Where the Wild Roses Grow Read online

  Marie came storming down the stairs, the same busy look in her eyes as always. “I thought you had the day off, Mommy?” Caitlin said. “It’s Saturday.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie. But I have to go. They just called and all hell is on the loose at the station. Apparently, they found another body yesterday, here in Enniskerry. Can you believe it? The third woman found with a rose in her mouth. It’s a serial killer now, and they’ve put me on the story.”

  The man almost choked on his coffee. “A woman, you say?”

  Marie sighed, annoyed. “Yes. What cave have you been living in? Hello? We have a serial killer on the loose who kills women and puts a red rose between their teeth. They call him The Rose Killer now.”

  “Are you sure it was a woman they found?” the man continued.

  “Yes! Why do you keep asking me that? The guy kills women and has killed three so far.”

  “I’m scared,” Caitlin said. But no one noticed that she was even there. Marie was already on the phone again. The man kept wondering about this new information. He couldn’t grasp it. Something was really wrong. Really, really wrong.

  The man grabbed the paper that Marie had thrown on the table. She was always the first one to fetch it in the morning and read it with her coffee while getting ready. It was part of her job to always know what was going on, so it was their understanding that she would always have the newspaper before him. He had been itching all morning to see it, and he still was, but not for the same reason as earlier. Now he opened it with a fast-beating heart and looked at the front cover.

  THE ROSE KILLER CLAIMS HIS THIRD VICTIM

  So far so good. But already in the paragraph below, things started to go all wrong. Terribly wrong.

  Last night, the police recovered the third victim of The Rose Killer. A woman was found in her home, beaten to death with a rock and with a red rose in her mouth, the signature mark of The Rose Killer.

  “In her home?” he mumbled and opened the paper to read the article. Caitlin was wailing something about her mommy being in danger, but the man didn’t pay attention.

  How could she have been found in her home? And with a red rose? That’s not how it was supposed to be. That was all wrong.

  “WILD ROSE,” the man yelled at the paper. “WILD!”

  Caitlin burst into another wailing cry and her mother came back into the kitchen, her hair in a bun and putting on her jacket.

  “Could you please take care of that?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Our d-a-u-g-h-t-e-r,” she said, spelling every letter of the word to him like he was an idiot.

  “But I have to work too today,” he said. “I have a lot to DO!”

  “Why are you yelling at me? This is an e-m-e-r-g-e-n-c-y! You figure it out. Call my mom if you want. She would love to take her. Just get it done and don’t call me today. I’m going to be swamped. They tell me if I make it good on this case, then they might bump me up to become an anchor.”

  “Yay!” the man said, mocking her voice.

  “You’re a moron,” she said and grabbed her car keys.

  “That’s actually the nicest thing you’ve said to me in months,” he answered.

  “Argh. And now I am late,” she growled before she stormed out the door without as much as a goodbye to her daughter.

  “So, what do you say, sweetie? Grandma’s again? Daddy has so much he needs to do today. So much.”

  55

  July 2015

  “So, let’s say you’re right,” Morten said, during breakfast at the hotel.

  I was eating like I hadn’t been fed in years and didn’t expect to be ever again. Bacon, sausages, eggs, cheese, it all went down, like it always did when I was anxious or worried. I couldn’t help it. That’s what I did. I ate till my stomach couldn’t contain any more. Plus, parts of me were scared I was going to end up in jail some time later that day, and I didn’t know what kind of food I would be served in there. I feared the worst. I had seen my share of prison movies and knew it would be bad.

  “Let’s say it is a copycat killer who killed Mrs. Delaney. But why? What’s his motive?”

  “She spoke to me that same morning,” I said, my mouth filled with eggs. “You think the killer wanted to close her mouth? And then frame me for it at the same time? Maybe just to scare me off, get me to leave?”

  “Maybe. But did she say anything that would be compromising to anyone?” I asked. “I don’t recall that she spoke of anything that would get her in this kind of trouble.”

  “She did talk about Father Allen,” Morten said. “That’s what I recall the most from our conversation with her. Maybe the killer simply feared that she would have said something but she didn’t?”

  I shrugged and finished my juice. “Maybe we should pay the dear father a visit,” I said.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Morten said and got up. I made a sandwich with a sausage between two toasted pieces of bread as a snack for later, then followed him back to the room.

  “Am I the only one that feels like everyone is staring at us everywhere we go?” he asked when we reached the stairs.

  “Nope,” I said. “They are staring. I’m guessing they all know that I was taken in for questioning last night. Maybe they even think I did it too, that I am the killer.”

  “Did you also sense how the waitress, what’s her name…?”

  “Claire,” I said.

  “Yes, Claire. Am I the only one that felt like she didn’t want to serve us when we asked for coffee?”

  “No. Just the way she stared at us made me feel very uncomfortable,” I said, as we reached our floor and walked down the hallway to our room. An elderly man came out of his room and greeted us on the way. At least not everyone was being suspicious of us. Maybe I was just being paranoid. Maybe it was just something we had to get used to and then ignore until it changed, until they figured out that it was all a mistake.

