Monstrous Beauty (22 page)

“Haer spirit wants the semple thengs she cannae have: to sleep en haer bed, to hear haer mother singin’ as she hangs the laundry, to taste peppermint again. Bu’ wha’ she
needs
es altogether defferent, an’ she has no understandin’ of et: she needs to be set free.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Haer earthly spirit needs to be unpinned so that haer emotions may rejoin haer soul. She desaerves the peace of death. I believe tha’ because you can see and speak with haer,
you
can grant et to haer.”

“Well, unfortunately my high school doesn’t offer a class in Unpinning Earthly Spirits, so do you have more specific instructions?” Hester cringed at her own disrespectful tone.

But McKee was earnest and patient. “I’ve haerd tell that releasing spirits requires findin’ an object from their human lives tha’ had strong meaning for them. Spirits weaken en the presence of such an object, because et shows so clearly the detachment between their current existence and their past human lives. En that weakened state, et’s possible to banish them or reason them away ef you’re paersistent. Et sounds hard-hearted, bu’ et’s the greatest kindness you could show them.”

Hester pushed her hair off her forehead with both hands and thought for a moment. “Linnie had a doll. She told me she lost it, but Peter’s family still has one that I’m sure is hers.”

“Who es Peter?”

“His last name is Angeln,” she said.

“Praise be to God,” Pastor McKee whispered, his eyes becoming glassy with tears. “Are you strong enough to do this? Well you use the doll t’ help haer?”

“I just show her the doll? And encourage her to leave?”

He bit his lip and nodded. “Haer pinned emotions well rejoin haer soul.”

Hester crossed her arms in front of her chest and was quiet. She looked into the middle distance, thinking.

“Everything is intertwined,”
she finally murmured, repeating McKee’s observation to herself. “Ontstaan. Crotty. Angeln. Doyle.”

“Wha’ are you thenkin’, lass?”

She focused on him. “There are common threads, for sure, but I can’t get them all to connect. The police haven’t figured this out, but three of the vandalized graves are linked. Eleanor Ontstaan was Adeline Angeln’s aunt. They were killed on the same night at this church.”

He shook his head, as if it were a shame.

“I’ve read as much about it as I can, but the details just aren’t in the
Old Colony
newspaper. I don’t know why they were killed, or who did it.”

“Wha’ d’you make of the Crotty grave?”

“Marijn was my great-great-great-grandmother, and also the foster child of Eleanor. I don’t know who Marijn’s biological mother was.” It suddenly occurred to Hester that this was important information for her family curse, but she had never investigated it. The farther back she could go, the higher the probability that she might unravel the mystery.

“And Doyle?” he asked, encouraging her.

She shrugged, confused. “Doyle is the author of a book I stole from the library last week. Linnie saw it over my shoulder, which might explain why she picked on that grave.”

“You stole a book?”

She furrowed her brow. “I’m not in the habit of stealing, you know. And anyway, I blame you! It’s a handwritten journal about sea folk in the bay, and
you
set me on that topic. It’s the most incredible piece of work I’ve ever seen.”

She resisted the urge to glance at her bag, where the journal was. She couldn’t bring herself to share it with McKee. She would never share it with anyone.

“Tell me somethen’ you’ve laerned from et.” He sat back, like a child waiting for a story.

“Well here’s something fascinating: their leader is named Noo’kas—the Native People call her Squauanit, or Squant—and apparently her realm is horrifying, because she has lived for tens of thousands of years and she’s a compulsive collector. Her throne room has deteriorated into filthy squalor.”

“Has a human ever vesited this place?”

“I don’t know, not voluntarily I would guess. Certainly Doyle hadn’t seen it—there were no illustrations. The text said that if a human is abducted by her, he or she almost always drowns. There have been only a handful of instances in which Squauanit has successfully transformed a human into a sea creature, tail and all. They remain mortal and die quickly in her servitude.”

“Losh, so escape es empossible,” he said with genuine concern.

“There is a way, but it seemed too simple to me: you have to remember your connection to the earth. You have to seek an audience with her and insist that you belong to the land and not the sea.”

“She sounds like a defficult creature,” he said.

“Yeah, she’s definitely not someone you want to cross.”

The church bell rang half past seven.

“I’ve got to go to work.” Hester sighed, standing up.

“Aye, me as well.”

