Sunday, October 25, 2015<\/h3>\n

Mundy\u2019s Landing, New York<\/h3>\n

Here we are,\u201d the Realtor, Lynda Carlotta, announces as she slows the car in front of 46 Bridge Street. \u201cIt really is magnificent, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n

The Second Empire Victorian presides over neighboring stucco bungalows and pastel Queen Anne cottages with the aplomb of a grand dame crashing a coffee klatch. There\u2019s a full third story tucked behind the scalloped slate shingles, topped by a black iron grillwork crown. A square cupola rises to a lofty crest against the gloomy Sunday morning sky. Twin cornices perch atop its paired windows like the meticulously arched, perpetually raised eyebrows of a proper aristocratic lady.<\/p>\n

Fittingly, the house\u2014rather, the events that transpired within its plaster walls\u2014raised many an eyebrow a hundred years ago.<\/p>\n

Annabelle Bingham grew up right around the corner, but she stares from the leather passenger\u2019s seat as if seeing the house for the first time. She\u2019d never imagined that she might actually live beneath that mansard roof, in the shadow of the century-old unsolved crimes that unfolded there.<\/p>\n

For the past few days, she and her husband, Trib, have taken turns talking each other into\u2014and out of\u2014coming to see this place. They\u2019re running out of options.<\/p>\n

Real estate values have soared in this picturesque village, perched on the eastern bank of the Hudson River midway between New York City and Albany. The Binghams\u2019 income has done quite the opposite. The only homes in their price range are small, undesirable fixer-uppers off the highway. They visited seven such properties yesterday and another this morning, a forlorn little seventies ranch that smelled of must and mothballs. Eau d\u2019old man<\/i>, according to Trib.<\/p>\n

\u201cMagnificent<\/i> isn\u2019t exactly the word that springs to mind when I look at this house,\u201d he tells Lynda from the backseat.<\/p>\n

She smiles at him in the rearview mirror. \u201cWell, I\u2019m not the professional wordsmith you are. I\u2019m sure you can come up with a more creative adjective.\u201d<\/p>\n

Annabelle can. She\u2019s been trying to keep it out of her head, but everything\u2014even the tolling steeple bells from nearby Holy Angels Church\u2014is a grim reminder.<\/p>\n

\u201cMonolithic,\u201d pronounces the backseat wordsmith. \u201cThat\u2019s one way to describe it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Murder House<\/i>, Annabelle thinks. That\u2019s another.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s certainly plenty of room for a large family,\u201d Lynda points out cheerily.<\/p>\n

Optimism might be her strong suit, but tact is not. Doesn\u2019t she realize there are plenty of families that don\u2019t care to grow larger? And there are many that, for one heartbreaking reason or another, couldn\u2019t expand even if they wanted to; and still others, like the Binghams, whose numbers are sadly dwindling.<\/p>\n

Annabelle was an only child, as is their son, Oliver. Trib lost his older brother in a tragic accident when they were kids. Until a few months ago, Trib\u2019s father, the last of their four parents to pass away, had been a vital part of their lives. He\u2019d left them the small inheritance they plan to use as a down payment on a home of their own\u2014a bittersweet prospect for all of them.<\/p>\n

\u201cI just want Grandpa Charlie back,\u201d Oliver said tearfully last night. \u201cI\u2019d rather have him than a new house.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe all would, sweetheart. But you know he can\u2019t come back, and wouldn\u2019t it be nice to have a nice big bedroom and live on a street with sidewalks and other kids?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Oliver said, predictably. \u201cI like it here.\u201d<\/p>\n

They\u2019re living in what had once been the gardener\u2019s cottage on a grand Hudson River estate out on Battlefield Road. The grounds are lovely but isolated, and they\u2019ve long since outgrown the tiny rental space.<\/p>\n

Still . . . are they really prepared to go from dollhouse to mansion?<\/p>\n

\u201cThere are fourteen rooms,\u201d Lynda waxes on, \u201cincluding the third-floor ballroom, observatory, and servants\u2019 quarters. Over thirty-five hundred square feet of living space\u2014although I have to check the listing sheet, so don\u2019t quote me on it.\u201d<\/p>\n

