by K. J. Emrick
Underneath the painting was the set of empty shelves that Swanson the handyman had peeked through yesterday. He was nowhere to be found either, just like all the other ghosts. What had that been about, anyway? Fading in and out of the shelves, in and out again. Was he trying to tell her something? Maybe he was. Maybe there was something important here that she was supposed to see. Of all the ghosts that she had seen so far, his had been the only one that seemed to be reaching out to talk to her. The child ghost in the mirror had left her a message, but nothing more after that. Swanson had actually interacted with her. Well. Sort of.
So the question became, was he trying to tell her something about this room?
He’d been standing right over here, next to this wall. Looking closely at it now, Darcy couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary about the shelves. The wood was solid, although the middle of the shelves had started to sag with advanced age and long use. They were a little dusty, but with a place this big she supposed that was to be expected. Without a fulltime cleaning staff, they couldn’t take care of every little thing. Especially if they were close to closing down for the year. Maxwell couldn’t be expected to take care of their room and give them tours and still dust every corner of the place.
Of course, right now he couldn’t be expected to do anything, considering he was nowhere to be found. She wanted to go and keep looking for him but the idea that Swanson might have been trying to tell her something was filling up her thoughts.
What did he want her to see about this part of the room? It was just old shelves. There wasn’t even anything on them. They were empty. Maybe this was the spot where he’d died. What was it Maxwell had said about the handyman’s death? Oh, right. He fell down the stairs and broke his neck. So that didn’t happen here. What stairs did he die on, Darcy wondered? Maybe the same stairs that Mrs. Jennifer Bylow’s ghost continuously flowed up, on her way to the third floor to reenact her death over and over.
So if this wasn’t his death spot, then what was it Swanson wanted her to see?
The shelves. What about the shelves? She reached out, wanting to feel the rough, stained texture of the wood…
And a hand latched on to her wrist, slipping out of nowhere to pull her away, and spin her around.
Maxwell Bylow stood there, smiling and charming as he held her in a steely grip. “Ah, Mrs. Tinker-Sweet. I see you’ve gone wandering about. So glad I caught you. I should like to arrange something with you for the Christmas celebration with your children.”
Darcy was so startled by his sudden appearance that her heart lurched up and lodged in her throat and momentarily took away her power of speech. She swallowed it back, and took a breath, and pulled her hand back from him. He didn’t try to stop her.
“Sweet,” she finally said to him a hoarse whisper.
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Beg pardon?”
She cleared her throat and took another breath. “It’s Sweet. My last name is Sweet, and my husband’s last name is Tinker. We kept our names when we married. We don’t hyphenate them.”
“Ah. I see. How…modern of you.”
She was embarrassed to have been that startled. She’d been so intent on trying to find meaning in the empty shelves that Maxwell had snuck right up on her without her noticing. There was nothing to be afraid of, she reminded herself. She was about to touch the shelves, and Maxwell stopped her. He was just doing his job, keeping the guests from tampering with things they shouldn’t.
His accent was back to very proper British again, long vowels and smooth consonants. “Was there something I might do for you?” he asked her.
“I was looking for you.”
“In the shelving unit?” he asked with a smirk.
“No, I…I mean, I thought you might be…well. I was looking for you.”
She stopped herself before she could keep babbling. He’d given her quite a fright, and it was like her tongue was tied in knots. Everything she said was making her sound ridiculous. Curling her hands at her sides, she got ahold of herself. “I wanted to ask you a few things about the house.”
“Ah, wonderful! Shall we slip into the main room and have some tea, perhaps?
“Actually, I’d love a cup of tea. Thanks.”
“Then tea you shall have. If you would like to sit out by the fireplace, I’ll bring it straight away.”
He managed to sweep her along with him, out of the room, without really appearing to do so, and before she knew it, she was relaxing into one of the overstuffed green chairs in front of the little fire. She actually would like some tea, but more than that she wanted the chance to talk to him and get a few things straight. She wasn’t sure which Maxwell Bylow she would see when he came out again though…British citizen, transplant from the southern parts of the country, or someone else entirely? Descendant of a great man who helped found the town of Pittsfield, or the great, great, great grandson of a serial killer?
She just didn’t know.
What an odd man, came the errant thought in her mind. Strange would be another word for him.
The entire Inn was strange. So much death here. Ghosts from two hundred years ago with no one to remember them but their descendants, like Maxwell Bylow. It was rather like that old saying about the blind leading the blind, she supposed. In this case, the weird were left to remember the also weird.
She took out her cellphone and sent a quick text to Jon, telling him that she was going to have tea with Maxwell and ask him some questions. She’d be back to the room later.
Take your time, was his response. The kids are really into this story. They begged me for another two chapters. I put up a tough fight but finally gave in.
Darcy smiled. She had no doubt that Jon had been only too happy to read longer to them. He was anything but the typical, tough cop. He was a loving and devoted father as well, who loved to indulge his kids whenever he could. In fact, he was kind of a softy when it came to Colby and Zane. Also, he liked a good story as much as his kids did.
“Here we are, then.”
