The premonition at withe.., p.20
The Premonition at Withers Farm, page 20
He would find her. She was next. She was dark-haired and looked like the Withers sisters. Millie had warned her.
Cock Robin.
“Who killed Cock Robin?”
She could hear Millie in her ear.
I told you, Perliett. I told you he would come.
She clawed her way up the embankment to the path that had first led her to the river. Her left shoe leaving a wet footprint, Perliett catapulted her way up the trail. She needed to return home. Lock the doors. The windows. As Detective Poll had instructed.
Arms grabbed her from behind and yanked her half off her feet.
Perliett screamed, kicking with her heels and jabbing with her elbows. She would not die! She would not surrender!
“Perliett!” The male voice shouted sternly in her ear, demanding she cease her struggle.
It only encouraged her to fight harder. She dug her fingernails into the man’s hands that gripped her waist.
“You little minx!” he growled. Instead of releasing her, he forcefully spun her around, pinning her to his chest.
Perliett’s frantic gaze collided with George Wasziak’s. The doctor appeared to have no patience for her shenanigans. Well, why would he? Her fingernails had all but skinned him alive.
“You’re in shock, Perliett. Now stop struggling before you make me smack you across the face!”
She froze. Drew back. “You wouldn’t!” she hissed, skewering George with a glare.
“I have known it to be effective against overreactions of shock. So please, do not make me strike a woman for the first time in my life.”
Perliett palmed his chest and pushed against it. If anything was shocking her back to her senses, it was how firm his chest was. How strong he was. How oddly comforting it had been to be stilled from her fear by a man who was stronger than she was. A man with good intentions, even if he was high-handed.
George released her. He brushed the front of his white shirt, now soiled from the dirt on her hands. “Woman, you will be the death of me.”
“If I don’t pass away first.” She cast a nervous glance toward the river.
Men mingled there. She glimpsed Detective Poll. She noticed Jasper was there as well. A few others. They were wrapping Millie’s body in a blanket. She caught little snatches of it through the weeds and trees.
“What killed her?” Perliett attempted to right her emotions. She’d made a ninny of herself in her shock. She knew that now. Any credibility—well, not that she had any, but still—with George would be toasted and eaten for breakfast now. Dry toast. Difficult to swallow. Maybe it would choke the man as it went down.
“She was stabbed. The same as her sister.”
At least George didn’t withhold the gory details from her as if she were a child needing to be mollycoddled. “As many times too?”
“I won’t know until she’s taken to my office. I will examine her there.”
“I’ll help,” Perliett announced, shaking leaves and brushing mud from the skirt of her dress. Her beautiful emerald skirt. So pretty . . . so damaged.
“No. You’ll go home to rest under the care of your mother.” George examined her, and Perliett could tell that while she wasn’t wounded, her screaming and her descent into hysterics as she called for help had made her shaky. Even so, George had no right to lord his authority over her now that she had calmed herself.
“I will come. A woman must be present to clean the body.”
“I have Miss Petra.”
“But you called for me when Eunice died,” Perliett challenged.
“Because Miss Petra was away for the day.” George lifted his face toward heaven as if to pray for extra patience. “Perliett, for once, don’t argue with me.”
“I never argue with you.” She knew she sounded petulant. Perhaps she hadn’t completely recovered from her shock.
“Perliett—”
“I can see Miss Van Hilton home,” Mr. Bridgers offered as he approached them. Concern practically emanated from him and warmed Perliett. She did a quick and completely inappropriate comparison between the two men and was surprised to note that George’s chest appeared broader, but Jasper’s arms stronger. Or maybe that was because he was in shirtsleeves and George was wearing a coat, regardless of the thick humidity in the air.
It surprised Perliett to catch George rolling his eyes in an uncustomary childish approach to addressing Jasper.
“I will see that Perliett returns to her home safely.” George put a definitive period at the end of the argument as he raised an eyebrow and glared.
Jasper’s mouth twitched a little. He looked past George. “Perliett, who would you prefer to see you home?”
“She’s not in a state of mind to make those decisions—”
“You,” Perliett said, interrupting George with a pointed look. “I mean you, Jasper.” She realized saying you while looking at George gave the wrong impression.
“Very well.” Jasper stepped forward as if he were going to take her arm, but George moved in front of her and effectively blocked them from being together.
“I am her doctor, Mr. Bridgers, and I must insist I see her home and converse with her mother regarding any follow-up care that should be given to Miss Van Hilton. Which, incidentally, is none of your business.”
Jasper bowed slightly. “I submit to your vast knowledge and expertise.” Mockery was thick in his words, but George ignored him. He turned instead to Perliett.
“Come with me.”
“What nonsense.” Perliett waved him off. “I can administer my own care, thank you very much, and my mother hasn’t . . .” She broke off before she revealed that for all the love she had for her mother, the nurturing side of Maribeth Van Hilton was lacking.
George looked as if it was all he could do not to take her arm and manhandle her to his carriage for the ride home.
Jasper met her eyes. “Go, Perliett. Dr. Wasziak has good intentions, even if his delivery leaves much to be desired. I will stay behind and see if I can be of assistance in this matter here.” He looked over his shoulder, muttering, “The poor girl. I pray she didn’t suffer.”
