Chapter 11

Robert, Gabrielle’s chauffeur, opened the back seat passenger door of her Bentley, and she stepped in. On the driver’s side, Robert fastened his seat belt, started the engine, and drove slowly down the long driveway to Woodland Drive. Turning right toward the River, he coasted down the steep hill to Riverside Drive. The dark green forest of Wilder Island rose out of the gray mists, giving the illusion that it floated above the river.

After a left turn onto the highway from Riverside, Robert headed toward the newly vacated Rosencranz Asylum, where Ms duBois would be meeting a realtor. The highway was lined with cornfields as far as the eye could see in all directions, with an occasional cluster of trees that managed to escape the plow. Back in Robert’s day, there had been fewer massive cornfields, and far more massive forests.

Robert pulled into the drive leading to Rosencranz Asylum. When it became disrespectful to refer to a mental institution as an ‘Asylum’—that part of the sign had been painted over, leaving ‘Rosencranz’ on its own, hanging asymmetrically above the entry to the grounds. But everyone in the area still called it ‘the Asylum’.

The long driveway took a sharp turn to the left, revealing meticulously cared-for grounds and a charming little gazebo. The small circular gazebo sparkled white in the sunshine, set off brilliantly by trellises of roses and myriad flowers nestled all around. Several steps led up to the interior of the gazebo, mostly hidden from view by the roses.

Gabrielle remembered the gazebo well. We often met in the gazebo for a game of cards, though we had to be accompanied by one of the Rosencranz  matrons.

A caretaker had stayed on, her realtor Peggy McFarland had told her, until the place got sold. “Someone needs to keep the grounds up. The state is eager to unload this albatross—the only thing it’s got, really, is this marvelous landscaping. The building is in need of a lot of attention.”

“Oh, it just needs to be re-oriented and renovated toward a more positive existence,” Gabrielle had said. It needs happiness. Purpose.

“Why are you interested in this property?” Peggy had asked Gabrielle. “It’s such an awful old dog, it will need a small fortune to make it livable. I can show you much nicer listings that you won’t need to spend so much time and money to renovate.”

“But I have so much of both!” Gabrielle had said. “I want to do something that matters. Something that’s needed.”

“But why Rosencranz?” the realtor had persisted. “It has such a horrible stigma—first a house of utter debauchery, then a hospital for unmarried mothers to birth their babies, then a mental institution. No one will forget that it’s an old tragic wreck. I’m not sure anyone can rehabilitate the place.”

“That is precisely why I want this property,” Gabrielle had said. “Because it’s such a tragic old wreck.”

Just like me.

The cold, stone gray building that had loomed in Gabrielle’s memory these past few days came into view. It seemed absurdly smaller than her recollection, though considerably dingier and more drab.

Robert pulled into the parking lot and stopped in front of the ten-foot high double doors of glass and wood. Peggy had not shown up yet, but as Gabrielle got out of the car, a white-haired man wearing denim overalls over a red and white cotton plaid shirt appeared from around the corner of the building. He pushed a wheelbarrow full of garden tools and a pile of weeds.

“Kin I help you, Ma’am?” he said, taking his hat off and holding it against his chest. His smile and sparkling blue eyes gave the whole place a sense of wholesomeness.

Gabrielle  didn’t recognize the gentleman who stood before her. Over forty years had passed since her time at Rosencranz Home for Unwed Mothers—there had been a caretaker back then, but he had been on his sixties. He’d be long dead by now.

“Are you the caretaker?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said. “Name’s Franklin Walcott. Been the gardener and general handyman around here for more’n 25 years. Friends call me Frankie.”

“I am Gabrielle duBois,” she said, extending her gloved hand to him. 

Gabrielle had not intended to ever reveal to anyone that she had once been a resident here—and how would this gardener have ever heard of her? Oh, piffle! As if anyone cares now. Still, her shame was deep and indelible, in spite of the years she had spent on her knees begging forgiveness.

From whom? She had begun to wonder…

“I’m meeting a realtor here in a few minutes,” Gabrielle said. “I’m interested in buying the property.”

Frankie raised an unruly silver eyebrow and studied her for a few moments. “Fine old building. I’d sure hate to see it torn down.”

“Oh, I’m not planning to do that,” Gabrielle said. “I want to restore her to being even more beautiful than when she was new.” She…in her thoughts, Gabrielle had begun to call the tragic old wreck ‘Old Rosie’.

Frankie smiled. “That’d be right fine, Ma’am. Place could use a little love.”

“It’s certainly been in the news lately, this old place,” Gabrielle said. “Did you know her? The woman who escaped?” She tried not to sound too curious, but in truth Gabrielle was nearly obsessed with Charlotte and wanted to know every thing there was to know about this woman.

