Page 59 of Night Falls on Predicament Avenue
NOWTHATSEBASTIANhad planted the thought in her head, Norah’s fear of life took on an entirely different level of intensity. Was she potentially in danger? If someone was leaving Naomi’s old things at 322 Predicament Avenue, was it to taunt and tease, to help solve the case, or was it some sort of desperate plea? Did they want to come forward and confess and just didn’t know how?
Still, that didn’t answer the other question swirling around in Norah’s mind. Isabelle Addington and her ghost. The murder from 1901. Otto had seen a woman’s face in the attic window.Shehad seen a woman that night in her own bedroom, then again last night in the cemetery. Could the female form in the graveyard have been human? Possibly. Yes, probably. But the one in her bedroom?
In her mind’s eye, Naomi could still see the woman’s figure floating through the open door. She hadn’t been transparent, but she hadn’t looked real either. Not flesh and blood. But then sleep was a strange twister of reality. She wasn’t sure which she preferred, a spirit that could be anything from wandering soul to poltergeist to demon, or a human being that could beanything from some weirdo wandering off the street to a murderous stalker who had stood over her while she slept, staring down at her, considering how to kill her.
Now she followed an extremely determined Harper and Sebastian Blaine to the local county historical society. They’d already been to the police station. Dover had questioned them. He’d examined Naomi’s wallet, her library card, and the look he’d leveled on Norah was one of sympathy and even pity. Yes. They’d investigate, he promised. But the tone in his voice made it sound as though they could run in circles searching for ages and still get no closer to solving anything.
The historical society was both a distraction and a necessity. Once inside, the historian, Brandon Hill, led them to a room with large volumes already open on a table. “It’s so great to meet you, Mr. Blaine.” Brandon fawned over Sebastian, viewing him as a celebrity. “I listen to your podcast regularly, and I can’t tell you how excited I am to help with this case.” He glanced at Norah. “I know you’re the owner of 322 Predicament Avenue, and who in Shepherd doesn’t know that story?”
Norah hadn’t the stomach to ask which story he meant, Isabelle’s or Naomi’s.
Brandon kept on chattering. He was balding but had to be barely in his thirties. He looked as though the proverbial history nerd, complete with sweater vest and khaki pants. “So, when you emailed about wanting to find out more about who Isabelle Addington was, I thought a good place to start would be to show you some documents that were written in the local paper around that time, which survived the devastating tornado back in the thirties.” Brandon pulled on white cotton gloves and ran his finger along the newsprint inside a logbook. “This is a report on the investigation the day after the James daughters, Euphemia and Polly, stated they heard a woman’s screams.”
Sebastian held the page as Brandon read aloud, “‘No evidence of a crime was found at the site. Multiple members of the communitytoured the home and repeated having seen nothing out of the ordinary.’”
“Wait.” Harper scrunched her face up in confusion. “They let just anyone go into the house and look around?”
Brandon smiled, his mustached upper lip stretching thin. “Yeah. That’s how it was back then. No CSI to cordon off the place. It was open season for crime solving. Entire communities would often show up when there was an act of violence.”
“An American coliseum,” Sebastian muttered.
“Sort of.” Brandon nodded. “Now, flip over a couple of days and there’s a new report. A Mr. Lewis Anderson of London, England, and none other than Euphemia James, who originally reported hearing a woman screaming and informed the authorities they’d found evidence of a crime. I’ll read it for you.”
Norah noticed Brandon didn’t wait to see if they wanted to hear it.
“‘After revisiting 322 Predicament Avenue, the police have confirmed that evidence of a violent crime has indeed been found. Mr. Anderson and Miss James took it upon themselves to relocate furniture within the home under the assumption it may have been repositioned in order to hide the crime. The startling discovery was made that the old house was splashed with blood from the floor to the backs of furniture. A bloodied butcher knife was also recovered. It is presumed to be the work of tramps, but Mr. Anderson believes the victim to be his wife, Isabelle Addington. No body, however, has been recovered, and so the tragedy at Predicament Avenue remains a mystery.’”
“And that was all?” Harper asked before Sebastian or Norah could respond.
Norah found a chair along the wall and eased onto it. Sebastian noticed and offered her an encouraging smile.
Brandon was oblivious to the weakness in her knees. “No. Another page here states—and this is a mere few days after—that Mr. Lewis Anderson was again seen in the company ofMiss Euphemia James. It’s quite insinuating, a woman and man together, unchaperoned in that era?” Brandon chuckled. “It’s newspaper meets gossip rag.”
“But this Mr. Anderson was claiming the supposed victim, Isabelle, to be his wife,” Harper argued.
“Right.” Brandon held up his index finger as if they were close to unveiling a mystery. “Here’s where it gets really interesting.” He turned more pages in the logbook. Instead of a newspaper article, he revealed a photograph of a woman posed in a chair, wearing a high-necked silk dress. Her eyes were open but appeared glazed over. Even from where she sat, Norah could tell the woman was dead.
“Thisis Isabelle Addington.” Brandon poked the woman in the picture with his gloved finger, smiling as if they all understood.
Sebastian tucked his chin into his chest and eyed the historian, rolling his lips together expectantly. When Brandon still didn’t say anything, Sebastian urged him on. “Soooo?”
“She’s dead,” Brandon said. “In the photograph, I mean.”
“That’s ... um, obvious.” Sebastian sounded wary as he eyed the photograph.
Brandon’s brow furrowed. “Oh. Well,” he hurried to explain. “The story goes that her body was never found. It’s even a question as to whether anyone is even buried in the grave on your property.” Brandon looked to Norah, who stared back at him. “What the storydoesn’tmention is the logical conclusion that Isabelle Addingtonwasfound dead. Her body was cleaned and dressed. As was the practice at the time, a postmortem photograph was taken and then, yes, she was buried on the property at Predicament Avenue.”
Harper leaned closer to the photograph. “She doesn’t look murdered.”
“Stab wounds would be hidden by clothing,” Brandon explained. He pointed at the corpse’s throat. “A high collar like that would hide any slashes to the neck.”
“Andhowdo you know this is Isabelle Addington?” Norah inserted incredulously.
Brandon smiled. “Because her name was penned in ink on the back of the photograph. See?” He turned it over to reveal spidery handwriting.
“So we can’t know forsureit’s her. Just that someone claimed this was her dead body,” Norah concluded.
“An’ why isn’t this part of the story—that Isabelle’s body was found and photographed?” Sebastian asked.
