When Catherine Stuart married Andy Sloan, she did not realize that decisions that she and Andy would make and carry out would unveil disturbing family secrets. When Catherine’s mother, Adele, died, her father, Angus Stuart, decided to move to San Francisco. He showed Catherine a family trust that her great-great grandfather, Jonathan Meissner, had created in 1922. The Alameda home that Catherine grew up in was part of that trust and part of that secret.
“It’s your home now,” Angus said to his daughter.
Catherine and Andy took the keys to the home in a fun-filled ceremony. Catherine’s family had owned the home for six generations—back to Johnathan Meissner’s wife, Monica, and Monica’s parents, Judge Alexander Wexlar and his wife, Alice.
While storing Andy’s clunkety old desk in the attic, Catherine and Andy discovered a traveler’s trunk. They asked her father about it.
“We never paid any attention to that,” Angus said. “Your mother said that when she was told about the trunk, she and her brother pushed it back where nobody could see it.”
“Let’s open it,” Andy said
“I wouldn’t do that,” Angus said. “We could never find a key anyway.”
“Oh, I have a key,” Andy said. “A screwdriver will do the trick.”
Catherine nodded with a wide-eyed smile.
“Just leave that trunk alone, Catherine,” Angus said in a tone he used when she was a little girl.
“And never mind that screwdriver,” he said in the same tone to Andy. “I’ll have everything I want out of the house this week. The movers are coming Friday to clear out my old bedroom and get the rest of my things from the basement.”
As soon as Angus left, Andy picked up the screwdriver, waved it at Catherine, raised his eyebrows, and nodded at her.
“Let’s go,” Catherine said. She felt like an awkward schoolgirl disobeying her father. She looked out the front window to make sure his car was gone. It was.
The stairs to the attic always creaked. They creaked even louder now. Or so it seemed to Catherine. Andy turned on the light. The fluorescent lamp flickered and buzzed. Andy dragged the trunk out of the dark corner into the light. He showed Catherine the screwdriver with an inquisitive look. She gave him one a look that said, Well, are you waiting for. With three quick pops, the trunk was ready to reveal its secrets.
“You may have the honor,” Andy said
Catherine pulled the trunk open.
He sniffed. “What’s that smell, Catherine?”
“Cedar. They put a lot of cedar chips in there. It does smell nice.”
She and Andy removed 14 items all wrapped in delicate paper that had browned with age. She handed each package to Andy who spread them over the attic floor.
“Open the biggest one,” Andy said.
The paper crinkled and disintegrated as Catherine removed it from a large blue-velvet box with a delicate silver lock. Andy had no trouble coaxing the small latch open. A pair of white gloves and a delicate veil nestled atop a green dress.
“Look, Andy,” Catherine said, running her thumb across the words on the inside the dress’s collar.
“‘Aunt Alice,’ it says.” He leaned in. “And look at the small red heart sewn next to it.”
“Aunt Alice,” Catherine whispered. “Who are you?” She stood, held the dress in front of her, and gave it a shake. “Listen to the nifty noise it makes.”
“It would have turned every head in the room when it rustled like that,” Andy said.
“That’s a very uppity rustle, Andy. This dress is made of taffeta and that rustle is called a ‘scroop.’”
“Well, pardon me.”
“I’m going to take the dress downstairs and hang it up.”
“What about the rest?”
“Can you put it back in the trunk for me? Pretty please.”
Catherine found the perfect hanger for the dress in the hall closet. She hung the dress on the open door between the living and dining rooms.
“I’ll leave you there for now, Aunt Alice,” she said.
She wanted some tea. She chose Andy’s favorite, English Breakfast. Before the water began to boil, Catherine thought she heard someone in the living room. There was no mistaking that scroop. She had played with the very sound as she carried the dress down the stairs. The sound came again and a third time. But that dress was hanging on the door, untouched.
“Andy, stop fooling around with me.”
Silence. She got up from her chair and tip-toed to the doorway, her blue eyes as wide as her tea saucer. She peeked around the corner to see a woman standing in front of her wearing the very dress hanging just behind her. The woman’s face hid behind the same veil they found in the trunk. She pointed at Catherine. She was wearing the gloves they had found.
“Downstairs,” the apparition whispered. “Downstairs.”
As soon as this ethereal creature spoke, Catherine was able to see through her. Then, like smoke, the apparition disappeared, leaving a syrupy scent behind.
“I smell vanilla,” Andy said from the top of the stairs. “Are you making something?”
“Andy, come down here,” he said. “Hurry.”
Andy rushed down and found Catherine on the floor, hiding her face in her hands.
“Whatever has upset you so?”
“She was here.”
“Who, Catherine?”
Catherine pointed to the dress hanging on the door.
“Andy, what are your favorite cookies?”
“The ones you make. Vanilla.”
“And what do I like an ‘extra dose’ of in my smoothies?” Catherine said, making air quotes around the words extra dose.
“Vanilla.”
“And what did you smell?”
Andy sat next to Catherine and took her hands into his.
“Aunt Alice stood here and spoke to me.”
“What did she say?”
“All she said was ‘downstairs.’ She said it twice, then disappeared.”
“That aroma, Catherine, how could Aunt Alice know about vanilla?”
“She doesn’t, Andy, but my mother does.”
“She was here, too?”
“I didn’t see her, but she knows about vanilla. I think she was.”
“What does all this mean, Catherine?”
She paused. “The murders, Andy.”
“Murders?” Andy turned to face her. “I thought there was one.”
“There are two. Aunt Alice is Alice Wexlar. I was face-to-face with Alice Wexlar, my great-great-great grandmother,” Catherine said.
“Her husband Alexander Wexlar—we call him ‘the Judge’—shot a man dead in this house, maybe in this room, maybe right here. Then the man’s brother murdered Judge Wexlar.”
“What happened to Alice?” Andy asked.
“No one knows. Judge Wexlar claimed that she ran off with the man we later learned he shot and killed.”
“So, they couldn’t have run off together,” Andy said. “Maybe he shot Alice, too.”
“Yes, Andy. Maybe they’re downstairs.”
“Finish making our tea, Andy. No. Wait.” She gestured at him. “Open the bourbon.”
Part 2 will be published Tuesday, October 24, and Part 3 will appear on Tuesday, October 31.
Dennis Evanosky is the award-winning Historian of the Alameda Post. Reach him at [email protected]. His writing is collected at AlamedaPost.com/Dennis-Evanosky.
