business district wasn’t much, just a lot of stores that appealed mainly to old people—they didn’t even have a Gap—but there was a decent college bookstore and two pizzerias and even one cheap sit-down restaurant that catered to students. Not that she was going to eat out this semester. This semester she was definitely eating in and saving her money.
Barbara felt a little pang, thinking of all the pizza she’d enjoyed last year, but then she pushed it out of her mind and picked up her pace. Her focus had to be on class work or she was never going to have the grades to get into grad school. Not that she knew what she wanted to do yet, but she knew she wasn’t going back to the dairy farm.
She walked briskly past Evers Hardware and its display of old-fashioned bamboo rakes, and past First National Bank where a teller about her age was grabbing a smoke. The young woman gave Barbara the disdainful look affected by townspeople who didn’t like college students, and stubbed out the cigarette with the toe of her cheap pump before flouncing through the double glass doors.
When Barbara reached Thorney Antiques Emporium at the end of the street, she unconsciously slowed down. This was the one old store she really loved, though her friends laughed at her when she insisted on stopping. Two stories crammed with several centuries worth of furniture and bric-a-brac, the shop looked as if it had stood there forever.
The owner, Mrs. Thorney, was slightly deaf and in some indeterminate period of old age between seventy and ninety. She dyed her hair shoe-polish black and wore it in a twisted cone, pinned to her head, so that it looked like a knob of polished ebony. She was fond of 1960s boldly patterned caftans and 1940s Bakelite jewelry and she called everybody “hon,” though her tone of voice could make that either crotchety or a caress.
She didn’t like the “college kids,” but made an exception for Barbara, who treated her store and its possessions with respect, and Barbara returned her affection.
There was no sign of Mrs. Thorney through the front window, but she’d obviously been busy over the weekend. There was a new display, Victorian-themed with an emphasis on white. Clusters of lush white flowers and greenery framed the window and curved around silver picture frames and a gilt-edged porcelain tea service on a wide silver tray. There were carved ivory fans and a few sparkling broaches mounted on a velvet pillow, and a wide-brimmed hat with fluffy white feathers curving around its brim.
Barbara stared at the montage, oohing and aahing over the various elements and able, as was Mrs. Thorney, to ignore the fact that the flowers were silk, the broaches made of rhinestones, the velvet pillow moth-eaten on one corner, and the band of the hat stained yellow with some long-ago wearer’s perspiration.
Her eyes flitted over everything, but came back to rest on a photograph in one corner. It was fairly small, maybe five by seven, and black and white with a sepia tone. It was in a silver frame that was tarnishing on its edges. This in no way detracted from the beauty of the young woman depicted, lying full-length on a chaise lounge, her body covered by a filmy-looking white dress with a high-neck. Her raised head rested on a pillow and she clasped flowers in hands folded demurely just below her chest.
Barbara looked, then looked again. She pressed her face so close to the window that it fogged up and she rubbed away the steam with an impatient hand. The young woman’s eyes were closed, but she knew what color they’d be if they were opened. Watery blue. She’d seen them before. She’d seen them in the halls of her dorm and staring out at her from posters all over campus.
“Lily!” Barbara rapped on the window, staring from the photo to the street and back again. “It’s Lily Slocum,” she cried to a passing car, but the driver only gave her a strange look and didn’t slow.
Barbara rushed to the door, but the knob wouldn’t turn. She knocked anyway and repeatedly pushed a grimy buzzer adjacent to the mail slot. “It’s Lily,” she kept repeating, and when Mrs. Thorney finally came to the door, looking angry, then startled, she fell into her arms repeating the same thing over and over.
“Stop it, girl, take a breath,” Mrs. Thorney said, giving the much larger Barbara a firm shake belied by her small stature and voluminous green robe. “Get a hold of yourself!”
But Barbara pushed past her and raced to the front window, knocking over a wicker carriage and a tower of moldering books in the process.
“Hey, stop that!” Mrs. Thorney yelled, but Barbara was already reaching into the display and grabbing the frame. She held it out to Mrs. Thorney with shaking hands, pointing at the young woman.
“It’s Lily!” she said. “Lily Slocum.”
Mrs. Thorney looked from the photo to Barbara’s face and shrugged. “It’s an old photo, dear, a Victorian mourning photograph. I don’t know the identity of the young woman.”
“It’s Lily Slocum!” Barbara cried, but Mrs. Thorney continued to stare at her. She felt like shaking the old woman. “The student who went missing in May!”
Mrs. Thorney looked affronted, but then recognition seemed to dawn. She grabbed the frame from Barbara and peered through coke-bottle glasses at the photo. “It can’t be,” she said. “This is an old photograph. Over a hundred years.”
Barbara could barely hold onto the frame she was shaking so hard. “It’s Lily,” she said. “It’s got to be Lily.”
“But it’s an antique, dear.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Thorney looked helplessly around the crowded store and then up at Barbara. “I’ve had it for a long time, haven’t I?”
The dim and dusty shop seemed far less romantic now to Barbara. She pushed past Mrs. Thorney to hold the frame under a lit reproduction Tiffany lamp. Under the clear light she was even more convinced that it was Lily, but she flipped the frame over anyway.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Thorney demanded. “You can’t do that to my property!”
Barbara ignored her, pushing the brackets out of the way and taking off the frame back. She removed the paper backing with shaking hands and carefully lifted out the photo. There was no writing on the back, but the photograph didn’t look so old close up. She held the photo under the light and scrutinized the face. It was definitely Lily Slocum. And there was something else, something she hadn’t noticed when it was behind glass.
Lily Slocum wasn’t sleeping, she was dead.
Chapter Four
The man who left his calling card in the antique store window watched from the coffee house across the street as the police arrived. He sat in the sun at a small corner table and sipped iced coffee through a straw, delicate beads of sweat dotting the glass and his upper lip.
Two middle-aged women at the table next to him discussed what was going on, craning their necks to see over the squad cars, one of them actually standing up and shading her eyes to get a clear look. She had a runner’s legs, the tendons taut against lightly tanned skin. Well preserved, he thought, and smiled at the irony. The girl in the picture was well preserved. He’d seen to that.
From his father he learned everything about death. The man had been the funeral director in their small West Virginia town, a job title that couldn’t begin to convey the messy and intricate work of preparing the dead for their final journey.
Half of the boy’s house had been a normal family home,