Frankie’s deep blue eyes seemed to probe her for a moment. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Charlotte. She’d been here almost as long as me. I remember the day she came.”

A car rounded the curve in the driveway and parked itself next to the Bentley. The driver got out—a woman dressed in a sporty navy blue pantsuit with a file folder in her hand. She smiled at Robert—or perhaps it was the Bentley.

She knows I have enough money.

“You must be Gabrielle duBois!” she said, extending her hand out for a shake. “Peggy McFarland.” She reached into her purse and drew out a small case, and handed Gabrielle her business card.

“Pleased to meet you in person, Peggy,” Gabrielle said. “I was just chatting with this gentleman.”

“Oh, excellent!” Peggy said. “Mr Walcott is a godsend, taking care of the grounds so beautifully. You will open the door for us, sir?”

Frankie nodded and reached into his deep pocket for a set of keys. The two women followed him up the rough-hewn granite steps to the ten-foot tall doors, and waited while he unlocked them.

“Aren’t these beautiful?” Peggy said as they walked through. “Vintage Art Deco.” She stroked the wood affectionately. “And the glass! You just don’t see this kind of artwork anymore!”

Gabrielle had loved these doors, especially the glass, which featured etched patterns of flamingos and flying fish. The wood frame had held up pretty well over the years, unlike the Great Room into which they stepped. 

She took a long circular view. Some things were different or missing, but it had been so many years since she had been here. Offices, each with a door and a window, lined the long wall. Those were not there in her day. But something was missing.

The room was bare, but for some dirt and a box or two—remnants of moving. 

“It’s only been a couple of weeks since patients were moved,” Peggy said. “They’ll have it all spiffed up soon.”

Permeated with the odors typical of old buildings—dust and undertones of institutional disinfectant—the Great Room walls were in serious need of re-plastering and painting everywhere. Most of the original baseboards were missing. The pressed metal ceiling high above had generally escaped the wear and tear over the years, though it too could use a good cleaning. But the beautiful parquet floor had evidently been sanded by daily foot traffic that had worn off the finish, leaving it gray and dull.

Surrounded on three sides by doors and windows of polished wood carved in the same Art Deco design as the front door, the Great Room seemed bright and cheery in spite of its grime. 

That was not how Gabrielle remembered it, however. In her memory, the room was dark—heavy curtains had hung over the windows. Not the dingy lace curtains now attached to both sides of the window frames. 

“This place has spectacular views,” Peggy said. “And these windows are truly from a lost age. Ten feet high, just like the doors. And look at the carving!”

“It was beautiful back in its day,” Gabrielle said. “I’m sure,” she added quickly, not wanting to risk being asked if she’d ever been there.

“Truly,” Peggy agreed. “It really deteriorated after Edith Rosencranz died. No one cared enough, I guess.”

“Maybe no one thought it mattered to the patients,” Gabrielle said. She’d often thought that her days at Rosencranz could not have been made worse. Now she understood that was not so. In her time, the house was still lovely, neither neglected nor dirty.

For the first time, she realized that her parents had sent her off to secretly have her illegitimate baby in a pretty nice place. It seemed odd to be grateful to them for this towering edifice of shame that had underpinned her life. But had she not ever been here before, would she now be standing on the threshold of a new life?

I would never have married Henry. That was one way her life might have radically changed. Perhaps not. Perhaps Father would have married me off to Henry anyway, or another son of one of his business buddies.

“Mental health dollars in rural areas are difficult to come by,” Peggy said. “Remodeling is not at the top of the list, especially for small, privately owned places in rural hide-aways like this.”

“Privately owned?” Gabrielle said. “I thought you said the state owned it?”

“It does now,” Peggy said. “When Edith died several years ago, she owed 20 years of property taxes; the estate couldn’t pay so the state took over the property.”

Peggy steered Gabrielle toward the old kitchen, whose windows were not as large as those in the Great Room, and lacked the etched glass, but the frames were carved to match. Double door of the same style of carved wood and arched glass opened out onto a patio.

“I love how much light comes into this place,” Gabrielle said. “It helps chase away its dark history.”

“Yes, light will do that,” Peggy said, nodding. “Needless to say, the kitchen needs an entire upgrade. It’ll need to be re-plumbed and re-wired. Some of the windows may not be salvageable.”

“Kitchens are like that in old houses,” Gabrielle said. “And bathrooms. I’m sure the whole house needs plumbing and electrical upgrades.”

“You’re right about that,” Peggy said. “But it will take a fortune.”

“I have a fortune.”

“Oh, I’m not worried,” Peggy said. “I know you have the resources to buy and renovate this place. We pre-qualified you through your bank. Neither I nor the State were interested in showing the property to the merely curious.”

