Die Job(14)

He reared back like I’d slapped him and his smile turned to a sulky pout. “You know you don’t—”

The radio attached below his left shoulder crackled to life and spouted cop talk. Hank responded and I took advantage of his momentary distraction to open my door and slip inside, closing it firmly and leaning back against it. To think that I’d been anxious to get out and about on a Saturday night, I thought wearily as Hank stomped back toward his patrol car. I should have stuck with my original plan of a DVD, ice cream, and real estate listings.

I stepped into my small living room/dining room combo. The kitchenette sat beyond it and my bedroom was to the right. It was small, but it was more private than a unit at a huge complex and I got a break on the rent for helping Mrs. Jones with her yard and garden. Fixing myself a tuna salad sandwich, I poured a glass of milk and settled at the dinette table, too wired to sleep, despite my weariness. I eyed the packet of MLS listings, but then my gaze drifted to the box from Rothmere. Wiping my hands on a napkin, I opened it. I thought about rummaging through the box to find more letters from Clarissa but decided to enjoy the anticipation of coming across them in turn.

I unfolded the stiff paper, conscious of the creases ironed in by time. Gently spreading it flat on the table, I glanced at the signature. Spikier and darker than Clarissa’s rounded script. I began to read.

October 18, 1831

Dear Angus,

Your condolences on the death of my husband are much appreciated. My bereavement was sudden, as you know, and you also know how grieved I am by his passing, but time and God heal all wounds, or so Reverend Johnson tells me. Geoffrey remains at Rothmere, as the estate belongs to him now that his father has passed to his reward. My other children have returned to their homes and all I have left to comfort me is Clarissa, who drifts through the day like a wraith since her father died, starting at sudden noises. I fear for her mental health and must deem it prudent for her to marry Quentin as soon as may be possible, despite our mourning. I would welcome a visit from you when your business affairs permit.

Yours,

Annabelle

Huh. Clarissa’s mother seemed to think her daughter was losing it after Cyril’s death. Well, wouldn’t anyone be knocked off-kilter by the circumstances? I wondered who Angus was as I sifted through the box’s contents. The next few items were receipts for household purchases—boxes of beeswax tapers; sugar; Finest India tea; American secretary cabinet desk of Cherrywood, one hundred dollars; rat poison; nails; and “a large and muscular black man, Amos, for seventy and a half.” I dropped the paper, realizing it was the bill of sale for a slave. It gave me an eerie feeling. I’d enjoyed history mildly in high school and college, but it had never felt as real to me as it did now. Something about these documents, written by real people who used to live near St. Elizabeth, made the past seem more immediate than my stodgy history texts had, despite their glossy photos and scholarly interpretations. History and the present seemed to merge in a way I’d never noticed before.





Chapter Five





[Sunday]

I MUST HAVE FALLEN ASLEEP AT THE TABLE BECAUSE when the phone rang, I struggled awake, disoriented, feeling stiff from hours spent slumped over the sharp-edged table. I groped for the phone, knocking one of the Rothmere ledgers to the floor. Lucy would kill me.

“How’s my favorite hair stylist?” Marty greeted me.

I smiled at the sound of his voice and pushed my hair out of my face. I pictured him relaxed in his leather recliner with his laptop on his lap—he was always working on a story—long legs extended, sandy hair flopping onto his forehead.

“I’m good,” I said. Well, I would be after a shower and a stretch. “And how’s my favorite reporter?”

“Bushed.”

I could hear the weariness in his voice. “Big story?”

“Um-hm.” Voices from the Sunday-morning talk shows mumbled in the background. “The usual: politicians, corruption, sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll.”

I laughed, then sobered and told him about the ghost hunt and Braden.

“God, that’s awful,” he said when I finished. “I hope the kid comes out of it.”

“I’ve been reading up on Rothmere and what happened to Cyril and it’s fascinating. Listen to this.” I read him part of Annabelle’s letter.

“Sounds a little cold, doesn’t she?” he said.

I skimmed the letter again. I hadn’t been thinking of Annabelle as cold. “How do you mean?”

“Well, the bit about marrying off her daughter rather than trying to help her work through her grief. Who is the Angus guy?”