  Morten slid the key to our room into the lock and we entered, only to find the room totally trashed.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” I asked.

  Both of our suitcases were upside down on the floor. All my clothes were on the floor in a pile. My shampoo was on the floor and so was my perfume.

  “I can’t believe this,” Morten said, and picked up his shirt from the floor.

  I looked at the mess, then at Morten, feeling the rage rise in me like steam from a boiling kettle. I was beginning to get really, really fed up with this place.

  “Who did it?”

  He shrugged. “Probably the police. Our dear inspector is the only one who can demand access to the room. But he would need a warrant, though. We should ask in the lobby.”

  “I’ll call right away,” I said and grabbed the phone.

  Aileen, the manager, picked up. “Aileen, thank God. Our room has been trashed. Do you have any idea who might have had access to our room?”

  “The police were here earlier,” she said. “They had a warrant. I couldn’t stop them. There was nothing I could do.”

  “Of course not,” I said and hung up, slamming the receiver several times on the old phone.

  “They took your computer,” Morten said, once I had calmed down. I turned and looked at him. This vacation that was supposed to be both romantic and relaxing was turning out to be the stuff of a living nightmare.

  “Of course they did.”

  56

  February 1978

  Ava helped Violet walk across the roof and get into the attic through a small window. She held her hand so she wouldn’t fall. Violet felt so weak, so exhausted, but still so happy when she felt the warmth of being inside again, away from the icing wind.

  Still, she was shivering and her skin remained purple. Ava wrapped her in the blanket and tried to rub her warm. She ran downstairs to fetch some water for her and brought it back. Violet could hardly swallow. Her body felt numb and she kept closing her eyes in exhaustion.

  “Here, lie down,” Ava said, and helped her lie on
the old wooden floor in the attic.

  Violet closed her eyes, but her body was still shivering, and she couldn’t fall asleep.

  Ava felt her arm. “You’re freezing,” she said. “I’ve got to get you warm somehow. My grandmother once told me what to do if someone was pulled out from the ice behind her farm.”

  Ava stood up, then undressed herself. She helped Violet get undressed as well. “My body warmth will warm you up,” she said. “But we need to be skin against skin. Come.”

  Violet put her head down, and Ava crept up behind her, her naked body against Violet’s. Ava pulled the blanket over the both of them, and soon Violet felt some of the heat from her body stream into hers. It felt good, but it still took hours before she stopped shivering and finally dozed off.

  They slept like that, all spooned up under the blanket all night and way into the morning. They were both so exhausted that neither of them heard the commotion in the home when the nuns opened the door to the balcony and discovered Violet was no longer there, or when the nuns discovered that Ava’s bed was empty. Search teams were sent out all over the area surrounding the home and inside the house to find them and the police were finally called.

  It wasn’t until three hours after sunrise that someone finally entered the attic and found them. Mother Superior was called and, flanked by her nuns, she approached the scene of true terror.

  “What is going on here?!” she yelled and startled both girls.

  Violet opened her eyes and looked at the scene. One of the nuns grabbed the blanket and pulled it off. A loud gasp of revulsion went through the attic, as everyone saw the two naked girls entangled in one another.

  “What is going on here?!” Mother Superior asked once again.

  They looked at each other, then back at the many nuns looking at them, and before they could manage to answer, two nuns grabbed each of them and carried them downstairs. Violet tried to scream and yell and tell them that she had almost died on that balcony, and if it hadn’t been for Ava, she would have.

  But no one listened. She was thrown in a cold room then left alone for what felt like hours on end. Finally, Mother Superior came in holding a stick. Violet was familiar with the rod, even though she had never been beaten with it herself, she had seen it done to others. She knew she was in for a grave punishment, but was relieved that at least it wasn’t the balcony again.

  “I am only doing what is best for you, my child,” the Mother Superior said, as she lifted the stick and slammed it against Violet’s bare back. The pain was unbearable and Violet screamed.

  “What the two of you did up there is a sin. You are a terrible, terrible person,” she said, while whipping Violet with the rod.

  Violet screamed in pain and just hoped and prayed that the baby wouldn’t be affected by this punishment. She felt a pain in the bottom of her stomach every time the stick hit her, and soon she bent over in pain, falling to her knees, crying and sobbing in pain and anguish.

  Was this life ever going to get any better?

  “We can’t have you and that girl sleep in the same room again,” Mother Superior said, once she was finally done and Violet was on the ground, her body throbbing in pain.

  “From now on, you sleep with the elderly sisters, you hear me?”

  Violet opened her eyes and stared. The elderly sisters were the old nuns that were about to die. They lived on a special floor of the building and everyone feared their room or having to go in there. They all had one foot in the grave and the room smelled like death.

  With the last of her strength, Violet lifted her head and screamed. “No! Anything but that, please, Mother. Please, don’t do that do me. Please!”