There was no way to minimize the extent of the renovation that would be required in the kitchen. Broken down or outdated equipment would have to be replaced. The old black stoves with gigantic burners were caked with decades of dirt and grease. Huge refrigerators of dented stainless steel, hulked over the narrow passages between them and the worktables.

Plumbing problems below the three chipped and stained porcelain sinks had rotted the floor. Several layers of linoleum and vinyl tile had peeled back under one of the sinks to reveal a plain wooden floor.

Wires dangled from the ceiling where pieces of the pressed metal had been torn off.

“I wonder why the State Health Department doesn’t shut places like this down. They had patients here only a month ago,” Gabrielle said. “It’s disgraceful, really.” I would’ve walked out too.

“Someone has to tell them,” Peggy said. “And that would mean someone from the outside would have to know, which means a family member of a patient. That is the question—why didn’t they report it?”

“Out of sight, out of mind, I guess,” Gabrielle said. “I wonder how many patients were just abandoned here?”

“Hard to say,” Peggy said. “You know, Edith Rosencranz spent her last days here. Rosie, they called her—those who remembered who she was.”

She slid the deadbolt back and opened the double doors. A low wall surrounded the patio, beyond which grew a thick hedge of rosebushes. “Isn’t this lovely? Imagine sitting out here on a sunny morning with your coffee!”

Gabrielle did not remember the roses, but the patio had been a favorite place she and Louisa and the other girls had liked to sit and chat—those few light-hearted moments amid the darkness that enshrouded them.

I wonder where they are now? Louisa and the others…

Two crows landed on the edge of the roof as they entered the patio.

“Yo! Miss Gabrielle!” Floyd shouted and flapped his wings. “We see you! Yoohoo!”

Willy chimed in, “We’re up here, Miss Gabrielle!” Between the two they made quite a racket.

Gabrielle looked up and waved—a safe enough gesture with Peggy’s back turned. She did not dare call out to them. When I own the place, things will change. Crow talk will be among the native tongues.

“Plenty of crows around here!” Peggy said, looking up to the roof top. “More even than hang out in Ledford, so you won’t be missing that part of leaving.”

Most of the folks in Ledford loved the crows of Wilder Island and by extension, any and all crows that lived in or visited the city. Out-of-towners were aghast at the reverence with which Ledford showered upon what some call ‘feathered vermin’. Soon they were  all swilling Raven Red Beer at the Twin Crow Saloon as if they were true believers. 

They left the patio and circulated back through the kitchen and into a hallway. Before them was a door whose sign read ‘Infirmary’, and another labeled ‘Basement’.

“The patient’s rooms are up there,” Peggy said, pointing to their right. She flipped a switch on the wall next to them, and a light turned on from an Art Deco-style wall sconce that lit up the stairwell. Dingy and worn red carpet covered the narrow stair up to the 2nd floor.

“The stairway used to be wider, with a banister on the right,” Peggy said. “The whole stairway was exposed to the Great Room. But they walled in the bannister and narrowed the stairway when they added the offices decades ago.”

That was the thing that was different! The stairway and bannister! 

“Is the old bannister around somewhere?” Gabrielle asked. “It would be wonderful to restore it.”

“Yes,” Peggy said. “Behind this wall. How did you know there was a banister?”

Gabrielle remained composed, quickly coming up with a cover story. “Well, I’ve spent a good deal of time in the library, researching the history of this place—there were many photos that showed how truly grand this place was.”

Which was true…she had seen pictures. 

Peggy pushed open a door. “Down this way is the old infirmary.” 

Gutted of all furniture, the large room smelled of disinfectant and triggered a flood of memories. Girls screaming in their labor, or sobbing when the babies were taken from them, dead or alive. “It’s better this way,” echoed one of the ghosts that haunted Gabrielle’s memory.

Underneath the disinfectant, memories of blood and feces and old ancient days hung like a thick cloud. It’s just a room. 

They strolled by the built-in wood cabinets, which were mostly empty but for a few abandoned packages of bandages and half-empty bottles of various colored liquids. Several exam rooms were located off to the sides, the exam tables with stirrups were gone, but the memories of what happened here remained.

The scene of the crimes. Gabrielle gave them a cursory glance, struggling to stay composed. They’re just old rooms.

“At least the infirmary doesn’t seem to need as much repair and remodel as the kitchen!” Peggy said.

“No, but if it were mine, I’d rip everything out and start from scratch here too. I’d make it something else. Like a large reading room. Or a pottery studio.” Gabrielle said, happy to be leaving it.

“Let’s go on upstairs and see the patient rooms,” Peggy said. “This stair used to be a servants entrance to the rooms on the second floor—when Hobart lived here.”

