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“This shows an alcove.”
“An alcove? Maybe it’s back there behind all the junk and you just can’t see it.”
Mary Sue’s frown deepened. “Do you remember an alcove from when you were growing up here?”
She was supposed to remember an alcove? Seriously? “No. The plans for the house must be outdated.”
“Not according to the courthouse. Your grandmother bought this house when she was in her twenties so she had it for...”
“She was seventy-six when she died, so she had it for more than fifty years.” Annabelle hadn’t realized how long Frannie had lived in Whitehorse until she’d seen it in the obituary that one of her sisters had sent her. It hadn’t been out of kindness that Chloe had mailed it to her. Her older sister had never been that subtle. Both Chloe and Tessa Jane—TJ—had tried to make her feel guilty about their grandmother leaving her the house—let alone Annabelle missing the funeral.
“Frannie owned this house almost from the time it was built,” Mary Sue was saying. “So if anyone made the changes, it had to have been your grandmother. Why would she wall up an alcove? I wonder what’s behind it?”
“Okay, you’re giving me the creeps now,” Annabelle said. “Clearly, you have the plans for the wrong house. Aren’t there a bunch of houses along this street with similar floor plans?”
Mary Sue nodded, but didn’t look convinced. “I can check at the courthouse again I guess. But you have to admit, if the plans are right, then it is more than a little odd to wall up the alcove, let alone—”
“You’re letting your imagination run away with you. You knew my grandmother.”
With a lift of one eyebrow, Mary Sue said, “She said her husband died before she moved to Whitehorse, but what if—”
“Seriously? You think my grandfather’s body is stuffed in there?”
“Ever seen the play Arsenic and Old Lace?”
“Frannie Clementine was one of the most kind and generous people in town. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Standing just over five feet, Frannie had been a tiny, sweet-tempered woman who loved kids, garage sales and cooking. She attended church every Sunday, come rain or shine or snow.
Annabelle could tell that Mary Sue was enjoying trying to scare her. Was it any wonder that they hadn’t been friends in high school?
“Just sayin’,” the Realtor said, clearly trying to hide a grin. “Did you know that since her death right before Halloween last month, kids are saying that this house is haunted?”
“That’s ridiculous. Just because she died in this house...” Annabelle tried to hide the shudder that moved through her at the thought. If one of her neighbors, old Inez Gilbert, hadn’t come over to check on Frannie, she would have been lost in all this mess for weeks. That thought did nothing to improve the situation.
“On Halloween some kids saw what they said was a ghost moving around in the house. They said it looked like an old woman dressed in all white and—”
“Stop,” Annabelle snapped, having had enough. The house was creepy as it was with all the memories, not to mention being filled to overflowing with collected junk. She really didn’t need this. “It was probably Inez from next door. The woman is a horrible busybody and always has been.”
If Mary Sue thought she could scare her, then she didn’t know what scary was. Unfortunately, Annabelle did. It was losing a dream job and a fabulous lifestyle, and being forced to do things she’d told herself she would never do, like return to this town and all the memories that came with it.
“The house isn’t haunted. There never was an alcove—”
Mary Sue tapped her clipboard. “But the plans—”
“The alcove isn’t here now so that’s all I care about. I need to get packing and you need to get this house sold. Just get me the names of people who will help clean it out.”
Right now, though, she needed a breath of fresh air and Whitehorse had plenty of that. She stepped out onto the front porch, letting the door close behind her. She’d known this wouldn’t be easy, but it was turning out to be more difficult than she could have imagined. The memories, the stories, the stupid missing alcove, not to mention all that junk. She definitely had more pressing things to worry about than a bunch of local kids thinking the house was haunted.
The clock was ticking, she thought, looking at her car, the last vestige of her former life other than the clothes on her back. She had to get this house sold.
* * *
MARY SUE GRITTED her teeth. Annabelle annoyed her to no end. “Hasn’t changed a bit,” she muttered. “Get me this, do this for me.” She looked around the house, her gaze going to the kitchen and the missing alcove. “I hope there is a body walled up in there—and a vindictive ghost who hates blondes.” That would serve Annabelle right.
