“I’m not,” said Marcie. “I think it’s absolutely fascinating. I love mysteries.”
“I thought that might be why you and Mr. Rollins came here.”
“Actually, we’re refugees from the storm,” said Marcie.
“So it wasn’t because you wanted to spend the night at the Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast after all.”
“Lizzie Borden? That name sounds familiar,” said Phil.
“Oh, yes,” said Marcie. “I remember it all. Poor Lizzie was suspected of murdering her father and stepmother. Now I know why the name Fall River had such a familiar ring when I saw the sign on the interstate. And that’s the reason for the hatchet-shaped cookies!”
“I don’t see why it should upset us now,” said Phil. “It all happened over a hundred years ago, didn’t it?”
“Yes, one hundred and five years ago this month. I’m glad you and your husband aren’t scared, Mrs. Rollins. I think what bothers people the most is not that there was a double murder here but that it occurred in such a gruesome way.”
“As if people consider some murders not as bad as others?” said Marcie thoughtfully. “That’s an interesting idea, isn’t it, Phil?”
“Not to me, Marcie. I feel horror over any murder . . . it breaks one of the laws of God. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand your interest in crimes.”
“It’s just that I’m fascinated by any type of mystery. You know that.”
“Especially one that has never really been solved,” said a guest who was sitting in a nearby easy chair listening. “Hope you don’t mind my interrupting, but everyone has a different theory, Mr. . . . Rollins; is that right? My name is Bernard Breckenridge.”
“How do you do,” said Phil. Breckenridge continued, “And they say that after it happened, some couples actually divorced over disagreements about who did it. Imagine that!”
“How ridiculous,” said Marcie.
“Let me show you some of the interesting things in the house, Mrs. Rollins,” said George, offering them cider, cookies, and fruit. “Why don’t you take this pear up to the bedroom with you, Mr. Rollins. You may decide you need a snack later.” Phil Rollins hesitated. “Do take it. We always keep plenty of pears on hand. It was Lizzie’s favorite fruit and she said she was eating pears out in the yard under a tree at the time the Bordens were murdered.”
“But I thought she was supposed to have . . .” began Marcie. “Killed them?” said longtime employee, Kathi Goncalo. “No one really knows and probably never will. Lizzie was certainly a prime suspect, but she had a good lawyer and was acquitted.”
“And what do you think, Mr. Breckenridge?” asked Marcie curiously.
“I’m not sure. Sometimes I think she did it alone, and sometimes I wonder if she didn’t have an accomplice. A man whom she began to fear later. Everyone has a different opinion.”
“We’ll have a tour of the house in the morning,” said George, “and point out where all the members of the family and the maid were supposed to have been when the crime took place. Why don’t you stay and see what you and your husband think, Mrs. Rollins?”
“Wouldn’t that be terrific, Phil?”
“We don’t have time, Marcie. Maybe we can come back again.”
“If it’s not too late for you, Mrs. Rollins, let me take you through the house now and show you our modest library of books and crime scene photos.”
“Do you mind, Phil?”
“Go ahead. I know you want to, Marcie. I’ll go up to the room and read USA Today.”
“Fine, honey. See you soon.”
“Are you sure this won’t bother you before retiring, Mrs. Rollins?”
“Not a bit! Let’s go.”
Phil took their luggage up to the bedroom. It was really like walking into the world of his grandparents, he thought as he gazed at the old-fashioned furniture. Everything was just perfect. The bed and its pillows edged with crocheted lace, the bureau cloth, a white linen towel with a fringe. All very quaint. He was glad now that they had stopped here. He put the newspaper on the bureau and placed a small alarm clock from his overnight bag on the bedside table. A meticulous man and an experienced traveler, he never trusted the clock in the room or a wake-up call anywhere he stayed. Then he took out his pajamas and fresh clothing for the following day.
Suddenly he noticed that the room was cold. It had not seemed chilly when he came in. Well, no matter, he would just lay his new L.L. Bean robe across the chair to put on while he sat and read.
He began to unbutton his shirt and as he did so turned toward the old-fashioned oak bed. His fingers stopped at the second button. His hands began to tremble. The appearance of the bed was very different from only a few minutes ago when he had entered the room. Instead of the coverlet being perfectly smooth it was now quite rumpled. But that was not the important change. Its folds were rearranged so that they corresponded to the curves of a body, and it was not a slim body. On the pillow he saw an indentation that could only have been made by a human head!
Marcie returned to find her husband sitting fully dressed in the downstairs sitting room. His face was very pale.
“Why are you down here?” she asked in surprise. “I thought you’d be in bed by now, honey.”
“Marcie, come upstairs. I want to show you something when you go in.”
She stared at him in bewilderment as he put the key in the door of their room. “If something is wrong, why don’t you tell the owners? I’m sure they will take care of it.”
“Because I thought you should see this first. Look at that bed!” Dramatically, he flung the door wide and stood aside while she preceded him into the room.
“I’m looking. What’s the matter?” she said a bit impatiently.
“The bed. The bed is what’s the . . .” He stopped in mid-sentence. The pillow was plumped up and the coverlet was as smooth as
