“It’s all right, Meg. We don’t mind a special request now and then,” Doro said.
“Thank you, Doro,” Frances said. The two women seemed to size each other up for a minute, then Frances broke the silence. “Well, good night.”
She disappeared inside. I followed her. Caught her arm at the foot of the stairs. She whipped around to face me.
“What do you want?” She did look tired, and for a minute I regretted what I knew I was about to do. I withdrew my hand.
“What are you writing?”
She shook her head like the question didn’t warrant an answer.
“What’s the deadline, Mom?”
“I can’t talk about it. Nothing’s official yet.”
“What are you up to?” I hissed.
“What am I up to?” she snapped. “You should be asking Doro what she’s up to. There was someone watching us, back there at Kim Baker’s cabin. I saw them, running away through the woods.”
“It was a deer. Or a horse. Or a raccoon or an armadillo or whatever the hell else lives on this island.”
“It wasn’t an animal. It was a person.”
“What do you want me to do about it, Frances?”
“Come home with me. This place isn’t safe.”
I clenched my fists.
“You can’t stop this book,” I said evenly. “You won’t. And I’m warning you, if you try, I’ll make you sorry.”
She seemed to float for a moment, to turn to one side then the other like she couldn’t find a way of escape. Then her hand hit the heavy wood banister and her back went straight. She started up the stairs, her jeans sagging at the waist, and there was a sweat stain on the back of her tank. I watched her round the landing and then head up the second flight.
I gulped air and smeared the tears I hadn’t realized I’d been crying off my face. I felt a hand on my arm. Doro.
“Go upstairs,” she said quietly. “Take a shower. Get some rest. I’ll have your supper sent up too.”
I hesitated. “No. I need to work. You mentioned the other day that I could go up in the attic to look through the old guest registries. Would you mind if I did that now?”
“Of course not. Can I ask what you’re looking for, exactly?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. A name I recognize? Someone my mother knew who might’ve come down here to tidy up for her? Or maybe she came down here again and used one of her aliases I might recognize. I don’t know.”
“She couldn’t have come here without me or my father recognizing her. Or all the fans.”
I nodded and she hugged me, hard. “It’s going to be okay, Meg. You’ll figure it out.”
She released me, and I ran upstairs to my room, soaped off the bug spray and sweat, threw on pajama pants and a T-shirt. I twisted my wet hair into a knot on the top of my head and grabbed my notepad. I hadn’t discovered anything noteworthy at the Baker house, but I hoped to have better luck with the hotel records. Best-case scenario: the attic would prove to be a treasure trove of information, and it would keep me busy—and distracted—for hours.
Ambletern’s attic reminded me of a set designer’s idea of Manderley’s garret. The whole place was bathed in amber light from a row of porthole windows under the eaves. Discarded furniture rose in ghostly, sheet-draped forms. Massive wardrobes, moth-eaten Victorian sofas and matching rocking chairs trimmed with braid and fringe and sitting on dark-stained, carved claw feet. Scattered Tiffany lamps, dusty taxidermied animal heads, and china figurines that all seemed to be missing at least one crucial part.
Along the right wall, cardboard file boxes were stacked in neat rows, three high and ten across. Arranged on the left wall was a collection of trunks, those old-fashioned camp lockers with metal fittings and latches. There were rings for padlocks, but most of them appeared to be open. I sighed. Going through every one of these boxes would be a tedious process. And I had no idea what I was even looking for.
I lifted the lid off the first box. It was filled with stacks of neatly folded clothing, men’s shirts and pants. I touched the one on top—it was soft, threadbare, and faded, a denim work shirt with pearl snap buttons, the kind that Doro liked to wear. There were more under it, the same style but plaid and khaki and olive green. The next trunk held hats: floppy fisherman’s hats, bandannas, and straw fedoras, and three pairs of work boots.
The rest of the trunks held little girl’s clothing: small capri pants and jean shorts, T-shirts, and a couple of dingy sundresses. A two-piece swimsuit, bright red with a navy-and-white plastic flower on the strap. There was also a box with a carefully folded lace wedding dress wrapped in tissue. I didn’t pull it out.
The last trunk, the one farthest against the far wall, was locked. I pulled at the latch, even hit the tiny padlock a couple of times, but I didn’t want to break it. I tilted the trunk back and crowed softly. Attacked to the underside, with a starburst of yellowed tape, was a tiny key.
I pulled it loose, opened the lock, and lifted the lid.
A cloud of dirt and mildew enveloped me as I pulled out the items and laid them side by side. There was a small dark-green gingham dress, edged with ruffles. A gauzy red shawl, torn in half. A white ostrich feather and a cheap silver necklace.
My breath caught.
I flashed to the bus and the ad with Frances’s picture beside the fortieth-anniversary book jacket. This was the exact outfit Kitten was wearing on the cover, down to the faux-Incan choker necklace. It must’ve been Doro’s when she was young. How easy it would’ve been for Frances to change things up, to have her demonic little protagonist wear something else. What a cruelty, then, to duplicate the costume so precisely. Almost as if she wanted Doro forever, irrevocably connected to the horror of the book.
How like my mother.
I returned everything to the trunk, locked it, and tucked the key underneath the loose tape. Then I crossed to the file boxes and began riffling through the files. They were mostly invoices, receipts, tax records—nothing of interest. I made my way down the row, and found, in the third-to-the-last box, the stack of registry books, starting with the year 1942. I worked my way through the stack, searching for 1975, the year Frances came to the island. When I found it, I lifted it out and carried it to a table by one of the porthole windows.
I ran my finger down the list of names until I hit a certain one.
Frances Ashley, the signature read in a careful hand. May 15, 1975. Beside the date, a little flower, a daisy drawn to look like it was growing directly out of the number five. I touched it.
I scanned the rest of the page, my eyes blurring, until I came across another familiar name: Mr. & Mrs. Milton Darnell. Dalton, Georgia.