Johanna's Secret Read online

  I continue reading. “It says here she moved from Provence to Greenwich at the age of sixteen to be the au pair for a woman by the last name of Grafton.” “Grafton from Greenwich with an au pair. Sounds wealthy,” Grace jokes. “Ha! No kidding. So why leave so suddenly. The family here was well off, for here, but I can’t imagine they’d pay her more than at Greenwich, especially with her having to travel all of this way. Couldn’t have been cheap to make that journey. I’m going to try to see what I can find on them. Do we have a first name?” Grace points to a paragraph further down the page. “Eleanor.” Eleanor Grafton. In everything Billy had given me about Julienne, that name hadn’t come up once. “Do we know anything about her?” “Not a thing!” Grace says. “She wasn’t in any of the clippings dad found, though perhaps the journalist didn’t think that her previous work experience in England was of any significance.” I wasn’t convinced, though I couldn’t say why. “My youngest sister is at Oxford now. She’s the one that mentioned Sharpe to me in the first place. I can see what she can find out. It’s more likely that she’ll be able to dredge something up there, especially if the Edward Sharpe disappearance is a big deal to them. Sharpe is linked to Julienne, and Julienne is linked to Eleanor Grafton. She must be able to find something there.” “Excellent!” Grace replies. “In the meantime,” I add, “I’ll see what I can find about Julienne LaBame from Provence.” “Well, I’ll leave you to it. And if I find out anything more, I’ll let you know. Oh,” Grace adds, “just out of curiosity, which wife is your sister at Oxford named after?” “All of the Cathryns.” I smile. “It’s spelled with a “c” and a “y”.” “Ah, my money would have been on Jane,” Grace laughs. “That’s the dog,” I smile.

  “Ok, I really must be going now. I’ll keep you posted.” I wave cheerfully as she walks towards the front gate. Once she’s left, I hurry back inside to write down notes and questions from our conversation. “Time to get to bed,” I remind myself. I think that my sleep might be fitful, as it often is when I’m writing or researching, but I sleep soundly until 7 AM.

  I wake with the sun streaming through the windows. As I look out over the garden I think, ‘this is life’. A beautiful town, the almost summer sun rising over flowering gardens, living as a writer, albeit the last more or less remained to be seen. The seeming perfection of it consumes me for a moment. Then suddenly, without warning, my mind is back in the 1920s. What it must have been like for those girls the night their parents never came home. How scared they must have been. And within a couple of months, their own disappearance. Was it intentional? Were they kidnapped? I shake it off. I won’t let thoughts of foul play ruin this gorgeous morning. Besides, I have a lecture to record and a couple of articles to write. I am still caught up, but I like to stay ahead.

  I put on a pot of coffee and open my computer. I desperately want to message Cat to tell her what I’d found, but I know that would lead me down the rabbit hole and I have a nice, orderly plan for today’s activities. I switch my chat to “off” and open up the outline for my webinar. Writing is my comfort zone, especially in my area of expertise. I get entrenched and it’s tough to interrupt. The video, on the other hand, still gives me a bit of trepidation. I don’t like seeing or hearing myself, and though you think I’d be used to it, the video somehow unnerves me more than a live audience. I write the first two articles, which come naturally to me today. They’re drafts and will have to be revised, but at least I have something down on paper, with plenty of time to adjust before I send them in. I start brainstorming topics for the video lecture. As my brain began to wander to the mystery about the house, I gently pull it back. I love a good clue chase, but I have to complete the work that is actually paying my bills first.

  Why, I wonder, are we so fascinated with the macabre? What is it about dark secrets and mystery that draws us in? I know I have a topic for my lecture. It will require a bit more brainstorming. Most people don’t like to admit that they’re interested in tragedy, but all you have to do is look at blockbuster hits like Titanic or the countless documentaries made about famous assassinations to see that it’s true. I don’t want to offend my class by insinuating that they enjoy hearing about misfortune - nobody learns when offended - so I have to word things carefully. After a rough outline, I create a quick draft of the general contents and leave it. I can also use this draft for a later article, I figure. I feel my eyes starting to stray from my work. I know when I am pushing my screen time limit of staring, and I am swiftly approaching the point at which I’ll be completely unproductive.