She led the way up the narrow stairs and into a long hallway with doorways on either side. Reeking of old dirt, old bodies, and bad plumbing, the upstairs still bore treasures of its Art Deco heritage.

They walked slowly down the hallway, entering each of the rooms first on one side then the other. All the furniture had been removed. The walls all needed re-plastering and repainting, and new light fixtures to replace the bare bulbs in porcelain sockets attached to the ceilings.

None of the rooms had any plumbing fixtures, but there were two ‘gang’ restrooms with showers at either end of the hallway. Each had a long row of toilets and sinks on one side, and a large shower with many shower heads on the other. There were no doors.

“You could bathe an elephant in here,” Peggy said.

“Or a bunch of people,” Gabrielle said. “It doesn’t look like anyone had any privacy.” We had privacy. We shared the bathroom, but there were doors. She wrinkled her nose. “It sure stinks in here.”

“The plumbing is older than we are,” Peggy said, nodding and grimacing.

Peggy led the way down the stairs to a closed door with a sign that read ‘Basement’. The door was not locked and it swung open toward them, revealing a flight of steps down into darkness. “Smells like a basement,” she said, as musty mildewy odors drifted upward.

Peggy flipped the light switch on the wall beside her, and they descended to the semi-darkness below. Another light switch filled the dank basement with blazing fluorescent light. 

“Other than the shelves and plumbing, there’s not much to see,” Peggy said.

A vast empty room lay before them, with metal shelving on one wall, above the fluorescent lights, ancient plumbing. 

“One great thing about basements,” Peggy said. “The plumbing is easy to get at. Otherwise not much to see down here.”

Small windows whose glass was almost opaque, let enough light in to reveal buff-colored bricks covering the basement floor. 

“Back in the days before Hobart Rosencranz, there was a brick factory out here,” Peggy said. “This house was built with them, as was just about every farmhouse and gas station in the whole area. Some of these bricks even show up in the buildings in Downtown Ledford.”

“I’ve seen them!” Gabrielle said. “I never knew there was brick factory out here.”

“It was on Mill Creek, till maybe 1915 or so,” Peggy said. “There was a huge fire, probably from the kilns, that destroyed the place. They never rebuilt it.”

Peggy steered Gabrielle toward the back wall, furthest away from where they stood. “Here’s the safe they built into the foundation when the house was built. It too is of the Art Deco design.”

“Is there anything in it?” Gabrielle asked as they stood before the black door, with streaks of rust and dust obscuring much of the lettering and designs on the front. She reached out and tugged on the handle, which didn’t budge.

Peggy shrugged. “Who knows? Probably no money though rumor has it that Old Hobart stashed the wealth of a small European kingdom in there. Whoever buys the place gets what’s inside. It’ll probably need to be opened with a blow torch.”

Back up stairs to the ground floor, they walked through the Great Room, out the front doors and down the steps. 

“Let me show you the gardener’s cottage,” Peggy said. “It’s just beyond those trees.”

Gabrielle followed Peggy’s pointing finger. If there was a house there, it was completely hidden from view.

“Door’s open,” Frankie said as he stood up.. He had been pruning roses around the patio and heard the women come out the front door.

The cottage was built of the buff colored bricks Peggy spoke of, with a pitched roof of wood shake shingles. It was tiny but adorable. Flowers encircled the house, with a large oak tree in its front yard.

Inside, one large room housed the kitchen and living area. An antique stove, a metal sink and cabinets defined the kitchen zone. The bedroom was barely large enough for a full size bed and a dresser. Between the bedroom and the living area, a small full bathroom.

“Originally it was built as a carriage house, around the same time as the house,” Peggy said. “And later Edith remodeled it to the gardener’s quarters when she opened Rosencranz to unwed mothers.”

As they walked back to their cars, Peggy asked, “So, are you still interested in this tragic old wreck? I am happy to show it again after you’ve had time to think about it.”

“Yes I am still interested ,” Gabrielle said. “And no, I don’t need to see any more. I want it. As is, full price, and as soon as possible.”

“You’re way too easy!” Peggy said, laughing. “I’ll write up an offer this evening—I’ve got another appointment to show the place this afternoon. Not to worry though; only a few folks can pass the income/credit qualifying requirement. No one has wanted to make an offer after they’ve seen the place. Except for AgMo—they wanted to bulldoze it down and plant corn.”

“What stopped them?” Gabrielle said.

“Edith Rosencranz got the house and property designated as an Historical Property after Hobart died-which means AgMo can’t get it. Nor can anyone who doesn’t want to preserve its original construction—as much as possible. We know the building needs to be re-wired and re-plumbed. But the contractors may not alter anything else.”

