Meanwhile, her afternoon had been a productive one. She’d printed out the records she’d discovered online, and she’d begun reading the journal from Mrs. Abrams’s trunk.
It had been kept by Nellie Brennan, daughter of the nasty undertaker Leo Brennan, and it had been every bit as intriguing as the memoir she’d been reading earlier. Nellie’s mother had died young, and her father’s housekeeper, who had come to live at the Grant mansion with them, was, in Nellie’s words, “a witch.” And not just figuratively, either. The woman scared her; she served her father faithfully, but she treated Nellie badly. Nellie thought that was because she herself wasn’t a pretty girl. The housekeeper, Martha Tyler, though an octoroon of mixed blood, was extremely beautiful and seemed to be ageless. Nellie believed she kept a book of spells hidden in her room, and knew she kept jars containing all sorts of loathsome things, dried and preserved animal parts, herbs and potions, and other similarly repulsive bits. But she ran the house—and the mortuary—faultlessly, so Leo wasn’t about to fire her.
Sarah would have loved to take that journal home, but it was both fragile and a brand-new acquisition. She knew she was lucky to be reading it. When Vicky stretched out a hand, still smiling, to take it back, there was nothing to do but hand it over and thank Vicky for her help.
“Oh, I enjoy helping someone who’s as fascinated as I am by the personal details of history. People love stories about real people.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Do children remember dates and figures? No. But give them exciting events and real people, and they’ll love learning history.”
Sarah agreed, and said, “Vicky, that journal is a true find. I barely got started reading, but I can already tell it’s full of insight into the era. I’ll be back tomorrow. I want to know more about the housekeeper. Nellie said she was a witch.”
“A witch?” Vicky said. “I’ll see if I can find anything about her in the morning.”
“Thanks, I’ll see you bright and early.”
“Oh? Are you off tomorrow, too?”
Sarah hesitated. “Yes, I’m taking tomorrow off, too.”
Vicky looked at her sympathetically. “People still driving you crazy about those bones, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Just go on one of the big talk shows—get it over with,” Vicky suggested.
Of all the people who had called, Sarah thought wryly, unfortunately Oprah hadn’t been one of them.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Sarah told Vicky, then left the library and headed home. She stood on the sidewalk staring up at her house, so many things racing through her mind. The things she’d just been reading. The bones in her walls. Mr. Griffin’s words.
She didn’t care what he said. Houses weren’t evil.
There were no cars parked in front of her house. Still, she didn’t go inside, but headed for the carriage house instead.
It felt…lonely.
She turned on the television, opting for music videos over anything requiring her to pay attention.
She curled up on the bed, intending to read more of the memoir, but her mind was too full. She finally admitted to herself that she hadn’t just expected Caleb to call her, she’d hoped he would. She couldn’t wait to show him the proof of his heritage that she had printed out at the library, not to mention the picture. She was eager to prove her sanity to him.
She turned back to the memoir, and as she read, she wondered about the words the man in her dream had spoken. I didn’t do it.
Clearly she didn’t want to make Caleb look guilty, even in her dreams, though she had no idea what he could actually be guilty of. After all, she was attracted to him. He had been the one to mention sex, but it wasn’t as if she hadn’t already been thinking of it.
As for Cato MacTavish, nothing she had read proved that he had been guilty of the disappearance or the murders. In fact, the crimes had continued after he’d left town, which seemed to indicate the opposite: that despite the rumors swirling around him, he’d been entirely innocent. But there had been rumors—purposely circulated—that Cato remained in hiding. So, through the years he remained a suspect.
She was restless, and though she was enjoying the memoir, she found her mind wandering every few pages.
Finally she put the book down and tried calling Tim Jamison. He was theoretically a nine-to-fiver, but often a case made him run late, sometimes even keeping him on the job well into the night. But not tonight.
She tried Floby, but he wasn’t available, either.
She looked out the window at her house. Twilight was just beginning to arrive. The heat of the day was waning, and everything seemed a bit softer without the glare of the sun.
She left the carriage house, marched up the steps of her home and let herself in.