“Hello?”
No answer. Kenneth had given her a rundown of the Dakota’s ghosts over tea as the wallpaper hanger took measurements in the bathroom. One was a creepy little girl, bouncing a red ball, who was considered a bad omen, a harbinger of death. An electrician working in the basement in the 1930s had seen a phantom wearing a frock coat, winged collar, and glasses. Rumor had it he was Edward Clark, the man who built the Dakota but died before he could see it completed.
Bailey didn’t believe in ghosts or Kenneth’s tales of ghostly wanderers. The door couldn’t have slammed shut on its own, just like that. Someone had to have walked by it and done so, not knowing she was inside.
She tucked the photo into her back pocket and walked over to reopen the door, but as she reached for the knob, she heard footsteps coming closer. Whoever had shut it was returning.
The door handle turned. She backed away, uncertain.
“What the hell?”
Renzo stood in the doorway. He stared at her for a moment before bursting out laughing. “You look like you’re ready for a fight.”
Without thinking, she’d put up her dukes, like an idiot. Kenneth’s ghost stories had gotten her worked up. She dropped her hands to her sides, standing stiffly. “You scared me. The door slammed shut.”
“Huh. That’s weird. Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Bailey shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “It was just loud.”
“What are you doing in the basement?”
“Clearing a space for the workers, seeing what you have down here.”
He didn’t seem angry at her nosing about. “Find anything interesting?”
She pointed to the trunks. “I think the two black ones belonged to Theodore Camden and his wife. The one marked S.J.S. belonged to a woman named Sara Jane Smythe, who came here in 1884. That one even has her official papers in it, an immigration booklet.”
Renzo wore faded Levi’s that fell low on his waist, and a maroon T-shirt. He ran his hand through his hair. “Right. Sara Smythe. That was the year the Dakota opened.”
“Have you heard of her?”
“Sure, I’ve heard of her. She lived here for about a year.”
“Then what happened?”
“You don’t know?”
Bailey shook her head.
“Follow me.”
Renzo led her down the hall to his office, where he rummaged around on a high bookshelf and took down an ancient photo album, the kind with black paper and tiny triangles for tucking the corners of the photos into. It was covered with a fine layer of dust, and he took a rag out of his back pocket and wiped it down before opening it up.
“This is a book of clippings about the Dakota from the time it was built, passed down from super to super.”
He started to flip through it, but Bailey stopped him. “Do you mind? I’d love to see the whole thing.”
“Suit yourself.” He moved out of the way and let her go through it, page by page.
The first page held a yellowed article from the Daily Graphic. Bailey read out loud. “‘A Description of One of the Most Perfect Apartment Houses in the World.’ You can’t do better than that, can you?”
“I guess not.”
She sat down in a chair and scanned through it. The Dakota had made quite a splash when it first opened. How strange to think that the rooms had been filled with people wearing petticoats and top hats, the sound of horses’ hooves clopping in the courtyard. Someone had actually worn that corset and pair of shoes from the trunk. They weren’t just artifacts in a museum.
Later in the book were cutouts from magazines. One showed off the bedroom of Rudolf Nureyev, decorated in a riot of textures and patterns, including an Elizabethan canopy bed.
“Not one for subtlety.” Renzo stood behind her now, his hand resting on the back of her chair.
She hurried through the rest of the scrapbook, mainly 1960s shots of apartments with minimal, contemporary furniture.
“Not to your taste?” Renzo asked.
“No. Maybe in an East Side high-rise, but not here.” She shut the book.
“But you didn’t see the part about Theodore Camden.”
He took the book from her lap and laid it back on the desk. A delicate scrap of paper had fallen behind one of the photos, and he unfolded it with care.
The newspaper headline, dated March 4, 1886, read: MURDERESS FOUND GUILTY.
Mrs. Sara J. Smythe, former lady managerette of the Dakota Apartment House, was found guilty in the November 13th stabbing death of architect Mr. Theodore Camden. Mrs. Smythe had suffered from delusions in the past, but Mr. Camden had nonetheless taken pity on her, and his act of kindness was answered with violence and mayhem. Mr. Camden is survived by his wife and three children. According to Judge Wilton, “This undoubtedly proves that rehabilitation of the insane is a pointless enterprise.”
“She was the one who killed Melinda’s great-grandfather, then.”
“That’s the legend. Which explains why her belongings were packed up and sent to the basement.”
She pulled the photo out of her back pocket. “This was in the trunk, too.”
Renzo examined it closely. He turned it over, where the words S. Smythe and the Camden children, 1885, were written in a loopy cursive.
Bailey gasped. “The murderer standing with the children. That’s ghoulish. Does the scrapbook have anything more about the crime? Like why she killed him?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Now I’m dying to know more. I’ll have to ask Melinda if her mother ever talked about it.”
“Right after you’ve fixed Kenneth’s apartment back to the way it was.”
She glared at him. “Of course I’m going to do that.”
He cocked his head. “That’s weird.”
“What.”
“Do that again.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Look at me like you just did.”
She did so, like he was an idiot.
“Don’t move.” He held up the photo next to her face. “You have the same eyebrow thing going on.”
“Are you telling me I look like a murderer?”
“No, seriously.” He tugged on her arm and brought her over to a small mirror that hung on the back of the door. “Check it out.”
Bailey repeated the gesture into the mirror, as Renzo held up the photo.
Obviously, a great percentage of people could do the same trick. Her father had worn the same expression whenever he was unimpressed or skeptical.
But it was the way the woman stood, the line of her neck, the set of her mouth. Bailey’s parents had a photo album with a photo that was an exact match, except that it was taken in this century, not the last. Her father holding a newborn Bailey in his arms, with the same half smile.
Bailey looked like her father, everyone said so. And they both looked like Sara Smythe. The murderess.
Renzo blinked. “The resemblance is uncanny. Even to me, and I don’t know you at all.”
The scrutiny unnerved her. She felt stripped bare, just as she was doing to Melinda’s apartment, all of the usual crutches and comforts peeled away. The dank basement seemed like it was closing in on her, the draftiness making her shiver.
“Well, I’m not sure I see it. I better be getting back upstairs.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset.” The words came out harsher than she’d intended; her headache threatened to come raging back. “Rough night last night. I’m exhausted. See you around.”
“Sure. Take it easy.”
She couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
The day’s New York Post had been left near the elevator door, and Bailey picked it up and leafed through it while she waited. Her horoscope said something about “reconnecting with family,” and she supposed she’d done so, working for Melinda and living in her apartment. Check that off.
But then she saw the list of famous people born on that day. Sonny Rollins was fifty-five.
Her dad loved the fact that he shared the jazz great’s birthday. Today was Jack’s birthday, and she had almost missed it entirely.