“I had no idea,” Gabrielle said. “But I am happy to restore Old Rosie. I hope there are drawings somewhere.”

“Perhaps we’ll find them in that old vault,” Peggy said.

At 3:30 p.m., Peggy McFarland picked the Provincial Father Superior Thomas Majewski up at his hotel, and they drove to Rosencranz. He had decided to introduce himself as a priest, but under a different name. No use in this woman recognizing his name from the newspaper. But he needed her to know he wasn’t just some curious person—he had connections to a huge pile of money, making him a viable buyer. More or less…

“So, Father Albert,” Peggy said. “You said your Order is looking for a site for a new seminary school? I thought the Holy Orders were losing candidates.”

“Yes, well,” Majewski shifted his weight under the confines of a seat belt. “We Franciscans want to change that. We’d like to combine training for the Catholic priesthood in the true tradition of our founder, St Francis of Assisi, who believed nature is the mirror of God. So we want to establish a seminary, away from urban life where those who seek the path of God can do so in an atmosphere of natural beauty, such as Rosencranz.”

“It’s in need of a lot of work, Father,” Peggy said. “Just fair warning.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the photos,” Majewski said. “The Catholic Church is fully capable of financing a small reconstruction project like Rosencranz, which is not at all like the Notre Dame. In any case, St Francis restored many old churches that had fallen to ruin, which fits in with our mission as well. Our novitiate will learn the humble tools of the carpenter and the craftsmen—as part of their immersion in St Francis legacy.”

Majewski impressed himself. All of it was of course utter nonsense, but it sounded so solid and totally backed by the Church. And he had made everything up on the spot.

“Splendid, Father!” Peggy said, flashing a smile at him. “The whole region would love to see this old place restored. Especially for a reputable cause! It has a rather shady history, you know. The original owner, Hobart Rosencranz made a fortune in China in the opium wars, or so they say. And when he came back filthy rich, he built this huge house for himself and his twenty-three cats. He was famous for the wild orgiastic parties he threw.”

Majewski waved that away. “Jesus loves saints and sinners alike, Ms McFarland. We would indeed rehabilitate the place’s old image, should we decide to purchase the property.”

As they pulled into the driveway at Rosencranz, Frankie the Gardener stood on the front steps of the building.

Frankie, who surely had not forgotten him.

“Hello, Mr Walcott!” Peggy greeted Frankie. Peering past him, she gushed, “Oh, I see you have the door open already for us!” She turned and motioned Majewski to follow her. “Shall we, Father?”

Majewski nodded to Frankie, who gave him a studied look before saying, “G’day, Father.”

Peggy McFarland gave Majewski a somewhat less detailed tour and inspection than she’d given Gabrielle DuBois, largely because he seemed rather disinterested in the house, except for the basement. He gave only a passing glance at the Great Room and the Kitchen. 

After a quick stroll down the hallway through upstairs patient rooms, Majewski said, “Let me see the basement. I was told by our buildings maintenance fellow to look at the foundations and the plumbing below the house. He tells me that is where the major  renovation expense will lie.”

“Of course, Father,” Peggy said. “It’s true what your maintenance man said. Still, I must warn you, it is old. Pre-building codes. It’s going to need a complete, serious remodel, up and down, inside and out. While preserving the building’s unique Art Deco style.”

“I understand,” Majewski said.

She led him down the stairs and to a closed door, which she opened with her key. Her cell phone rang as she switched the basement lights on.

“I’ll be right down, Father Albert,” she said. “It’s my office—I’ll only be a minute.”

As he descended the stairs, Majewski took out the small flashlight he had tucked into his pocket before leaving his hotel. The vault was likely to be in a dark place, or perhaps if he was lucky enough, dark inside the vault itself. Best to come prepared.

There was no need, however. Fluorescent lights illuminated the space. He glanced around. The walls were mostly brick, except for one corner where the texture changed suddenly, from brick to metal.

That must be the vault! Majewski’s heart pounded, and his pulse quickened as he approached. It’s built into the wall. 

Years of muddy water dribbling down from an unknown source above had obscured the face of the metal door. Majewski turned on his little flashlight and rubbed the safe door with a handkerchief until a series of gold letters appeared. 

York Safe and Lock Co—the letters read, in a bold yet decorative script.

 He tried to turn the combination dial, but it didn’t move.

“Ah, the old vault,” Peggy said, appearing at his side. “Rumor has it that Hobart Rosencranz kept the crown jewels of some tiny, yet very wealthy country in Europe somewhere in this vault.” She laughed. “A ridiculous story, for sure. They used it to store old records and lost the combo for the lock decades ago. The basement also flooded a few times, which in all likelihood caused the door to the vault to become rusted shut. The new owners would need to get someone down here with a torch and cut a hole in that door, if they want to see what’s inside.”

