“Why?”
She shrugged. “I was going to settle with my fiancé as soon as we had the money, but he died. Now I don’t see how it could happen.”
“It’s a hard life, unless one is in luck.” I reached out my gloved hand. “Belle Gunness.”
“Moira Callaghan.”
The soft, dark fabric of my glove swallowed her callused hand. “It appears you are in luck today, Moira. I’m looking for a woman just like yourself.”
She instantly looked wary.
“Nothing strange, I assure you.” I laughed and patted her hand. “I’m looking for a new housekeeper, that’s all. The running of the farm takes up so much of my time that my house and children suffer for it—and here you are! Another woman left behind. I think I could appreciate your company.”
“But I—I could . . .” She stuttered and struggled to find the right words.
I gave her another warm smile. “Come meet my brother if you like; he’s waiting there by the door. We could take you for a meal and talk things over. You don’t have to decide right away.”
She would, though, I was certain that she would. She had that longing in her eyes for something easier—better. A glass of beer, a nice meal, and a promise to fix her teeth, and she would be mine, signed and proper.
How could she ever resist?
* * *
—
Moira loved the farm, as I knew she would. I gave her a nice room upstairs and told her the children were visiting an aunt but would be back in the morning. “They’ll be so happy to have someone to look after them when I can’t,” I told her.
Maxon was out and I was glad for it; everything would be easier then. I asked Moira to keep me company while I made soup and sliced bread. I found that while she was there beside me and had me talking as if nothing were amiss, I could briefly believe it too—that the children were merely away for a while. It was a most welcome respite.
Moira stood by the window while I cooked, and looked out in the yard at the chickens and the dog.
“He’ll bark at you at first, but then he’ll get used to you,” I said.
“Oh, look at the cat. I love cats!”
“We have kittens in the barn too, no more than a week old.”
“And so many chickens!”
“They are a menace at times, digging up my vegetables.”
“All those horses, Mrs. Gunness!”
“They are a fine investment.”
“Oh, I could never have done all the things you have done.”
“No,” I muttered, “I don’t think you could.”
Halfway through the meal, Moira had to excuse herself, as she was feeling ill. I wished her a speedy recovery as she made her way upstairs. Soon after, I cut her throat and let her bleed out in a bucket.
I do not think she ever woke up from that soup.
When I had her in the cellar, I cut off her head but nothing else. I dug it down behind the water pump but left the body clothed in the cellar. I brought down a log from the range next, glittering with embers, and set to singe the severed flesh of her neck. The air quickly filled with the reek of burned meat. It was not perfect but the best I could do.
The whole time I was down there, I had not looked at the children. I did not want to see those blue lips again. Every time I closed my eyes, I was there, by the hole in the dirt, next to a root. I could smell the damp forest floor and feel the slick soil in my hands. It had happened again, despite my best efforts.
Anders had hit me again.
My teeth ached and my stomach too, as if fists had just pummeled the flesh.
Then came the moment when I had to approach them. I had to go upstairs for a glass of whiskey first, had to pace those empty rooms once more and tell myself that it needed to be done. Then I went back in the cellar.
Steeling my heart, I dragged Moira’s headless body to the resting angels in the corner by the bins. She was stiff and hard to move, but Philip was soft when I touched him. I had him cling to her breast just as he would a mother, and he fit neatly in the curve of her arms. Had it not been for her headless state, the scene would have looked comforting.
I placed Lucy on her left side and Myrtle on her right, leaning in on Moira’s shoulder.
People would believe it was me, would they not?
Why would they not believe it?
* * *
—
The morning after, I went in to La Porte. I was to see the lawyer to draw up a new will. I made quite a spectacle, I believe, sitting there in his office, weeping into my handkerchief.
“I cannot put it off any longer. That man drives me mad . . . There simply is no telling what he can do!”
“The police—”
“They won’t put him under bonds, and they won’t declare him mad. What is a poor woman to do but endure? There’s no justice in this world!”
“I’m so sorry that you have to put up with this, Mrs. Gunness. I’m sure that he is harmless—”
“Harmless? If only people knew what things he’s been saying to me! No Christian woman should ever be forced to hear such foul language.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Gunness.”
“Well.” I took the fountain pen he gave me. “It is no fault of yours . . . Where do I sign the papers?”
My new will gave everything to my children, but should they all die without issue, it would go to the Norwegian Lutheran Children’s Home in Chicago. They could surely use the money. It was not much, as most of my earnings were kept at home in my money box, but I did have a few trinkets in a safe deposit box at the bank and added some seven hundred dollars to it when I went to deposit the will. The farm would probably fetch a decent sum of money too, when it sold.
I stopped on my way home to buy a large can of coal oil.
* * *
—
A few days later, I found myself on a train with James. I sat on a red velvet seat in a first-class coach and read about my ghastly death in the newspapers. Arson, it said, suspected to be the work of a madman.
Outside the window, dusk had just settled and painted the leafy woods in shadows. Soot from the train had stained the glass and obscured the view even further.
“This is old news already.” James lifted his cane from the floor and tapped the newspaper in my lap. “Lamphere is long since arrested.”
“I know that.” I reached for the paper bag of sweets by my side and shoved a piece of anise-flavored candy in between my lips. At least I could have some sweetness, I thought, even if I all I cared for was lost—except the money. I still had that, greasy and foul in a box. “What if they don’t believe it’s my body?” My gaze darted to the wooden door to our small compartment, making sure that it was closed. It would not do at all to be overheard by a Norwegian, although the chugging of the train made that almost impossible.
“Who else could it be? Not to worry, Bella, they will buy it.” He looked calm enough to calm me too.
“It’s not Bella anymore.” Not Belle either, and certainly not Brynhild.
“What then?”