“Prayers that have come too late,” George inserted.
“Did you pray prior to her death?” Jasper asked.
George glowered, his eyes darkening to that familiar deep shade of fathomless black. “I haven’t ceased praying.” He eyed Perliett for a moment, just long enough to make her squirm beneath his gaze—almost knowing, almost intimately acquainted with her soul. “And I will continue to pray until all are safe.”
She was still shaken. But wild horses couldn’t drag her body across the plains long enough for Perliett to ever admit that to George.
George.
He sat stiffly beside her in his carriage, ignoring the wheezing clack of a passing motorcar. She had the fleeting thought that George Wasziak was too old-fashioned to own a motorcar. He would use a horse and buggy until his gravestone boasted his name.
Perliett linked her hands together to disguise her trembling fingers. What had upset her so much more about Millie’s death than Eunice’s? She had studied Eunice’s body. Honestly, she’d been intrigued by the mystery of it, despite the awful circumstances. But Millie? Perhaps it was because she’d just been on Perliett’s porch. Last night. They’d discovered the dead robin. She’d been so adamant they were in danger.
She had been so right.
“When you return home, I would recommend you have some chamomile tea with lavender. It will help calm your nerves.”
“I know,” Perliett responded to George with a curt nod.
“I could administer a small dose of sleeping powders if you—”
“If I were a porcelain doll, George, I may welcome this sort of delicate attention, but really, I’m made of far stiffer material.” It annoyed Perliett when her voice broke. Tears were her nemesis, but when they did come, at least she and George were in the privacy of the carriage. The tears were impossible to stop.
“Mmm.” His low growl was almost mesmerizing and insinuated he’d noticed her chin quivering.
George snapped the reins, and the horse trotted faster. Soon the Van Hilton home came into view. Its two-story white structure, front porch laden with massive potted ferns . . . it was home. Yet it felt strangely empty as George steered the buggy into the drive.
Her mother was absent. Where, Perliett did not know. But this should solve any worry that George would stay and belabor them with instructions for Perliett to follow, as if it were she who’d been attacked and not poor, dead Millie Withers.
“My mother is not home. I can tell because the front door is closed. She always leaves it open during the day if she’s home. So, you may drop me off here. I will see myself inside.” Perliett swung toward the outside of the buggy, but George’s hand on her arm stopped her.
She turned, giving him her full attention in spite of herself.
His black eyes had softened, only they were edged with concern and not a little caution. Even the hand on her, while firm, was gentle. Coaxing almost. No, pleading. She wasn’t accustomed to this side of George Wasziak.
“Perliett . . . I don’t feel it is safe to leave you here alone.”
She swallowed back her nervousness. “I’ll be fine.” She waved off his concern with a tremor in her voice. Her justification was paltry and silly in light of what had just happened. Foolhardy, really.
George shifted in his seat and it brought him closer to her. He maintained his grave expression, only somehow he seemed more vulnerable. It was as if he was wrestling with something.
“We don’t know who is responsible for the Withers sisters’ deaths. But Mrs. Withers is correct in that you are similar in appearance to them. If the killer is selecting a victim merely based on appearances, then you are likely to be on that list.”
“This isn’t a new concept, George.” Perliett tempered her voice. He seemed to care—at least in this moment—and as long as he wasn’t being arrogant, she could appreciate human kindness.
“I realize that, but I’m not certain you are aware of the dangers of men.”
There it was. That insult that her womanly constitution made her somehow innocent of all concepts—especially medically. “Of course I am!”
“Are you?”
“I know what atrocities can be committed against a woman’s wishes.”
George colored, and she was surprised at that. For a second, he blustered then shook his head. “That’s—that’s not what I was implying, though potentially accurate. I was referring to man’s innate wickedness.”
“Men in general terms, or do you include women?” Perliett couldn’t help it. Baiting George was what she was best at.
He smiled grimly. “Contrary to what people wish to hear, I believe we all have a nature to do evil.”
“Even babies?” Perliett challenged with a teasing smile, thankful for the distraction.
“Even babies.”
“Heartless brute.” She had no qualms calling the man out for his condemnation of an innocent soul.
George drew back slightly, quirking a black eyebrow. “You’ve never seen an infant scream in a fit of anger?”
“I would hardly call that evil.”
“A foreshadowing then? Of what is coming. That imperfect person whose primary motivation is to satisfy one’s own pleasures.”
“That’s a bad thing?” Perliett thought of her morning coffee and was fairly certain she’d be willing to follow in the footsteps of the Cornfield Ripper if someone were to threaten that pleasure.
“It is when it hurts another.”
Perhaps she’d been too flippant about her retaliation in the face of her coffee forfeiture. But still . . . “Most men and women do not act on the basest of carnal motivations, though. You can hardly compare a child’s tantrum to the Cornfield Ripper’s brutality.”
“Certainly not the outcome. Or the consequences. And not even the impact on those around them. You are correct. But in the end, both land on the same side of the scale regarding right or wrong.”
