Johanna's Secret Read online

  I jot down a few reminders in my ever-present notebook.

  Text Cat

  Stop by Billy’s

  Family income?

  Servants and carriage house?

  Stop by library

  Yes, I still love a good library. I can work in there unimpeded. It feels like going back in time, with its dusty books, old newspapers, film reels for private viewing, and an almost eerie silence away from the constant buzzing and ringing of cell phones.

  Chapter 3

  After Nan leaves, the house feels quieter and yet somehow more open, as though I might be able to hear the whispered secrets of the walls. I look at the stack of books. I have to go through those, I think. But I promised Billy I’d stop by. I decide he’ll probably be home, since I told him I’d come by this afternoon, and he doesn’t seem like the type to run out when he is expecting a guest. I contemplate calling first, but unlike many men of his age, Billy doesn’t seem one to take afternoon naps or fall asleep unwittingly in a rocker in front of the tv. His occupation kept him busy, and I can tell that he still has that bit of restlessness in him. Besides, it is only a fifteen minute walk, and I could use the exercise. I’ve been slacking in that department the last few weeks, with all the busy-ness surrounding the move.

  I’m surprised when a younger woman, probably in her late thirties or early forties, answers my knock on Billy’s front door, but a quick assessment tells me she must be his daughter. She has the same bright blue eyes and broad smile. “Come in, you must be Henrietta!” She seems genuinely happy to see me, despite our never having met. “Daddy’s told me all about you. I’m Grace,” she extends her hand. “Hennie,” I reply. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

  I can see immediately why Billy and his daughter get along so well. Grace is as warm and inviting as he is, and almost as soon as I rid myself of my jacket, she starts asking me about my name. “How ingenious!” she remarks, her eyes showing honest interest. “To name your family after some of the most fascinating historical figures in all of British royalty. I must admit, I’m named after Princess Grace of Monaco,” she drops her voice, as to not offend her father, “but I fear that’s not nearly as exciting to me.” She laughs an easy laugh. “Well,” I reply, “as a kid I didn’t appreciate it as much. Half the time people assumed I was a boy. And once, when my mom gave me a shorter bob haircut, a new kid in my class kept telling me I couldn’t play with the girls at recess because I wasn’t a girl. It didn’t help that I was kind of a tomboy.” Grace laughs again, “Same with me. I was about as far from my namesake as one could get. Mom and dad wanted me to take ballet. Mom especially. I think she had dreams of this graceful little girl - no pun intended - but I was so clumsy that the teacher actually told them that perhaps I’d be better at a sport that required less fine-motor skill. Can you imagine!”

  The coffee pot gives a final gurgle to signal that it’s finished brewing, and Grace poured us two cups. “Dad’s upstairs in the library - where else!” She smiles and we head up the stairs that look almost identical to the ones in my cottage. Billy, being the handyman that he is, added an addition to the house that includes the library upstairs and a screened in porch downstairs. “Ah, I see you two have already had a chance to get acquainted” he says, inclining his head towards the coffee mugs. I suppose he realized we had enough in common to not stay silent in each others’ company for long. “Gracie here is an anthropology professor at Dartmouth, but during the summers she spends some time keeping her boring old father company.” “Dad,” Grace chuckles, “you are hardly boring. I can barely keep up with you some days.” “I thought she might be of some help in your search for some area history and mystery,” Billy adds. “Dad tells me you came up here to write a book and were investigating some local disappearances?” “Yes,” I nod. “Though the two aren’t actually related, other than my book being set in a small seaside town in New England. I just came here for a little bit of inspiration. The mysteries kind of came with the house” I smile, glancing good-naturedly at Billy. “I’m really sorry about that,” he looks at me apologetically. “It was just years ago and nobody has mentioned anything strange. I honestly forget about it at times. I only mentioned the fire because you asked about any structural damage.” “It’s honestly fine,” I assure him. “I find it quite interesting. As long as nobody died in the actual house, I’m good.” “If you find out they did,” Billy jokes “I’ll rent it to you for free.”

