“Are you moving here for good?”
“No,” said Laurie.
“Will you stay long? I like Susan.”
“We’re not staying long at all.” Laurie’s tongue felt instantly numb. It was difficult to get the words out.
“I have to go home now,” Abigail said. She turned and reached out for the fence. The little door beneath the willow tree branches opened on its hinges with a squeal. “Good-bye.”
Laurie didn’t say a word. She watched the odd little girl meander through the trees where she was periodically blotted out by heavy foliage. When Abigail reached the back porch of her house—
(anyway, they’re not my parents)
—she cast a quick glance back at Laurie before disappearing around the far side of the house.
It took the passage of several minutes before Laurie could move again. Feeling as though she had sleepwalked through her entire conversation with Abigail Evans, Laurie turned and walked back toward the house with one hand trailing along the fence in case her knees decided to grow weak and drop out from under her. When she noticed a small mound of dirt excavated from a narrow hole in the ground—the spot where Ted and Susan had buried the dead frog—she bent down and peered inside. The metallic paper covering of the cigar box with the holes punched in the lid winked at her in the sunlight. She reached in and withdrew the box. Opened it.
Empty.
She fired up Ted’s laptop and tried to connect to the Internet with no luck. “Shit,” she muttered. She had forgotten that Ted hadn’t been able to get a signal in the house. She picked up the laptop and carried it around the house, hoping that the Internet icon in the toolbar at the bottom of the screen would light up. When she wandered into the kitchen, she became hopeful. There was a weak signal out there somewhere after all. She carried the laptop outside and onto the patio, and was finally able to make the connection.
She logged into her e-mail account. Dozens of unread e-mails cluttered the inbox. The most recent e-mail was from Sergeant Martinez, Anne Arundel County Police. Laurie clicked on the e-mail, opened the attachment, saved it to the desktop, then went back inside and reclaimed her seat on the sofa.
She had been expecting a multipaged formal report, supplemented with crime scene photographs and detailed accounts of witnesses’ statements. What she found was a two-page PDF file, the first page comprised of a series of blocks in which the reporting official—Officer Joseph Caprisi—filled out his name, the date, location of the incident, and other such minutiae. The second page was the actual “report,” consisting of five poorly detailed paragraphs describing the event:
On 6/3/13 at approximately 0115 hrs OFC Caprisi was dispatched to 2109 Annapolis Road for an apparent suicide. OFC Caprisi arrived on scene and made contact with the witness, Teresa Larosche. Ms. Larosche was waiting outside the residence in her nightclothes and in a state of panic. Ms.
Larosche stated that she was a caretaker for an elderly male, Myles Brashear, who lived at the residence. Ms. Larosche confirmed that she had called 911. OFC Caprisi followed Ms. Larosche around the side of the house and observed an unconscious elderly male on the concrete walkway at the rear of the residence. Ms. Larosche identified the male as Mr. Brashear. OFC Caprisi observed that Mr. Brashear was naked and that his body was marked by wounds along the face, torso, arms, and thighs.
OFC Caprisi checked Mr. Brashear’s pulse and determined that Mr. Brashear was deceased. At this time, another police unit and an ambulance arrived at the residence. Paramedics examined Mr. Brashear’s body and confirmed that Mr. Brashear was deceased.
Ms. Larosche advised that she was employed by Mid-Atlantic Homecare Services and that she shared homecare duties for Mr. Brashear with another MAHS employee, Ms. Dora Lorton. Ms. Larosche stated she had worked nights at the residence for approximately the past two months. According to Ms. Larosche, Mr. Brashear suffered from dementia and would frequently become volatile and suffer periodic outbursts. Ms. Larosche advised that she had been awoken earlier this evening by the sounds of Mr. Brashear’s voice from the hallway outside her bedroom. When she got up to check on him, she found the door leading to a small rooftop room unlocked and open. Ms. Larosche said she had put a lock on this door last month to prevent Mr. Brashear from gaining access to a rooftop room because she felt it was dangerous for him to be up there. Ms. Larosche said Mr. Brashear had gone up there, and she could hear his voice. When he stopped talking, Ms. Larosche heard the breaking of glass. Ms. Larosche went up into the rooftop room and found the window broken and saw Mr. Brashear lying down below on the pavement. It was then that Ms. Larosche called 911, she said.
OFCs Caprisi and McElroy conducted a search of the rooftop room. The door leading up to the room had been left open. One of the windows was broken, consistent with Ms. Larosche’s story. There was blood on the carpet as well as what appeared to be fecal matter. The room was otherwise empty.
