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eBook Category: Mystery/Crime
eBook Description: During the 1940's the women attending Regina College insisted a beautiful young woman wearing a 'fancy dress' haunted the halls near the chapel. Many claimed to see the apparition often entering, sitting, and softly crooning a mournful melody. Stories of the 'Rosary Bride' continue from generation to generation. Fifty years later, during the renovation of the college library, workers expose a skeleton. Grace Marsden, present at the discovery is drawn into the search for the victim's identity, fearing the remains will lead to skeletons in her own family closet. Against her husband, her best friend, and her own common sense Grace determines to find the truth. Her involvement grows beyond her control when the dead woman reaches out to her. Complications arise when the investigating police inspector dredges up more old secrets and betrayal. Ignoring her husband's theory that the Inspector's motives are less than honorable, Grace continues her quest to solve the decades old homicide. Desperate to know the truth, Grace enlists the help of Sister Andrew, a nun who lived at Rosary during the 40's and has chronicled the college's history. But all too soon the treachery of the past meets the future and once again lives are lost. Can Grace name the 'Rosary Bride' before her killer strikes again?

eBook Publisher: Echelon Press, Published: 2003
Fictionwise Release Date: July 2005

This eBook is part of the following series:

• Luisa Buehler's Grace Marsden Mystery Book Series

19 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [973 KB], eReader (PDB) [215 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [201 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [177 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [192 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [233 KB], hiebook (KML) [477 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [289 KB], iSilo (PDB) [166 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [206 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [257 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [261 KB]
Words: 62037
Reading time: 177-248 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
ISBN: 1590802268

"Luisa Buehler's debut mystery, The Rosary Bride, is a twisty, taut, compelling story of love gone wrong, a fascinating, haunting tale."--Carolyn Hart, author of Engaged to Die

"My favorite kind of book--old sins cast long shadows. When a long-dead woman is found behind the fireplace at Regina College, new crimes begin to happen. The Rosary Bride is suspenseful and poignant."--Barbara D'Amato, author of the Cat Marsala mysteries

Barely muted by the crash of shattered stone on wood flooring, a shouted expletive reverberated off the high ceiling of Regina College's stately library. Sudden silence gripped the room as a dozen heads swung simultaneously to stare wide-eyed at the two red-faced tradesmen planted toe-to-toe in front of the massive stone fireplace. The taller of the pair, a beefy fellow with hard eyes and a stubborn chin, stood bunched in a boxer's stance, his right arm cocked, his hand balled into a fist. The shorter man held his ground, but he seemed more shell-shocked than ready to fight. Shoulders drooping, he cradled a heavy hammer to his chest as he gazed slack-jawed at the rubble littering the floor around his boots. Unnoticed by either man, a fine film of masonry dust hung in the air between them and encircled their heads like misty halos, the final product of a now gaping wound in the back wall of the fireplace.

In that frozen moment in time, I heard a slight rustling sound followed by a click, click, click. As if on cue a small glass bead rolled out of the jagged hole and tumbled to the floor.

The spell was broken as quickly as it had been cast. Hurrying forward, I dimly heard the questioning voices of my friends as I pushed between the two men and bent to retrieve the tiny bead. Another bead trickled from the wounded masonry and joined its predecessor on the floor. One more hung on the edge of a gray shard like a tear poised to drop. I knelt down to pluck it from the rubble.

The assault on my senses began immediately. A puff of cold, dank air long imprisoned in the wall pushed against my face in search of freedom. My stomach tightened and the hair on the back of my neck scraped against my collar. I wanted to turn away; I was drawn closer. My jaw tightened and bits of my breakfast rocketed to my throat and stopped just short of gagging me. Head pounding, filled with noise and motion, I saw what they couldn't see; what I'd never forget. Suspended in the dark hole, as if in a desperate stretch to the light and perhaps the touch of another, dangled a bony hand.

I screamed and pulled back. The room seemed to tilt and shift my focus from the gaping hole up to the chandelier twenty feet above me and back again.

"Gracie, what's wrong? Grace, what is it?" Strong arms lifted me to my feet and pulled me back from the fireplace. Someone placed a chair behind my wobbly legs. I sat down quickly and clamped my knees together to keep them from shaking.