  “So,” I turn to Billy “you found some information?” “Yes, about your Edward Sharpe.” He did indeed come over here from Oxford. I looked back at the local paper clippings in the library. And now that I re-read it, I do remember his story. This brain of mine…. not what it used to be” he shakes his head. “Seems he was a mild ‘person of interest’ as they say on the tv cop shows these days, but was never fully investigated. There were a few brief interviews of local store owners who basically said he was kind of quiet, a little aloof, but plenty nice. He seemed genuinely concerned about the young lady Julienne, though about what specifically, nobody said. One of the guys at the local bakery said Edward had even asked if he needed any help in the shop. Apparently he’d not planned to stay long but changed his mind. Another woman interviewed said she’d seen him and Julienne walking once, but they quickly ducked away, as if they didn’t want to be seen.” He hands me over copies he’d made of the newspaper clippings. “You’re welcome to them. There may be more at the library, but I ran out of time yesterday. “So he wasn’t planning to stay long, then asked for a job because he’d changed his mind, and then fell off the face of the earth. How weird,” I mull over the information out loud. I flip through the clippings briefly and then place them in my bag for further scrutiny later. “Did he disappear at the same time as Julienne and the girls?” I ask. “No, but not too long afterwards. Or so it seems. Nobody seems to know exactly when the four of them vanished. A local shop owner realized she hadn’t seen them in a couple of weeks and went to the house to check on them - everyone knew everyone in this town, just like now. But anyway, when the shop owner went to the house, they were gone. The town folk said they didn’t go out much, except to do some quick shopping once a week or so. She checked every day for a week and when there was no trace of them, she contacted the police. When the police finally came and got into the house, it looked like the family had vanished into thin air. Furniture was still there, clothes mostly in the closets, food still in the cupboards. But Julienne, the girls, and their dog were nowhere to be found.”

  I ponder this silently for a minute, trying to pull together the pieces of information that I know and all of the information I don’t. For some reason the dog strikes me as odd. Nobody had mentioned the dog before. If the dog was gone, surely they took it with them. Left voluntarily. Who kidnaps a family and brings the dog? And if they’d been murdered, there would have been some sort of upheaval, blood, evidence of sorts. Someone would have heard the dog barking at a break in. The little door starts nagging at me. Was it involved somehow? Their escape route? But they hadn’t built the door, the father had. We assume, anyway. Had the family slowly disappeared, first the parents, then Julienne and the girls and the dog? Was the fire a rouse, something they’d set themselves, to give them a socially acceptable excuse to leave?

  “The door…” I murmur. “Which door?” It’s the first time Grace has chimed in. “There’s a door, a small one, like a crawl space, in my spare room. Your father says it’s not common in the houses here, so I feel it’s important somehow. My sister, who isn’t easily intrigued by anything historical or mysterious, couldn’t stop fiddling with it. It sounds hollow on the inside, but it’s locked with a beautiful ornate lock that doesn’t want to open. And there’s no other visible entrance that I can see, outside or inside.” Grace looks as intrigued and confused as I feel. “Perhaps it’s for storage?” she offers, though doesn’t sound at all convinced. “I thought of that, but that solution just doesn’t feel right. Sorry,
I know that sounds silly.” “Not at all, and you’re right, it doesn’t,” Grace agrees. “My sister, the one who doesn’t believe in omens or ghosts or anything like that, was staying in the room and told me that the door was creepy. She said it a few times. She dreamt she was searching for an outside entrance and couldn’t find one, that there was some sort of secret in there but she didn’t know what. She said in one of the dreams she was crawling through it and it was fun, but the rest of them really freaked her out. And Nan isn’t easily freaked out, at least not by things like that.” I pause. I expected my hosts to be looking at me like I have three heads, but they both seem fascinated. “I know it’s not evidence, but if you knew my sister…” I need no further explanation. I could tell that, like me, both father and daughter thought the dreams meant something. “How did she know it led outside?” This time it was Billy asking. “I asked her the same thing. She said she just knew.” Talking about it again kind of flusters me. As much as I love a good mystery, I don’t like one that has a negative effect on my loved ones. “It’s almost like a memory,” Grace says absentmindedly, looking off into the bookshelf. She was speaking to herself more than anyone else. “Yes,” I agree. “If it were anyone else in the family, I’d think they were inspired by an article or book they read, but not Nan.” Grace smiled, “Named for Anne Boleyn?” I nod, “Though my parents had the decency, and superstition, to name her Anna instead of Anne. Bad luck, witchcraft, all of that.”

