Chapter Five - Homecoming

I woke before dawn the next morning. My stomach snarled with hunger as I made my way to the kitchen. I took the sample with me, and I laid it out on the table next to my plate. It made me feel closer to her somehow. After I finished breakfast, I neatly folded it and put it in my pocket.

Over the next few days, I went through my mother's belongings. Much of it I packed in trunks that were in the attic, but her favorite things found their way into my closet with her sewing kit. Once the master bedroom was free from any sign of mama, I put our prettiest bedding on the big bed. There were only a handful of photographs of my mother on display, and I placed them all neatly on my bureau. Extending an olive branch, I made a place for Polly in my mother's home.

I spent an entire afternoon altering mama's best dress to fit me. I was not the seamstress my mother was, but I was competent enough. It turned out better than expected, and I planned to wear it the day Polly arrived. Making a good first impression was important-wasn't it?

The morning of their arrival, I woke early. After my regular chores were finished, I filled vases with wildflowers and placed them around the house. I took great care braiding my hair so that I looked my best. A small bottle of my mother's perfume sat on my vanity so I dabbed on a tiny bit. My father had given it to her for Christmas, and she wore it on special occasions.

Polly's favorite meal was a mystery to me so I prepared my father's. Using our best china and silver service, I set the table in the dining room. Polly would likely not notice, but I hoped father would appreciate my efforts. I baked a cake for desert. I had just finished frosting it with butter cream when I heard the Model T pull up to the house.

I quickly removed my apron and hung it on the hook. Just as my sister reached the front door, I swung it open. She hugged me tightly, as father and Polly made their way up the steps. I smiled brightly and stepped back to let them enter.

"Polly Burnham Brandon," he began formerly, "I'd like you to meet my daughter Mary Alice Brandon."

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you," I chimed and held out my hand.

"We are family now so that just won't do," Polly said sweetly and enveloped me in an embrace.

"That's mama's dress," I heard Cynthia whisper.

"And her perfume," Polly said under her breath.

"Pardon?" I asked wondering if I heard her correctly.

"Isn't that mama's dress?" Cynthia asked and blushed.

"Yes, I wanted to look nice," I replied absently then looked at Polly, "Did you say something?"

"Me?" she said smiling, "I didn't say anything."

My smile faltered slightly as I wondered why she lied. My mind raced with questions, but I held my pleasant expression. After a quick tour of the house, the travelers went upstairs to freshen up. Thankful to be alone, I put the finishing touches on dinner. I was able to remind myself of my mission; Getting along with my new stepmother was what I needed to do. The thoughts and questions were pushed to the back of my mind.

The meal was pleasant, and many topics were discussed. They all seemed to involve the wedding in one way or another, and I could not help feeling like an outsider. My father pulled me aside later and thanked me for all the work I had done. His approval was nice to have for a change.

I cleaned up after dinner alone, but I did not mind. Cynthia helped Polly unpack, and there was a lot of work to be done. She had several huge steamer trunks plus a dozen small carpetbags. I was curious what she could possibly have in all those bags, but I had not invited to help. I thought about offering my assistance but decided against it.

The first evening's trend continued into the next week. I cooked and cleaned alone. Polly washed her own laundry, but I got the feeling it was because she did not trust me with her things. Every time Cynthia would try to help me, our new stepmother would call her away for one thing or another. She doted on my sister, but she rarely spoke to me. Father seemed to be oblivious to the fact that I had become the housekeeper.

The next time my father went on a sales trip, Polly accompanied him. They were taking a few days for a honeymoon. Cynthia wanted to go with them, but father declared that she had already missed too many days of school. I was hurt that she did not want to stay home with me, but it did not last long.

The next days were wonderful. There were tears when we remembered mama, but there was laughter too. We attempted to teach Buster a trick like we had seen at a Wild West show, but he would have none of it. Then Cynthia wanted to play dress-up, and her idea could get us into a lot of trouble.

"See, her wedding dress is just hanging there," Cynthia said slyly as she held the closet door open, "She won't wear it ever again. It will be big on you, but I bet you would look beautiful."

"Well, if we are really careful," I relented wanting to make her happy.

I memorized exactly how it was it was hanging so we could return it exactly how we'd found it. It was inside a cloth cover with a fashion house insignia embroidered on it. Once the dress was removed, I noticed a piece of paper pinned to the inside. I set the cover aside and ever so carefully slipped into the gown. My sister was correct, it looked amazing on me. The white lace was a stark contrast to my black hair.

When I was returning the gown to its bag, I took a closer look at the paper inside. It was a tailor's log. It listed every alteration made and when the dress had been ordered. I looked at the date, and the air went out of my lungs. The day I had my first vision of the marked man was the day the work on the gown began. The first fitting was four days before my mother was killed. I stared at the log in disbelief.

It was hard to focus on getting the dress back in the bag perfectly. If there was evidence of tampering, I was somewhat confident it would be too subtle to notice. After the gown was in its place, I excused myself to the restroom. I felt nauseous.

"Alice?" Cynthia asked worriedly from outside the door, "Are you ill?"

