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Fiona arrived at Margaret Eden’s home at Mitchell Place, a gated community of expensive townhomes built during the boom years before the 2008 crash. Even then, the neighborhood’s existence had hinged more on hope than on actual local wealth; there wasn’t much demand for “executive” homes for wealthy professionals in Barrons, and the houses had taken years longer to complete than planned.
Now Mitchell Place was stuck between the wishes of its few remaining residents and the reality of a community with not enough tenants. The homes were well kept, but the security guard at the entrance gate was a cheap rental from a local outfit in a polyester uniform, and the sign on his booth clearly stated that the gate was manned only by camera and alarm systems after seven p.m. The weeds on the grass leading up to the gate were overgrown, and past the wrought iron, Fiona could see the covered remains of a pool, drained and empty this time of year and possibly not reopening come summer.
Margaret Eden’s door, however, was opened by a maid—a white girl in an immaculate uniform, her hair pinned back. Anthony must have called ahead, because the maid let Fiona in. The front hall was marble, its small confines chill and harsh, and Fiona felt like the wayward help as she handed the maid her coat. She rolled up her hat and shoved it into the sleeve of her coat self-consciously before the maid took it away.
She was led into a parlor, also marble. It was empty except for a few pieces of furniture in stark modern style. There was no sign of Margaret Eden, so Fiona circulated through the room, using her journalist’s instincts without thinking. There were no books, no clutter. No personal items lying around. On the mantel over the fireplace was a framed photo of Anthony, much younger, wearing a graduation cap and gown and smiling. There was a second photo, this one of a man with distinguished white hair, obviously Anthony’s father, standing on a golf course.
“So you’re Fiona.”
Fiona turned to see an elderly woman standing behind her. She wore a collared white blouse and slacks, a dark green cardigan over her shoulders. Her white hair was cut short and curled. She looked like a grandmother, except she stood as straight and elegant as a reed, her sharp gaze fixed on Fiona. She gave Fiona an up-and-down once-over that was blatant and assessing.
“Mrs. Eden,” Fiona said.
“I’m Margaret,” the older woman corrected her. “And you were at Idlewild.” She held up a hand. “Of course Anthony told me. He’s never been able to keep a secret from me in his life.”
“He was worried you’d be angry,” Fiona said—though what Anthony had actually said was: If you ever find that you can predict Mother, then you know her better than I do.
“I’m not angry. I’m curious, though. I admit it. Climbed the fence, did you? Perhaps you’re cold. Do you want some tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“All right, then. Have a seat.”
Fiona did, lowering herself onto one of the uncomfortable sofas. This was supposed to be her interview, she remembered. She opened her mouth to speak, but Margaret spoke first.
“This house is horrid,” she said. “You don’t have to say it—I can read it on your face. The only thing I can say for myself is that I didn’t decorate it. It came furnished this way when the last people moved out.”
“You don’t own this place?” Fiona asked in surprise.
Margaret shrugged. “I didn’t think we’d stay long. Just long enough to get the Idlewild project done.”
“Were you an Idlewild student?” Fiona asked her.
“Never. I’m not even local, as I’m sure your research has told you. I’m from Connecticut, and I lived with my husband in New York.”
“Then why?” Margaret’s bluntness was rubbing off on her; Fiona bypassed small talk and asked the most honest question she had. “Why Idlewild? Why restore that place, of all places?”
Margaret leaned back in her seat and gave Fiona the assessing look again. “I could ask you the same thing,” she said. “Why Idlewild? Why are you writing a story about it? Why did you climb the fence this morning?” She raised her eyebrows, as if waiting. “Hmm?”
Fiona said nothing.
“You have a history there, it turns out,” Margaret said. “I know who your father is, that your sister was killed and left there. It’s why I decided to meet you. At first, Anthony only asked me if I would talk to a reporter, and I said no. He didn’t tell me which reporter. I learned this morning that you’re Deb Sheridan’s sister, Malcolm Sheridan’s daughter, and of course I’d heard of the murder.”