  “I think that door is key. No pun intended.” Billy says. “Don’t ask me why, though. Mind if I take a look at it?” “Not at all. In fact, I’d be grateful.” “Billy, what about the parents?” “What do you mean?” he looks puzzled at the change of direction in the conversation. “Nobody ever mentions them. Their house is set on fire; they go to a party that same night and never return; their kids, au pair, and dog vanish. Bodies wash up that might be theirs and there is no investigation. It’s just odd.” “You know, you’re right. Especially considering he was the police chief.” “The police chief? Most towns would be turned upside down to find out what happened to their chief, and this force doesn’t seem to even care. What did she do for a living.” “She was a stay at home mother,” he replies.

  “I agree with Hennie,” Grace says. “Police tend to protect their own, especially in a small town. You’d think they’d at least make a decent attempt to investigate his disappearance, and that of his family’s. Even if they used Sharpe as a scapegoat. Not that I’m saying they should do that, but it’s not uncommon. People want to find someone to blame for the death of a public figure like a police officer, firefighter, politician, so they find someone that people think may fit the bill and put them away.” I nod, “Perhaps they felt investigating everything else was too painful, if they were close. But to at least look into his disappearance…To see if the body that washed up was his, even….” I shake my head. “It just doesn’t sit right with me.” What do we know about the police officers on the force at the time?” Grace asks. “I’m sure it’s on public record, why?” Billy looks at his daughter. “Well, I’m wondering if someone on the force knew something, or was even under suspicion. It might account for them sweeping it under the rug. Once the police chief disappeared, it would be easy enough to cover up.” “You think the police were involved?” Billy asks, surprised. “I have no reason to. We don’t even know anyone else on the force at the time except the chief. I just can’t fathom why else the disappearance of an entire family, especially that of the Police Chief’s, would be practically ignored. Though I’m still curious about this Sharpe guy. Comes out of nowhere, and shortly after the whole mess, completely disappears.”

  I can feel myself starting to fade, and I know I have some writing to get done this evening. I look at my watch, and realize I’d been there for over three hours. “I hate to head out, but I think I’ve taken up enough of your time, and I have some writing on my book to get done tonight.” I thank Billy and Grace, and head out towards home.

  Chapter 4

  As I walk into the living room, my eyes were immediately drawn to the pile of books by the fireplace. I am determined not to let myself get sucked in now. I manage to get a chapter and a half written - a short chapter and a half, but it’s something. Most people have warned me not to stop mid-chapter, but I go with my muse. Writing that’s forced will inevitably end up in the garbage, I’ve learned. I do sometimes sit down and make myself write, but it usually comes rather naturally once I set my mind to it. But those times when I’m just dragging it out, just to have words on the page, I know I lack emotion and creativity, and I just can’t bring myself to write that way.

  I grab another cup of coffee and a quick dinner of last night’s reheated leftovers, and sit down to tackle the pile of books. I have no idea who left them there or for what purpose. There clearly seems to be some order, but it doesn’t seem to be alphabetical or even chronological. Briefly, I wonder if it is arranged by subject matter, but that doesn’t seem to be the case either. It could simply be an order of preference for whoever set them there. Favorite on the top, those least likely to look at on the bottom. Though I find it odd that someone who would go through the effort of organizing them in any fashion would just leave them there. There aren’t so many that they couldn’t have been put in a suitcase, and if the owner didn’t want them, surely they could have been donated to the library.