Majewski imagined not jewels, but a box of files containing the records he had to make sure no one should ever see. But there was nothing he could do now. Or ever, if he’d have to buy the place to get into the vault. In spite of his bragging, neither the Jesuit Order, nor the Vatican would ever approve of buying this old wreck.

There must be another way…

Peggy led the way back up the stairs, flicking off the lower switches as they returned to the ground floor. She gestured toward the stair to the second floor. “Shall we take a look upstairs?”

Majewski had no interest in anything but the vault. He did not, however, want to call any attention to it, so he nodded and followed her the up the stairs. After a 2 minute survey, he was done.

Peggy followed him back down the stairs. “Can I show you the kitchen?” she said as Majewski approached the front door.

He turned on his heel and followed Peggy.

“On our right is the infirmary,” she said.

Majewski glanced quickly into the room full of long  stainless steel tables, chairs, cabinets. He thought he heard screaming. The odor of blood and disinfectant seemed to leak out the door. It turned his stomach. 

He nearly bumped into Peggy turning quickly toward the kitchen.

 “Predictably dingy, old, leaky and stinky!” he said, pulling out his handkerchief and wiping his brow, regaining his composure.

Peggy laughed. “Indeed. Nothing’s been updated or repaired in decades. Pretty much everything needs to be replaced.”

They walked out the kitchen doors to the patio, encircled by a perfectly maintained hedge of roses, in full beautiful bloom. Beyond the roses, a perfectly manicured lawn.

“Frankie’s done a wonderful job,” Peggy said. “But he’s been working on these grounds for almost 25 years.”

Majewski grunted some form of appreciation as they stepped down onto the sidewalk leading to the front door and parking lot.

“Can I show you anything else?” Peggy asked, stopping for a moment. “The gardener’s cottage, perhaps?”

“No, not at this time,” Majewski said as he continued walking to her car. “But I may need a second visit, after I discuss the property with the powers that be.” He rolled his eyes upward and grinned.

“Of course, Father.”

Peggy tried to engage him in conversation about the building on the way back to the city, but he had no interest in anything but the vault. Majewski tried to come up with some replies to Peggy’s quest for conversation, but only managed to reiterate in a bit more detail his earlier spiel about St Francis and a seminary school for carpenters.

“Thank you very much for your time, Ms McFarland,” Majewski said when she dropped him off at his hotel. “I will be in touch.”

“You’re quite welcome, Father,” she said. “Good day to you!”

Exhausted, Majewski fell onto his bed and flicked on the tv. A commercial about a place where unmarried young women can go to have their babies. He flicked past it, finding the pre-evening news. Stella’s face appeared dissolving to a shot of the old dilapidated Rosencranz. Someone wailing in the background.

“For sale,” the newscaster said with a wink. “Ghosts and all.”

Majewski flicked off the tv and went down the elevator to the hotel bar, where he formulated his next move. Tomorrow he would meet with an attorney to advise him on how to acquire the Rosencranz property.

Jules Sackman smiled obsequiously at Father Superior Thomas Majewski sitting across the table from him. Amused that once they were on opposite sides, when Henry Braun wanted to buy Wilder Island from the Jesuits, and now Majewski needed him to buy some property.

So very poetic…

“I am in need of legal advice and perhaps representation to purchase a property,”Majewski had said over the phone. “Meet me at 12:30 at the Crow and Barrel.”

“It would be my pleasure, Father,” Sackman had said with a broad smile across his face. 

“So, which property are you interested in, Father?” Jules asked Majewski. 

They had been seated by a window facing the river—Majewski got the better view. Wilder Island. Jules had a panoramic view of bridge, and a few barges. “I’ll call the listing agent and make arrangements for you to view the property.”

“Rosencranz Asylum. I’ve been to see the property already,” Majewski said, waving away the offer. “There may be delicate negotiations between my Order and the State, should we decide to purchase. It would be handy for me, that is us, to have our realtor and attorney in the same person.”

“Exactly,” Jules said, nodding. His smile grew broader. “That is why I acquired a real estate license after I got out of law school. But why, may I ask, do you want this property? It’s old, it stinks, and no doubt it needs to be completely renovated.”

A waiter came to their table and took their lunch order. Majewski declined anything other than the ice water the waiter had brought him before Jules arrived. 

“Just water for me as well,” Jules said.

“My Order is interested in establishing a seminary school in the Midwest,” Majewski said after the waiter left. He pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to Jules. “Here’s the listing agent that showed me the property. Tell her that I, that is we, want to make an offer. Perhaps you can make a deal.”