  Shrugging on my spring jacket, I step outside. It’s cool, even with summer approaching, but the sun feels refreshing and I can tell that as the day goes on it will be a pleasant one. I wander aimlessly along the plants and flowers, half-hoping they’ll whisper some secret to me, knowing it’s a foolish thought. It feels good to be outside in the fresh air. My answers always come to me when I least expect it, so for now, I’ll just enjoy the weather and perhaps receive a little inspiration. I stroll to Jenna’s Cafe for a coffee and a scone. I’m drinking way more caffeine these days than I know I should, and it’s probably not helping my wandering mind or my sleep, but it’s sometimes so automatic, especially when I write. I can’t resist a good cup of coffee, or a scone for that matter. I sit down at a cafe table and allow my brain to finally delve into the mystery. My mystery, as I’ve begun to think of it.

  I need to find out more about Julienne’s time in England. If I can figure out why she left so quickly, it might help me determine what happened here. Was someone after her? Was she running away from someone? Edward Sharpe, perhaps? Cat said it wasn’t known if he came over invited or not. I usually have a hunch, but I feel completely lost with parts of this story. There are so many missing pieces, and I have no idea where to start. How could seven people, five of them family members, disappear within a couple months of each other, and nobody know or find anything. Everything points to them leaving intentionally. Were they in trouble financially and needed to hide? Was someone blackmailing them for some unknown reason? Was it someone James had arrested, out for revenge and threatening the family? But then why did Edward Sharpe disappear too? How was he linked to all of this, other than possibly his interest in Julienne? If the family had been blackmailed or running from trouble, they wouldn’t have brought him with them, would they? Had they taken him in, for his love of Julienne? My brain turns in circles, getting no closer to an answer.

  When I get back to the house, eyes refreshed, I sit down at the computer once again, this time for some internet sleuthing. Cat is online so I send her a message - a brief update on what I’ve learned so far. She replies almost instantly, “Julienne LaBame. Well at least you have a name.” “That’s what Grace said.” “Who’s Grace?” “Oh, the landlord’s daughter. She teaches anthropology but comes to stay with him in the summer. Give him a little company. I think he gets lonely.” “So a more local partner in crime then?” she teases. “Oh Cat, nobody could ever replace you. So the other name, Eleanor Grafton, does it ring a bell?” “I’ll look into it, but not off the top of my head. From Greenwich, right? If she was intricately related with Edward Sharpe, I’m sure I’d have heard about it on campus.” “You’re the best, Cat. Yes, from Greenwich, though I’m not sure if that’s where she’s from originally. It’s where it says Julienne worked for her.” “Ok, I’ll see what I can find. What was the time frame roughly?” “She came here in 1925, and worked at Greenwich for three years before then, so probably around 1923 to 1925. Julienne arrived in England when she was 16 -I don’t even know if that’s legal, to have a 16 year old au pair - so she was probably born in 1907. There’s absolutely no mention anywhere of her life in France before then.” “Weird,” Cat replies. “No mention of family at all? Well, maybe the papers there didn’t think the reactions of her family warranted the local paper. After all, 1926 was a more guarded time. Not like now where everything’s posted online without regard for people’s privacy.” “Pe
rhaps, but I’m not convinced,” I reply. Cat is right. A girl’s home is burnt down, her employers, who she’s living with, disappear, and shortly after she and the three daughters she was working with vanish, all right after a man follows her across international waters and then he too is nowhere to be found. Yet not one family member or friend from France, not one person she spent the three previous years with in England, comes forward to search for her or even beg the police for help? “I hate to say it,” Cat writes, “because from all reports there was no trouble known from her time here, but there’s one common denominator in all of these stories…” “Julienne. I was just thinking the same thing. Except intuition tells me that she’s not responsible for the disappearance of the girls - at least I don’t think she harmed them in any way... Or the fire. Would a nineteen year old girl in a foreign country think to set her own house on fire and do something to harm the people paying her way?” “No, she’d be sent back to France if found,” Cat replies. “And it seems to me that she didn’t want to be there for some reason. There’s something about her we don’t know. Something that has to do with her disappearance.” I agree. “And then there’s that door. It’s the key to something, I’m just not sure what. Billy feels the same way. We just need to figure out what.” “When was it sealed,” Cat asked. “I’m not sure. A while ago. Billy said he’s never seen it open, and he’s been here thirty years. “What about the previous tenant?” Cat asks. “Cat, you’re brilliant.”