"I'll be okay," I reassured, "My stomach is upset."

"Are you afraid she'll find out you tried on her dress?" she asked, "If she asks, I'll tell her I did it. Mama Polly wouldn't be angry with me."

My stomach twisted and I asked, "Did you just call her mama?"

"Mama Polly," she said softly, "It was her idea and I didn't want to disappoint her."

I realized then that Cynthia needed a mother now, and she loved Polly. I needed to bide my time. The perfume could be explained as my father may have mentioned it. The gown on the other hand was pretty damning, but it was all I had. I would stay alert, and gather more information. I left the log where it was because if I took it, Polly may notice and come looking for it.

Keeping my worries hidden for the next day and a half was tough. I did not think Polly would harm my sister. But if she had done what I was beginning to suspect she had, then there was no telling what she was capable of. Cynthia's safety was my top priority.

Polly and my father were glowing with happiness when they returned. Bile in the back of my throat threatened to give away my new attitude toward my stepmother. Thankfully, I was able to gather enough self-control to avert disaster. A faux smile was always on my face for the following weeks. I would massage my cheek muscles every time I was alone. I became adept at finishing my chores quickly, so I could eavesdrop on Polly as much as possible. Finally one day it paid off.

"I want to ride Buster," Cynthia chirped as I listened from around the corner, "Do you want to ride? He's sort of slow, but it's still fun."

"I don't ride," Polly said, "but I will watch you ride."

"You don't like horses?" my sister asked in awe.

"Not particularly," she responded, "I like automobiles, and I'd have shiny new one by now if the trust were in the right hands."

"Trust?" my sister inquired as my blood ran cold.

"Oh nothing sweetheart," she dismissed, "Let's see you ride."

I stood there frozen as I mulled over the new information. Polly had motive to have my mother killed. My grandfather's estate would look good to a widow. Was she even a widow? She may have just used the story to get close to my father. I considered the evidence, and decided to wait a little longer. Maybe I would get lucky and find something more tangible. I only had to wait a few days.

My father was at home, and we were having supper. Polly seemed to be happier than usual; she had even been civil to me. She acted as if she had a secret and was dying to tell someone.

"William darling," she gushed, "I can't take this another minute. Where is that item I asked you to pick up for me?"

"Dear heart," he cautioned playfully, "That item is supposed to be a Christmas gift. The holiday is only a few weeks away."

"I can't wait," she pouted.

"You are spoiling her," he said amused, "It's my sample bag."

Polly shot out of her chair like a bullet out of a gun. I was amazed she could move so fast in the high-heeled boots she always wore-not to mention her corset. Cynthia looked at me with a confused expression, and I shrugged. When she returned, her hands were behind her back.

"Close your eyes Cynthia," she chimed, "I have a surprise for you."

"What is it?" she asked excitedly as she complied.

"You'll see," she sang and placed an elegantly carved wooden box in front of her.

Her name had been sculpted into the lid. Polly hurried to stand next to my father. She bent and whispered something into his ear.

"Okay," Polly said expectantly, "You may open your eyes."

Cynthia's eyes popped open before she finished her sentence and exclaimed, "My very own secrets box! It's so pretty as pretty as yours, Mama Polly!"

"What's a secrets box?" I asked curiously.

"It's a Burnham family tradition," Polly explained proudly, "It's like a hope chest, but it keeps one's diary safe and secure."

"Mama Polly still writes in her diary everyday. She got her secrets box when she was my age. It not only helps your memory and writing skills, but it builds character." my sister recited.

"You remembered," Polly said pleased and held up a pair of little brass keys, "That's not all."

She snatched the keys and opened the box. There was a dark leather journal inside. Polly called it moleskin and claimed that famous writers owned them. Apparently, they were handmade in Europe. I was thinking about Polly's journal and what could be contained therein. If she wrote in it everyday, her role in my mother's death would certainly be in there. I had to get a look in that box.

Uncle Charles was having a birthday party in two days, and I wasn't invited. My time would be limited, and they would be only five miles away. I hoped luck would be with me, and I would find a written confession. If my instincts were right, that is. Later that night I heard another slip of the tongue that reinforced my belief that I was on the right track.

"What is this?" my father demanded.

His tone of voice made me stop outside their door. I had been on my way to bed after cleaning up the kitchen. It thrilled me a little to hear the anger he had toward perfect Polly.

"It looks like one of our wedding invitations," she said lightly, "Oh that one was to my cousin in California. I must have written the address incorrectly because it was returned this morning."

"That's not what I'm asking about," my father said frustrated now, "It is post marked the day of my dead wife's funeral."

I could not help but gasp, and they went silent on the other side of the door. I thought they might have heard me so I prepared to run. Luck was with me.

"They must have used the wrong stamp at the post office," Polly explained, "That is all I can figure. We had not even met and the invitations had not been ordered yet. My mother has the invoice if you would like me to send for it."

"No..no," my father replied but not sounding convinced, "There is no need. It must have been a postal error."

I silently made my way to my room. Polly's carelessness had planted a seed of doubt in my father's mind. If I could find her written confession, it would not be hard to convince my father of her crimes. With the thought of having an ally, I slept well that night.