Jules glanced at the card. “Peggy McFarland. Good luck!”

“You know her?” Majewski said, tilting his head.

 “Everyone knows Peggy.” Jules said, grinning. “She’s very well-known around town for selling high-end, very pricey real estate. Unlike Rosencranz. Probably she’s hoping someone will come along with really huge bucks to remodel the old bag to its original Art Deco state and turn it into a resort for the rich.”

“It definitely needs an extensive renovation,” Majewski said. “Perhaps they’ll come down off the price. Two million for the property plus perhaps at least that to fix it. It’ll be difficult to find a buyer—once that actually has seen what bad shape the property’s in.”

“Only two million?” Jules said, his eyebrows rising. “They’ll get it. It sits on almost 7,000 acres—that’s roughly 10 square miles—of mostly forest. You’ll be lucky if AgMo doesn’t  come sniffing around as soon as they catch wind it’s on the market.”

“AgMo?” Majewski frowned.

“AgMo is a farming mega-corporation,” Jules said. “They’ve been buying up all the small family farms as soon as the elderly owners pass. They monitor the obituaries. And the real estate markets, newspapers, organizations. They raze everything and plant corn.”

The waiter appeared with their order and after placing the plates on the table asked, “Would there be anything else, gentlemen?”

Jules liked  the way the waiter called them ‘gentlemen’. 

“I believe this will do,” Majewski said. 

“I’ll have a coffee, later,” Jules said, smiling at the young man.

“Certainly,” the waiter said, smiling back.

Jules picked up half his sandwich and said: “No one make a Reuben better than this place.”

“Mr Sackman,” Majewski said, ignoring the sandwich and fries on his plate. “I am going to need your help—but everything must remain in strict confidence between us.”

“Of course,” Jules said, smiling like a jackal. “Are you planning to hire me as your realtor? Or your attorney?”

“Perhaps some of both,” Majewski said. “The woman who disappeared from Rosencranz was, that is, she is my sister,” 

Jules bushy gray eyebrows shot up. “I see.” 

“Stel—, that is my sister entered Rosencranz as a pregnant teenager over 20 years ago,” Majewski said in a lowered voice.

“I see,” Jules said, his face returned to normal. “And she’d been there ever since?” He took a bite of his sandwich.

“Yes,” Majewski said. “She had other issues than her pregnancy—mental issues—which became worse over time. After she got there, the facility became an asylum for people with non-violent mental conditions, but whose families are unable or unwilling to take care of them. Or that they lacked a family altogether.”

Jules knew full well the history of the old building. He wondered which family Majewski came from—unable or unwilling? He picked up the second half of his sandwich.

“She lived in another world,” Majewski said as if he heard the unspoken question. “And another time zone. She was unable to understand her surroundings, and unable to communicate with anyone.”

 “Was she a ward of the state?,” Jules asked, his sandwich hovering in the air, his pinky raised. “In other words, did your family pay for her stay there?”

“For awhile, the family trust paid,” Majewski said. “It’s not been cheap. In the beginning, her residency cost us $2500 per month.”

“That is a terrific burden for a family,” Jules said. He bit into his sandwich.

“Yes, it was,” Majewski said, swirling the ice cubes in his glass. “The trust ran dry 12 years ago, after which she became a ward of the state. There was no alternative.” He shrugged and shook his head. He unfolded his napkin and put it on his lap.

“How very unfortunate, “Jules said, noting that Majewski had not touched his sandwich. “Wards of the state are often not treated well at mental institutions.”

“As far as we could tell, she was not mistreated,” Majewski said. “In any case, that is not why I called you. The seminary school is the official reason I gave the realtor.” 

He leaned toward Jules and lowered his voice. “There seems to be some medical records of her stay that got left in a vault in the basement.” He glanced over his shoulder. “There are things in St—that is, Charlotte’s past that my family would prefer to be forgotten.”

“I see,” Jules said. The last of his sandwich disappeared into his mouth. Majewski still had not touched his.

He repeated Dora Lyn’s story about the incomplete upload of paper records to their new computer system 15 years ago.

“I need to find those records,” Majewski said. “If they exist.”

Jules wiped his chin with his napkin. “Well, we are dealing with some legal complications, beyond the privacy issues. It’d be hard to get into the vault without the hospital fetching it for you.”

“The problem is,” Majewski said, “these records are a vault in the basement—one of the larger horrors of the old place. The combination was lost, years ago—and a few floods have now rusted the door shut. It would need to be opened with a blow torch.”

“Well, that would be difficult to accomplish,” Jules said. “Even if the State—the owner of Rosencranz—allows you to blow torch the vault open, for the reasons you claim—which is unlikely, the police might want to take a look at those records, too.”

