Adrian starts moving the pictures around again—arranging them in a different sequence—but I’ve tried every possible order, and this is the only one that comes close to making sense.
Except something’s still missing. It’s like the feeling of working through a jigsaw puzzle, putting the whole scene together, only to discover the box has three or four missing pieces, and they’re all right in the middle.
Adrian throws up his hands. “Why doesn’t she just spell it out for us? Skip the stupid pictures and use words? ‘My name is Rumpelstiltskin. I was murdered by the archduke.’ Or whoever. Why is she being so cryptic?”
He’s just venting, but I realize I’ve never stopped to ask myself this question: Why is Anya being so cryptic?
Instead of using Teddy to draw pictures, why not use words? Why not write a letter? Unless—
I think back to all the one-sided conversations I overheard in Teddy’s bedroom—all the guessing games he would play during Quiet Time. “Teddy says Anya talks funny. He says she’s hard to understand. What if she doesn’t speak English?”
Adrian seems ready to dismiss the idea, but then he reaches for the library book—The Collected Works of Anne C. Barrett. “All right, let’s think this through for a minute. We know Annie came from Europe after World War II. Maybe she doesn’t speak English. Maybe Barrett isn’t even her real name. Maybe it’s a westernized version of something like Baryshnikov, one of those long impossible-to-pronounce Eastern European names. And the family changed it, just to blend in.”
“Exactly,” I tell him, warming to the theory. “George writes like he’s been in the United States for a long time. He’s already assimilated. He’s a deacon at the church, he’s an alderman on the town council. But suddenly his Bohemian cousin shows up in Spring Brook. She’s a reminder of where he’s from, and he’s ashamed of her. His letter in the book is so condescending, all his talk about her slight achievements and her foolishness.”
Adrian snaps his fingers. “And this explains the spirit board! You said her answers were gibberish! You called them alphabet soup. But what if she was spelling in a different language?”
I think back to the gathering—to the feeling of being entombed inside the cottage, with the planchette trembling beneath my fingertips.
I knew we weren’t alone.
I knew someone was moving my hand and choosing each letter very deliberately.
“Mitzi wrote everything down,” I tell him.
We walk across the backyard to Mitzi’s house. I rap my knuckles on the front door but there’s no answer. Then we walk around to the back of the house, to the rear entrance used by her clients. The back door is open and we can see through the screen door into the kitchen, to the Formica table where Mitzi served me coffee. I bang on the screen door and the Kit-Cat Klock stares back at me, its tail wagging. I can hear the TV playing inside the house, some infomercial for commemorative gold dollars: “These coins are highly prized by collectors, and guaranteed to hold their value.…”
I shout Mitzi’s name, but there’s no way she’ll hear me over the sales pitch.
Adrian tries the handle and the door is unlocked. “What do you think?”
“I think she’s paranoid and she owns a gun. If we sneak up on her, there’s a good chance she’ll blow our heads off.”
“There’s also a chance she’s hurt. Maybe she slipped in the shower. If an old person doesn’t come to their door, you’re supposed to check on them.”
I knock again but still no answer.
“Let’s come back later.”
But Adrian insists on opening the door and calling to her: “Mitzi, are you okay?”
He steps inside, and what else can I do? It’s already past three o’clock and the day is passing too quickly. If Mitzi has information that can help us, we need it as soon as possible. I hold the door open and follow him into the house.
The kitchen stinks. It smells like the trash needs to be taken out, or maybe it’s all the dirty dishes piled up in the sink. There’s a frying pan on the stovetop filled with congealed bacon grease. There are tiny paw prints scattered across the surface, and I don’t want to think about all the vermin that might be living behind the walls.
I follow Adrian into the living room. The TV is tuned to Fox News and the hosts are arguing with a guest about the latest threats to American security. They’re shouting at each other—shouting over each other—so I grab the remote and mute the volume.