“I wish—” Hester said as she helped him to his feet. “I wish I knew more about the circumstances surrounding Linnie’s death. I wish I knew who Marijn’s real mother was. I wish I knew why the murders took place on this particular spot. Sylvie Atwood was right: these are stories that will be lost forever, because everyone who knew them has died.”

He walked her slowly to the stairs. “Only the humans are dead, lamb.”

Hester looked at him quizzically.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and then concentrated on the floor. “Ef th’ Doyle journal es correct, the local sea folk waer alive a’ the time. They may yet have the answers tha’ you seek.”

Chapter 35

H
ESTER STOOD IN THE PARKING
lot of Plimoth Plantation during her lunch break two days later, finishing half a sandwich and waiting for Peter to pick her up. She was wearing street clothes, which made her blessedly incognito to the visitors who streamed under the welcome sign. The bag over her shoulder held the Doyle journal—a gentle hug against her waist reassured her of its presence. She balled up the tinfoil wrapping of the sandwich and tossed it at the barrel, but missed. She frowned. It was unfortunate that she’d have to lie to Peter, but she couldn’t see a way around it.

She had been honest over the phone at least:

“I want to see your great-aunt Adeline’s doll,” she had told him. “And the museum closes at four thirty, so we can’t do it after work.”

“That’s
Great-Great-Great-Great
-Aunt Adeline, to you. But I can’t stay long; I’m running the two o’clock whale watch.”

“We’ll be quick.”

She shook her head, dreading the next three-quarters of an hour. He was bound to ask questions at the museum—questions that she had to plan answers for, and quickly. His truck was already pulling in to the lot. She picked up the wadded foil, put it in the garbage, and waved to him as normally as she could.

*   *   *

The banner for the exhibit said “Childhood in the Old Colony: 1620–1920.” The artifacts were books, furniture, clothing, games, and toys. In the toy section there was a glass case with a primitive, hand-sewn doll from 1615 that had belonged to Mary Chilton, a Mayflower passenger. Next to it was the larger, elaborate doll Hester had come to see:
Attributed to Adeline P. Angeln; manufacturer François Gaultier, c.1870, France. Bisque socket head, paperweight glass eyes, jointed composition-and-wood body, bisque arms.

There was no mistaking it, it was Linnie’s doll. It had a serious face with pudgy jowls, hand-painted rosebud lips, lifelike eyes with long painted eyelashes, and tiny turquoise bead earrings. There was a hairline fracture on her cheek, and her left eyebrow was crushed, showing the white, raw porcelain underneath. Her auburn hair was in long ringlets, held back loosely on two sides with black satin ribbons. Her dress was deep violet, just as Linnie had described, with inset lace at the collar, sleeves, and hem. She wore a petticoat with eyelet trim, and antique black net stockings. Hester understood now why Linnie had criticized her own doll, Annabelle, the day they met.

“Even broken, this doll puts her to shame,” Hester murmured.

“Hmm?” Peter said.

“I said … it’s a shame that she’s broken.”

“Adeline had it with her when she was killed.” He pointed to the doll’s foot. “The family lore says that’s when the little shoe got lost, too.”

“You never told me Adeline was killed.”

He shrugged. “I only remembered just now.”

“Who killed her?”

“I don’t think it was ever solved. They found her dead in a graveyard. There was an orphaned baby involved somehow, and Adeline’s parents adopted the baby. That’s all I know.”

“Peter,” Hester said, steeling herself to tell him the real reason she had brought him to the museum. “I need to borrow this doll, just for a day. For a history project.”

“I’m sure my parents would let you, but it’s on display until May.”

She shook her head impatiently before he finished his sentence.

“That’s too late. I need it now. If you could persuade the director to lend it to you after they close today, I could get it back here tomorrow—maybe even before they open. It’ll be like I didn’t borrow it at all, as far as museum visitors are concerned.”

He turned his attention from the doll to her; she had protested too much. Behind his glasses his eyes were thoughtful, examining, and for the first time she realized that he did know her better than almost anyone in the world—maybe a little too well.

“This is the first I’ve heard of a history project. What’s up with you lately?”

“Nothing is up! I’m doing some research for a paper.”

“A paper for what? The school year is over.”

“Ugh! Why are you giving me the third degree?”

