Page 65 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
“Gemma.” She turned in her seat.
The younger woman eyed her, hugging a notebook to herself. “I’ll tell you what the facts say,” she said and directed her attention to Sid. “The Cornfield Ripper claimed the lives of the two Withers sisters in the course of one month. After which he continued to contact the local newspaper, laying claim to the girls’ deaths. They may attribute other deaths to him, but he didn’t specifically claim them, so there was an ongoing search to find the Cornfield Ripper, until he went dormant and was never heard from again.”
“So that part of the storyistrue.” Sid seemed oblivious to the tension between Molly and Gemma.
Gemma edged around them and dropped her notebook on the table by the microfiche monitor. “Yes. My sister found out that a George Wasziak—who I’ve already mentioned to Molly was our distant grandfather—was directly involved in the investigation. It seems he may have even been a suspect at one point.”
“Him and probably everyone else in Kilbourn,” Sid acknowledged.
Gemma seemed to warm to Sid’s engagement. Molly opted for silence. It was probably better that way.
“Not a lot was recorded about the murders outside of the newspaper reports.”
“What about police reports?” Sid inquired.
Gemma shrugged, shooting an indistinguishable look at Molly. “None on record. They’ve been lost over the years.”
Molly frowned. “How do you lose police reports?”
Gemma seemed to welcome her question. She plopped down on a third chair, rolling her eyes. “Handwritten records in 1910? Easy to lose track of. I mean, they could be in archives somewhere, but nothing is digitized back that far.”
“You asked the police about it?” Sid picked some lint that hung on Molly’s sleeve. Molly gave her a grateful smile.
“January asked.” Gemma’s voice dropped. She rubbed her eyes. “Sorry. I...” She hesitated, then met Molly’s eyes. “I’m trying to—”
“I know,” Molly cut in, acknowledging Gemma’s pain. She had to. She felt grief every day herself. Where she wallowed in it, however, Gemma was surging forward, looking for a resolution to her sister’s murder. Coping was what they were both attempting to do.
Gemma sighed, taking a moment to pull her shoulder-length hair back into a ponytail. Molly noticed how tired the girl looked. Twenty-eight years old should not look that haggard. That exhausted. But then she felt the same way about herself in her early thirties.
“I don’t understand why January was so consumed by this part of the Wasziak ancestry.” Gemma’s admission resonated with Molly. Their eyes met. Gemma continued, “I mean, I understand our great-great-grandfather lived during that time. He was a doctor, going by what January wrote in her journal. He probably pronounced both the Withers sisters dead. But there were other people involved. It’s not as if George was ever seriously suspected or investigated. At least not that January wrote about or that I’ve found. So why her fascination with the Cornfield Ripper?”
“Why is anyone fascinated by crime?” Sid interjected with a questioning twist of her mouth. “Think about it. Someone goes missing on television and we’re riveted bythe clues. We watch documentaries about serial killers all the time.”
“Youdo,” Molly teased.
Sid grinned. “Okay, fine, but the point remains. Maybe January was simply intrigued by the history and the potential familial links to it.”
Gemma reached for her notebook and opened it. “I took notes of my sister’s journal.”
How Gemma could even complete a sentence without getting emotional was beyond Molly. They were so very different in how they approached grief.
Gemma tugged at her lavender T-shirt, adjusting the rounded neck by her throat. Molly noticed a thin gold necklace with a J hanging from it. Her throat clogged. Her own insensitivity toward Gemma and her loss struck Molly with sudden force. She’d been so self-focused, so—
“The officer listed as the primary investigator was a Detective Poll. A few persons of interest—or who knows why January wrote these names down—were Perliett Van Hilton, Maribeth Van Hilton, and Jasper Bridgers.”
Molly stiffened. All thoughts of grief fled from her. “Who? What was that name?”
Gemma glanced at her, a furrow of question between her brows. “Jasper Bridgers. Why? Do you know who he was?”
Molly and Sid exchanged glances. Sid bit her bottom lip, and that was never a good sign with Sid. It meant she was hesitant. Had lost some sort of confidence. Or else she was worried. Molly bit at her thumbnail and then dropped her hand to her lap. There wasn’t any reason to be worried, just ... confused. Really. It was Kilbourn after all. A small town. Where everyone was connected.
Gemma was getting impatient with the silence. “Who is Jasper Bridgers?”
“He wasmygreat-grandfather,” Molly admitted hoarsely. “Bridgers is my maiden name.”
21
Perliett