"Call Ric. Call Ric now."

"Ric. What are you thinking? What's..."

"Call him, now. There's someone in there."

My announcement of entombment caused a minor uproar. Gasps and shouts amid a building crescendo of questions filled the air around me. People began pushing and moving.

Don Rakin's soothing voice could be heard moving through the chaos, calming pockets of people as he moved among them. He was tall, six feet, six inches but his stooped frame hid his height, as the oversized sweater and baggy khakis hid his slender build. His pale blue eyes blinked more than usual even for him. He was the coordinator of the library move and in that capacity, he took charge. He asked us to move away from the crumpled structure.

The pounding in my head diminished. I looked around. Karen stared at me. I smiled weakly and saw relief on her face. Don pushed a glass into my hands. I sipped the icy water. The clean taste filled my mouth, easing the tightness in my throat and erasing the cotton dry taste of fear. The gaping hole drew everyone's attention. Several friends moved closer to me. Sitting on the chair, I had a lower sight line. I could see some white lacy material. My shoulders twitched and I looked away.

I stared into the water. My hands automatically sought the chain of yarn I always carried somewhere on my body. I pulled a bright red length from my pocket and began a memorized pattern of loops and twists. Immediately the familiar process soothed my jangled nerves. My adrenaline flow ebbed and my stomach seemed to retreat to an area closer to my waist. Curiosity overtook my initial fear and I looked back toward the hole. It wasn't a pleasant sight, but I had really come unglued. I usually handled shock better than this histrionic display. For some reason, this felt different. I was still shaking.

"Who's Ric?" A second shock seemed inevitable.

"What?" I turned to look at Doreen.

"Who's Ric? You told Karen to call Ric."

"I told her to call the police," I corrected her.

"You told her to call Ric. You didn't say anything about police."

My face flushed hot. My head pounded with renewed ferocity; I turned away from her and walked the length of the library toward the doors. Ten feet before the exit I made a sharp right turn, passed the abandoned circulation desk and stopped at the door to a windowless room housing thousands of periodicals and magazines shelved on metal racks.

I glimpsed my reflection in the window in the top half of the door to the room. My shoulder length, dark brown hair seemed more tousled than usual even for me. Lavender eyes with flecks of gold and an expression of fear, maybe panic, something not normal, stared back at me. I pushed the door and moved past my image. The area I was in was referred to as the stacks. I stopped to take a deep breath. My lungs filled with the delicious smell of old and new words blending and living on paper. The saying, 'so many books, so little time' caused a smile. I inhaled deeply again and continued to walk through the stacks for another twenty feet before I reached the exit. Now I was in an alcove at the back of the building. In the 1940's, there had been three small dormitory rooms and a hall with direct access to the Sisters' dining room and the college chapel. During a renovation of the area, the two rooms at the far end had been remodeled into a reading room for the nuns. A long narrow hallway led to the remaining old dorm room. The door and part of a wall to that room had been removed to make a study alcove for students in Power Hall. The long hall and partial room made half a cul de sac. Students used it as a shortcut from the dorm to the library or to the chapel. No one ever studied in there. The room had never been comfortable; it had always been the coldest spot in the building.

Felt fine to me. Right now this was what I needed, a haven from that terrible scene in the library. Not many people traveled all the way down this corridor anymore. They usually cut through closer to the Sisters' reading room.

College legend persisted that a lonely spirit haunted the alcove and nearby hall. As far back as the forties, students talked about seeing a beautiful girl in a flowing, white dress carrying a luminescent white rosary in her hands walking into the room at the end of the hall. That section of the building housed the oldest dorms. No one had been assigned to those rooms in years. Even after the renovation students still claimed that they saw the beautiful specter in fancy dress enter the alcove. She always carried the shimmering white rosary draped over her clasped hands, as though in prayer. Some said they called out to her and followed her but when they flipped on the light, no one was there. I had heard all the stories when I was a student here. By that time, girls had named the ghost the 'Rosary Bride.' No one I knew ever saw her; no one I knew ever came here alone.