  Immediately after finishing my chat with Cat, I give Billy a call to ask about the previous tenant. He’d told me that she kept kind of quiet and that she loved to garden. She was out there in every season trying to grow something. “I always kind of felt bad for her,” he says. “She didn’t seem to have much family other than her daughter and her granddaughter.” “You said she moved to Italy? Do you have any contact information for her?” “I don’t, but I know her daughter was teaching in the Bologna area.” “Do you have her daughter’s name?” “Geraldine. Don’t know if she goes by her married name or not. Linda, the previous tenant, her last name is Frieda.” “Well, it’s a long shot,” I say, “but I really appreciate it. How long did you say she lived here?” “Longer than I have, and that’s thirty years.” “So her daughter must have grown up here?” “You know, I never thought about it, but you’re right. And Linda must have been pretty young herself when she moved here.” “Do you know what Geraldine teaches in Bologna?” “Hmm, literature, I think.” “Excellent, thanks Billy!”. “By the way, what are you planning to ask her about?” “The door,” I reply. I can hear the amusement in Billy’s voice as he tells me to let him know what I find, but I know he is probably as interested in it as I am.

  I decide to give my mind a break the rest of the evening. I order pizza, watch old 90s TV reruns, and plan to go to bed early. I decide to do some shopping the next day. I don’t have anything particular I need to buy, I just want to explore the little towns in the area. Perhaps subconsciously, I think that if I can get a feel for the towns that Julienne and the family lived near, I’ll have better insight into who they were and what might have happened to them.

  Chapter 5

  The next day, I set off on my day trip up the coast. It’s nice to be out and about for a change, away from my computer and books, as much as I love them, and getting to know the area that surrounds my new home. As I explore and let my mind wander, I realize I didn’t know the names of the little girls, only their ages at the time of their disappearance. I feel certain that their story will be in my unsolved mysteries book, which I have oddly not yet read through. I vow to pick it up when I get home. I think part of me knows I could, at any moment, get sucked into numerous stories between the covers and I’m afraid to open pandora’s box.

  I sit down at a small cafe broadcasting the biggest selection of organic vegetables in the area, and pull out my notebook of random thoughts. ‘Girl’s names’ I jotdown. I’m flipping through and jotting down some additional thoughts about the mystery as the waitress comes over to take my order. “Not to be nosy”, she says, “but I saw a couple of your notes. Would you happen to be writing about the Sheffield family?” I thought coincidences like this only happened in stories and must look surprised, because she quickly apologizes. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have intruded, it’s just, that story fascinates me.” “No worries at all. I’m not writing about them, but I am doing a novice investigation of it. I recently rented the house that they disappeared from.” “No kidding?” she exclaims a little too loudly, causing people to turn. She lowers her voice. “You didn’t mind renting it, even with that history?” “Well, actually, I wasn’t aware of the history, but I find it very interesting, and sad. I’m a writer, so I’m drawn to mysteries,”. . “Well now, that would be a good story to write! You know, they never found the bodies. You want my opinion?” I nod. Why not, I figure. “I think they ran away. Up and left in the middle of the night or something.” “Why do you think that?” My stomach is growling and I know I should order my food and let the waitress get on her way, but the restaurant isn’t very busy and curiosity gets the better of me. “Just a hunch. I think they were scared. Maybe they tried to wait it out, see if the parents might be found or come back, and then the fear got to be too much. That fire would have killed Julienne. Whoever set it knew that. It was only a matter of time until they came back. And the parents vanishing. Someone had it out for that family.” “From what I heard, the only potential suspect was that gentleman who followed her here and they never pressed any charges.” The waitress shook her head. “Edward Sharpe,” she replies quickly, “Wasn’t him. I don’t believe it for a second.” “Neither do I,” I agree “but that’s just my hunch. You sound more confident.” “I am, but I have no evidence really. Nobody does. I just know he didn’t do it.”

