Annabelle and Thatch fretted about Monica, Mrs. Schmidt, and the trunk in the basement for some time. They pestered Val to look around the basement for more items belonging to either of these ladies, and at least once a week Annabelle made blatant hints to me to do something to trace the whereabouts of these women. Stella’s utter lack of concern was a welcome relief.
Annabelle, what can I do? I asked her. We’re in a pandemic, I can barely walk, and I don’t believe any branch of the New York Public Library is open.
Excuses, excuses, she snapped at me. I can’t find a thing on these ladies on Google. There must be a record that they existed . . . somewhere. I just don’t know where else to look.
Luckily, she had too many other pursuits to occupy her time. Still, I remained curious as they to learn more about these ladies and how that trunk ended up in the basement of 202 West 82nd Street. Annabelle was right: I could find nothing on a Monica Schmidt, if that were her last name or an Arthur Schmidt on West 86th Street. I took a chance and wrote a short note about the trunk and mailed it to Mrs. Arthur Schmidt at 430 West 86th Street. I signed it “Miss Annabelle F. Katt” and hoped for a response and not a returned piece of mail marked “Address unknown.” I did not tell Annabelle that I had done this; it would be cruel to get her hopes up for nothing.
Several weeks later, Annabelle received a letter from G. Petroff, 430 West 86th Street. I nearly fell over when I found it in my mailbox. How will Annabelle react, I wondered, Will she be pleased? Angry that I wrote a letter using her name? Did I screw up? For a moment, I debated opening the letter, reading it, and tossing it out if the news were bad.
You look puzzled, Val said as he walked past me.
I’m debating the consequences of my rash actions, I responded. I don’t know if I did a good thing or a bad one.
Val laughed. Should I ask?
Well, I was trying to help my own Nancy Drew solve the mystery of the locked trunk. and I’ve got a response to my inquiry.
Well, open it.
I can’t. It’s addressed to Annabelle.
I told him the story of my letter, and he decided that he, too, wanted to hear the contents of the letter. We rode the elevator to three and walked into the apartment. As soon as Val sat down, Annabelle ran to him and climbed into his lap.
Annabelle! I said enthusiastically, You’ve got mail.
Am I in trouble? she asked.
That piqued my interest. What had she mailed behind my back? I gave her a curious look. Did you do something I should know about, Missy?
No . . . no, I don’t think so.”
I flashed the letter from G. Petroff before her. It’s a letter from someone living in Arthur Schmidt’s apartment!
She perked up. Is it from Monica?
No, I don’t think so. The return address says G. Petroff
Well, open it! What does it say?
I opened the envelope and removed a sheet of paper. I unfolded it. Do you want to read it?
No, I can’t read handwriting. You can read it for me.
Okay, let’s see if I can make this out. Dear Miss Katt, thank you for your curious tale of the locked trunk. Mrs. Arthur Schmidt was my mother Adeline, and Monica was her youngest sister. She was born in New York in 1928. and my mother was the oldest. There were two other sisters, Mathilde and Charlotte. There was a brother, too, born right after World War One, who died in the 1917 flu epidemic. My grandfather worked for the Port Authority, and they all lived in Hell’s Kitchen on West 44th Street. According to family gossip, Monica had fallen in love with a young man whose name was Fred Carter and who lived in the same apartment building. He was a soldier who had been wounded in World War Two, and he was home recuperating. My grandmother and his mother were hoping things would work out between them, and they would end up marrying.
Things were going well. Monica and her soldier were soon going to movies together, and Monica believed he was going to propose. Then my Aunt Tilda, who had divorced her husband and enlisted in the Women’s Army Corp, came home on leave. Two weeks later, she and Fred eloped, and Monica had a nervous breakdown of some sort. She left Manhattan and went for an extended visit with relatives in Wilmington, Delaware. When my mother married my father, Arthur Schmidt, they moved to West 86th Street where I grew up. After my father’s death my husband and family moved into the apartment to take care of her after a stroke. I have no idea how my mother’s trunk ended up in your building, but it most likely was tossed out by accident when we were cleaning out my mother’s estate in 1994.
If you don’t mind, I would like to see the trunk and take any family mementoes. You are welcome to whatever I have no desire to keep. My phone number is 212-362-1946, and I look forward to speaking to you. Sincerely, Gretchen Petroff.
Gretchen Petroff! Annabelle said. What a nice note. Now we know who owned the trunk.
And how it got to us, Thatch added.
Well, Annabelle said, let’s meet this Gretchen Petroff!
I’ll call today, I told her.
Well, Val stood up, I’ve got to get back to work. Sorry to move you, Annabelle. He stretched and walked to the door. Let me know when she’s coming by. She may need some help with the trunk.
I’ll let you know. Thanks for stopping by. I opened the door and turned to my three little kittens. Well, kiddies, I said in what I hoped was a spooky voice, that ends the Mystery of the Locked Trunk.
There’s still one mystery, Annabelle said. Didn’t you see it?
What, Annabelle? Val asked.
What became of Monica!? Thatch asked.
Nope, Annabelle said as she looked straight at me, Who wrote a letter and signed my name?
©2021, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 