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“You know Evan?”
“Oh, yes! I got him the job at the Historical Society back in 1995. I spent a week in Boston and managed to catch him lecturing at Harvard about the sociological implications of families doing their own genealogical research.”
“Wow, I’ll tell him you said hi.”
“Oh, please do. Now, do you need any help transporting your materials to the library?”
“I think I’ll be okay,” I say. By some miracle, Iphigenia still has her driver’s license, and she’s been letting me borrow her Cadillac with plush, white leather seats and a steering wheel that would look more appropriate on a boat. It makes me feel like Hugh Hefner whenever I drive it, but there’s ample trunk space.
The other librarians have a nickname for the Board of Trustees. They call them “the three-headed dog.” Facing off against them in a large, airy conference room, it suddenly feels as if I’m on trial. I set the boxes on the distinguished oak table, making sure each document rests in its own bag with a corresponding label.
The chairman, Ivan Phlott, purses his lips as he studies the original deed to Idylewylde Hall. Elaina Moppet, the chairwoman of the historical society, is scribbling furious notes on a yellow legal pad.
“I think we’re ready to begin,” Evan says. He claps his hands together uneasily. I clear my throat and take a sip of my water.
“Isolated communities develop their own mythologies. We’ve seen this in countless places. What starts as a scary story told around a campfire takes on a life of its own. As researchers and archivists, we know that one thing separates legends from lived experiences: Proof. What I’ve discovered is undeniable evidence that Beatrix Walton was not a fictional scapegoat. She was a real young woman.”
“You and every other wannabe detective,” Ivan scoffs.
“Ivan, respectfully, I’m going to ask you to take a look at exhibit 1C.” I packed Beatrix’s diary in the bottom of the first box, partially to shield it from the sun and partially for dramatic effect. What can I say? I may be a librarian, but I have a flare for drama.
Evan slowly starts unearthing the contents of the box: letters between Martin and Adelaide, the work orders for the house. My breath hitches as I realize that he’s getting closer to unearthing the diary.
“The documents in this box only pertain to Martin and Adelaide. There’s no evidence of Beatrix.”
“There should be a diary,” I start. Ivan quirks up an eyebrow, “From who? Beatrix?” When he says it, I realize how outlandish it sounds.
“Yes.”
“That’s impossible! If she was a servant, would she even know how to read, let alone write?” Ivan scoffs.
“Let me see the box,” I say. Sweat starts to gather in the collar of my dress. The room is twenty degrees hotter than it was ten minutes ago.
I walk over to the box and thumb through the materials. Everything’s there except for Beatrix’s diary. I fish my phone out of my pocket and shine the flashlight in the box. Part of me hopes the cover is just hard to distinguish since it’s made of black leather, but there’s nothing.
“I-I mean, it was there last night!” I balk. My voice raises two whole octaves, and I’m aware that I may look a little hysterical.
“Let’s move on to the second box,” Evan suggests, “Eleanor found some wonderful maps of the island which will look splendid in the display cases in the front room.”
I nod, numbly shoving down the fury that’s suddenly boiling inside me. I don’t know what or who comes over me. I’m seeing red. Rage is seething through my veins like fire. I’ve never wanted to throttle someone as much as I’ve wanted to wrap my hands around Ivan’s beefy neck. I want to press my thumbs into his jugular until I hear the cartilage pop. I want to make him pay.
Suddenly, I feel someone’s breath hot against my cheek.
“You’re not going to win,” a voice whispers, shrill and insidious. I recognize the voice from my dream. It’s Beatrix. She’s fucking with me. She hid her diary so I would look insane in front of the most powerful men in town, that absolute bitch!
I spin around to face her, but no one is there.
“Eleanor? Is everything alright? You look dazed.”
“I’m fine. Okay, so in this second box, if you look at exhibit 1F, you’ll see the original map of the island,” I say. My heartbeat calms. The pounding in my ears dulls, and I no longer feel like I’m being watched by anyone other than the board.
I got through the rest of my presentation without any other hiccups. After I presented the final document, the board shook my hand.
“I must say, even with your flights of fancy, you did an excellent job,” Ivan says.
“Thank you,” I say, trying not to grimace.
The board exits, and Evan sticks around by the door.
