The Yellow Barrette

By Maggie Thoemke

Morgan Greenwood had a pretty average life, working a stressful job and navigating through her day-to-day as best as she could until she met Lucy.

Lucy was the happiest child in her class, the most vibrant soul...until she was killed.

Charlie Ashland had worked hard to become a detective, dedicating his life to the badge, and never left his cases unsolved...until Lucy went missing.

James Lacey had a rough childhood and fast-tracked his career to become a detective, but his entire life gets flipped upside down when he meets Morgan.

The three must work together on a case, with time not on their side, to find a brutal killer hiding in the streets of New York. The question is, Can they find him before he kills again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885055192

Book preview

Part 1

2016: Morgan

Since it was Sunday, I thought a trip to Franklin’s, the local art museum, would calm my mind. Work had been stressful the last few weeks, and I needed a distraction. Before heading out the door, I scrambled to grab my headphones, cellphone, and purse. The rain was colder than I had expected, so I threw up my hood and ran down the street to the bus stop. I didn’t bother to drive to the museum since the parking was next to nothing. The bus was late, as always, and when I hopped aboard, a foul smell greeted me. A combination of wet dog, body odor, and dirty diapers; it was potent and repulsive. Finding a seat toward the front, I sat down and pressed my knees up against the seat in front of me; the ride to the museum wasn’t too long, but because of the wet and gloomy weather, I most certainly wasn’t walking today. While soothing melodies poured out of my headphones, the child’s screaming from three rows back still managed to seep through as she protested her mother’s attempts to soothe her.

Just five more minutes until my stop, I told myself, five more minutes.

When the bus pulled up in front of the museum, I hurried off and away from the screeching child. Franklin’s Art Museum had been here as long as I could remember. The steps ascended the property, leading each visitor to the door of their own artistic adventure. The stone structures themselves were a piece of art with hand-carved, tiny flower designs that never failed to catch my eye. Plus, Franklin’s almost always had a good crowd; and the artwork was updated every few months, so each trip here was a new experience. Normally, I would have sat down and admired them as I usually do, but since the rain persisted in trying to ruin my day, I went ahead inside.

As I started along the closest wall, I noticed a new piece toward the middle and made my way over to it. Confusion set in immediately; I had no idea what I was looking at. It was an abysmal piece and brought out a mixed set of emotions: sadness, fear, and being lost. It was chaos in darkness, completely void of color, and appeared as though it was falling apart. At first, I saw a forest, a vast amount of black and gray trees, all broken and falling to pieces around each other. As I looked closer, I saw shadows and thin remnants of what could have been a building. There were sharp, thick outlines on some of the trees, and yet thinner and blurrier lines for others. There was no order to this piece, just fragments of what screamed out as a nightmare.

I sat down on the bench nearby, removing my headphones and continued to look at the painting. I was captivated until I felt a bit of tugging at the bottom of my coat. When I looked down, I saw a little girl, no more than six, in a yellow rain jacket with matching boots. She had light-brown hair that was in disarray, and she sat swinging her boots so that they clicked together. I said hi quietly, and she smiled at me. Realizing that conversation may be a moot point with her, I turned my attention back to the painting.

What do the words say? I can’t read that writing, she asked in a small and squeaky voice.

What words? I asked her, looking around to see what she meant.

The ones right here, what do they say? She moved over to the piece I was admiring and pointed at the bottom center of it.

Hmm. I got up and moved closer to the painting. It says, ‘Stage five (church).’ That’s the title of the piece I guess.

I never would have guessed that the painting was supposed to be, or be symbolic of, a church. This now undercut all of my initial impressions of the painting, and I sat back down attempting to see the church.

Well, that doesn’t look like no church to me, the little girl remarked, shaking her head.

And what does it look like to you? I asked since I did not see a church either.

I see the dark forest that Little Red Riding Hood goes into before the wolf gets her. It’s a scary part, you know, she said knowingly. She sat down next to me and looked at it for a bit longer before piping up again. Why do you think she was so sad?

Who? The artist? I looked down at her.

Her head now tilted to one side as she stared into the piece. Yeah, why do you think she was so sad when she made this? she asked again, tilting her head to the other side.

What makes you think she was sad when she made the painting? I asked, overly enjoying her take on the piece.

Well, I mean, just look at it. There are no colors at all. There are big scary tree things, and she says it’s a church when there isn’t a church. Which makes me think she has to be sad. If she wasn’t, there would be bright colors and a sun or something—you know—happy things. She looked up at me, searching my face with hazel eyes for an answer that I knew I didn’t have.