She felt guilty, but only a little, for trying to scare her former classmate. But she was still puzzling over the missing alcove as she stepped out onto the porch. Her mother had been a Realtor. Maybe she’d ask her if she knew anything about the old Clementine house, as it was known around town. It sat along with a half dozen others on a street locally and affectionately known as Millionaire’s Row. The houses were large, a lot of them the same basic floor plan.
Mary Sue moved to the end of the porch to look back at the rock wall that marked the property line. On the other side of the wall was the Milk River. Between the house and the river, though, were large trees and an expanse of grass broken only by some cracked sidewalk that ended at an old garage that had seen better days.
“That should come down,” she said of the dilapidated structure and marked it on her sheet on her clipboard. Through the trees, she could make out only a portion of the neighboring house’s eaves in the distance. These really were beautiful old houses along this street, so private because of the old-growth trees and the huge lots. Not exactly Millionaire’s Row now, but definitely prime real estate in this town.
“So where can I reach you?” Mary Sue asked, turning to Annabelle who appeared distracted. Not that she could blame her. The supermodel had quite a job before her.
“You have my cell number and you know where to find me. I’ll be staying here.”
“In the house?” Mary Sue couldn’t help her surprise.
Annabelle turned to look at her. “Why wouldn’t I stay here?”
“No reason, except...” She remembered all the clutter and the fact that Frannie had died here. Not that unusual for a woman her age, but still, add to that the walled-up alcove... Mary Sue shivered.
While she had been trying to scare Annabelle earlier, she had to admit that the house had an odd feel to it. Maybe it was just her, but there was something... Or maybe she had managed to scare herself more than she had Annabelle and all because of that discrepancy in the floor plan—and the fact that someone had broken into the house and might come back.
She mentioned this to Annabelle who only waved away the idea. “It was probably kids. You know how teenagers are, an empty house, ghost story dares...”
Mary Sue didn’t know, but she had a feeling that Annabelle was all too aware of how kids like that acted because she’d been one. “I just thought you’d want to stay at the hotel, since that’s where your sisters stayed when they came home for the funeral.”
Annabelle made an angry sound under her breath. “They didn’t stay here? No wonder they didn’t take much—let alone tell me how full this house was. I thought they were here going through things. From what I can see, they didn’t take anything. You were the one who let them into the house with the key I sent you, right?”
Mary Sue sighed, wondering if Annabelle was going to blame her. “Yes, but I didn’t come inside. The house was left to you. I was the one who was responsible for opening the door and making sure it was locked when they left. That was all. I wouldn’t have felt comfortable going in the house without you.”
“So did they take anything?”
“Not as far as I could tell.” She shrugged. “I let them in, they went into the house, but only for a short period of time, they sat on the porch steps for a little while and then they left and I locked up. From what I saw, they took a few framed photographs, but I think that was about all.”
Annabelle looked as if she was going to blow a gasket. “I should have known they wouldn’t be of any help. That’s just great. Well, they’re not getting anything now. Not that there is anything worth keeping in there. From what I’ve seen, most of the stuff is on the way to the dump just as soon as I can get it loaded up. I’ll need help right away. Did you make those calls yet?”
Mary Sue tried not to bristle. “You do realize that tomorrow is Thanksgiving, right?” she asked. “And the day after that is Black Friday, when a lot of people in town will be shopping, either locally or driving the three hours to Billings.” Billings was the largest city in Montana and two hundred miles to the south. Mary Sue was planning to go down to shop with a couple of friends, spending the night at a hotel and making a trip out of it.
“Your point?”
“It’s going to be hard to find anyone to help this time of year,” she said, and added quickly before Annabelle could argue. “But let me make a few quick calls.” She hurriedly stepped off the porch and walked down the cracked driveway toward her car, phone in hand. Even though it was now close to freezing outside, she didn’t want to go back into the house. Nor did she want Annabelle to hear her phone conversations. When she told people who they would be working for, she expected them to balk.
A few minutes later, she returned to the porch where Annabelle was pacing. The model looked cold, but no wonder, since she was inappropriately dressed for Montana weather. Mary Sue guessed that she wasn’t anxious to go back inside the house, either. “I found a couple of men who are willing to help for thirty dollars an hour.”
“Thirty dollars an hour? I’m not asking them to remodel the house.” Annabelle looked through the window with a shake of the head as if calculating how many hours work was in there. “Forget it,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll do the packing myself. Where can I find some boxes?”