Damn.

The waiter stopped by their table. Majewski nodded for the waiter to bring him another glass of ice water. His lunch remained untouched.

“Are you ready for coffee, sir?” the waiter asked Jules.

“Yes, please,” Jules said, flashing a quick smile at the young man.

“I must see what’s in that vault,” Majewski said after the waiter left. “Before anyone else does. My family paid a lot of money for my sister to have her illegitimate child there, leaving behind no record of her infraction.”

“Was that not Rosencranz’s function in those days?” Jules said. “A place for girls of wealthy families to discreetly give birth?”

“Yes,” Majewski said. “But my family is Catholic. Devout Catholic. My mother is near rabid in her adherence to church doctrine, and the 10 commandments. Anything outside Catholic beliefs was—is—anathema to her. Stel—that is, Charlotte’s pregnancy horrified and scandalized my mother so severely, I fear it would kill her if this fact from Charlotte’s past were to get out.”

“Kill her? Really? It hasn’t been uncommon for girls to get pregnant as teenagers since, oh…forever,” Jules said. “Try as the Catholic Church has to make sex unpopular.”

Majewski ignored the criticism. “It wasn’t on Mother’s agenda, therefore it must not be allowed to exist.”

“I see,” Jules said. 

“The shame nearly drove her insane,” Majewski said. “I remember Father telling me that he had wondered many times if Estelle—that is my mother—should have been the one committed, rather than my sister.”

“I see,” Jules said again. “But about the personal property of hers that you are seeking—I’ll have to think of a way. If this Flora Lyn gal told the police the same story about records left behind at Rosencranz, chances are good that they’ve already gotten to the vault.”

“They had not as of yesterday,” Majewski said. “And I don’t know that Lora Lyn told the police about the files in the vault. Probably they didn’t ask.”

“The assumption being that all records are now at Kafka Memorial,” Jules said, nodding. “At the moment, I don’t know how we can get into this vault, short of buying the place. It’s pretty unlikely we’d be allowed to torch that vault otherwise. Are these records worth that much to you? The place is on the market for $1.2 million.”

“I know,” Majewski said. “I have some discretionary budget items that I can pull together without going through a lot of paperwork. Once I find what’s in the vault, we can sell it off.”

Pulling that off would be a feat greater than saving Wilder Island from Henry Braun—which had cost the Order virtually nothing. The hermit’s chapel had completely charmed his superiors. But buying a derelict building like Rosencranz out of the blue was not at all the same. 

There were ways though, that Majewski could spread out the costs to various different long-term projects. He’d put all the money back into the projects from which he had borrowed. No one would ever know.

Jules slowly nodded, trying not to smile. “We could do that. Maybe slap some lipstick on the old pig in the meantime. Then we’ll raise the price!”

“Exactly!” Majewski said. For the first time a brief smile flashed across his face.

“Now, about my retainer…” Jules said.

After leaving Jules Sackman at the Crow and Barrel, Majewski made his way to his hotel room across the river. He had an enormous pile of work he’d been trying to ignore. Ten emails from Luther, his secretary, since this morning. Everything was late, it seemed. 

Though he had planned to tackle the stack, he couldn’t focus. Instead, he examined the budgets of several large accounts that he might draw from to purchase Rosencranz. The entire afternoon passed while he socked together the $1.2 million dollar purchase price. He called Jules and left a message for him to draw up the offer and call him.

He then called Room Service and ordered dinner. He left the desk and sat on the edge of his bed, removed his shoes, sat back against the pillows. The late afternoon sun made him drowsy. 

He flicked on the tv. Flipping through the channels, he stopped briefly and watched a woman take a golden brown pie out of the oven. And on a looping news channel, the days-old story about the new roof at Notre Dame…crows flying around the steeple at St Sophia’s…a talking head on the tv sings a song of sixpence. A crow flies in through the window and picks up a black feather pen sticking out of a pie on his desk and steals it.

He runs through the open window after the crow, into a semi-dark labyrinth. Skulls and bones litter the floors. Flames sputter and smoke from the torches in niches in the rock walls. A door swings suddenly inward and he stumbles into a chamber.

Manzi bends over a desk, writing in a ledger with the stolen crow-feather pen. Stella perches upon Manzi’s shoulder, dictating to him. She pauses for a moment and turns her eyes upon him. Eyes that burn red, then yellow, then white hot.

Those terrible eyes. Eyes that would burn off his clothes, his skin, his bones, his lies—everything down to his immortal soul. 

A drum starts to beat …boom boom boom.

Majewski woke up in a cold sweat.

“Room Service!” Someone yelling and pounding on the door.