That, Annabelle has noticed, is one of her favorite catchphrases. Don\u2019t quote me on it. <\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cIs she saying it because you\u2019re a reporter?\u201d she\u2019d asked Trib after their first outing with Lynda. \u201cDoes she think you\u2019re working on an article that\u2019s going to blow the lid off . . . I don\u2019t know, sump pump function?\u201d<\/p>\n

He laughed. \u201cThat\u2019s headline fodder if I ever heard it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Lynda starts to pull the Lexus into the rutted driveway. After a few bumps, she thinks better of it and backs out onto the street. \u201cLet\u2019s start out front so that we can get the full curb appeal, shall we?\u201d<\/p>\n

They shall.<\/p>\n

\u201cWould you mind handing me that file folder on the floor back there, Charles?\u201d Lynda asks Trib, whose lanky form is folded into the seat behind her.<\/p>\n

He\u2019d been born Charles Bingham IV, but as one of several Charlies in kindergarten, was rechristened courtesy of his family\u2019s longtime ownership of the Mundy\u2019s Landing<\/i><\/p>\n

Tribune<\/i>. The childhood nickname stuck with him and proved prophetic: he took over as editor and publisher after his dad retired a decade ago.<\/p>\n

But Lynda wouldn\u2019t know that. She\u2019s relatively new in town, having arrived sometime in the last decade. Nor would she remember the era when the grand homes in The Heights had fallen into shabby disrepair and shuttered nineteenth-century storefronts lined the Common. She\u2019d missed the dawning renaissance as they reopened, one by one, to form the bustling business district that exists today.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s see . . . I was wrong,\u201d she says, consulting the file Trib passes to the front seat. \u201cThe house is only thirty-three hundred square feet.\u201d<\/p>\n

Can we quote you on it?<\/i> Annabelle wants to ask.<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t imagine what it cost to heat this place last winter,\u201d Trib comments, \u201cwith all those below-zero days we had.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll see here that there\u2019s a fairly new furnace.\u201d Lynda hands them each a sheet of paper. \u201cMuch more energy efficient than you\u2019ll find in most old houses in the neighborhood.\u201d<\/p>\n

Annabelle holds the paper at arm\u2019s length\u2014courtesy of advancing farsightedness\u2014and looks over the list of specs. The \u201cnew\u201d furnace was installed about fifteen years ago, around the turn of this century. The wiring and plumbing most likely date to the turn of the last one.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, and did I mention that this is the only privately owned indoor pool in town.\u201d<\/p>\n

She did, several times. Some potential buyers might view that as a burden, but Lynda is well aware that it\u2019s a luxury for Annabelle, an avid swimmer.<\/p>\n

Still, the house lacks plenty of key items on her wish list. There\u2019s a ramshackle detached garage instead of the two-car garage she and Trib covet. There is no master suite. The lot is undersized, like many in this historic neighborhood.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re never going to find exactly what you want,\u201d Lynda has been reminding her and Trib from day one. \u201cYou have to compromise.\u201d<\/p>\n

They want a home that\u2019s not too big, not too small, not too old, not too new, not too expensive, not a rock-bottom fixer-upper . . .<\/p>\n

Goldilocks syndrome<\/i>\u2014another of Lynda\u2019s catchphrases.<\/p>\n

This house may be too old and too big, but it isn\u2019t too expensive despite being located in The Heights, a sloping tree-lined enclave adjacent to the Village Common.<\/p>\n

Its owner, Augusta Purcell, died over a year ago, reportedly in the same room where she\u2019d been born back in 1910. Her sole heir, her nephew Lester, could have sold it to the historical society for well above market value. But he refused to entertain a long-standing preemptive offer from the curator, Ora Abrams.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not going to cash in on a tragedy like everyone else around here,\u201d he grumbled, adamantly opposed to having his ancestral home exploited for its role in the notorious, unsolved Sleeping Beauty case.<\/p>\n

From late June through mid July of 1916, a series of grisly crimes unfurled in the relentless glare of both a brutal heat wave and the Sestercentennial Celebration for the village, founded in 1666.<\/p>\n