“Behind the town recycling center. But you aren’t going to be able to get very many into that car of yours. Are you sure you don’t want—”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Okay, but once you get everything boxed up, you’re going to need a truck to take it either to the dump or a storage unit, if you decide to keep some of it.”
“Got it. I’ll deal with all that once it’s boxed up.”
“I have plans, otherwise...” Otherwise what? Did she really feel guilty about not offering to help? If Annabelle was too cheap to hire help, that was her problem.
With a wave of her hand, her former classmate dismissed her.
“All right, then let me know when the house is ready to go on the market,” Mary Sue said, not about to mention that the place would need to be cleaned. A nice coat of fresh paint in the rooms would also help. But she didn’t feel that Annabelle was up to hearing more bad news right now and Mary Sue wasn’t up to giving it.
Anyway, she was anxious to talk to her mother. As she walked to her car, her clipboard in hand, she tried to convince herself that she’d gotten the wrong floor plan from the courthouse.
Except she knew better. She prided herself on being thorough. Frannie had walled up the alcove. But why? And what was in the closed-up space?
* * *
“SHOULDN’T YOU BE ASLEEP?” the assisted-living nurse asked from his doorway.
Bernard “Bernie the Hawk” McDougal gave her the smile that had worked on women since he was a boy. Even at eighty-nine, the old mobster still could make a woman blush with no more than a wink and a grin. There might be snow on the roof, but it was still plenty hot down in the furnace.
“Just finishing up here,” he told her from his desk and waited until she moved on before he picked up the scissors again.
He pulled the newspaper clipping toward him, still shocked that he’d discovered it online while surfing for obits of women of a certain age. The moment he’d seen this one, he’d printed it out, but the resolution wasn’t good so he’d called the newspaper where it had run—the Milk River Courier—and had the paper overnighted to him.
It had arrived this afternoon while he was napping. When he’d awakened, he’d seen the envelope waiting for him on his desk and quickly torn into it. Inside he’d found the complete edition of that week’s Whitehorse, Montana, newspaper—all four pages of it.
Now he studied the face in the obituary mug shot. The photo didn’t do her justice. The one he’d seen on the internet had been much more flattering.
But no photo of his Baby Doll could hold a candle to the woman in the flesh—especially back when she was young. She’d been a blonde beauty. Tiny and gorgeous, she’d been exquisite. The kind of woman who stopped traffic and turned heads. She’d certainly turned his, he thought with a curse. And the things she’d put him through from the first time he’d laid eyes on her.
That was something else about her that had attracted her to him. She wasn’t intimidated by him or any of his goons. Oh, that woman had a mouth on her. She could cut a man down to size as if her tongue was a switchblade.
He chuckled to himself. He’d wanted her and would have married her, but she wasn’t having any of that. She liked being mysterious. Hell, he’d never known her real name. That first night at the party, he’d seen right away that she and her friend had crashed his little get-together on the posh rooftop of his favorite New York City restaurant. He’d thought about booting the two of them, but there was something about her.
She’d flirted with him but refused to tell him who she was, as if she thought he’d call her daddy to have her picked up and taken home. A few minutes with her and that was the last thing he planned to do.
“Okay, you want to play it coy? You’ll just be my Baby Doll, then,” he’d said, knowing even then that he had to have her.
“Baby Doll? I like that,” she’d said, coming off older than she was. She hadn’t been more than seventeen. Jailbait. Like that had stopped him. He had a reputation for going after whatever he wanted—and getting it. But then, so did Baby Doll as it turned out.
Opening the scissors, he began to slice the paper around her mug shot. Bernie couldn’t stand sloppiness. He liked things done a certain way. It had saved his life more than once and kept him from being behind bars.
Now he found himself looking into her eyes, remembering. This was her. There was no doubt about it. He’d thought he found her before, but this time... He wished he had been able to find a photograph of her when she was younger but there was nothing on the internet. Francesca Marie Clementine had kept a low profile. Another reason he was convinced that this woman was his Baby Doll.
Oh, those blue eyes. The memories of her in his arms. Just being with her had felt like living on the edge, she’d been that kind of woman. She kept his blood revved up. He’d known he could never get enough of her. He’d asked her to marry him more times than he liked to remember. He shook his head. While he’d only known her a short while, he’d thought he could trust her with his life, his secrets—and his loot. His first mistake.
