Ripped by Shelly Dickson Carr Page B

point. But how many young girls were in love with Oscar Wilde, do you think?”
    â€œPlenty of boys; dunno how many girls.” Toby winked at her.
    Katie laughed. “I’m out of here. I’ll just go find Collin and tell him I’m done. I’ll meet you guys at the London Stone exhibit.”
    â€œI’ll come, too.”
    But when they went to find Collin, their search brought them to the left-hand wall. Katie moved quickly down the line of waxwork girls, hardly daring to look at them, starting with Mary Ann Nichols, then Dark Annie, and the twin silhouette of a pregnant Molly Potter standing next to Catherine Eddowes on the same platform because they’d been murdered on the same night, then Elizabeth Stride, followed by Mary Jane Kelly and Dora Fowler. They reached the last Ripper victim, Lady Beatrix Twyford.
    In frustration, Katie hurried past, wrenching her eyes away so as not to even glance at this last waxwork girl. She was halfway to the rear of the room, intent on mounting the Plexiglas staircase, when she heard Toby’s rumbling voice.
    â€œ H ’ mf! Would you look at that? This bleedin’ one is the spittin’ image of the twist ’n’ swirl from the Metro Chicks. Can they do that, d’ya think? Just steal someone’s likeness and put it on a wax dummy? Bet the bloke that created her has a thing for the Metro Chicks’ lead singer.”
    Katie heard Collin’s voice: “Confound it! What are you talking about?”
    Katie spun around and looped back.
    â€œLook!” Toby pointed. “Burn me alive if that isn’t the spitting image of the lead singer, Courtney, in the Metro Chicks. Same boat race. I should know. She’s bleedin’ peasy. Got a bit of a thing fer her m’self. I dream about that face.”
    â€œPeasy?” Collin’s forehead wrinkled up.
    â€œPeas in the pot, mate. Hot. You too, eh?”
    Katie drew closer.
    â€œAre you daft?” sputtered Collin, his blue eyes fixed on the waxwork girl. “I’m not hot for my own, er—for Courtney! Looks nothing like her. Not the same face at all.” Collin inclined his head and continued to study the wax figure while tugging at his lower lip with thumb and forefinger, a nervous gesture Aunt Pru was always after him about.
    â€œHair color’s different, for sure.” Toby’s eyes moved slowly up and down the wax girl’s form, and he seemed to be holding back a smile. “But I swear they used the singer’s face when they did this wax model. Look—”
    Katie wedged herself between the two boys to get a better look. Her mind was racing. At the edges of her consciousness something was niggling. She raised her gaze to the wax girl’s face, and the realization struck Katie like a blow. She let out a gasp.
    Then, in a dry, barely audible voice, “That’s not Courtney . . . that ’ s Lady Beatrix ! ”
    â€œOf course, it’s Lady Beatrix, birdbrain,” grumbled Collin. “Like the sign says.” He pointed to the inscription on the pedestal: “Lady Beatrix Twyford. 1865–1888.”
    â€œ No . I mean that ’ s the girl in the portrait. The one Grandma Cleaves found in the attic and hung over my mantelpiece.”

Part II:

    The London Stone

Chapter Six

    Two Sticks and an Apple say the Bells of Whitechapel
    T w enty minutes later , her grandmother’s expression “ Beware of what you wish for ” hammered in Katie’s brain.
    â€œ Katie ! ” She heard Toby’s voice from the doorway of the atrium where she was standing alone.
    She glanced over her shoulder at Toby, then back at the London Stone. For a good while now, Katie had been staring at the London Stone, a large boulder, balanced on top of what appeared to be an old, crumbling wishing well. The rocks at the base of the well were blackish-brown and set in dark concrete, in contrast to the London Stone,