You know what? I don’t know if she was sad or happy when she was making this painting. I wish I did. You’re pretty smart for being so little—I smiled at her—By the way, where are your parents? Aren’t they worried about you being gone? I glanced around for worried eyes but saw no one.

When I looked back down, the little girl was gone. I hadn’t even heard her get up, so I looked under the bench and then all around the room without any luck. It was as if she had vanished. Grabbing my things off the bench, I started toward the information counter where an older woman was sitting with a book in her hands.

Excuse me, did you happen to see a little girl in a yellow raincoat run by here just a few seconds ago? I said rather quickly. Glancing around again, trying to spot her in the small crowd.

Why, you must mean Lucy, she said in a slight Southern accent, letting out a small laugh before setting down her book.

Lucy? You know this girl? I looked down at her, confused.

Yes, dear. You see, this museum is awfully old, and it attracts all sorts of people and things. Little Miss Lucy has been here for quite some time now, but she only really talks to people she likes. You must be pretty special if she was talking to you. The old woman smiled at me, almost as if she was expecting me to smile back.

I don’t understand. She lives here? I muttered in disbelief.

No, no. You see, honey, Little Miss Lucy died some forty years ago. She can’t seem to leave the old place, and she found an appreciation for the art here. So she roams around, looks at the new pieces, and sometimes talks to the guests.

1971: Lucy

The new bus driver was late again, and Lucy had to wait an extra five minutes at her stop, just like the rest of the week. She knew she would be late for school, but that didn’t matter to her much. Today was going to be a good day; it was the day Mrs. Landon’s first-grade class was going to the Franklin Museum for a field trip. Lucy had been looking forward to this trip all week and was the first one to run off the bus when it arrived at the school.

When she got to her classroom, all of the other kids had already put their stuff in the cloakroom and were beginning to sit at their desks. Lucy hurried to put her stuff away and sat down as quickly as she could. Mrs. Landon was going to start taking attendance soon, and she smiled at the class as she grabbed her clipboard.

The overhead speaker squeaked loudly as it turned on, startling everyone. Good morning, students! Please rise for the pledge of allegiance.

As the kids sang, Mrs. Landon reminded them to hold their hands over their hearts. The morning announcements that day were nothing special, and Lucy wasn’t paying much attention to them anyway. She anxiously clicked her feet together under her desk.

All right, good morning, class! Are we all very excited for the field trip today? Mrs. Landon’s voice echoed warmly around the room.

Yes! all the children cried in unison.

One boy’s voice cracked, and everyone laughed at him—except Lucy. She remained quiet and waited for her name to be called. She didn’t like it when the kids laughed at people because they did something out of the ordinary; her mother had taught her that it was called bullying, and she never wanted to be a bully.

All right, the bus gets here in fifteen minutes, so let’s do attendance! As she looked down at her clipboard, she started swirling her pen around as she always did. Okay, Ben? She glanced around the room until she spotted him and made a mark on her roster; she continued on with names for a while. Christina? Oh, there you are. Okay, Lucy? Mrs. Landon found her smiling at her desk and continued, There you are, little Lucy. All right, Joseph? She went through all of the names and double-checked that everyone was there by making the kids count off. Lucy was number eleven today, which she thought was weird because she was always number three for attendance but shrugged it off and kept on smiling.

Mrs. Landon told the kids to grab their coats, and they all lined up to head out to the big gray bus that was waiting to bring them to the museum. The gray bus was only used for field trips, so it was always exciting for the kids. Mrs. Landon had the kids sing a few songs during the trip to the museum, and Lucy sang along as loudly as she could, smiling with excitement the whole way there. Lucy had never been to the Franklin Museum before, and she could not wait for the bus to get there. As they rode along, she thought about what she would see when they got there and was daydreaming until they arrived. When everyone got off the bus, Lucy noticed the stairs first, how there seemed to be a thousand tiny flowers along the edges. She tugged on Mrs. Landon’s coat and pointed them out to her. She smiled at Lucy and agreed that they were pretty too.