The next two days were the longest in recent memory. When the day of my Uncle's birthday finally arrived, I was on edge. I jumped at every noise louder than a whisper. Concentration was nearly impossible, and I kept finding myself getting distracted. My chores were not finished when the three of them were preparing to leave.

"Are you okay sister," Cynthia asked as she slipped into her jacket.

"Just not feeling myself today," I sighed, "But other than that I'm fine."

"I wish you could go to the party," she offered.

"I would probably stay home anyway," I said sadly.

"Your father is waiting in the car," Polly warned.

"Okay," she sang, "Bye Alice. I hope you feel better."

"Bye," I said softly as she exited through the kitchen door.

I stood there like a statue until the sound of the Model T disappeared. I dropped the broom I was holding and darted upstairs. My first stop was in Cynthia's room where I quickly found the key to her secrets box. I hoped it would open Polly's if I could not find her key. Turns out the key would not be the problem. I found it in her large jewelry box, but the elusive box was nowhere to be found. I even searched the crawlspace and found only the revolver.

My eyes darted around the room trying to find anywhere I had missed. Finding none, I searched the room again. After the second search, I wondered why she had hidden the box and not the key. In frustration, I went downstairs and put the broom away. I decided to finish my neglected chores in the morning.

I had just extinguished my gaslight when I heard the partygoers return. Their laughter made my loneliness multiply and I longed to be a part of a family again. The wound from my mother's loss painfully opened once more. I began to weep for all I had lost. I wept for Mama, and I wept for Charlie.

I awoke before sunrise with a slight headache, but could not find sleep again. I got out of bed and prepared for the day. The sky was beginning to brighten just as I finished my previous day's chores. Father was up soon after and requested that I sit and share a cup of tea with him.

"I'm worried about you," he began gently; "You haven't been yourself. Is anything bothering you?"

It took only a moment to decide and I replied, "Yes actually, I overheard your conversation about the postmark on the invitation the other night."

"Obviously a mistake by the mail handler," he said without missing a beat.

"I don't think it was an error," I said softly, "After what I've heard and seen, I think Polly was involved in Mama's murder."

"Please explain," he said calmly and leaned forward.

He listened as I told him everything that I had learned thus far. At first, he seemed receptive, but he soon became angry. The turning point had been when I told him about my search for the diary.

"You are not going to read her personal journal. That is ludicrous," he said dismissively.

"Then you read it," I offered, "I know the truth is written in there, and then we can take it to the authorities. They will find the demon that took my Mama from me and punish him."

"No," he said firmly, "Stop this right now. Polly is my wife, and I will not have you making up stories about her because she is not your mother. If you want to continue to live here, you will drop this matter."

"This is my house," I hissed through my teeth, "My mother gave it to me."

"Fine," he relented, "I will read the journal. But when I find nothing of consequence, then will you drop this?"

"That's all I ask," I said and took my tea cup to the sink, "I'll be in the orchard if anyone needs me."

He did not respond as I went out the back door. I sat at the base of my mother's favorite tree for most of the morning. My mind moved through all the events that had brought me to this precarious place. Finally, I decided to distract myself with chores. I am not sure how long I had been working outside when I heard my father's car leave.

He returned just as I was setting supper on the table, and soon as we were finished, he was off again. Polly did not seem alarmed or curious about his behavior, but I had a bad feeling. She suggested that she and Cynthia turn in early because they had been out late the previous night. My sister admitted to being tired and made her way upstairs. Polly smiled smugly at me as she followed.

That smug smile got under my skin, and I left the dirty dishes on the table and the pots on the stove. I was finished with being the housekeeper. I was the owner of this house after all. I went up to my room and watched the sun disappear below the horizon. I was wondering where father could be, and I had a vision.

My mother's murderer stood on the shore near the Biloxi Lighthouse. It was fully dark, and the rotating beacon would pass over him every few seconds. It was an eerie night as there were no stars or moon visible in the sky. He lit a cigarette as a figure approached. William James Brandon walked up to the killer of my mother and shook his hand. He thanked the monster for meeting him on such short notice. The only father I have ever known went on to tell him that he had another job for him. He handed him an envelope with instructions and payment. The marked man ran his fingers over the money and thanked him. He abruptly turned and walked away down the shore.

Everything became so clear. William Brandon had paid the marked man to kill my beloved mother. It was he all along. He wanted to have his mistress and my mother's money to spend on her. I realized, they had heard me in the hallway the other night. Their subsequent conversation had been designed to distract me from the truth. He was angry about the postmark, but it was due to her carelessness. Our conversation this morning had been a fact finding mission, they needed to find out exactly how much I knew. My ears began to ring but instead of passing out I had yet another vision.

I awaken to a nightmare. The man with the strawberry birthmark stands over me with a wicked looking knife. The smell of stale cigarettes fills my nostrils, and fear fills my heart as he swiftly brings the weapon down.

I gasped. He was going to kill me in my own bedroom. The thought of my little sister finding me that way, brought bile up from my stomach. I was dizzy and confused, but I let instinct take over. My instinct told me to run.