She likes to say that history is her family business. Her father was a history professor at Hadley College and her great--aunt Etta was the longtime curator of the historical society before Ora took over back in the 1950s.
“Well, who have we here? Is that Rowan Carmichael?” she asks.
Not exactly. That hasn’t been her name in twenty years. But despite seeing her often, Ora is one of those hometown folks who will always think of her as one of the Carmichael kids. Rowan can see the kids’ ears perk up: Rowan Carmichael? Who might that be?
Realizing her mistake, Ora says, “I’m sorry! I meant Rowan Mundy! I mean Mrs. Mundy!”
Instant contradiction from—-who else?—-Amanda Hicks: “You mean, Ms. Mundy!”
“Yes, come in, come in, Ms. Mundy and . . . everyone.” Ora holds the door wide open so that they can crowd into the majestic foyer, with its ornately carved woodwork, hexagon--shaped stained glass windows, and mosaic floor.
Rowan breathes a sigh of relief, ensconced, if only temporarily, in this familiar cocoon. Here, the old house scent that lingers in her attic at home blends with potpourri wafting from a cut--glass bowl near the guest book and the scented votives flickering on the marble mantelpiece. The imposing grandfather clock loudly ticks in time with its swaying pendulum, and Christmas music is playing courtesy of scratchy vinyl on a vintage Victrola.
In Rowan’s house, the staircase is carved of the same dark wood, but it’s angular with a landing. Here, the stairs curve in a graceful, unbroken arc to a second--floor balcony. Ora ducks beneath a velvet rope hung across its foot and ascends a few steps so that she can address the group from above.
At this time of year, visitors are restricted to the first floor, where it’s all about mistletoe and holly. The notorious Mundy’s Landing Collections—-archives relevant to the village’s bloody past—-are housed in two large rooms above.
In one, among other seventeenth--century artifacts, is a cast--iron kettle that Jake’s ancestors James and Elizabeth Mundy supposedly used to make stew from the disembodied limbs of their unfortunate fellow settlers. There are records from the trial and execution as well, written in pen and ink on crumbling parchment displayed beneath glass.
The other room contains a more extensive exhibit, given the relatively recent timing of the crimes. Included are bloodied clothing and hair ribbons that were found on the Sleeping Beauties’ corpses, and notes that were purportedly left by their killer. There are yellowed newspapers—-the story made national headlines—-and police reports, along with dozens, perhaps hundreds, of original photographs.
Rowan remembers poring over the collection as a child, when the historical society was crammed into the library basement. She was particularly captivated by the macabre images that showed the corpses tucked into beds that weren’t their own, arms folded neatly on the coverlets, faces serene, looking for all the world like sleeping children.
When she was growing up here, that exhibit was far more disturbing than the other one. Not so for Jake, though, or for their kids.
The overachieving descendants of James and Elizabeth Mundy stretched well above and beyond the realms of good citizenship in their efforts to redeem the tainted family name, and it’s paid off.
For the most part, anyway.
Years ago, forensic testing was conducted at Hadley College on skeletal remains that showed indications of having been crudely butchered—-including the fractured skull of a young female. The lab results revealed that the fracture had occurred before—-and most likely had been the cause of—-the girl’s death.
It’s one thing to be descended from Early American settlers who valiantly resorted to the unthinkable in order to stave off death by starvation, and were cruelly executed in front of their children. It’s another to be descended from cannibals who murdered their prey in cold blood.