A grouchy old woman greeted Mrs. Landon and the kids at the front desk. They exchanged a few words and then Mrs. Landon turned to the kids, smiled, and took attendance again to be sure everyone came inside. As soon as she finished, the old lady began the tour of the museum; and Lucy hung back at the end of the line, so she had more time to look at everything around her. Lucy began tugging at the edges of her yellow raincoat; her mother had insisted she wear it, even though it was warm out because the weatherman said it would rain today. But Lucy was in awe of her surroundings and soon lost interest in her coat. So many paintings and sculptures filled the museum, and even though it was tiny, Lucy imagined spending a whole day looking at each and every little thing she could see.

Lucy thought the grouchy old woman leading the tour had boring stories for the art, so she started imagining her own stories for the paintings as they went from piece to piece. She was so wrapped up in her own little world that the unexpected sound of a male voice made her jump.

What do you think of that painting there? a man said from behind her.

Lucy turned to see him sitting on a bench and then turned her head back to look at the painting he was talking about.

What? her little voice cracked as she spoke. She knew she wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers, but it seemed rude to outright ignore him.

The painting there, with the kids playing in the park. Do you like it? the man asked, smiling at Lucy.

I really shouldn’t talk to strangers. I need to get back to my class now. Lucy turned and started to move closer to her classmates who were just a few feet away.

No, no. I’m not really a stranger. I work here at the museum! I’m just the janitor here. It’s okay to talk to me. He smiled again.

Lucy was hesitantly agreed with him. Okay. It’s pretty. But the people don’t have any faces, so it’s kind of scary too, she spoke softly, glancing over her shoulder to see her class moving on to the next room.

He looked toward the painting again and smiled at Lucy. You’re right, they don’t have any faces, do they? You’re pretty smart for such a little girl.

Thanks, but I’m not that little. I just turned six two weeks ago! She smiled really big; she was very proud of her age.

"Well, that is just wonderful. What’s your name, little one?’

Lucy. Lucy Williams. She smiled again but noticed her class was gone now and started to get nervous. My class went away to the next room. I really do need to go now. She turned and started to walk away, but the man spoke again.

But there’s an even better room over this way. I can show you. He stretched out his hand to her as Lucy turned to look at him.

No, that’s okay. I really need to get back. I don’t want to get lost. Lucy turned and started walking away from him.

He reached out and grabbed her wrist, throwing his hand over her mouth as she started to scream. Everything went black for Lucy.

At the end of the tour, Mrs. Landon realized Lucy was gone. She called her name over and over again, having the other children help. Mrs. Landon realized yelling was useless and asked the curator to stay with the children while she searched for Lucy. She ran through the entire museum once more, shouting for Lucy as she went. As she circled back to the foyer, she realized Lucy had not returned to the group and called the police as she broke down sobbing. As she was checking to make sure the rest of the kids were all accounted for, lights and sirens came to a screeching halt in front of the now towering building that once gave Mrs. Landon’s class joy.

1973: Gloria

The day after her eighteenth birthday, Gloria Malena packed up her small suitcase and got on the bus to New York. She may have spent her entire life in New Orleans, but it was not a home to her anymore. She needed to start over somewhere fresh. She was never really sure why she settled on New York; perhaps because she was always dreaming about becoming an artist in the Big Apple and creating a fantastic new life for herself—even though she wasn’t even close to an artist in real life. The one thing she did have going for her was a little studio apartment on a quiet street and a job interview first thing on Monday morning.

Gloria didn’t have much to her name when she got off the bus that day—a couple of shirts, a pair of jeans, a nice pair of pants, a sweater she had owned for years, a few small essentials, and a grand total of one hundred dollars from selling her other belongings. She wanted to start over, and she knew that she wouldn’t be able to do that unless she got rid of all of her ties to New Orleans. She did keep one thing that would always remind her of home—a small, chipped, tiger-eye pendant that her mom gave to her when Gloria turned sixteen; just a few short weeks before the cancer took her away. This was about the same time Gloria realized she could never stay in The Quarter and when she began planning her trip to move. Her walk to her new place luckily wasn’t far as the bus dropped her very close to the address she had hastily jotted down over the phone.

This studio apartment was all she would be able to afford for a while, but Gloria was just happy she had found a small place to make her own. She didn’t need much because she never had much, and this tiny little apartment came fully furnished with a bed, a couch, and a very small bookcase. It had a kitchen that someone appeared to have shrunk down to doll size. The bathroom was just big enough for the toilet, sink, and shower—if one could call it that. But the more she walked around and took in her surroundings, she found herself smiling because she had really done it—she had made it to New York—and this was hers. She knew she was going to have to get a few things to be able to live comfortably and soon began compiling a list of things of absolute necessities: plates, cups, silverware, sheets, a pillow, and shampoo. Gloria set out into the streets of the big city and held her head as high as she could.