Maxwell was returning with a tray holding a white ceramic teapot, two cups on saucers, and a little round plate holding an array of individually wrapped teabags. Tucked under one arm was a folding table that he set up deftly between her chair and the one he was going to use.
Darcy offered to help, but he shook his head to tell her he had it. “I wanted to tell you,” she said to him, “you’ve done a wonderful job of decorating this part of the Inn for Christmas. Every time I come through here there seems to be something new.”
“Why, thank you. I do try. Makes the place look festive, don’t you think?” He set the tray down on the table and took his seat, and then crossed his legs. “Now. You said something about questions, yes?”
It was still a British accent, but it was different now. The dialect had changed. More Cockney than upper London society. He didn’t even seem to notice. Just like all the other times.
Darcy turned a little more in her chair to face him. “Why do you do that?”
“Hmm? Do what, love?”
“Change the way you talk. I think so far I’ve heard you use four, maybe five different accents. Is it just something you do…or is there some other reason?”
He stared at her for a long moment, before slowly shaking his head. “I’ve got no Earthly idea what you’re on about.”
Interesting, Darcy thought to herself. He sounded sincere, like he really didn’t realize he was doing it. She thought, perhaps it would probably be better not to push it. Whatever secret he was hiding might be a more sensitive topic than she realized. If she pushed too far, he might decide to stop answering her questions altogether, and she hadn’t even started to ask about the mysteries of the Hideaway Inn yet.
“All right. Well.” She selected a flavor of tea for herself—orange pekoe—and unwrapped the packet to set the bag in her cup. “I guess what I wanted to ask you first, is what happened to Orson’s son? The one that lived, I mean. Your ancestor.”
“Ah. Excellent question, that.” Just like Darcy thought, he seemed very pleased to have the chance to talk about himself and his lineage. “Peter Bylow became the head of the family after Orson passed on. He was very well known in the area. Very well liked, as I understand it.”
“I see. Did he stay here, in this house?”
“Mmm, no. Afraid not.” Maxwell pursed his lips in thought. “No sooner had Orson Bylow passed away, than Peter took his leave from Pittsfield. He went to Mississippi, as I recall, and increased his fortune there in the wheat and corn trade. Quite lucrative back then, it was. He also dabbled in tobacco, if I recall, but we don’t like to talk about that one. Tobacco is taboo nowadays, as I’m sure you know.”
“Yeah, smoking has a bad image now. Um. So, who was left here to take care of this place when Peter left? You said it remained in the family, right?”
“That it did. Peter left it to the family in perpetuity. Stood vacant for a number of years, it did, while he was down South.” Even as he said it, his accent changed, sliding into a Southern drawl again. “Had him a time down there, so everyone says. Never did come back to the place he was born. He’s buried in some famous cemetery in Tupelo.”
Darcy bounced her teabag in the water and then set it aside, bringing the cup to her lips to take a sip. It was hot, and it was delicious. With another sip she felt the warmth spreading through her. “I guess I’m confused. If Peter was in Mississippi, and the house was empty, how did it end up being made into a family-run Inn?”
“Well, that there’s an interesting story. See, Peter’s daughter came back up here to New England to check out the old family homestead, as they say.” He chuckled as if there was a joke in that somewhere. As he did, he picked out a black teabag for himself, and poured water over it into his own cup. “While she was up here, she managed to meet a guy who became the love of her life. Saw a picture of him once. Handsome as a newborn foal. Can’t blame her for losing her heart to a guy like that. Anyways, they got hitched, and the rest is history. It was them turned the house into an Inn, and so it’s been ever since.”
That actually explained a lot. Peter wasn’t buried up here in the family plot because he was buried down in Mississippi. But then…what about his daughter who moved back up here, and the man she married, and their children, and all the rest of the family? Why weren’t they buried with Orson and the others?
“I saw the family plot today,” she said, trying to ease her way into this particular question. “Orson’s grave, and his wife and his other son, Rupert. How come that was the last generation of the family to be buried there? If my family had a private cemetery, I’d make sure the whole family got buried there, too.”
Maxwell nodded to the question, but he didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he took his black teabag out of the water, and opened a Moroccan mint bag, and put it in the same cup, mixing the two flavors together. “I like to switch it up,” he said, giving Darcy a wink. “But about the plot. See, the family don’t use that no more. It’s…well, it’s not a happy place. I take it you saw what was written on them stones?”
“Yes, we did. There was some not very nice things written there. Orson certainly spoke his mind, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. That there’s one way of putting it. Men with money tend to think they can do as they please with no one to tell them different.”
“I know you said he was a great man, but I have to tell you that after I read what he put on his mausoleum, I don’t think he was a very nice man.”
Maxwell’s fist came down on the arm of his chair with a solid thwack. It was sudden, and unexpected, and Darcy’s hands wrapped tighter around her mug to keep them from shaking.