Ms. Larosche was provided with the appropriate contact information should she feel the need to seek counseling or speak with an officer regarding any further details she might remember about the incident.
Once she finished reading, she leaned back on the sofa and ran fingers through her hair. The details were vague, and offered hardly any more information than Mr. Claiborne had over the phone after it had happened, with one shocking exception: According to the police report, the window had apparently been
shut
when Myles Brashear had jumped out of it. Laurie supposed that if one were about to commit suicide, such things might not matter in the grand scheme of things . . . though it seemed an awfully morbid, awfully
painful
way to do it. But then she had to remind herself that her father hadn’t been thinking rationally by that point. His mind must have been a nightmarish landscape populated by demons.
Laurie got up and went to the kitchen, where she had piled the paperwork they’d gotten from Cushing’s office along with the documents she had brought down with her from Hartford. She thumbed through the papers until she found Mr. Claiborne’s phone number at Mid-Atlantic Homecare. Pouring herself another glass of sherry, she dialed the number and listened to it ring several times before Claiborne’s breathy yet articulate voice came on the line.
“Hi, Mr. Claiborne, this is Laurie Genarro, Myles Brashear’s daughter.”
“Oh, yes. Ms. Lorton said she turned things over to you and your husband earlier in the week. I trust everything is satisfactory at the house?”
“The house is fine, but there is a padlock on one of the doors upstairs. The caretaker who stayed nights at the house, Teresa Larosche, has the key, but I don’t have a number for her. I was hoping she was available so I could speak with her?”
“Goodness. All keys were supposed to be turned over to you upon your arrival. Are you certain your husband hadn’t received it, Mrs. Genarro?”
“No, he hasn’t. Is Ms. Larosche available?”
“She isn’t, no.”
“Has she been reassigned? Perhaps there’s a phone number where—”
“She turned in her resignation, I’m afraid.”
“She quit? So recently?”
“Immediately following the . . . incident . . . with your father. She was rather troubled by the whole thing, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
Laurie wondered if, in fact, Claiborne had fired the poor woman in an effort to show good faith in case Laurie decided to file a lawsuit. She decided not to ask him about it. “Is there a forwarding number? Some way I can reach her?”
“There is probably a home phone or cell number in her file.”
“That would be great. Could you check, please?”
“You see, Mrs. Genarro, it’s against policy to give out that information to people outside the organization. I’m sure you can understand the position I’m in.”
“My lawyer didn’t seem to think you’d have a problem providing any information on request,” she said, and although she had no idea what Charles Claiborne looked like, she could imagine his eyes growing comically wide on the other end of the telephone following the sharp intake of breath she heard.
“Is
there a problem, Mr. Claiborne?”
“Ah, there’s . . . ah, no, there’s no problem,” Claiborne stammered. He cleared his throat, the sound alarmingly similar to the report of a small-caliber pistol, and Laurie could suddenly hear the man’s fingers rapidly clacking away on a keyboard. “These records,” he grumbled, though he did not complete the sentiment. “Ah, yes. Here we are. No cell phone, but there is a home phone number.”
“That’ll do.”
Claiborne prattled off the number and she jotted it down on the pad beside the phone. Before she even set the pen down, the breathy little voice was already back in her ear. “If there is anything you or your lawyer need during this time—an understandably
stressful
time, I am sure, and how horrible this whole thing is—please do not hesitate to get back in touch with me. The whole staff here at Mid-Atlantic Homecare feel awful about the—”
“Thank you,” she said, and killed the line. Once the dial tone returned, she punched in Teresa Larosche’s telephone number. It rang only twice before a paper-thin voice answered. “Is this Teresa Larosche?”
“Yes.” She sounded very young.
“My name is Laurie Genarro. My father was Myles Brashear.” Laurie paused to allow the girl time to digest the information. When no response came, Laurie said, “Hello? Are you still there?”
“I’m here. I’m sorry about what happened.”
“It was just a terrible accident,” she said, hoping this would help relieve Teresa Larosche of any concern she might have that Laurie held her accountable. “I’m sorry you had to be there the night it happened.”
Silence on the other end of the telephone.
“Ms. Larosche, there’s a padlock on the door upstairs that leads to the belvedere and I don’t have a key—”
“The belvedere?”
“The little room on the roof. The room where . . . where my father . . .”
“Oh. Yes.”
