Page 88 of Night Falls on Predicament Avenue
The trauma began to take over. The shock. Norah’s knees gave out, and she collapsed to the ground next to Otto. She felt Sebastian’s arms come up beneath hers, hauling her away from Otto, holding her against his strong chest. She saw Ralph as he approached his brother, Otto still sprawled on the floor of his shed.
Then, in the shock of the moment, Norah heard Ralph’s voice, a distant echo in her fading consciousness. “Yeah. I need to report a crime ... Predicament Avenue ... yeah. My brother. Otto Middleford.”
32
EFFIE
May 1901
Shepherd, Iowa
THEYDIDN’TKNOWwhere to look for Floyd. The men had already been to the Opperman farm only to find it deserted and Mabel nowhere to be found. Effie could feel the tension growing in Anderson. He paced the manor’s sitting room, the doctor throwing his hands up in exasperation.
“I’ll come back in an hour,” he said to Mother, who gave the doctor a thin smile and nod that expressed she understood his impatience with the Englishman.
Anderson had allowed his ribs to be wrapped, and that was all. The cuts on his hand were still encircled by the bloody cloth. His face needed care, his right eye swelling shut. He was in no mood to sit and be tended to when he knew a group of men were out searching for his child.
“I should be there,” Anderson growled, then strode past Mother and the doctor toward the door.
Effie popped up from her chair. “I’ll come with you.”
“Euphemia James!” Mother gasped and hurried toward her. “No! The doctor only just tended your leg and your nose. You look as if you’ve been squeezed through a meat grinder, not to mention you’ve consistently put yourself in danger. You’re giving me fits of worry.”
Effie couldn’t help the smile that stretched across her face. She gave her mother’s cheek a quick kiss. “That is thenicestthing you’ve ever said to me, Mama.”
Her mother appeared stunned as Effie hurried after Anderson.
The next few moments passed in a flurry, yet Effie was distracted by Anderson’s move to take her hand in his as they hurried down the steps of the veranda.
His hand was large, his knuckles raw and bruised from his altercation with Patrick Charlemagne. Still, he gripped her smaller hand with such gentle firmness, it was a contradiction of everything she had known of this aloof and reserved man. This man who had dared to break before her and then act as if he never had. This man whom she knew so little about and yet was developing such a fierce loyalty toward. This man whose bland and composed exterior belied a fiery protectiveness for his own—even for his late wife, Laura, whom Effie knew deep in her soul would always be a part of him.
A knocking on glass snagged her attention. Effie pulled back on Anderson, and he paused, giving her a questioning look.
“I heard something.” Effie pointed to the side of the manor. She tugged on Anderson’s hand, unwilling to remove hers from his grip. He followed with caution, a frown on his face.
They rounded the manor, the grass beneath Effie’s feet soft. She looked up to the windows on this side of her home. On thesecond story, Polly’s form was in the window seat. The window was open halfway.
“Polly!” Effie stared up at her sister, who had managed to crawl from her bed to the window seat on her own. Her face was pale, but her expression was earnest.
“I saw him!” Polly’s voice was weak and high-pitched. She coughed, and Effie and Anderson waited patiently. Polly pointed to the back of the manor, toward the yard, the carriage house, and the woods. “Floyd Opperman.”
Anderson instantly jerked his gaze in the direction Polly was pointing. He released Effie’s hand and headed for the back of the manor. Polly waved for Effie to follow him, then blew a kiss to her sister below.
The two strode onto the manor’s back lawn. All was silent in the yard. The carriage-house doors were closed and barred from the outside, indicating no one had gone in.
Anderson cleared his throat, calling out in his English accent and breaking the stillness. “Floyd! I will not hurt you. Do come out.”
Effie held her breath and, without much thought toward impressions, held Anderson’s arm.
“If you have my daughter, please, Floyd. I beg of you!” Anderson’s voice cracked.
“Anderson!” Effie whispered. She motioned toward the edge of the woods. A flash of blue—the same color of jacket Floyd had been wearing earlier when Effie had seen him on the road in front of the James manor.
Anderson, alerted to the spot of color, took a few steps toward it. Cautious so as not to frighten Floyd if that indeed was the underlying reason for Floyd’s subterfuge.
Effie released Anderson’s arm. She looked up at him. “Let me,” she said. She remembered Floyd’s stained shirt, his warning for her to run. She had interpreted it as a threat, as though he planned to hunt her—to hunt Polly. That Floyd, the big manwith the sad, misunderstood past, had been the one to take Isabelle Addington’s life. To abduct Anderson’s child. To then cover the heinous crime by moving furniture and covertly hiding all that remained of the shocking scene. It was savvy, it was calculated ... and while Effie meant no insult to Floyd, that level of scheming seemed far beyond what his mind was able to conjure. And now that she knew the truth about Patrick Charlemagne, his presence in England, and the beautiful yet awful music box, Effie felt deep in her soul that Floyd Opperman posed no danger.
In fact, he was a savior.
