CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The weekend arrives, and as before, the children keep me occupied enough that I can't do any more snooping. I take them to Mass again on Sunday, mostly so I can get out of the house and breathe for a moment. Father Doyle tries to speak to me again after the service, but I beg off, claiming that I must hurry back to the estate to take care of some pressing business. It's a thin lie, and I'm certain he sees right through it, but he doesn't press me.

Monday arrives, and the children are in school. My light work as housekeeper begins anew, but I find my resolve has weakened considerably. Despite my bravado the week before, Nathaniel's warning does shake me. I am convinced the Greenwoods are guilty of Lila's murder, but if they knew who I was and what I did to the Carltons and the Ashfords and still hired me, then they must be confident they can handle me if I get too nosy.

And I have been nosy.

It occurs to me on Tuesday that Elizabeth even mentions the Ashfords to me on my first day of employment. It's as though she's warning me that they already know who I am, and I can't expect to sneak around with them the way I do with my previous employers. Yet I remain oblivious to that possibility until Nathaniel warns me.

I've been a fool. Christopher and Annabelle both know I'm looking into Lila's disappearance, and I have to hope Violet really has dementia, or she knows as well. I've been fortunate, I believe, that Elizabeth and James don't know so far, but what if they do? What if they're only waiting for the right opportunity?

I avoid going into the grounds after that. I try to stay near the other servants when I'm doing my chores, and when I'm not doing chores, I either stay in my locked room or I sit on the back porch in full view of the groundskeepers. I could simply be paranoid, but I've nearly been killed once already by Cecilia Ashford, and if I intend to continue playing the "Great Detective," chances are good someone will succeed eventually.

By Wednesday, I am a nervous wreck. Every noise causes me to jump, and I barely sleep that night for fear the nightmare I wake to will be worse than whatever haunts me as I sleep.

I woke on Thursday exhausted and bedraggled. It's time for this to end. I can no longer do this on my own.

I shower and dress, spending more time with my makeup than I have in decades, not because I'm trying to look attractive but because I want to hide the effects of my paranoia. I manage to be presentable, and I think that's probably the best I can expect right now.

I leave before breakfast. I rarely dine with the family, so I don't believe anyone will wonder why I'm not present. I walk into the historic district and from there take a bus to my destination. The Savannah Police Department has several locations within walking distance of the house, but I don't want to risk being seen by anyone who knows the Greenwoods. If someone sees me boarding the bus, I can claim I was visiting the Wildlife Refuge on Skidaway Island.

I take the bus to the Chatham County Police Department in Vernonburg, the suburb just south of Savannah. If they want to contact the city police and let them handle the case, then they can do that. I'll express to them my desire to remain anonymous and hope they'll respect it.

My heart pounds as I leave the bus and walk into the headquarters building. I haven't been inside of a police building since Annie disappeared. I can only hope I have more success with these detectives than I did with those who handled Annie's case.

I tell the desk officer that I'd like to report a murder. The bored expression in her eyes doesn't change one bit as she takes my information and then tells me to take a seat in the lobby and wait.

I stare blankly at her a moment, stunned that such an admission can elicit nothing from her. Has the world gone mad? Are we so inundated with violence that its existence in our own backyards changes nothing?

She sighs and repeats. "Please take a seat. Detective Donnelly will be with you shortly."

Wordlessly, I take the offered chair. I wait for the detective for nearly an hour and a half. What could he possibly be doing that is so important he can't investigate a murder? Is he investigating another murder? Is Savannah so violent that all of their detectives are occupied full time hunting killers?

I take a breath and try to calm myself by repeating nursery rhymes in my head. It's a trick that works well when managing a classroom full of unruly children, but it doesn't help me now.

Finally, the receptionist beckons me forward. I stand and approach, but before I reach her, she says, "Second floor, third office on the right."

Somewhat reluctantly, I wish her a good day and head upstairs.

Detective Marcus Donnelly is a graying man of around forty who may once have been athletic but who now sports a healthy ring of fat around his middle. He stands to greet me, then gestures to a seat in front of his desk.

"All right," he says, sighing with relief as he takes his own seat again. "You say you want to report a murder."

"Yes."

"Did you see the crime occur?"

"No."

"Did you see the victim after the crime was committed?"

"No."

He holds my gaze for a moment. "Who do you believe was killed?"

"A woman named Lila Benson. She was the former governess for my employers, the Greenwoods."