  The general theme of the stack seems to be history, though it is a very loose theme - French Revolution, Fourteenth Century Britain, several on local and regional history. I pick up the one on the Massachusetts Cape first. More or less, it is a local history of the region, and though I doubt I’ll find any clues to the story of Julienne and the three girls, I figure it might give me a better idea of what the area was like during that time period. I guess the New England book might be similar. For personal reasons, I’m tempted to dive into Fourteenth Century Britain, but I refrain. Instead, I put it aside in a separate stack to look at later. “Who put these here?” I wonder out loud.

  As I pick up the book on the French Revolution, a tiny, almost transparent piece of paper slips out. Thinking it’s some sort of insert that has gotten loose, I’m about to place it back when I notice writing on the opposite side. It’s cursive, written in black ink, and practically illegible. Flipping it over, I can tell at a quick glance that it isn’t in English. My Italian is passable, therefore making my Spanish somewhat passable, but this is neither. Based on the character position and the accents, my guess is French, but it’s faint and somewhat smudged, making it difficult to discern anything concrete about it at all. I carefully place it in the back of the book and set it in its own pile. The only bookstore in town is a used bookstore, and it’s very possible it is a personal note forgotten in the book when it was donated. Given the subject matter of the book, it’s not implausible that its previous owner spoke some French. And yet I can’t just leave it alone. I take the paper back out gingerly and take a picture of it with my phone. Knowing it could easily tear if I kept examining it, I want a backup. My phone allows me to enlarge it, which might make it easier to decipher if I can find some way to translate it. I add the task of translation to my “to do” list.

  I feel the need to clear my head and think an evening walk in the garden might prove helpful. I’ve spent a decent amount of time in the front garden, but little in the back. The flowers there are rather wild-looking, and lift my spirit. They feel freeing somehow. I notice a patch of thick ivy growing along one portion of the back wall. Odd, I think. There isn’t ivy anywhere else in the garden or the yard, and it’s unlike ivy to contain itself. But perhaps the previous tenant just hadn’t had the chance to finish pulling the ivy. She left rather suddenly upon finding out that her daughter was moving to Italy, Billy had said.

  I hear my name being called, and turned to see Grace standing by the edge of the house. “I hope you don’t mind my popping by,” she calls, walking towards me. “I found a little more information on the au pai
r, though not much. But it’s something that I thought might interest you.” I smile. I was still getting used to the smaller town way of life, where people just stop by any time and invite you to do the same. In the city, nobody just knocks on your door uninvited. I like the friendly atmosphere though. It makes me feel like part of the community. “Wow, you got right to work! And no, I don’t mind at all. Would you like anything to drink?” “I’m good. I can’t stay long. Just thought we could take a quick look. Two heads are better than one and all that.” When she smiles, the resemblance between her and her father is remarkable.

  I look at the piece of paper she gave me. It seems like what today would have been a very brief wikipedia entry. “Where’d you find this?” “I went to the library. It was part of the investigation - what little there was. Basically, it’s a bio, though not much of one.” I scan the document. Julienne LaBame. “So at least we have a full name, that’s definitely helpful.” I flip the page over. The bio said that she’d worked as an au pair in Greenwich, England for three years, and left suddenly to take the job here in Massachusetts. “Perhaps she met Edward Sharpe in England when she worked as an au pair in Greenwich,” Grace suggests. “That’s what I was thinking too. But how? He was at Oxford, which these days is probably under two hours away, but at the time probably much longer.” “Maybe he went to Oxford but lived closer near Greenwich. Or maybe a classmate of his lived in Greenwich.” “That’s possible,” I agree. “How old was Edward when he came to Massachusetts, do we know?” It would help to figure out how they might have come in contact. Grace shakes her head. “At school, so I have to imagine close to the same age.”