Page 60 of Night Falls on Predicament Avenue
Brandon tapped the photograph again. “People didn’t want that part of it to be known. The Opperman family of Shepherd owned a lot of property, along with the Charlemagne family. The Charlemagnes were wealthier and more respected, while the Oppermans were reclusive and mysterious and unfriendly. They also had a son. Well, two of them, but the one in question was named—”
“Floyd?” Norah perked up.
Brandon nodded. “Yes. See?”
No. Norah didn’t see at all.
“Okay.” Brandon was trying to connect the dots. “The Oppermans owned 322 Predicament Avenue, where supposedly Mr. Anderson’s wife, Isabelle, was murdered. Years later this photograph, with the name Isabelle Addington written on the back, was found by an Opperman descendant. It was stuffed in a trunk with most of Floyd’s belongings. Floyd had been sent to an institution. After he died, his belongings were returned to the Opperman family. No one wants that information out in the open. Institutions back then are not something we’re proud of in American history. Anyway, once Floyd’s trunk was opened, it was the first time anyone had ever seen this photograph. People left that part out—perhaps out of respect for Floyd.”
“Why would Floyd Opperman have a photograph of Isabelle Addington?” Harper mused aloud.
“Why didn’t Ron and Betty Daily tell us about the photograph?” Norah’s suspicion spiked.
Brandon waved her off. “Oh, they probably don’t know about it. I believe that Aaron Opperman, Floyd’s brother, would likely have kept most of it on the down-low. At the time, cases of people with intellectual disabilities weren’t handled well. So, Floyd’s trunk was placed in a family attic, then later Chuck—Betty Daily’s father and Aaron Opperman’s son—donated it to us here at the historical society. Back in the sixties, people started reporting the atrocities being committed in such institutions, and I think Chuck wanted his uncle Floyd to be remembered, not shamed. It was meant to be noble—donating Floyd’s belongings to the historical society.”
“Who found the picture of Isabelle Addington?” Sebastian asked, and Norah could tell his mind was spinning trying to keep up.
Brandon nodded as if he’d figured that out too. “The Opperman family donated the belongings of Floyd Opperman—who’d been institutionalized not long after Isabelle Addington’s death—to the historical society. They were picked through and then stored. When I moved to Shepherd and came on staff a year ago, one of my jobs was to go through articles that still needed to be preserved. I came across Floyd Opperman’s trunk and discovered Isabelle Addington’s postmortem photograph.”
“So, you’re the only person in Shepherd who knows this picture exists?” Harper seemed skeptical, and Norah couldn’t blame her.
Brandon gave an embarrassed little shrug. “Well, I’ve mentioned it to several people. We’ve logged the photograph in our inventory. It’s not been kept secret, but we haven’t made a big thing of it either. I don’t have an answer for you as to how Floyd Opperman acquired a photograph of a murder victim. I also can’t tell you if anyone ever found out that Floydhadseen Isabelle Addington after she died. But the picture doesn’t lie.”
“Unless that’s some random lady’s photograph an’ someone scribbled Isabelle Addington’s name on it as a lark,” Sebastian said.
“But why do that?” Brandon challenged. “What would Floyd Opperman gain from doing so if he was in a hospital for the remainder of his life?”
Sebastian shook his head. “The bigger questions are: Wouldn’t a photo like this have been taken almost immediately before decomposition began? Who took the photo? Where was the body in between the time the photo was taken an’ when she was buried in the cemetery behind the house, if indeed she was buried there? Wouldn’t people have noticed a fresh grave? Not to mention, who was Isabelle Addington—if anyone—to Floyd Opperman?” Sebastian met Norah’s troubled gaze. “An’ why would Lewis Anderson from England be searchin’ for his wife, but then so readily seem to attach himself to another just days after his wife’s murder?”
Brandon looked blindsided by the list of questions Sebastian had thrown at him. He coughed. Cleared his throat. Then he nodded, a form of apology perhaps. “I wish I could answer all that for you.” He carefully closed the book of scrap papers. “This story has always had me intrigued. The fact you’re making a podcast of it and trying to solve it once and for all? It has me in a tizzy!”
“I see that.” Sebastian’s expression was grim.
Brandon didn’t seem to notice. “Oh! One more thing. I did some tracing along the way about Lewis Anderson from England. I’m not sure if I’ve done an accurate evaluation of his family tree, but if I’m right, Lewis Anderson was of the gentry.”
“The gentry?” Harper interrupted. “Like lords and ladies and such?”
“Mm-hmm.” Brandon nodded. “His title and full name was Lord Lewis Anderson Archibald Mooring. Lord Mooring, to be exact. Upon arriving to the United States, he changed his nameto simply Anderson. In fact, you can ask the Andersons more about it. They might know.”
“The Andersons?” Norah gripped the arms of her chair.
Brandon, a proud smile on his face, responded, “Yeah. LeRoy Anderson here in town—he’s Lewis Anderson’s grandson three times removed.”
Norah sagged in the chair. Not even a hacksaw could unravel this confusing mess of loose ends and tangled threads.
“I’m not leavin’ you here alone with all that’s goin’ on.” Sebastian was being overprotective.
“No one is going to try anything in the daytime.” Norah bit her fingernail, sounding far more confident than she felt. “Besides, no one’s tried to hurt me. We don’t even know if—”
“It’s human, lass. You can’t convince me it’s Isabelle’s ghost.”
“I’d rather be dealing with a ghost.” Her voice sounded small even to her own ears.
“I know.” Sebastian held her gaze for a moment, then added, “You can wait in the car if you want. I’m not expectin’ you to meet up with the man you think hurt your sister. I just want to talk to him about his ancestor, not Naomi.”
“But Naomi will come up. You know she will.I’llcome up. You can’t separate Isabelle Addington and Naomi. Even if LeRoy talked to you, it’d be all lies.” The phone rang, and Norah snatched the receiver off the wall, the vintage phone cord slapping her leg. After a few minutes, she’d taken down information for a new guest to check in the following month. Good. That would help business. Get things back to normal.
She noticed that Sebastian hadn’t moved. He’d patiently waited through the entire call, arms crossed over his broad chest, glasses poised perfectly on his nice nose. Wavy hair flopping over his forehead, his craggy face not so much handsome as it was warm and inviting. His dark eyes watched her.
