Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
ELLA
M y face was numb from the cold as I stepped into the library. I must have entered with a burst of energy because Verna took the time to look up from the books she was stamping to shush me. The woman always loved a good shush.
My hands had been kept warm in my pockets. I pressed them against my cheeks to warm my face as I headed over to the research section. I took off my coat and scarf and hung them on the back of one of the chairs at the table I’d always used as a teenager. Isla and I both had a crush on the same senior, Josh Hadley, and he usually sat with his big, important senior friends at the table opposite, so we were able to spy on him over the edges of our textbooks. Sometimes, on stressful days like this, I longed to be back at that table giggling with Isla and getting shushed by Verna. Back then we all but ignored her no food rule as we snacked on chips and pretzels behind the shields we made with our books. Verna was younger then and more tolerant of our teenage antics. She’d grown stricter in her old age. Which was probably why the library was mostly empty after school. Of course, the internet made the library somewhat obsolete, too. It was sad to think that kids weren’t hanging out at the library, pretending to get their studies done and at the same time having fun with their friends.
I knew there were a couple of books about the history of Whisper Cove. They looked neglected on the shelf. It seemed no one had checked them out for years. I browsed the table of contents in both books. There was no mention of Grimstone Manor or Margaret Grimstone. I browsed the section of architecture books, specifically the ones that contained references to the Arts and Crafts movement. While there was plenty of information about the movement and photos of famous houses in the style, there was no mention of Margaret’s home.
I put the books back on the shelf. This was going much worse than I expected, and now, it seemed, I was going to have to approach Ms. Denton to see if she knew of any resources about Margaret Grimstone and her cursed house. It was silly, really. I was an adult now. Verna and I were on equal footing as grown-ups. I was no longer the giggling teen who left cookie crumbs on the tables. Still, the old case of nerves was back as I walked across to her desk. I stood over her like a child waiting to be acknowledged as she stamped the last three books. She adjusted her silver-framed glasses and smiled weakly.
“Well, well, Ella Lovely. I don’t believe I’ve seen you in the library in months.”
“Yes, well, busy and all that.”
“How are the rest of the Lovely sisters?”
“They’re all fine. Ms. Denton, do you happen to know if there are any resources or books available about Margaret Grimstone?”
She adjusted the glasses again and pursed her lips. “Well, that’s not one many people ask about anymore. I understand the house has been purchased. If the new owners are smart, they’ll tear it down. Then maybe those ridiculous rumors about the curse will die with it.”
“The house looks far better than I realized. Sturdy, good construction back then, I guess. And I don’t think the new owner is planning to tear it down but then I don’t know him so you might be right. Anyhow, Margaret Grimstone?” I reminded her.
“Right.”
She stood up from the chair. In my teenage mind she was much taller and more imposing. She used to stand over the table reprimanding us for not putting a book back on the proper shelf or talking too loudly. She was at least a half head shorter than me, and I was not tall.
I followed her to a side room that was filled with old microfiche machines. It was hard to believe we used to use them for homework research. It was even harder to believe they’d survived this long. It seemed the less complex a machine, the longer its shelf life.
“Wow, this brings back memories,” I said with a chuckle.
Verna pursed her lips again. We used to call her Miss Lemon because of those lips. Not to her face, of course, although one time Becky Simmons forgot and called her Miss Lemon. We all dove behind our books to stifle the laughter. Ms. Denton didn’t seem to realize it was a nickname and merely corrected Becky.
Verna stood at the metal cabinets, opened a drawer and within seconds pulled out a microfiche disc. “This is the local paper that mentions Margaret Grimstone’s death. It’s the only one I know of. Back then, women, even those with means and important societal standing, didn’t merit articles in the newspaper.”
“I suppose that makes sense. We’ve come a long way … sort of,” I added.
“Yes, sort of,” she said with a sly smile. After all these years, I’d connected with Verna Denton on, of all topics, feminism.
“That one on the end works the best. I assume you still know how to use it?” She lifted a brow.
“Like riding a bicycle, I’m sure.”
“Same rules apply,” she started.
“Don’t put the disc away yourself. Just leave it on top in the return basket,” I recited the rule that we’d heard many times.
Another slight smile before she walked out of the room.
I sat at the machine she’d pointed out and after a few pushes and pulls it all came back to me. A photo of the old newspaper came up on the screen. The paper was called the Whisper Gazette, and the date was November 3, 1899. The headline was about a fishing boat that had nearly capsized in a storm but still managed to make it safely to shore without losing anyone on board. There was a sale on gent’s raincoats for five dollars and a sterling silver tea set would cost you twenty-three dollars. Dr. Raymond delivered not one but two sets of twins in the same week. I kept scrolling and finally found the very small article about the death of Margaret Grimstone.
Margaret Grimstone of Grimstone Manor died Saturday afternoon from injuries sustained in a fall. Her father, Marshall Grimstone, was a state senator and owned a large share of stock in the Pacific Railroad. He worked as head banker of National Bank for twenty-five years before retiring. He died of a heart attack at the age of sixty-two and left the bulk of his estate to Margaret, his only daughter.
I kept scrolling, but that was the end of the death announcement, an announcement that mentioned Margaret’s death almost as if it was just a sidenote. The rest of the article focused on her deceased father. “Man, oh, man, what a disgrace, Whisper Gazette . No wonder you no longer exist.” I perused the rest of the pages, but there was no more mention of Margaret’s death. I was surprised to hear that she died of injuries sustained in a fall. I remembered stories about the original owner of Grimstone Manor that said she had met an untimely end in a hunting accident.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Ava. “We are making grilled cheese sandwiches. You in?”
“Yes, I am. Make it a double. Two slices of cheddar. It’s been a long day.”
“How did it go with the cookie delivery?”
“It didn’t. I’ll tell you when I get home.” I put away the phone and ejected the disc from the machine. Margaret and her tales of woe would have to wait. I was hungry.