When Monday finally arrived, Gloria put on her only pair of slacks, her most respectable blouse, and spent upward of an hour trying to tame her thick and unruly dark hair. She checked the mirror before leaving, admiring her olive-toned skin and brown eyes, before smiling at herself and grabbing her things to leave. She was slim and short, but her dark hair and darker skin made her look older than she was, which was a blessing since her height usually left her feeling like a child. She wasn’t sure about how long it would take to get to the museum, so she hopped on an early bus to avoid being late.

When she arrived at the Franklin Museum, she realized she was an hour early for her interview. Laughing to herself, she sat down on the stairs that led up to the museum and noticed how intricately carved they were. As she investigated the stairs, she saw thousands of hand-carved flowers and vines, leaves, and tiny bugs; every inch of the sides to the staircase was covered in these beautifully designed carvings. She became lost in the details, curious to see each flower and what it held within it and marveled at the time it must have taken to create something so beautiful. As she sat and admired the art, she didn’t see the old woman walk up next to her.

Are you the girl that has an interview today?

Gloria jumped up so fast that she got dizzy and spun around to see an older woman standing not two feet from her. The woman had white hair that was kept very short, and she wore an unflattering pantsuit that appeared to be a size too small. Her face was riddled with age lines, the crow’s feet around her eyes were the most prominent, and her mouth was turned down in a permanent scowl.

Y-yes, I am, Gloria managed to sputter out. Sorry, I got here too early and was just enjoying the staircase. She smiled at the woman and straightened out her shirt a bit more.

Right. This way. The woman snapped at her. She began trudging up the stairs hurriedly as Gloria struggled to keep up.

When they got inside, Gloria was taken aback at how charming the little museum was; it was small yet filled with all kinds of art from many different artists. She began looking at everything around her and taking in the museum for what it was when the old lady cleared her throat loudly to get her attention. She sat slouched on the chair behind the small desk in the lobby and had placed a clipboard on her lap, ticking her pencil on the edge as she waited.

I am Mrs. Wrenson. I have been with the museum for twenty years, and I am the acting museum curator. It says here you want to do my job, is that right? She glared at Gloria, unimpressed.

Why, yes, I suppose I do. I have always loved art, and I would love to work in a place where I am surrounded by it every day. Gloria smiled again, and Mrs. Wrenson simply looked back down at the clipboard resting on her lap.

Why did you choose the Franklin Museum? Her tone was lacking emotion, and Gloria began to feel like nothing she said would make this woman smile.

I just moved up to New York a few days ago, but this museum was mentioned in my local newspaper down in New Orleans. One of our local artists had a piece displayed here, and I found myself drawn here. Gloria realized she was talking very quickly and cleared her throat before continuing. What I mean to say is, I saw this museum in the paper, and I thought to myself, that is where I want to work. So I moved up here for the interview as soon as I got it. Gloria smiled as she recrossed her legs on the small, uncomfortable chair.

Well then. Mrs. Wrenson looked back down at her clipboard and shook her head before setting it down on the desk. She rubbed her eyes for a moment and looked at Gloria with a sense of tired desperation. Do you believe in ghosts, Gloria? She didn’t look away and waited for a response.

Gloria stared at her and tried to decide if she was joking or not. When she really looked at her expression, she realized Mrs. Wrenson was very serious and Gloria answered slowly, Well, yes, I suppose I do. Growing up in New Orleans, there was always a lot of talk about ghosts and spirits.

Mrs. Wrenson sighed heavily. You are the fourteenth person I have interviewed for this job. I have hired twelve of those people, and yet here we are. I need someone who is not afraid of ghosts or of being alone in this museum.

What exactly do you mean? Gloria was starting to grow weary of the old woman sitting in front of her.

There have been weird things going on in this museum for the last two years, and I need someone who can handle the weird. I am old, tired, and ready to retire. I need someone who is going to be able to do this job and not run. So can you handle weird, Gloria?

She thought about it for a few minutes as she soaked up the information she was being given, and she finally settled on an answer: Yes, ma’am, I can.

From that point on, Gloria had a full-time job that she loved. She worked every day at the museum without missing a beat, and the first few weeks, although challenging to get facts about the art right, went smoothly. She had no instances where she felt scared or overly alone, and