Page 33 of One Last Breath

I blink. I can feel my cheeks heating as I start to realize how foolish I must sound. “Their… their neighbor, Miss Clara Beaumont.”

“And how does Miss Beaumont claim to have this information?”

“She was friends with Violet and Deirdre. Or… perhaps not friends, as she was in high school, and they would have graduated college or nearly so. But she knew them. And she says that Deirdre was last seen with Violet before she disappeared.”

“Did she say why she didn’t go to the police?”

“Well…” my cheeks are burning now. “No.”

Donnelly sighs and puts his pad down. In desperation, I say, "Please, Detective, I know they’re hiding something. I found letters in the daughter’s room from Lila that state she fears for her life. I have an admission from that same daughter that she hated Lila. The mother, Elizabeth, acts oddly. She visits her garden and talks to people who aren’t there, and the servants are all afraid to speak up.”

"None of what you've just told me suggests that anyone has been murdered."

“What about the letter? The one where Lila claimed she feared for her life.”

“Is that what the letter said? Exactly?”

“I…” my cheeks burn. “Well, no.”

“What did she say exactly?”

“That she… she wanted to take her leave soon, and she only hoped that it was of her own free will and to a destination of her choosing.”

Donnelly sighs again and begins to rub the bridge of his nose.

“It’s true! I’m telling the truth!”

“Thank you for your concern, Miss Wilcox.”

“No!” I shout, standing and slamming the desk with my palm. “You will not simply dismiss me like I’m some foolish child! A woman was murdered on that estate, and someone must do justice!”

He stares coldly at me. “Take a breath, Miss Wilcox. You’ve told me that you found a letter indicating that Lila Benson was dissatisfied with her employment. You’ve shared that Annabelle Greenwood didn’t like her teacher and that Elizabeth Greenwood talks to herself. You’ve repeated a rumor from a neighbor that Violet Hendrickson may have murdered someone a half-century ago, a rumor that your informant declined to provide to our police department at any point during those fifty years, and all of this, you insist, means that the Greenwood family conspired to have her killed.”

“Well, where is she then?” I challenge. “If she wasn’t killed, then why did she disappear? Why has no one heard of her?”

“Because she’s a grown adult who left her employers, not a treasured aunt who disappeared from her family home. You’ve let your imagination run dangerously wild, Miss Wilcox. If you are that convinced that your employers are murderers, I suggest you leave their employ and find work elsewhere. In any case, the Chatham County Police Department has actual work to attend to. We don’t have time to humor the fantasies of paranoid governesses.”

I stiffen in shock, but Donnelly maintains his cold stare. I feel my lower lip begin to tremble, and before I allow myself the humiliation of shedding tears in front of him, I rush from his office. I don’t stop until I’m at the bus stop again. I tremble with humiliation, rage and grief.

But mostly, I tremble with fear. Fear that I may have been wrong this whole time. Fear that my suspicions really are as absurd as they sound, and that I’m only concocting them so that I don’t have to face the mystery I wish to avoid.

The bus arrives, and I manage to control myself enough to avoid acting a fool in front of the driver and other passengers. I head back to the estate, unsure of everything I thought was true.

Maybe Donnelly is right. Maybe I should find other employment. God knows this job has brought me nothing but stress and uncertainty. Perhaps I should return to teaching, to a safe, comfortable life that protects me from the dangers of my own mind.

Perhaps it’s time to let the ghosts rest in peace.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I reach the estate at quarter to two. I typically lunge around noon, and the trembling in my hands is caused by more than emotional distress. I'll make myself some food and some tea—chamomile this time—and spend a soothing afternoon on the back porch until the edge comes off. Perhaps in a more centered frame of mind, I'll be able to make a better decision when it comes to what to do next.

My relaxation is not to be. When I pass the wrathful Moses, I see the family gathered on the front porch of the house, talking to a stranger. I try to walk past them with nothing but a perfunctory greeting, but Elizabeth accosts me.

“Oh, Mary! Do join us. I’d like you to meet our friend, George Baumann.”

I have no interest in meeting this George Baumann or in joining the family, but I can’t refuse an invitation from Elizabeth. I see they have fruit and cheese on the table, so at least I’ll get to eat. The tea is the abhorrent iced concoction they love so much, but it’s better than nothing.

I smile and say, “Thank you, Elizabeth. You’re very kind.”

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