“He was a great man!” Maxwell insisted. “He was a wonderful husband and father. Maybe he was a lot to take for some people. The fact that he saw fit to put people in their place after they died does not change that. In fact, it makes him more honest than most men are ever capable of being.” His voice rose on each word until he was just a few decibels short of shouting. His accent went in and out, from British to deep South to a neutral sort of droning. “Personally I get so completely tired of people being fake when someone dies. Going on and on about how they were such a good person, and what a shame it is, and blah blah. ‘Don’t speak ill of the dead,’ they say? Screw that, is what I say. If a person was worthless in life, they are going to be just as worthless in death!”
He slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair again. Tea sloshed in his cup in his other hand, getting dangerously close to the edge. Darcy set her teacup carefully down on the tray between them. The way Maxwell was acting, she wanted to be ready to jump and run if she needed to. Hard to do that while you’re holding a hot beverage. What was most disturbing of all, was that he’d lost his accent again. Now it was like there wasn’t an accent at all. She couldn’t place any country or dialect in his words, even as loud as they were.
Oddly enough, it wasn’t her that he seemed to be angry with. He was angry at…well, history, she supposed. He was defending the hateful decision Orson had made in putting his thoughts on the gravestones of his family for everyone to see. His family, and Swanson the handyman. Darcy couldn’t see any legitimate excuse for that.
He loved his family. They did not love him.
If Orson spoke to them like that when they were living, it’s no wonder they didn’t love him. All in all, she thought Orson sounded like a twisted, evil man.
“Then what about the handyman?” she asked, knowing that he was getting to the end of his patience with her probing. “Why would Orson bury the handyman out there with his wife and son? Especially considering what he wrote on that stone. That might be the worst of all. He wasn’t family, right? He was an employee, so why was he allowed to be out there with…?”
A shadow crossed over his face, and his lips twitched, as Darcy let the unfinished question hang in the air. He brought his teacup to his lips, and away again without drinking a drop. When he set it back on the tray the cup rattled on the saucer.
“The simple fact of the matter is,” he told Darcy, his accent back to the same smooth British as when they’d first met him, “is that Orson chose to allow that scoundrel to be buried there as a sort of punishment. Thus, the inscription placed on his gravestone. He was a kind man, when he wanted to be, but my great, great, great, great grandfather was not one of those who cared for false niceties. He believed in plain speak, as do I. I have always admired that about him. I feel more people should do the same, don’t you?”
Darcy nodded to that statement, although she was only half listening to him ramble on about the virtues of his ancestor. She had concerns about the truth of that, but her mind was on something else. The word Maxwell had just used to describe Swanson, and the way it had slipped out. ‘Scoundrel.’ That’s how he had described the handyman. Now, why would he say that, unless he knew something about the man he hadn’t told them about? ‘Scoundrel’ was usually how you talked about someone who was a player. A man who fooled around with lots of different women…or…
Or with married women.
And now he was buried in the family plot, right next to Orson’s wife.
How very, very interesting.
Time to change tactics.
“Maxwell, can you tell me, are there family scrapbooks or anything like that up in the library?” She drank a little bit more of her tea, deciding not to let it show that his outbursts had upset her. “I was hoping to maybe read some firsthand accounts of life back then, here in the Hideaway Inn.”
“Hmm?” The question seemed to confuse him for a moment. “I thought we were talking about the graves…?”
“Well, yes, but I’ll be better able to understand what that’s all about if I read the history you know so well, won’t I? I’d love to know more about Orson’s life.”
She smiled, and waited, banking on his love of family history to win out over the bizarre anger she had sparked in him. It was like he felt the burning need to defend Orson Bylo
w from any sort of malicious slander, even two hundred years later. Darcy really wanted to know why that was, but she knew she wouldn’t get the answer from him directly.
She knew very well, from experience, that there were lots of answers to be found in books.
“Hmm. I believe there are some volumes kept by the family still up there. Uh, yes. In the far corner of the room.” Maxwell tapped a finger against his lips as he thought about it, relaxed once more. “I haven’t looked through them in some time. If you like, I could go up with you and we could look together.”
“No, that’s fine,” Darcy told him quickly. She didn’t want him telling her which books to look through. She wanted to go through the stacks herself, without him knowing exactly what she was looking for. After this conversation, she was honestly worried about his mental state. What Jon had described as ‘weird’ might actually be something much more concerning. Several possibilities occurred to her. None of them were pleasant to think about.
A new thought occurred to her. Maxwell said the books she wanted were in the far corner of the library, and that was where she’d seen the ghost of Orson’s mother-in-law standing, looking at those exact books. She’d turned on Darcy with a fearsome glare, just exactly like the artist had given her in her portrait.
So, was Millicent Cussington trying to communicate with her, too? Maybe each of the ghosts really was trying to tell her something, in their own way. Maybe they had been asking for her help all along.
On the other hand, maybe she just wanted it to be that way because she was, after all, Darcy Sweet. Helping people, alive or dead, was her thing.
She took a last sip of her tea before putting it back on the tray again. It had already gone cold, anyway. “Maxwell, thank you for the drink, and the talk. I’d better get back to Jon and the kids. We’re planning on taking them back to the fun center in town today.”
“Ah. Wonderful. I’ve never been myself, but I understand that children simply love it.”
“Our two had a blast. I can’t wait to tell everyone how much fun we’ve had here.”