Even in New York? Fiona thought. “We’re not talking about me,” she said, the words coming out tight. “We’re talking about you.”
“Are we? Very well. I’m restoring Idlewild so that there will be a girls’ school there again. So that future generations of girls will get a good education.”
Fiona shifted on her bleak sofa. Her hands and feet were still cold. “No one in these parts can afford to send their daughters to boarding school,” she said. “And I’ve seen the grounds. It will cost a fortune to make the buildings even habitable.”
“You sound just like my husband.” Margaret smiled, rubbing a finger absently over the bracelet on her other wrist. “He hated the idea of this project so much. With the heat of a thousand suns. So does Anthony. He’s worried I’m going to flush away his entire inheritance.”
“You don’t seem very concerned about that yourself,” Fiona said.
“Anthony will have plenty of money,” Margaret said. “He always has. He’s divorced, and he has no children, so there’s just him and me. And I’m still breathing. So I bought Idlewild, and I’m going to do what I want with it.”
I’m not in control of this conversation, Fiona thought. So she said, “Even after a body was found in the well?”
A flinch crossed Margaret’s face and was gone. It was the first real emotion the older woman had shown. “If the police can’t find the girl’s family, I’ll have her buried properly myself. And then the restoration project will continue.”
“You can’t.” The words were out before Fiona could stop them. They came from somewhere deep inside her, from a well of something she almost never acknowledged. Grief, anger, outrage. Get a grip, Fiona, she thought, but instead she said, “No girl is going to want to go to school in that place.”
“And yet girls did,” Margaret said, unfazed by Fiona’s outburst. “For sixty years.” She looked Fiona over again, but this time her expression was softer. “Tell me something.” Her voice lowered, became more intimate. “At Idlewild. Did you see her?”
Fiona’s skin went cold. The girl in the black dress and veil, standing in the field. But no. That wasn’t possible. “See who?”
“Mary Hand,” Margaret replied.
Fiona had never heard the name before, but something about it made her stomach drop, made her brain do a lazy spin. “I don’t—” She cleared her throat. “I don’t know who that is.”
But Margaret was watching her face, missing nothing. “Yes, you do,” she said. “You’ve seen her. This morning, I think. Anthony said you were standing in the field.”
Fiona blinked at her in horror. “Is that what this is?” she asked. “Is that what this whole thing is all about? You’re some kind of ghost hunter?”
“She was wearing a black dress, wasn’t she?” Margaret said. “She had a veil over her face. Did she speak to you?”
Their gazes were locked, and Fiona couldn’t look away. From nowhere, she recalled the words etched into the glass of the classroom window: Good Night Girl. “Who is she?” she asked. “Who is Mary Hand?”
“She’s a legend,” Margaret replied. “I don’t know if she existed, or who she was. I’ve spent money looking. I can’t find a record of her. I don’t know if she was ever real.”
“A student?”
“Who knows?” Margaret shrugged and leaned back again, breaking the connection. “What I’d like, more than anything, is the Idlewild files so I can see for myself. But they weren’t on the property when we bought it. Anthony says they’re gone.”
Fiona held still. She didn’t think about Sarah London, or Cathy telling her aunt’s secret, that the files were sitting in her shed. “Do you think that will answer your questions?” she asked Margaret. “You think that this ghost, Mary Hand, is in the files somewhere?”
But Margaret only smiled. “I think they’d be illuminating,” she said. “Don’t you?”
Chapter 16
Barrons, Vermont
November 2014
Jamie insisted on coming with her to pick up the files from Sarah London’s back shed. It was a Thursday, his day off shift, because as the police department’s junior member—Jamie was twenty-nine, but the force was hardly swamped with new recruits—he worked all the weekend shifts. Like a man born from a line of true cops, he ignored Fiona’s suggestion he take an actual day off, and drove her to East Mills to clean out the ancient shed filled with papers that had been sitting there for thirty-five years.