“I don’t have a key for the lock, Ms. Larosche.”
“Call me Teresa.”
“Thank you, Teresa. You know the lock I’m talking about? I was told you might still have the key.”
Another beat of silence on the other end of the line. Just when she thought Teresa would have to be prodded again, the woman said, “Yes, I have the key. I apologize. I thought I’d turned everything over to Dora after I left.”
“It’s no big deal, though I’d like to have it back.”
“I can drop it in the mail for you first thing tomorrow.”
“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d prefer we meet and you could give it to me directly. If it got lost in the mail, I’d have to tear the molding off the door just to get the lock off.” This wasn’t exactly the truth, but it was good enough.
“Are you at the house now?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to go to that house,” said the woman.
“Oh. Okay. Well, that’s not a problem. I’d be more than happy to meet you someplace that’s convenient for you.”
A dog yipped on the other end of the line. Teresa mumbled something to it, then returned to the receiver, her voice breathy and sleepy-sounding. “Okay. I can meet you around noon on Saturday. There’s a place downtown on Main Street called The Brickfront. It’s a coffee shop. Can you find it?”
“Yes. And thank you for—”
“No problem,” Teresa Larosche said and immediately hung up.
Chapter 12
S
tephanie Canton was a meticulous little woman who arrived Friday afternoon dressed in a lime-green knit pantsuit, her cadaverous complexion offset by bright red lipstick and a shock of orange hair more befitting of a circus clown than an estate liquidator. With a black loose-leaf binder tucked under one arm, she marched through the house with Laurie at her elbow, examining the furniture as well as the overall condition of the house itself. When she paused to swipe a pointy little finger through the dust on the top of the piano in the parlor, Laurie imagined herself clubbing the woman over the head with the brass candelabrum, then dragging her dwarfish body down into the sanctum of the dungeonlike basement.
“When was the house built?” Ms. Canton quipped.
“You know, I have no idea. Maybe sometime in the sixties?”
“The woodwork is handmade. Do you see the detailing in the balustrade?” They were in the foyer now, with Ms. Canton pointing at the stairwell banister. This was their second lap around the house and the woman had yet to make any notes in her little black binder. “The spindles look hand-carved. Do you see the variants in each spindle? Do you?”
Laurie leaned close and squinted at the balusters. “I guess so. . . .”
“Did your father do any woodworking himself, Mrs. Genarro?”
“Not that I know of. He was a businessman. And a gardener.”
Ms. Canton made a noise that suggested her disapproval of either businessmen or gardeners. Or both.
“The floors are in abhorrent condition,” the woman went on. “Often, wood like this can be rejuvenated with some polish and buffing, but these appear to be beyond repair.”
“Forgive me, but I thought you were here just to look at the furniture.”
“I’m fearful to learn that the items I may have interest in will be in a similar state.”
In the parlor, Ms. Canton scrutinized the Victor Victrola for a decent amount of time. She opened the cabinet doors and inspected the wood grain within. She examined the felt of the turntable and the condition of the arm. She finally opened the black binder and took down notes. “May I?” she inquired, nodding sharply at the crank on the side of the cabinet.
“Go right ahead,” Laurie said. She watched while the smallish woman wound the crank and then stood on her toes while positioning the needled arm onto the record that had begun to spin on the turntable. A shushing sound radiated from the machine—a lilting waltz adorned with pops and hisses. Laurie was reminded of her dream, the one where the phonograph started playing as Abigail hovered above her in the darkness.
“Do you see this?” Ms. Canton said as she pointed to a label on the underside of the Victrola’s hood. It showed a dog listening to a phonograph with its head cocked at a curious angle. “That’s the authentic trademark of the Victor Talking Machine Company. See? It even says so beneath the picture. The first of these machines was built in 1901.”
“When was this one built?”
“This is a Victrola model. The date is worn away, but if I had to guess, I’d say it was built around 1909 or 1910.”
“Wow.”
“Is this a family heirloom?”
“No. When my father was young, he worked in the steel industry and eventually owned a factory in Sparrows Point. There was stuff left behind in storage from the original owners of the factory, and my father spent some time going through the place and cleaning it up. I can’t be sure, but I think this was one of the things my father had salvaged from the factory’s storage sheds.”
Ms. Canton stepped to the left of the Victrola and peered down into the boxful of record albums. One curious eyebrow raised, she jotted another note in her binder, then snapped it shut with an audible clap.
