“Virginia’s mother had been a Spiritualist and she’d passed away in 1929. Therefore, it’s not surprising that Virginia clung to ideas of paranormal activity and life after death. She believed in automatic writing and painted under the influence of spirits. Inever understood her paintings or her drawings.” Carolyn pointed to the little painting. “That is hardly art, don’t you think? A ghastly, ugly scrawl.”
“You didn’t share Virginia’s beliefs, then?”
“I’m afraid I believe in myself and myself alone. I always did, even when I was a young girl. I used to make fun of poor Virginia. I teased her about her ghosts in chains. No, I couldn’t understand her paintings or her ghost stories.”
“What about Beatrice? Did she believe in the supernatural? In witchcraft, for example.”
The plot of Tremblay’s novel, which was set in seventeenth-century New England, revolved around a circle of young women who begin to believe one of them is a witch. The novel culminates with the disappearance of one of the women. Her novella, “All Saints’ Day,” also involved witchcraft, and her short stories often starred young, unhappy protagonists who met tragic ends. The connection to New England, to witchcraft and the supernatural, was latent in all the tales.
Carolyn moved toward the other side of the room and slid open the drawer of a narrow cabinet. “Yes, she did,” the woman said. “Help me with this.”
Minerva hurried to her side and took out a green box. Carolyn gestured in the direction of the table and Minerva set it down. Carolyn lifted the lid, revealing a leather-bound notebook and beneath it a manila envelope that was tied with a wide green ribbon.
“Betty kept journals since she was in college and up until she was in her mid-twenties. I have them all, but this is the one you’re probably interested in. It’s her journal for 1934,” Carolyn said, handing her the notebook.
Minerva carefully held the notebook and slid a hand against the button rivets on the front cover. She opened it. The words “Property of Beatrice Tremblay” were neatly written upon a lined page. She thumbed through it. The entries seemed mundane: scribblings about a dinner at the dean’s house, a new movie playing in town, the weather. Then she looked at the manila envelope.
“Is that another journal?” she asked.
“No. You can open it.”
Minerva set the notebook down. She carefully undid the knot on the ribbon and unwound it from around the envelope. Then she lifted a flap and took out a stack of pages tied with another green ribbon. The words “VIRGINIA SOMERSET” were typed in all caps on the top page and underneath them was written “Beatrice Tremblay, 1988.” A year before her death.
She looked at Carolyn. “That is a manuscript, never published, in which Betty recounted Virginia’s disappearance,” the woman said. “I will make a deal with you, Miss Contreras. You may read Betty’s journal and the manuscript, but you can only do so in this room. You cannot remove them from this house.”
“Of course,” Minerva said immediately.
“I also have a couple of other conditions. I will determine how many hours you can spend at the Willows, going over those pages. I don’t intend to feed you or serve you cocktails, and I won’t have you coming and going at any hour of the day, banging at my door and asking to be let in. You must make an appointment with me before coming over, is that clear? This is the one time you interrupt a meal of mine.”
“I won’t interrupt your daily activities and I’ll abide by your conditions,” she said very formally, mirroring Carolyn’s serious delivery.
“Good. Then you may examine these pages for an hour. You may return after that at another time to read the rest.”
“Thank you. I’m really very grateful.”
Carolyn said nothing, merely touched the edge of the turban on her head, as if to ascertain that it remained in its proper place, and stepped out.
Minerva glanced at the diary, then the manuscript, and finally she peered in the box and looked in the envelope. She found two black-and-white photographs tucked in there. One was a shot showing three women dressed in costumes for a masquerade, though two of them had yet to put on their masks and their faces were bare.
She recognized Beatrice Tremblay in that picture, although shewas much younger than she appeared in the publicity photo from the book jacket ofThe Vanishingthat Minerva was familiar with. And even though Carolyn was wearing a domino mask and her hair was painted a platinum blond, Minerva easily recognized her. The way she stood, with a hand touching the string of pearls around her neck, had a sharpness to it that was unmistakable. Which left the third woman: that was Virginia Somerset.
The second photograph was a portrait that showed her more clearly, more closely, so that the viewer was able to appreciate the softness of her ringlets and the delicate curve of her mouth. She was smiling shyly in that portrait.
Minerva turned her attention to the manuscript. She’d brought a notebook and a tape recorder, on the off chance that she might be able to get a look at something of value. Now she slipped on her headphones and scribbled furiously, attempting to transcribe a few passages. She could have brought the laptop, but she preferred to take notes by hand, then type them into the computer. The process helped clarify her thoughts and her shorthand was well honed.
Some moments return to us, intact and incandescent, undimmed by the passage of time. It is like that when I remember that December of 1934 and the night that Virginia Somerset went missing.Minerva wrote that sentence down, and she kept writing until a loud tapping made her look up.
The tapping sound was Noah, his knuckles knocking on the table. “Time’s up,” he said. “You need to put that back where you found it.”
Minerva shifted in her seat and consulted her wristwatch. She pressed a button on her Discman, pausing Los Amantes de Lola midsong, and slipped her headphones off. “It’s been an hour already?”
He didn’t reply. Instead, he yawned and stretched his arms. By the look of him, he’d woken up only a little while earlier. He was wearing a sweatshirt that saidStoneridge Collegeon it and had a few stains to boot. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he was walking around in a pair of dirty-looking socks.
She returned the manuscript, the photos, and the diary to their green box and stuffed the box in the drawer.
Noah Yates leaned against the chair where she’d been sitting. “She said you can come back next week to look at this stuff again, but she wants you to call beforehand,” he said, and pulled out a business card from his pocket. “Anytime after noon should be fine. Her private number is on the back.”
Minerva took the card, which saidCarolyn Yates, President, Yates Foundationand had a phone number beneath. It was the same number of the secretary whom she’d called before, but when she turned the card, she saw a different number written on the back.