That was the problem, wasn’t it? he thought as he clipped the photo free from the newspaper. He’d trusted a woman who hadn’t even trusted him enough to tell him her real name.
“Come on, Baby Doll, tell me your name,” he used to tease her. “We can’t get married until I know exactly who you are.”
“Oh, you know who I am.” She’d smiled that coy smile of hers and said, “I’m Bernie McDougal’s Baby Doll. That’s enough. For now.” Her look had been a promise of a lot more to come and he’d been a goner. Oh, the swanky parties they’d attended, the fur coats and fancy dresses he’d clothed her in, the expensive champagne they’d guzzled, the money they’d burned through. Nothing was too good for his Baby Doll.
His stomach roiled at the memory. She’d blindsided him from the beginning, he thought, able to admit it now, more than fifty years later. He’d thought she was young and naïve. He’d never seen it coming.
The obit was short, but it did provide some useful information, such as where she’d been all these years—and that she was survived by her three granddaughters, Annabelle Clementine, Tessa Jane Clementine (TJ St. Clair) and Chloe Clementine. No husband. That didn’t surprise him.
He’d had to look up the town on the internet. Whitehorse, Montana. It surprised him that she’d disappeared to some wide spot out West. He’d always thought of her living it up in Paris or London, or even New York City where it had all begun. It was why he’d looked for her in the faces of every woman he’d passed all these years.
But Baby Doll had always been full of surprises, hadn’t she? He still couldn’t believe that she’d evaded him. He’d had his men looking for her as well as his associates. He’d put a price on her pretty head. And still nothing. It was as if she’d stepped off the face of the earth.
But he’d finally found her. The problem was, it seemed too late. She was dead. Which meant that she’d probably taken their secret to the grave. It filled him with regret. He would have loved to look into her eyes one last time before he killed her.
He took her photo, stuck a pin between her eyes and put it up on the bulletin board next to his desk. As he started to throw the rest of the newspaper away, his gaze lit on the name Clementine again.
It appeared to be a real estate ad. Moving the paper where he could see the ad, he saw that it read Clementine Place. His breath came out on a laugh. Of course. She’d owned a house and now it was for sale. A house where she’d kept her secrets. He told himself not to get his hopes up, and yet he was reaching for his phone since it was still early out in Montana.
Francesca’s house was for sale? Why hadn’t he thought of that? There were some things she wouldn’t have been able to take with her. That is, if she’d still had them when she’d died. She could have gone through everything a long time ago. Probably had. But there was only one way to find out.
He dialed the number of the Realtor who was selling the house. The newspaper was a week old. The house could have sold by now.
A woman named Mary Sue Linton answered on the third ring.
“I’m calling about a house you have for sale,” he said. “I believe it’s called Clementine Place?”
“That’s right. It just went on the market. What can I tell you about it?”
He had the photo of the house in front of him. But he couldn’t imagine Baby Doll living somewhere like that. It was too common after the penthouse they’d shared. It all came down to that one question that had niggled at him all these years. Why? Why take off like she had—let alone end up where she had? Which led to his second big question. What had she done with what she’d stolen from him?
“I’d like to send someone to look at it in the next few days,” he said. “Is that possible?”
“It’s not quite ready to show.”
Really? “I don’t care what kind of shape it’s in.”
“One of the relatives is in the process of cleaning everything out. I’m afraid Frannie was a...collector.” Yes, she’d collected a few things from him before she’d left. “But the house will be pristine in a few weeks if you’d like to see it then.”
Frannie? “You say a relative is cleaning it out?”
“Her granddaughter, Annabelle.”
His old heart thumped hard against his ribs. What if she’d already thrown it out? She had to be stopped. “Then I’ll check back with you.”
“That would be ideal.”
He hung up and made a call. “I need to see you. Now.”
Oh, Baby Doll, he said to himself as he disconnected. The woman had thought she’d outfoxed him. Soon she would be turning over in her grave. As for her granddaughter, she could be joining Frannie very soon.
Chapter Three (#u56479bed-8e18-5f6a-96ad-3f1cae72912a)