  I want to ask her more, but I’m keeping her from doing her job, and the other customers, the few that there are, from their lunch. “I’m sorry! I haven’t even taken your order! Here I am, blabbing on, and you’re probably starving.” “No, not at all,” I try to convince her, as my stomach grumbles loudly. “I’ll take the caprese panini, a harvest side salad, and a diet coke.” “Coming right up!” I look at her name tag as she walks away. We chatted so much, I can’t remember what she’d told me when she first arrived at the table. Claudia, it reads. Something tells me I’ll be coming back here regardless of how my soon-to-arrive meal tastes. ‘Claudia, waitress, Green Goods Cafe’ I note. As it so happens, my lunch hits the spot, so I don’t need any excuses to return.

  Before going back to my car, I stroll over to the walkway by the harbor. Looking down into the waters, I imagine a 1920s car, late at night, taking a curve too fast and going over the cliffs. Is that what happened? A terrible accident? A horrible coincidence? Or had these waters hidden other secrets that night? As I look down at the shores below, I thought about what Claudia said. She’s right. There was no motive for Edward Sharpe. If he’d planned to to kill her, if he’d killed her parents, would he have tried to settled down with a job at the bakery? Though perhaps when she didn’t die in the fire, he figured he needed to hang around longer to carry out his plan? But no, it still would be dangerous to hang around. Very few people knew him when he arrived. He could have made a quick getaway, but by making a temporary home here in town, walking about with Julienne, surely he would have drawn attention to himself. They would have investigated him and found out the truth. And the article Billy gave me said no apparent damage had been done to the house when the girls vanished. No sign of a struggle, and the door had been locked. Perhaps he could have lured a trusting Julienne. But if had lured them away, why, and where did they go? What happened to them? Why did nobody except Edward Sharpe look for them? I feel there was more to Sharpe than the story gave him credit for. He wasn’t just a vindictive or love-struck young man who’d followed a young woman. There was a deeper reason. It wasn’t easy to travel between the continents back then. Would someone really come all the way acro
ss the ocean to murder someone and then fail besides? If he put in all that effort, wouldn’t he have made sure she was in the carriage house before setting it on fire? If they were walking, and perhaps talking, might she not have mentioned that the parents were away and she’d be in the main house? Edward Sharpe’s story is an important one, but not one of a murderer. Of that, I am almost certain.

  I drive back to the cottage still pondering all of the pieces of this very intricate puzzle. I try to work out who all the players were.

  The three girls of whom I knew very little

  The parents, of whom I knew even less, except their occupations

  Julienne, who seemed to be the center of it all

  Edward Sharpe, the most mysterious of them

  Julienne’s former employer - she was important, but I didn’t know how

  The Police - for their total lack of investigation

  I decide that the first thing to do when I get home is to tackle the unsolved mysteries and ghosts books.

  I sit in the living room arm chair to catch the warm breeze that developed over the course of the day. I won’t allow myself to look at any of the other stories. One unsolved mystery at a time. Instructed by the table of contents, I flip to page 42 and see a picture of the three little girls. An old, faded, black and white photo, but enough to tell that they were young beauties. I feel my throat catch. They reminded me of myself, Nan, and Cat at their ages.