Daughters of the Lake(46)

“Or even Wharton, Addie, 1905,” Simon offered.

“Better yet!” Kate smiled, pushing herself up from the table.

She hurried into the library, wondering if this mystery could be solved with just a few clicks of the mouse. But hours later, her head pounding from staring at the brightly lit computer screen, she realized it wasn’t going to be as easy as that.

Simon poked his head around the corner.

“Anything?”

Kate shook her head. “I found lots of stuff about Harrison and Celeste, and obviously lots of info about Canby Lines, but beyond that, I’m hitting a brick wall.”

He sighed and folded himself into an armchair. “If only you had her full name.”

Kate swiveled her chair around to look at him. “I suppose I could look through the trunks again, see if there’s anything with her name on it.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Doubtful. Unless . . .” He held up one finger and leaned in toward Kate.

“Unless what?”

“Unless Harrison or Celeste kept a diary.”

Kate stared at her cousin for a moment. “You’re brilliant! Do we know if either one of them did?”

“Well, no,” Simon said, leaning back in his chair. “But even if they didn’t keep a full-blown diary, they certainly might have kept a datebook where they—or their household help—recorded their appointments and entertainment schedule and such. ‘Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So, dinner, 5:30 p.m.’ Something like that.”

Kate folded her arms. “Would it still be here, though? After a century? I throw out my calendar from the previous year every January.”

“Do you really? I’ve got my datebooks going back, oh, I don’t know. Ten years? I love to look back through them. It’s like a window into the past.”

“I suppose I should go upstairs right now and start hunting,” Kate said, leaning back to run a hand through her hair. Her hand stopped at her forehead—it was clammy to the touch.

Simon shook his head. “I don’t think so. You’re tired. I can see it on your face. I’d offer to help you look tomorrow, but the contractor is coming in the morning to talk about the third-floor renovation.”

“That’s okay,” Kate said. “I don’t expect you to be as heavily involved in this as I am.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “Do you know what’s weird?”

Simon grinned. “A better question would be what’s not weird. But go on.”

“Her body,” Kate said. “I can’t get the image of it out of my mind. She looked . . . I don’t quite know how to say this, but she looked like she wasn’t dead at all. Like she was sleeping.”

“I know,” Simon said. “We talked about this when you first arrived, remember? About how Lake Superior preserves bodies because of the cold.”

“She was floating in that icy water for all of those years,” Kate said, leaning her head back, a chill washing through her. “The other thing I was thinking was . . .” Kate attempted to finish her thought, but in that instant, she shivered. “Can you get me some coffee, Simon? I’m freezing all of a sudden.”

Simon came over to her and took her hands in his. “You are cold. Wait right here.”

He returned with a silver tray containing a bottle of cognac and two warmed glasses.

“Come on, let’s go and sit by the fire,” Simon directed, with a smile. “Coffee won’t do it. Hot brandies all around.”

When they had settled into overstuffed chairs by the fire in the library, Kate under an afghan for good measure, Alaska at her feet, she resumed her thought: “I was thinking about the body,” Kate started. “And the baby’s body. They’re lying in the morgue right now.”

“I know, sweetie,” Simon said.

“And they’re so, so perfect, if you can call a dead body perfect, that the police are looking for a missing person from this time and place.” Kate shivered as she spoke. “If sh-she really is the woman in the photograph with Harry and Celeste, that means she died sometime around 1905.”

“That’s right,” Simon said, leaning in toward Kate and feeling her forehead. “We’ve already talked about this, honey.” He eyed her. “Listen, I think you’re coming down with something.”

“Yes, but . . . ,” Kate started and stopped. “But how did she stay that w-w-way? How does a d-dead body stay perfectly preserved for nearly a century?”

“Kate, your lips are turning blue,” Simon said. “Something’s going on here, and I don’t like it. I’m calling Peter Jones.” He reached for the phone on the table and dialed his family doctor.

Kate was shivering beneath her afghan, trying to sip her hot brandy with shaking hands, spilling some in the process. She felt ice cold deep inside, in her core. Simon snuggled into the overstuffed chair with his cousin, throwing an arm around her in an effort to warm her with his body heat while he spoke quietly on the phone with the doctor.

Kate kept talking. “My dad says b-b-bodies are well pr-preserved in this lake because the water is so clean and cold,” she mumbled. “But not like this. Not perfect. They look waterlogged and sort of spongy, he said, they don’t decay, but they don’t remain as beautiful . . .”