He stares at me another moment. Then he leans back in his chair. "The Greenwoods of Greenwood Plantation?"

"Yes."

After another pause, he asks, "When did you last contact Miss Benson?"

"Oh, I've never contacted her."

A rush of something that looks like relief crosses his face. He hides it fairly well, but not before I pick up on the odd reaction. He pulls out a notebook and a pen and begins to scrawl notes. "How can you be sure she's dead?"

"Because she was investigating the murder of Deirdre McCoy. I believe that the family realized Lila was snooping on their past and that one or more of them conspired to have her killed."

"Uh huh. Who is Deirdre McCoy?"

"She was a friend of the grandmother, Violet."

"And when did Miss McCoy die?"

"Fifty-two years ago."

He looks up from his notepad and asks, "And what makes you believe that Miss Benson was threatening the family by investigating a half-century-old cold case?"

"I found letters Lila had written. Notes to herself. She says in these notes that she feared for her life. She believed the family knew that she was snooping and that they would retaliate against her for it."

"Did she mention this Deirdre McCoy?"

"No, but I am certain that's what she was investigating."

"Why?"

"Because… well, that's the big family scandal."

"According to whom?"

I blink. I can feel my cheeks heating as I start to realize how foolish I must sound. "Their… their neighbor, Miss Clara Beaumont."

"And how does Miss Beaumont claim to have this information?"

"She was friends with Violet and Deirdre. Or… perhaps not friends, as she was in high school, and they would have graduated college or nearly so. But she knew them. And she says that Deirdre was last seen with Violet before she disappeared."

"Did she say why she didn't go to the police?"

"Well…" my cheeks are burning now. "No."

Donnelly sighs and puts his pad down. In desperation, I say, "Please, Detective, I know they're hiding something. I found letters in the daughter's room from Lila that state she fears for her life. I have an admission from that same daughter that she hated Lila. The mother, Elizabeth, acts oddly. She visits her garden and talks to people who aren't there, and the servants are all afraid to speak up."

"None of what you've just told me suggests that anyone has been murdered."

"What about the letter? The one where Lila claimed she feared for her life."

"Is that what the letter said? Exactly?"

"I…" my cheeks burn. "Well, no."

"What did she say exactly?"

"That she… she wanted to take her leave soon, and she only hoped that it was of her own free will and to a destination of her choosing."

Donnelly sighs again and begins to rub the bridge of his nose.

"It's true! I'm telling the truth!"

"Thank you for your concern, Miss Wilcox."

"No!" I shout, standing and slamming the desk with my palm. "You will not simply dismiss me like I'm some foolish child! A woman was murdered on that estate, and someone must do justice!"

He stares coldly at me. "Take a breath, Miss Wilcox. You've told me that you found a letter indicating that Lila Benson was dissatisfied with her employment. You've shared that Annabelle Greenwood didn't like her teacher and that Elizabeth Greenwood talks to herself. You've repeated a rumor from a neighbor that Violet Hendrickson may have murdered someone a half-century ago, a rumor that your informant declined to provide to our police department at any point during those fifty years, and all of this, you insist, means that the Greenwood family conspired to have her killed."

"Well, where is she then?" I challenge. "If she wasn't killed, then why did she disappear? Why has no one heard of her?"

"Because she's a grown adult who left her employers, not a treasured aunt who disappeared from her family home. You've let your imagination run dangerously wild, Miss Wilcox. If you are that convinced that your employers are murderers, I suggest you leave their employ and find work elsewhere. In any case, the Chatham County Police Department has actual work to attend to. We don't have time to humor the fantasies of paranoid governesses."

I stiffen in shock, but Donnelly maintains his cold stare. I feel my lower lip begin to tremble, and before I allow myself the humiliation of shedding tears in front of him, I rush from his office. I don't stop until I'm at the bus stop again. I tremble with humiliation, rage and grief.

But mostly, I tremble with fear. Fear that I may have been wrong this whole time. Fear that my suspicions really are as absurd as they sound, and that I'm only concocting them so that I don't have to face the mystery I wish to avoid.

The bus arrives, and I manage to control myself enough to avoid acting a fool in front of the driver and other passengers. I head back to the estate, unsure of everything I thought was true.

Maybe Donnelly is right. Maybe I should find other employment. God knows this job has brought me nothing but stress and uncertainty. Perhaps I should return to teaching, to a safe, comfortable life that protects me from the dangers of my own mind.

Perhaps it's time to let the ghosts rest in peace.