Before Rowan can look at the menu, Annabelle Bingham stops by their table on her way back from the ladies’ room. They’ve shared a friendship since their own school days at Mundy’s Landing Elementary. The bond, like most, was stronger during some eras than others. Unlike Rowan, Annabelle walked the straight and narrow in high school, as swim team captain and honors student.
“Date night?” she guesses, greeting Rowan and Jake with hugs.
“Yes, how about you?”
“Nope, three’s a crowd, as usual.” She points across the room to where her husband, Trib, and their son, Oliver, are sitting.
Trib’s real name is Charles, but his nickname was bestowed in elementary school because his family owns the Mundy’s Landing Tribune. His father passed away not long ago, making him editor--in--chief.
“Did you and Trib really make an offer on 46 Bridge Street?” Rowan asks Annabelle, having heard through the local grapevine that the house--hunting -couple has set their sights on one of the most notorious homes in town.
Located in The Heights, 46 Bridge is one of the three houses where the Sleeping Beauty corpses turned up, and the only one still owned by the same family that had been in residence back in 1916. In fact, until she died just shy of her 105th birthday, Augusta Purcell was the last known living witness to the crime.
Her nephew and sole heir, Lester, is determined to keep the house from being exploited and reportedly refused an immediate offer from Ora Abrams on behalf of the historical society. Nor, according to the rumor mill, will Lester allow Realtors to show it to anyone he doesn’t pre--approve, in an effort to weed out Mundypalooza groupies. He’s determined to sell only to a longtime local family as a private residence. That’s going to be tricky considering that local families aren’t just familiar with the home’s bloody past, they’re also fully aware that curiosity seekers think nothing of trespassing, peering in the windows, or even snatching souvenirs from the storied Murder Houses. A few summers ago during Mundypalooza, someone stole the mailbox from 19 Schuyler Place with the residents’ mail still inside.
“News travels fast around here,” Annabelle says mildly, and changes the subject. “Where’s Mick tonight?”
“Hockey game,” Rowan says.
Jake adds, “It’s not like he’d want to be with us if he were free, though.”
“Oliver never wants to be without us.” Annabelle’s smile is wistful.
Rowan taught Annabelle’s son in her fourth--grade class two years ago. Diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder, he’s being treated with medication and therapy.
She asks Annabelle how he’s coping with middle school this year.
“Let’s just say it’s been a rough transition,” she says, and Rowan notices the worry lines around her eyes and dark circles beneath them.
“I’m sure it’ll get better.”
“I hope so.”
Rowan curbs the impulse to mention that living in one of the notorious Murder Houses, as the locals call them, might not be the healthiest thing for an overly anxious kid. It’s none of her business, and she knows that the Binghams aren’t very well--off and may have little choice. They fit Lester’s criteria, and the mansion at 46 Bridge Street is an absolute steal in this inflated real estate market.
“Anything look good?” Jake asks as Annabelle heads back to her table and Rowan puts on the glasses to glance at the specials.
“Everything looks good. I’m starved. I haven’t eaten since . . .”
The conversation with Annabelle had distracted her. For a moment, she’d forgotten about her day, and the diner, and Rick. Now it comes rushing back and her appetite completely disappears. Again.
“Didn’t you stop at the food court for lunch?”
“It was too crowded. Long lines.” She pretends to study the menu, struggling to hold it steady in her hands. “I can’t decide between the lobster ravioli and the eggplant rollatini.”
“Get both.”
“Both? No way.”
“How about if I get the ravioli and promise to share?”
You can share my bagel . . .
Rick, barging into her head again, dammit.
“No, thanks,” she tells Jake abruptly. “You have to get the Cavatelli a la Mama.”
“Why?”