“What does any of this have to do with right now?” Perliett grew agitated. George was simply an intellectual who had married his intellect with his faith, and that became annoying because of its arguable truth.
“Do not put your trust in anyone right now.”
Perliett tilted her head. “Even you?”
“My argument includes everyone, if you take me literally.”
“So, I should be afraid of my mother?”
“I didn’t say to be afraid. I said to not put your trust in a person right now.”
“But—”
“Kilbourn has proven to not be a safe place. Think carefully. There are no strangers here—except for Mr. Bridgers, another topic altogether—which means one of us has a propensity to act on the great violence in our heart.”
“But not my mother,” Perliett said.
“I merely am saying to be wise.”
Perliett scowled. “You are talking in circles. I have this feeling you have something else you’re trying to say and you’re avoiding it.”
“Because you’ll accuse me of being high-handed.”
“Perhaps.”
George rubbed his chin with his hand. Perliett heard the scratch of stubble against his palm. He took a deep breath and then released it. “I . . . Never mind.” He shook his head, deciding against saying whatever was on the tip of his tongue.
“George . . .” Perliett surprised herself by reaching out and resting her hand over his.
He jerked as if her touch burned him. She realized her gloves had come off sometime between finding Millie’s body and now. Skin on skin, the heat that rose surprised her, but it also stunned her enough that she couldn’t remove her hand.
She couldn’t move.
They locked eyes. A long, silent moment.
George cleared his throat but didn’t pull away. “Be cautious. In everything. You play with fire until it burns you, Perliett, and you still go back for more. It keeps me up at night.”
“Worrying about me is not your responsibility.” Perliett was amazed at the warmth that flooded her. She hadn’t expected that. Not from George Wasziak.
He drew back his hand. His scowl returned, and he sniffed. “No. You are not my responsibility.”
For some reason, Perliett felt George stated it more so to remind himself than to assure her.
I am a beast.
Kills the robin.
Save a feather.
I stroke my face with its softness.
I remember.
Feeding the beast will keep it content.
For now.
Until another robin decides to fly.
22
Molly
“It’s not possible.” Molly climbed the ladder steps into the attic of the chicken coop.
Sid followed but with less enthusiasm. Caution seemed to envelop her, and Molly was very aware that they were swapping roles. Typically, Sid was the adventurer and Molly wallowed. But now she was motivated. Motivated by the reality that maybe Gemma Rabine was righter than she wanted to admit. That seeking justice for January would illuminate secrets long buried that perhaps haunted them in the present. Not that the past could answer for her and Trent’s personal losses, but resolving the past and the present seemed to promise some sort of undefined hope she couldn’t explain.
And hope wasn’t something she’d had for some time. Even if this was more desperation than anything, it was something. At least she was doing something.
“I can’t believe it truly is a killer’s kit,” Molly emptily reassured both herself and Sid as they entered the attic. She crossed the floor and approached the crate that held the items Sid so brazenly had dubbed a serial killer’s kit a few days before.
“Even if it is,” Sid argued, “it has nothing to do with the Cornfield Ripper. That was in 1910. They didn’t have duct tape in 1910.”
“What did they have then? Someone could’ve tossed a roll of duct tape in later. Maybe it’s a clue.” Molly sorted through the contents again. She pulled out the leather belt strap and studied it. “See? This could be vintage.”
“A clue to what? What are we looking for?” Sid toed the corner of the crate.
“I don’t know.” Molly didn’t want to admit it, but she felt as directionless as she felt invigorated. “But if it involved our grandfathers in the Cornfield Ripper killings even a little bit, then that ties to January’s ancestral research, which could lead us to why she was killed.”
“I almost expected Gemma to say a ghost killed her.” Sid chuckled, crossing the room to duck and look out the small window.
Molly stilled and eyed Sid’s back. “What if it did?”
“Molly.” Sid turned and leveled a look on her that left Molly pretty sure she’d just about revealed her hand as far as what she believed when it came to spirits.
Believed? That was too strong of a word. What she was afraid was true about spirits? Maybe that was more accurate.
“Well, think about it.” Molly wasn’t quite willing to let it go. “People have said ghosts have scratched them in the night. Cut. Sometimes strangled even. Who’s saying that—”
“Molly!” Sid half laughed and half twisted her face in disbelieving laughter. “You can’t seriously think there’s any credibility to the idea that January was killed because she was researching an old murder case? By a ghost, no less. Do you know how many people have researched the Cornfield Ripper before? It’s a cold case—just like Gemma indicated. That stuff intrigues people. Looking into it doesn’t get a person killed.”
“Is this a killer’s kit, though?” Molly dangled the leather belt. “Coincidence?”
“Then take it to the police,” Sid concluded, her hands at her hips. “If you really think those items are somehow tied to January’s death, then you need to call the cops.”
“I’m just saying . . . there are a lot of unanswered questions here.” Of course, that wouldn’t make sense to Sid. She wasn’t aware of half of what Molly could sense. Could feel. She hadn’t seen the ghoulish remains of January Rabine in the basement. She hadn’t been haunted by the vision of the little girl in the coop attic. That this was the old Withers farm? Why would a killer target two sisters? And had other deaths come after? If so, who were they?