Forty-six Bridge Street was the second home to gain notoriety as a crime scene. The first was a gambrel-roofed fieldstone Dutch manor house just around the corner at 65 Prospect Street; the third, a granite Beaux Arts mansion at 19 Schuyler Place.<\/p>\n

No actual homicide took place inside any of the three so-called Murder Houses. But what had happened was profoundly disturbing. Several days and several blocks apart, three local families awakened to find the corpse of a young female stranger tucked into a spare bed under their roof.<\/p>\n

The bodies were all posed exactly the same way: lying on their backs beneath coverlets that were neatly folded back beneath their arms. Their hands were peacefully clasped on top of the folded part of the covers. Their long hair\u2014they all had long hair\u2014was braided and arranged just so upon the pillows.<\/p>\n

All the girls\u2019 throats had been neatly slit ear to ear. Beneath each pillow was a note penned on plain stationery in block lettering: Sleep safe till tomorrow<\/i>. The line was taken from a William Carlos Williams poem published three years earlier.<\/p>\n

The victims hadn\u2019t died where they lay, nor in the immediate vicinity. They\u2019d been stealthily transported by someone who was never caught; someone who was never identified and whose motive remains utterly inexplicable to this day.<\/p>\n

Ghastly death portraits were printed in newspapers across the country in the futile hope that someone might recognize a sister, a daughter, a niece. In the end, their unidentified remains were buried in the graveyard behind Holy Angels Church.<\/p>\n

Is Annabelle really willing to move into a Murder House?<\/p>\n

A year ago, she\u2019d have said no way. This morning, when she and Trib and Oliver were crashing into porcelain fixtures and one another in their tiny bathroom, she\u2019d have said yes, absolutely.<\/p>\n

Now, staring up at the lofty bracketed eaves, ornately carved balustrades, and curve-topped couplets of tall, narrow windows, all framed against a blood red foliage canopy of an oppressive sky . . .<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t know. I just don\u2019t know<\/i>.<\/p>\n

\u201cSince you both grew up here, I don\u2019t have to tell you about how wonderful this neighborhood is,\u201d Lynda says as the three of them step out of the car and approach the tall black iron fence that mirrors the mansard crest.<\/p>\n

A brisk wind stirs overhead boughs. They creak and groan, as does the gate when Lynda pushes it open. The sound is straight out of a horror movie. A chill slips down Annabelle\u2019s spine, and she shoves her hands deep into the pockets of her corduroy barn coat.<\/p>\n

The brick walkway between the gate and the house is strewn with damp fallen leaves. For all she knows, someone raked just yesterday. It is that time of year, and an overnight storm brought down a fresh barrage of past-peak foliage.<\/p>\n

Yet the grounds exude the same forlorn, abandoned atmosphere as the house itself. It\u2019s the only one on the block that lacks pumpkins on the porch steps and political signs posted in the yard.<\/p>\n

Election Day looms, with a heated mayoral race that reflects the pervasive insider versus outsider mentality. Most residents of The Heights back the incumbent, John Elsworth Ransom, whose roots extend to the first settlers of Mundy\u2019s Landing. Support for his opponent, a real estate developer named Dean Cochran, is stronger on the other side of town, particularly in Mundy Estates, the upscale townhouse complex he built and now calls home.<\/p>\n

A Ransom for Mayor poster isn\u2019t all that\u2019s conspicuously missing from the leaf-blanketed yard. There\u2019s no For Sale sign, either.<\/p>\n

Trib asks Lynda if she\u2019s sure it\u2019s on the market.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, it is. But Lester prefers to avoid actively soliciting the \u2018ghouls\u2019\u2014not the Halloween kind, if you know what I mean.\u201d<\/p>\n

They do. Plenty of locals use that word to describe the tourists who visit every summer in an effort to solve the cold case. The event\u2014colloquially dubbed Mundypalooza\u2014has taken place every year since 1991. That\u2019s when, in conjunction with the seventy-fifth anniversary of the cold case, the historical society first extended a public invitation: Can You Solve the Sleeping Beauty Murders? <\/i><\/p>\n