Next, Laurie took the woman into her father’s study. Ms. Canton paused, cocking an eyebrow at the crosses carved into the paneled walls, before zeroing in on the old rolltop desk. She ran a hand along its surface and commented, “Nice piece.” In the master bedroom, Ms. Canton committed more notes to her binder while she examined the four-poster bed and the matching nightstand. However, unlike with the Victrola and the rolltop desk, she made no verbal comments about the items. Once they were finished, Laurie offered the woman a cup of coffee. Ms. Canton seemed pleased and they went into the kitchen together. Ted and Susan had gone for a walk through the woods and down to the river, so the house was quiet.
Ms. Canton sat down at the kitchen table while Laurie poured the coffee into big mugs. The woman set her bulky purse and her sleek black binder on the tabletop, then gazed out the bay windows at the yard. It was a slightly overcast afternoon, and intermittent shadows webbed across the lawn.
“Cream and sugar?”
“Yes, please. Both.”
Laurie added the cream and sugar to the mugs and then carried them over to the table and sat down.
“You said you grew up here?”
“I did, yes,” said Laurie, sliding the woman’s coffee over to her.
Ms. Canton nodded primly. “Thank you.”
“Do you think there’s any money in any of the stuff?”
“I should say there is.” Ms. Canton lifted her coffee and slurped noisily, though she kept her pinky finger out the entire time. “Typically, I would recommend an estate auction at this phase, but you’ve got so few items that it would be more hassle than benefit. For you and your family, a tag sale would be more convenient. You’ve been to yard sales before, I presume?”
“Of course.”
“In practicality, an estate sale is no different. Given your limited items, I would recommend you authorize me to contact a few acquaintances of mine who deal in antiquities. There may be interest right out of the gate, to use the expression, and you’ll find there’s no need for some drawn-out event, or to prolong the process any more than necessary.”
“You really think someone will be interested in all this stuff?”
“The rolltop desk and the furniture in the master bedroom in particular.”
“That would be fantastic. Yes, please contact whomever you need to. The sooner the better. We’re sort of here under some duress until we get all this squared away.”
One of Ms. Canton’s slender black eyebrows arched. “Duress?”
“Well, it’s keeping my husband away from work and my daughter away from her friends.” She smiled tiredly at the woman across from her. “And to be frank, Ms. Canton, I don’t like being here in this house.”
“Yes. David Cushing advised me of what happened to your father. I’m very sorry to hear it.”
It’s not just that,
she wanted to add.
I feel a cold suffocation slowly coming over me here, as if the walls were alive and slowly closing in on me. I can’t be sure, but I don’t think all is right in this place. I don’t think my family and I are one hundred percent completely alone here, either. Also, there is a troubling little girl who lives next door. She reminds me of another girl, a horrible girl who died....
But she couldn’t say those things. Instead, she smiled wanly at the woman, then covered up her fear behind her coffee mug.
“You mentioned some . . . business properties . . . that had belonged to your father—factories, warehouses?”
“What about them?”
“Since his death, does that mean you are now in possession of them?”
“Oh, no! He had his partners buy him out long ago, and I think Bethlehem Steel eventually came in and absorbed the whole company. From what I gathered from my father’s financial statements, he hadn’t been involved with the business in many years.”
“He sounds like he was an interesting man,” said Ms. Canton.
After Stephanie Canton left, Laurie placed the empty mugs in the kitchen sink and was bagging up the trash when she caught movement in her periphery vision. She turned toward the bay windows just as thunder rolled in the distance. At first, she thought the girl she saw streaming quickly across the yard was Susan. But then she saw the luxuriant bouncing hair. Today, the girl was dressed in the same faded blue dress she had worn the first time Laurie had glimpsed her, rushing across the yard and into the trees in a similar fashion. She recalled the strange dream where Abigail hovered above her in the darkness, watching her sleep. Or had it been Sadie in the dream? She found now that she couldn’t remember, and wondered if the difference truly mattered. She finished with the trash and quickly carried it out back, where a rank of trashcans soldiered up against the side of the house. She dumped the trash into the nearest receptacle, then cut across the yard.
There was no sign of the girl anywhere.
She had come from the corner of the fence and had crossed the property at the back of the house. It was possible that the girl had disappeared over the hill and continued on through the woods. Laurie climbed the hill. Sunlight broke through the black clouds over the treetops and knifed her eyes. At the cusp of the woods, she looked around but could find no sign of the girl. Had Abigail come down this way, she had truly vanished. Ghostlike.