My fingers found the rough texture of my yarn and began to work the ends round against themselves and back again over the middle while my mind tried to deal with what had happened in the library. For the umpteenth time, I mentally thanked my mother for providing me with a simple way to calm my nerves and focus my thoughts.

During my early childhood, my mother had recognized the constant braiding, plaiting, and twisting of anything I could grab as the behavior of an obsessive-compulsive personality. I braided an assortment of string, dandelion stems, rubber bands, twist ties, and ribbon. Mostly, I twisted my hair to the point where clumps of it would come out. My mother became frantic when I had no fewer than three bald patches about the size of nickels. At that point, she channeled my 'jitters' as we called them into finger braiding using yarn. I was never without a length of yarn. I jittered more when I was stressed or scared. In my job as an editor of children's books, I never encountered anything scarier than alien green globs or misguided witches.

Until now. So, why was I sitting alone being stressed? I was also an alumna of Regina College and the commitment to that part of my life prompted me to volunteer to help move the existing pre World War II library into the newly constructed Rebecca Crown Resource Center. The grand old room could no longer accommodate the rising enrollment since the college gave up its women only status and opened its doors to men. For that reason I found myself in this predicament braiding as fast as my fingers could twist.

Traffic had been nonexistent this morning when I zipped eastbound on the Eisenhower Expressway. Even the 'Hillside Strangler,' the bottleneck at the merge had posed no threat to my schedule. The drive through River Woods on familiar side streets brought me here in no time. I parked near the Fine Arts Building and followed some other blue jeans clad 'thirty-something's' into Lewis Hall.

This morning the lobby outside the old library served as a staging area to tag, feed, and direct the alumni work force. We formed a ready group gathered by flyers, phone calls, and guilt tactics by class agents. The alumni office decided that a liturgy should precede the breakfast. Mass at Regina was always a warm, friendly experience.

The Chapel smelled of polishing wax and well oiled wood. Mixed with those smells was a touch of mustiness that lived in every old building with a past. Three-foot thick stone walls kept the Chapel cool and quiet. The cacophony of college life seemed to stop at the heavy oak doors, as though the concept of sanctuary existed for all who entered. I never forgot the peacefulness I felt each time I stopped in for a chat with God.

My husband, Harry, and I often drove in from our home in Pine Marsh, a Western suburb near Naperville, to enjoy the camaraderie of Sunday Mass. Although he was raised in the Church of England, Harry appreciated spirituality in any setting.

The mass this morning had been even more special since I shared it with women I hadn't seen in ten years. The occasion had mushroomed into a working reunion of sorts. Some alum had decided to stay a few days and were sharing hotel rooms or bunking with old friends still living in the area. Friendly smiles and quick nods crisscrossed the intimate chapel. 'Pass the peace,' our term from college days, took longer as we moved among the pews and hugged seldom seen classmates. I saw Karen Kramer across the chapel and moved to join her after the final benediction. We had shared all of our English classes together and had discovered we were kindred spirits.

Karen who was blessed with a tall, slender, athletic build was my physical antithesis. She wore her curly, dark blonde hair very short. Dark brown eyes, framed by large tortoise shell glasses gave the appearance of wisdom, wit, and intelligence. I always teased her and told her without her glasses she'd be just a blonde. She really was the only one with whom I had stayed close--we were best friends.

The friendly atmosphere in the Chapel spilled out into the second floor of Lewis where we enjoyed coffee, chitchat, and croissants. The old library was soon to become a beautifully detailed study hall. The room had a twelve-foot ceiling all around the perimeter with a center ceiling that peaked to twenty feet. Ten chandeliers divided the long room and provided basic illumination.

Studying there had always been a romantic, brooding experience. It seemed all the English majors studied in the Library. Science majors labored in well-lighted areas. They probably realized the damaging effects to one's vision from squinting at badly illuminated pages. I thought it was necessary to read Wuthering Heights in the atmosphere of a dimly lighted, drafty Great Hall. I believe I understood the ambiance of the English novel because of this old library. The alcoves created by the lower bookshelves, had since been fitted with spot lighting, which wrecked the mood, but saved the vision.