A tourist walked up with her two children. They were filling out a sheet for the exhibit—a scavenger hunt provided by the museum, with the promise of a prize at the end. They stopped to look at the dolls and put check marks in two boxes on their papers. Peter waited until the family had moved on before he spoke.

“My dad got a call from the public library yesterday.”

Hester froze.

“There’s only one Angeln listed in Plymouth, so they called us.”

“So … what was it about?” She tried to sound clueless. She forced her body to relax.

“They were looking for an Esther Angeln. My dad told them there was no Esther in our family.”

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“I didn’t think twice about it until now. Was it you, Hester?”

“Was
what
me.” Her voice was biting and loud—meant to show that she had nothing to hide. But her face flushed when the other patrons looked over at her.

He waited until they had turned away before responding quietly, “Did you take a book from the special collections?”

She widened her eyes in outrage. “Have you ever known me to steal anything?”

“No, of course not…”

“Besides, the last time I checked, my name wasn’t Esther.”

He stared at the dolls. “I know. It was just a weird coincidence. I’m sorry that I even suggested it.”

She was quiet for a moment. The doll was so close to her, it was frustrating that she couldn’t just take it. She bit her cheek and scanned the edges of the glass case, noticing that there was no lock. She
could
just lift the lid and take it, if she wanted, right then and there.

Maybe she didn’t need Peter after all.

He interrupted her thoughts. “I’ll talk to my parents. Maybe we can request to have the doll back for a day or two.”

“No, don’t.”

“There’s no harm in asking.”

“Forget about it!” Too brusque, she realized. She took a breath and lowered her voice. “Honestly, thanks, but I’ll make do without it.”

He shook his head, unable to figure her out. “Whatever. I’d better get you back to work or I’m gonna be late.”

“That’s okay,” Hester said, thinking on her feet. “I’m going home to get Nancy’s car. I have errands to run later.” She swallowed, hoping he wouldn’t press her for details.

“Do you want a ride to your house?” He looked at his watch.

“No, thanks, but I’ll … I’ll walk you to your truck.”

After he had pulled away, Hester lingered in front of the museum. Finally, she pulled out her phone and called her boss to say that she didn’t feel well and wouldn’t be returning to work that day. She thanked her for her good wishes and agreed she hoped she’d feel better by tomorrow. Then she sent a text to Nancy and Malcolm, saying she would be home late and didn’t need supper.

Inside the museum, she showed her Plymouth ID for free entry, grateful that the volunteer didn’t recognize her from half an hour before. She wandered the museum slowly, pretending to look at the exhibits but really examining the security system. It seemed to be based entirely on motion detectors, with no cameras, as far as she could see. She investigated the area surrounding the restrooms, and finally, in the hall near the offices, she found a steel door with a bar handle like some of the side doors at school:
Emergency exit only, alarm will sound.
This was what she was looking for: city code required that sort of fire door to remain unlocked on the inside.

With her plan fixed, she went to the gift shop. She browsed for a while before buying a small battery-powered toy lantern, which she put in her bag. She went to the restroom because she knew it would be a while before she could use it again. While she was in the stall she turned her phone’s ringer off and put it in the outside pocket of her bag. Then she made her way through the permanent collection to her chosen hideout. It was a six-sided wooden chest, about the size of a small coffin, under a portrait of Elizabeth Paddy Wensley, 1670. Elizabeth Wensley was wearing a lavishly embroidered dress, but it could not distract from her weary eyes.

Hester stood back, pretending to admire the painting. She looked over her shoulder, right and left. She looked behind her. Nobody was in sight. She lifted the lid of the chest—it was heavy and it creaked with a jittering whine. She gritted her teeth. The hinge was so stiff, the lid remained propped without her having to balance it against the wall—a relief, since she did not want to risk damaging the painting behind it. She hoisted a leg up and climbed in. Her bag clunked against the wall of the chest and she winced. As quietly as possible, she pulled hard on the lid to lower it on top of herself. She spent several anxious seconds getting as comfortable as she could while making as little noise as possible: pulling down her shirt, which had gotten twisted around her torso, lying on her side with her knees tucked in, and placing her bag in front of her with the flap open. It was dark in the chest except for the light that shone through the tiny keyhole, which also allowed her to see whether anyone was in front of the chest. She took her phone out of her bag and looked at the time. It was 1:58. She shut her eyes and concentrated on slowing her heart rate.