So far, no one has\u2014but every summer, more and more people descend to try their hand at it. The historical society sponsors daily speakers, panel discussions, and workshops. Even Trib conducts an annual seminar about the sensational press coverage the case received in 1916.<\/p>\n

He turns to Annabelle. \u201cThat\u2019s something we\u2019d have to deal with if we bought this place.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re right. We\u2019d be inundated with curiosity seekers. I don\u2019t think I want to\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust in the summer, though,\u201d Lynda cuts in quickly, \u201cand even then, it\u2019s not a big deal.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis house will be crawling with people and press,\u201d Annabelle points out.<\/p>\n

After all, a Murder House isn\u2019t just branded by century-old stigma; it bears the brunt of the yearly gawker invasion. No local resident escapes unscathed, but those who live at 46 Bridge Street, 65 Prospect Street, and 19 Schuyler Place are inundated.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s just walk through before you rule it out,\u201d Lynda urges. \u201cA comparable house at any other address in this neighborhood would sell for at least six figures more. I\u2019d hate to have someone snatch this out from under you.\u201d<\/p>\n

The odds of that happening are slim to none. Lester, who insists on pre-approving every showing, requests that prospective buyers already live locally. Not many people fit the bill, but Annabelle and Trib passed muster and they\u2019re here. They might as well look, even though Annabelle is sure she doesn\u2019t want to live here after all. She\u2019d never get past what happened here during the summer of 1916, let alone what will happen every summer forever after, thanks to Mundypalooza.<\/p>\n

They step through the massive double doors into the dim, chilly entrance hall. So far, so not good.<\/p>\n

Before Annabelle can announce that she\u2019s changed her mind, Lynda presses an antique mother-of-pearl button on the wall. \u201cThere, that\u2019s better, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n

They find themselves bathed in the glow of an elegant fixture suspended from a plaster medallion high overhead. Surprisingly, it is better.<\/p>\n

There\u2019s a massive mirror on the wall opposite the door. In it, Annabelle sees their reflection: Lynda, a full head shorter even in heels, bookended by herself and Trib, who could pass for siblings. They\u2019re similarly tall and lean, with almost the same shade of dark brown hair and light brown eyes\u2014both attractive, if not in a head-turning way.<\/p>\n

Their eyes meet in the mirror, and he gives her a slight nod, as if to say, Yes, let\u2019s keep going. <\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cJust look at that mosaic tile floor!\u201d Lynda exclaims. \u201cAnd the moldings on those archways! And the woodwork on the grand staircase! We haven\u2019t seen anything like this in any of the houses we\u2019ve looked at, have we?\u201d<\/p>\n

They agree that they haven\u2019t, and of course wouldn\u2019t expect to in their price point.<\/p>\n

Annabelle can picture twelve-year-old Oliver walking through those big doors after school, dropping his backpack on the built-in seat above the cast-iron radiator with a Mom? I\u2019m home<\/i>. As she runs her fingertips over the carved newel post, she envisions him sliding down the banister curving above.<\/p>\n

The long-dormant old house stirs to life as they move through it. One by one, doors creak open. Spaces beyond brighten courtesy of wall switches that aren\u2019t dime-a-dozen rectangular plastic levers. These are period contraptions with buttons or brass toggles or pull-pendants dangling from thirteen-foot ceilings. Lynda presses, turns, pulls them all, chasing shadows from the rooms.<\/p>\n

Annabelle\u2019s imagination strips away layers of faded velvet and brocade shrouding the tall windows. Her mind\u2019s eye replaces Augusta\u2019s dark, dusty furnishings with comfortable upholstery and modern electronics. Instead of mustiness and cat pee, she smells furniture polish, clean linens, savory supper on the stove. The ticking grandfather clock, dripping faucets, and Lynda\u2019s chirpy monologue and tapping footsteps are overshadowed by the voices Annabelle loves best, echoing through the rooms in ordinary conversation: Mom, I\u2019m home! What\u2019s for dinner? I\u2019m home! How was your day? I\u2019m home . . . <\/i><\/p>\n

Yes, Annabelle realizes. This is it.<\/p>\n

This, at last, is home.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div>\n