The Dollhouse(36)
A silver-framed photograph on the highest shelf caught Rose’s eye. She reached up and moved it into better light. It was a black-and-white studio portrait, the kind they did back in the fifties, of a young woman with glowing skin and lustrous hair. She was pretty enough, but her eyes were truly astonishing. Large and liquid, almost alive. Even though Rose knew it was silly, she shifted the frame from side to side to see if the girl’s gaze would follow her, like an old portrait in a haunted house.
To Darby, with love was written on the right-hand corner in loopy cursive letters. Rose removed it from the frame and turned it over, but the back of the photograph contained no clue to the identity of the sitter, nor the year taken.
The photo had been placed upon a large tome that lay on its side on the top shelf, too big to fit upright. At first glance, it looked like an old photo album or scrapbook, with a black leather cover marred with scratches and scuffs, and a gold clasp on the side. She carried it with her coffee back to the couch and curled up with her legs underneath her. The clasp opened with a satisfying click; the pages inside were wafer thin, brittle with age.
The first page had Sam Buckley, 1952 written on the top right-hand corner, as well as a hastily written inscription.
Darby, Stay where you are. Once the coast is clear, I’ll find you and we’ll make our escape. Keep this as proof that I will come back for you. Love, Sam.
Rose traced the writing with her finger, her pulse racing. She’d been right to trust her instincts. There was a compelling story here, no question.
Inside, the book was set up like a diary, with dates on the top right of each entry. But instead of words, drawings of various plants and seeds and strange Asian characters covered the pages, along with names Rose had never heard before: annatto, noomi basra. Like a chant from yoga class. The pages were worn at the edges and as fragile as ice shavings.
Every so often a familiar word caught her eye: turmeric, fenugreek, chili.
The book contained a list of exotic spices, with adjectives describing their essence. Halfway through, the writer had started to create blends of spices, along with descriptions that made her mouth water: Crush rosemary, lavender, and fennel. Roll in goat cheese or sprinkle on lamb.
Who was Sam Buckley and why did he keep such a meticulous record on the subject of spices? She went to her computer and googled the name, but it was too common, even if she narrowed the search field by including the word spice. The book was obviously a keepsake, as Darby had never cooked with it. No grease stains or spills marred the paper.
A pocket in the inside back cover held a number of loose papers. One was an ancient menu from a place called the Flatted Fifth. The entrées were banal. Bourbon for ninety cents, imported brandies for ninety-five cents. Cheeseburger, chili, fries. No lavender-rubbed goat cheese here.
Also inside was a small vinyl record, about six inches in diameter, with the words Esme and Darby scrawled across the paper sleeve.
The maid.
Rose opened the portable record player and put on the record. The turntable spun into motion and she stepped back and enjoyed the scratchy silence at the very beginning of the recording, like the quiet crackle of a fire. Giggles followed, and then a girl’s voice rang out, soon matched by another, higher voice. The same song Rose had heard from her apartment, before Griff had shown up and blown her life to bits.
Even though the recording was rough, the girls’ voices worked well together. The harmonies, now familiar to Rose’s ear, were perfect and lilting. A moment of silence fell once the last note drifted off, followed by the bookend of giggles.
She played it again and went back to her laptop. Who was Esme, other than a maid who died under horrific circumstances, with no fanfare? She’d searched for the name online, with no luck. The past was a black hole.
The record was in beautiful condition, not a scratch on it. Rose returned it to its sleeve with the care of an archivist and tucked it back into the pocket of the book.
“And why should I care?”
Rose sighed. Tyler had been in a foul mood all day, and she’d tried her best to avoid him. This was not the time to ask for a raise, no matter how much she needed one. But he’d sought her out on his own, calling her into his office after lunch and lobbing question after question about the Barbizon story. She was certain they had an interesting story on their hands. He wasn’t easily convinced.
“Because Darby McLaughlin is a link between the way women were treated in the 1950s and the way they are now.”
“Meaning what?”
“Back then, they were supposed to get married, have kids, maybe work part-time if at all. Even the girls who came to New York City only did so to learn a skill until they found Mr. Right.”
“Like most of the girls I know.” He held a pen under his nose as if it were a mustache, curled up his lip to support it without any hands. “Just kidding.”
Rose took two deep breaths to keep from losing her temper. “Darby’s story is part of the fabric of the city, one we don’t want to forget.”
“What did she do with her life that makes her so unforgettable?”
There was no way to spin the answer to that question. “According to a neighbor, she worked as a secretary for the same company until she retired.”
He tossed the pen down on the table. “So it’s sad, pathetic. What’s the draw?”
“It has the bones of a juicy airport novel. A good thriller.” She leaned forward. “I want to find out what happened when the maid, Esme Castillo, slashed her. Why were they fighting? And what other intrigue went on behind those walls? I’ve uncovered evidence that Darby was trying to escape some kind of dangerous situation.”