no intention of coming in any farther.
“Food. Do you recall the scent of a cooked meal the night you were here?”
“No.” Effie shook her head. “But I was outside, and I—”
“No matter.” Mr. Anderson waved her off. “If someone had been here and had prepared a meal, I’m sure your mind would have registered it.” He eyed the two plates on the table. The foodwas so moldy as to be unidentifiable. “That food has been there for some time. Did you hear anything else besides the woman screaming?” He turned toward the stove, running his fingers across its cold top.
“No,” Effie replied, “I heard nothing else.”
“Hmm.” Mr. Anderson opened the oven door. He withdrew a cast-iron pot and lifted its lid. “Ah. There were potatoes for dinner.” The lid clanged back onto the pot. “That would explain it.”
“Explain what?” Effie had no idea what Mr. Anderson was looking for.