My team, Karen Kramer, Doreen Ripler, and Marietta Doyle, was assigned bookcases #16-#20, next to the fireplace. I had always tried to sit near the fireplace and had often imagined what it would have been like to study by the light of a blazing fire, reading about Heathcliff and Cathy searching for each other on the cold unforgiving moor while I sat warm and safe until only the red hot embers in the heavy metal grate remained.

That fantasy had never happened since the fireplace sat empty and cold throughout the four years I attended Regina. It hadn't housed a log since the early 1960's when structural damage left it dangerous to use. Since the library was being repainted and furnished with comfy chairs and reading lamps, Mary Pat Lanigan, a trustee from the class of '52 decided it would be nice to have a working fireplace.

Some workmen were already chipping around the front of the mantle. The stone work with the original inscription was to be removed and affixed in the new library's foyer for the dedication in two weeks. The ceremony was planned for the same Sunday in December as when the current library had been dedicated all those years before. This fireplace would then be fitted with a gas starter, glass doors, and a blower motor to make it more fuel efficient and cost effective. Would Heathcliff mind?

We worked in friendly closeness exchanging small talk on kids, careers, and significant others. Our task was to remove the books from each shelf, wipe them off with a specially treated cloth designed to clean and hydrate the covers. The next step was to shelve them on rolling carts to be taken to the new library. After ninety minutes, we were ready for a break and Karen offered to go for coffee.

During that entire time we had been subjected to the constant bickering of the two men hired to relocate the mantle. They argued about the process they should use. They argued about the tools they would need. They cursed the bricklayer since apparently the original installer had taken no shortcuts. He had mortared and cemented every inch of the structure not just the contact points. The argument escalated into a shoving match as a small crack in the firebox widened into a gaping hole when one worker lost patience. Each blamed the other for the damage. The final culpability was laid at the feet of the original artisan for doing too good a job. He obviously had never intended this fireplace to be moved. Had he known its secret?

My heartbeat kicked into high gear as I remembered the 'secret' I had glimpsed in the crumbled masonry. The memory spun my thoughts to another anomaly, namely, the 'Rosary Bride.' I shivered.

"Dammit, Grace, you came in here to think about seeing Ric again, not fifty year old ghosts." I lectured myself aloud. "Why did I tell Karen to call Ric?" I continued speaking to no one. "Maybe he won't be on duty. Maybe he'll assign someone else to investigate. Why did I ask for him? Can't start again. I don't want to be here."

I couldn't keep my thoughts sorted and suddenly I knew why. The room was freezing. I don't know how but in the last ten minutes it felt like the temperature in the alcove dropped at least twenty degrees. The deep cold seemed to make the room brighter as though the frigid surfaces reflected the light more intensely. There was something else too. No, someone else. I had the uncanny feeling that someone was in the alcove with me. That was impossible.

A slight sound, a rustle like lace against lace seemed close by. A freezing chill moved slowly down my spine to my lower back until I couldn't move my legs. Goose bumps erupting on my arms were the only movement my body could manage.

I heard a soft sound like someone expelling breath to form the hard 'gr' of my name. I felt frozen to the chair. I didn't want to see her if I couldn't run. I sat perfectly still and waited. The sound came again. This time stronger, not a distant motor kicking on, not a door swishing shut down the hall. It was my name.

"Grace? Are you all right?"

Karen's voice and my scream sounded simultaneously.

"My God, Grace, what is it? You look like you've seen a ghost."

How could I tell Karen she wasn't far from the truth? "Nothing. You, ah, startled me. I was thinking."

"You're shivering. Let's go back to the library. It's freezing in here. I was worried about you," she said as she took both my hands. "Wow, your hands are like ice. Here, take my sweater." Karen insisted on bundling me up in her woolly Pendleton. The sweater was a classic, and a shade of ivory that happened only to very old and very expensive wool.

"What made you come here? I wouldn't have walked down this far if I hadn't seen the light blazing from the room. You know I never liked walking down this hall. Even now, it gives me the creeps. C'mon let's go."

What did guide my steps? Or who? Today had begun without a hint of the events that would shatter the calm of a beautiful fall day and challenge my resolve to keep my marriage intact.