“A cover?” Patty asked, her tone a little sassy, like she was losing patience. She turned and looked back at the Inn. She probably had charting to do, patients waiting for meds. Vi could see how young she was—even in her white uniform, she looked like a college kid, not a nurse. She was wearing mascara and blush and pastel-pink eye shadow. She smelled like bubble gum and hair spray.
“I wanted to talk to you. I thought… I thought we could share information. Help each other gather intelligence.”
“Intelligence?” Patty laughed, shook her head. “Look, you seem like a sweet kid, and I know you’re the boss’s granddaughter and all, but I’m super busy. I’m happy to help with the garden if Dr. Hildreth wants me to, but I’m not going to play spies with some ten-year-old.”
Vi frowned. “I’m thirteen.”
“Sorry. I guess I’m not much of a kid expert.” Patty turned, started to walk away. “Nice to meet you, Violet.”
“Wait,” Vi said. Patty turned back, looking exasperated. Vi knew she didn’t have long. “Have you heard of anything called the Mayflower Project at the Inn?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“What do you know about B West?”
This got her attention. Patty took a step closer to Vi. “Did your grandmother put you up to this?” She looked around, like maybe this was a test and Gran was hiding behind a tree, watching.
Vi thought of that show they sometimes watched with the hidden cameras filming people in crazy situations, how someone would jump out and say, “You’re on Candid Camera!”
“No!” Vi told Patty. “She can’t know we talked about this. She’d kill me and probably fire you. But there’s stuff I need to know. And it sounds like you want to know it too. I think we can help each other.”
Patty crossed her arms, took a step back. “What is it you want to know?”
“About Iris.”
“Who’s Iris?”
“A girl. Gran brought her over from the Inn. She’s staying with us. She’s one of Gran’s patients, but she’s young. Like my age.”
Patty shook her head, her feathered bangs moving over her forehead like wings. “The Inn doesn’t treat anyone under eighteen.”
“I know. And that’s not the only weird part.” Vi had her now. She could tell from the way Patty moved closer, eyes wide, mouth a little bit open. The new nurse was hooked into the mystery. “See, Iris doesn’t remember anything about who she is or where she came from.”
“Are you messing with me? Because if you are—”
“No, I swear. She doesn’t even know her name. She just remembers being here, at the Inn with Gran in a green room with no windows.”
“A room with no windows?” Patty said.
Behind them, Miss Ev opened her window, looked out at them.
“And I was thinking,” Vi said in an extra-loud voice, “that a fountain in the center would be perfect. I bet we can ask Mr. MacDermot to help run water and electricity out to it.”
Patty nodded, playing along. “I think a fountain would be lovely. Maybe we can find one that’s got a bird design!”
Miss Ev moved back away from the open window.
“I think maybe Iris was in B West,” Vi whispered.
Patty lowered her voice too. “The basement is for storage.”
“I want to get down there,” Vi said.
“No way! Dr. Hildreth and my uncle are the only ones with keys. I don’t know what’s down there, but I do know it’s locked up tight.”
Vi nodded. She knew Gran carried a big metal ring of keys in her purse. Maybe the basement key was on it. But getting the keys out of Gran’s purse—that seemed impossible.
“Will you help me?” Vi asked.
“Absolutely not. I could lose my job. And for what? Some kid’s crazy story? Sorry, no offense, but imagine you were in my shoes. Wouldn’t you do the same?”
Vi pressed her point. “I know you’re curious about the basement. I know you were asking my grandmother about it. That you’ve heard stories.”
Patty said nothing.
“So maybe there’s not a way into the basement right now, but how about Gran’s office?” Vi asked. “Do you think you could get me in there?”
Maybe there’d be a clue. Or—did she dare hope?—a key to the basement stashed away in a desk drawer.
“I don’t know. I—”
“I may be a kid, but my grandmother listens to me. She tells me all the time how much she values my opinion. If I go home and tell her how great you are, how helpful you’re being with the bird garden project—she’ll listen. It’ll make a difference. Of course, I could also tell her you treated me like a little kid and didn’t seem very enthusiastic about helping with the garden.”
Patty frowned.
“Please. I’m not asking you for much. Just let me into the building and get me the key to Gran’s office. There’s one hanging in the main office. Do you ever work nights?”
“Sometimes. I’m doing the overnight on Saturday—eleven p.m. to seven a.m.”
“Okay. This Saturday. Get the key to Gran’s office and meet me at the back door, west side, at midnight. That’s all you have to do. Just let me in.”
“I don’t know,” Patty said.
Miss Ev was in the window again. “Patty! You’re needed inside. It seems they’ve lost Tom again.”
Patty blew out a breath. “I’ve gotta get back to work.”
“Thanks,” Vi said. “For agreeing to help with the garden. Gran will be really happy to hear how excited you are about it.”
Patty nodded and walked away.
Lizzy
August 20, 2019
I PACKED UP THE recording equipment (throwing it into my day bag, just in case) and hopped into my van to do some exploring. As I drove around Chickering Island, I was struck by its tiny size. It was small and crowded: full of tourists, people who’d come for just the day, a weekend, or maybe even the whole summer; people who sat sipping lattes outside the coffee shop, fishing off the pier, riding rented bikes around town.
As I drove, I went over everything Skink had told me. I was used to hearing strange, unbelievable stories. My job was to listen to them, ask the right questions, sift through the stories for the bits of truth that shone and glittered.
The monster stories I’d heard over the years had much in common. There were no specific names. It was often “this guy” or “my uncle had a friend.” Details were usually sketchy, as they were with Skink’s story. I’d pressed him for details about the people who had supposedly disappeared, been taken down into the lake by Rattling Jane. He couldn’t give me a single name or date, could only say that it was for-sure real and it had been going on for a long, long time.
People loved a good creepy story. The need was almost primal: to hear them, have them chill you, then pass them along, embellished with your own details. Fear was a drug, and these stories were a delivery method.
“Some people say Rattling Jane is the vengeful spirit of a woman who was murdered a long time ago, her body dumped at the bottom of the lake,” Skink had told me. “Some say she, like… is the lake.”
As vague as parts of the conversation had been, I’d gotten some good leads. I’d learned which house Lauren Schumacher and her family rented—one of the little cabins out past the winery, in a group of rentals all named for flowers; they stayed in Bluebell. Skink told me that her family had packed up and gone home to Worcester, Massachusetts, sure that that’s where Lauren had headed when she ran off.
And then there was the piece of information I’d found the most interesting: that Lauren had told people she’d met Rattling Jane; she’d been given a wishing stone.
What did Lauren Schumacher wish for? I wondered.
* * *
I PARKED MY van in one of the free public lots, then crossed the street to the clean, wide, brick sidewalk and headed right for the bookstore. It was an old habit: the first stop in any new town was always either the bookstore or the library.
As I walked through the door, I was greeted by a large black standard poodle.
“That’s Penny,” called the man behind the counter as I scratched the dog behind the ears.
“She’s a beauty,” I said.
“And she knows it too.” The man smiled. “Can I help you find anything in particular?”
“Actually, yes. Do you have any books about the area? About the island and its history? And maybe a map?”