The Address(49)

“But you didn’t see the part about Theodore Camden.”

He took the book from her lap and laid it back on the desk. A delicate scrap of paper had fallen behind one of the photos, and he unfolded it with care.

The newspaper headline, dated March 4, 1886, read: MURDERESS FOUND GUILTY.

Mrs. Sara J. Smythe, former lady managerette of the Dakota Apartment House, was found guilty in the November 13th stabbing death of architect Mr. Theodore Camden. Mrs. Smythe had suffered from delusions in the past, but Mr. Camden had nonetheless taken pity on her, and his act of kindness was answered with violence and mayhem. Mr. Camden is survived by his wife and three children. According to Judge Wilton, “This undoubtedly proves that rehabilitation of the insane is a pointless enterprise.”

“She was the one who killed Melinda’s great-grandfather, then.”

“That’s the legend. Which explains why her belongings were packed up and sent to the basement.”

She pulled the photo out of her back pocket. “This was in the trunk, too.”

Renzo examined it closely. He turned it over, where the words S. Smythe and the Camden children, 1885, were written in a loopy cursive.

Bailey gasped. “The murderer standing with the children. That’s ghoulish. Does the scrapbook have anything more about the crime? Like why she killed him?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Now I’m dying to know more. I’ll have to ask Melinda if her mother ever talked about it.”

“Right after you’ve fixed Kenneth’s apartment back to the way it was.”

She glared at him. “Of course I’m going to do that.”

He cocked his head. “That’s weird.”

“What.”

“Do that again.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Look at me like you just did.”

She did so, like he was an idiot.

“Don’t move.” He held up the photo next to her face. “You have the same eyebrow thing going on.”

“Are you telling me I look like a murderer?”

“No, seriously.” He tugged on her arm and brought her over to a small mirror that hung on the back of the door. “Check it out.”

Bailey repeated the gesture into the mirror, as Renzo held up the photo.

Obviously, a great percentage of people could do the same trick. Her father had worn the same expression whenever he was unimpressed or skeptical.

But it was the way the woman stood, the line of her neck, the set of her mouth. Bailey’s parents had a photo album with a photo that was an exact match, except that it was taken in this century, not the last. Her father holding a newborn Bailey in his arms, with the same half smile.

Bailey looked like her father, everyone said so. And they both looked like Sara Smythe. The murderess.

Renzo blinked. “The resemblance is uncanny. Even to me, and I don’t know you at all.”

The scrutiny unnerved her. She felt stripped bare, just as she was doing to Melinda’s apartment, all of the usual crutches and comforts peeled away. The dank basement seemed like it was closing in on her, the draftiness making her shiver.

“Well, I’m not sure I see it. I better be getting back upstairs.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset.” The words came out harsher than she’d intended; her headache threatened to come raging back. “Rough night last night. I’m exhausted. See you around.”

“Sure. Take it easy.”

She couldn’t get out of there fast enough.



The day’s New York Post had been left near the elevator door, and Bailey picked it up and leafed through it while she waited. Her horoscope said something about “reconnecting with family,” and she supposed she’d done so, working for Melinda and living in her apartment. Check that off.

But then she saw the list of famous people born on that day. Sonny Rollins was fifty-five.

Her dad loved the fact that he shared the jazz great’s birthday. Today was Jack’s birthday, and she had almost missed it entirely.

Upstairs, she called home. So many nines, the rotary phone took forever to spin back to its place. Bailey hadn’t talked to him since she’d gone into rehab, and hadn’t told him about it either. No need to worry him.

He picked up on the second ring.

“Dad. It’s me.”

“Hello there.”

“I called to say ‘happy birthday.’ Do you have any fun plans?” Better to not give him time to ask her about what she was up to. Keep the focus on him.

“Haven’t heard from you in quite a while. What’s going on up there in New York?”

No luck. “Right. It’s been crazy. I’m decorating Melinda’s apartment now, in the Dakota.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“What’s on your social calendar today? Going out with Scotty?” His oldest friend and employee, who annoyed her father to no end, but she was certain he secretly enjoyed it.

“Nope. Scotty’s married now. He’s got his own thing going on.”

“I see.”

She waited, hoping he’d change the subject to the latest plumbing disaster at the house that he’d fixed without having to call a plumber, using bubble gum and tape. Or how he’d finally stopped the screen door from banging shut. The summer before she died, her mother had admitted that every so often she’d intentionally break things around the house so her father had something to do on weekends. He was never one to sit and read a book. Or chat.