  57

  July 2015

  We cleaned up the room, then took a shower, and left the hotel. I didn’t want to talk to anyone on our way out. Even though the manager kept making excuses to us, I didn’t believe she was one bit sorry for what had happened. I had a feeling that everyone around town thought we were the bad guys here and wanted us in jail.

  We drove up to St. Mary’s Parish Church and parked the car in the gravel outside. It wasn’t a very big church. It was a small grey brick church with colored windows and one tall church tower. It was, in many ways, very similar to churches I saw at home. The inside was beautifully decorated, the way you would expect a Catholic Church to be.

  “There’s no one here,” Morten said as we entered.

  “There’s someone over there,” I said, and pointed at a young man who looked like he belonged in the church. He looked like a clerk or something.

  “Excuse me,” I said and approached him. My voice echoed in the empty church.

  The young man smiled as we came closer. “Hello. Welcome to St. Mary’s. Are you visiting our town?”

  “You could say that. My name is Emma Frost and this is Morten Bredballe. We’re here on vacation. We would like to speak to Father Allen. Is he here?”

  “He is back at the house preparing his sermon for tomorrow,” the young man said. “I’ll show you to him.”

  We followed the clerk out through a back entrance and across the courtyard. I couldn’t help but notice the many rosebushes growing against the walls. It looked beautiful, yet terrifying to me.

  The young clerk knocked at the door and a woman even younger than him opened the door.

  “Einin. Where is the father? These people are here to see him.”

  “He’s in the back. I can take them to him, Daniel. Thank you.”

  “No problem,” Daniel said and left.

  “Follow me.”

  We followed Einin inside.

  “So, are you the housekeeper?” I asked, when we walked down the hallway and approached a door.

  She nodded shyly, then knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” someone said, singing from behind the door. The father sounded like he was in a good mood, I thought. He did have a great singing voice. I understood why they had given him the nickname. I had even watched videos online of him marrying a couple, then bursting into wild singing in their honor. It was very beautiful and went viral a year ago. The more I read about him, the more I understood why he was so popular.

  I wasn’t disappointed at the man who waited behind the door. He was older than I thought, of course, since most video clips and photos I had seen were more than ten years old, but he had the exact calmness over him that I had expected. And he was just as charismatic in real life as well.

  “And, who do have we here?”

  “I am Emma Frost and this is Morten Bredballe,” I said.

  “You’re foreigners, I take it. I think I detect a small accent there.”

  “We’re from Denmark,” Morten said.

  “Do sit down and Einin will bring us some tea, won’t you, my dear?”

  “Sure,” she said and left.

  “You’ll have to excuse Einin,” Father Allen said. “I took her in when her mother died and she got herself in trouble. Trying to give her a better life. But she doesn’t have proper manners yet. No please or thank you.”

  He laughed at his own remark while smoking his pipe. The thick vanilla-smelling smoke in the room made me a little nauseous.

  “So, what can I do for you fine people, then?”

  58

  July 2015

  Einin soon brought us tea and scones. I couldn’t see how her manners weren’t good enough. I thought she seemed like a very nice girl. We spoke for an hour or so to the father about Denmark and our trip here, and how we had been entangled in the murder mystery that had taken place, and that I wanted to write about it. The father smiled and nodded as I spoke, while smoking his pipe.

  “Did you know Mrs. Delaney very well?” I asked. “I’m trying to write about her, but can’t seem to find much about her.”

  “I know all of my children here. But I wouldn’t say I knew her very well,” he said. “She did work for me for several years, though.”

  “Oh, as what?” I asked.

  “She was one of my nu
ns. She helped with the young girls at The Good Shepherd’s Convent.”

  “What is that? An institution?” I asked.

  “I prefer to call it a school,” he said. “Or a home. It was a home for girls in trouble, a shelter for them to get an education and get back on track again. It doesn’t exist anymore, the Catholic Church has closed all of its Magdalene homes. Ours was the last one. It closed back in ninety-six. Too bad, if you ask me. They did a lot of good work back then.”

  “So, Mrs. Delaney worked there as a teacher?” I asked.

  “A teacher, a mentor, even at times she acted like a mother to all those poor girls. She had all kinds of functions. They all did. It was a mission for them. They devoted their lives completely to those girls.”

  “Interesting,” I said and wrote it down. “What kinds of trouble were the girls in?”

  He smoked his pipe pensively, then put it down in the ashtray and blew out smoke. The sweet smell reminded me of my grandfather.

  “All kinds of things. Some were orphaned, others had been caught stealing or other criminal activity. A lot of them were pregnant. They all shared the tragic story of having parents that couldn’t take care of them anymore. That’s where we came in. I ran that home for twenty years and had many success stories come out of it.”

  “Do any of the girls still live here? Is it possible to talk to them? To get their take on Mrs. Delaney?” I asked.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “How well did you know Bridget Callaghan?” I asked.

  Father Allen picked up his pipe once again and put it in the corner of his mouth, while looking at me pensively. “Not very well, I have to say. I do, however, know her mother, Mary Margaret Callaghan. She used to work for me as well.”

  “At the convent?” I asked.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”