got into it, did they?” Babette wasted no time in clarifying things.
Irene gave a half-hearted grin. “Threats flew and I thought for a moment that things might get physical. Sara liked to snoop, you see. Magdalen accused her of prowling around in her things. Papers and the like. We’re all sensitive about privacy around here, as you can imagine. Sara denied touching anything, but Mags didn’t believe her, and it’s true that someone had been riffling through her belongings.”
“What kind of threats were made, Irene?” I felt like covering my ears in a hear no evil pose.
“Just the usual.” Irene brightened. “Like on television. All the police shows have someone threatening to kill someone else.”
Babette yawned. “Big deal. I say that at least once a week, especially about my spineless ex-husband.” Her lip curled as she recalled Carleton Croy.
“Then there was the prowler. At least Mags thought that was what he was. She caught someone jiggling the door handle in her room and screamed bloody murder.”
Alarm bells were clanging in my mind. Either Magdalen was delusional or she was quite right to be concerned about her safety. Prowlers, pills, and premature deaths didn’t bode well for anyone, let alone a vulnerable elderly spinster.
“I bet it’s part of this manuscript stuff,” Babette said, turning to Irene. “How many people know about it?”
For a moment, Irene hesitated. “Manuscript?”
Delicacy was never my pal’s strong suit. “Don’t be coy,” she said. “You’re her best friend after all. I tell Perri everything and I’ll bet you share too.”
Irene nodded. “Mags did mention something, but frankly I thought she might be …”
“Lying?” Babette said.
“Oh no! Nothing like that. Exaggerating maybe. Life here is pretty dull, you know.” Irene bit her lip and once again appeared close to tears.
I prized loyalty in my friends and empathized with her dilemma. “Tell you what,” I said. “We’ll call Magdalen later and make sure she’s okay.” Babette grunted and Pruett gave Irene a little hug that elevated her spirits much more than anything I could offer. We exchanged pleasantries and took our leave. I clutched the manila envelope as tightly if it were a living thing, positive that the contents would go a long way toward unlocking the key to Sebastian Melmoth’s literary legacy. If it existed, that is.
The suspense was prolonged by Pruett’s insistence that we stop for dinner at his favorite French bistro in Leesburg. Babette concurred. She seldom refused a chance to chow down à la française, particularly when a man was footing the bill. Over an exquisite meal of crepes, we shared our hopes and reservations about this latest quest. Most of our discussion centered around mysterious Magdalen Melmoth. Pruett had mixed feelings, Babette termed her a kook, and I was undecided. Until we scrutinized the contents of that envelope, speculation was counterproductive and useless. I planned to give my new friend the benefit of the doubt.
After reaching Great Marsh, I tended to my pets while Pruett and Babette sipped bourbon and swapped theories. Feeding and grooming one cantankerous goat, a lively Arabian, an entitled feline, and two large dogs took considerable time and effort. By mutual agreement the envelope remained sealed until all three of us were present.
“Okay, gang,” I said when I finally joined them. “Let the games begin.”
I did the honors, using an antique letter opener to carefully pry apart the flap of the envelope. As the contents spilled on to my farmhouse table, we held our collective breaths and stared. Nothing earthshaking emerged; simply several handwritten pages with the legend Sybil Vane, and a packet of yellowed sheets of what looked like correspondence fastened by a pink ribbon.
“Wow,” Babette grumbled. “Is this the big reveal? Looks like a bunch of junk to me.”
“Hold on.” Pruett’s long, slender fingers carefully untied the letters. He remained focused on the task at hand, blissfully unaware of my impatience.
“This might be something after all,” he said. “Remember. no email, texts, or cell phones in those days. People communicated the old-fashioned way.”
As I reached for the Sybil Vane pages, Babette snatched them from me. “Wait a minute, girlfriend. We’re partners, remember? Heck. We might be making history— touching a masterpiece.” She fumbled in her purse for the reading glasses she abhorred and perched them on the tip of her nose.
I kept my doubts to myself. No need to shatter Magdalen’s dreams prematurely. Time enough for that later. I soon realized we had in our possession the prologue to a novel. The full title read Sybil Vane, a novel by Sebastian Melmoth. It appeared to be a first-person narrative of the title character’s life and tragic death at her own hand. The language was formal, much more typical of the nineteenth century than our own. Nevertheless, it was compelling. I scanned the first paragraph, unable to avert my eyes.
“I never sought to end my life—not until HE who was my sole reason for existence cast me aside. He dismissed any claim I had to beauty or talent as wanting. Like Hamlet, I reviled self-slaughter, but life was bereft of meaning without him and I succumbed.”
Babette gasped and clutched my arm. “Good Lord! This is excitin’.”
Before I could respond, my iPhone buzzed. I considered ignoring it but reached for it from sheer force of habit. The lure of potential customers outweighed personal convenience every time. The voice on the other end was faint, barely audible.
“Who’s speaking please?” I asked.
“It’s Irene. Irene Wilson.”
Alarm bells clanged in my head, but I kept my voice calm and unemotional. “Yes, Mrs. Wilson. How can I help you? Is Magdalen okay?”
Irene Wilson sobbed loudly into the phone. “That’s just it, Ms. Morgan. Mags has disappeared.” She gulped. “And something else. Nurse Ross—she’s been murdered.”
Chapter 6
By unspoken agreement we three leashed the dogs, bundled up, and trekked to my old Suburban, the only vehicle large enough to accommodate our entire crew. For once Pruett was too engrossed in reading Magdalen’s correspondence to grouse about who would drive. The rules were simple—my car, my choice. I also happened to be a better driver than Pruett, although neither one of us discussed that issue. Because her night vision was impaired, Babette was content to curl up in the back seat with Clara and doze. She was untroubled by the driving question; she honored the old Southern tradition of letting males take the lead whenever possible unless her own wishes were thwarted.
“Anything interestin’ in those letters?” she asked Pruett. Naptime ended and Babette was ready to rock. “You’re a million miles away.”
He pushed down his horn-rimmed glasses and grinned. “Can’t tell yet. Murder and kidnapping tend to distract me. For all we know, Nurse Ross may have died from natural causes and Magdalen simply fled the scene. Too soon to know. Mrs. Wilson might have exaggerated.”
I hoped he was right, but I doubted it. The sound of Irene’s panicked voice reverberated in my ear. Obviously, some type of incident had spooked her and sent the entire facility
