Walk of the Spirits

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  Deep, dark, dangerous secrets . . .

  And because of those secrets, you died.

  23

  BACK IN HER ROOM AGAIN, Miranda waited impatiently for Mom and Aunt Teeta to wake from their naps. When she finally heard signs of life downstairs, she found both of them busy in the kitchen—Mom washing dishes, Aunt Teeta fussing over several potted plants that had been delivered earlier. Miranda decided not to mention Hayes House in front of her mother. Instead, she waited till Aunt Teeta went out to the veranda, then sat down with her in the porch swing.

  “Aunt Teeta, I was going through one of those boxes in the attic—”

  “Oh, that’s just fine, darlin’.” Fanning herself with a magazine, Aunt Teeta scooted sideways to give Miranda more room. “Did you find anything y’all could use for your project?”

  “There’s so much up there. Did Grandpa really collect all that stuff?”

  “Every bit of it. Treasure hunting—that’s what he always called it—treasure hunting always made him so happy.”

  A smile lit Aunt Teeta’s face, then began to fade. “Well . . . till near the end, anyway. He seemed different . . . not as enthused about it. Not as satisfied. And he was so tired.”

  Miranda thought of that day at the Falls . . . her grandfather’s erratic behavior . . . the confessions he’d made. “Do you know why? I mean, did he ever give you any reasons?”

  “He never talked about himself much. He suffered from these . . . dark moods from time to time. But this wasn’t the same.”

  Dark moods. Miranda remembered that midnight discussion with Mom, those stories about Grandpa’s moods. She decided to play innocent and let the remark pass.

  “Maybe I should have paid more attention,” her aunt reflected. “Made him rest more . . . forced him to take better care of himself . . .”

  “From what I’ve heard about Grandpa, nobody could force him to do anything.”

  “Well, you’re certainly right about that. And your mama’s just like him, but don’t you ever tell her I said that, ’cause I’ll deny it till the day I die.” Giving a conspiratorial wink, Aunt Teeta began to laugh—that deep, merry laugh that everyone loved. After a few seconds of uncontrolled hilarity, she caught her breath and dabbed at her eyes.

  “Oh mercy, that felt good. And you know what, darlin’? You remind me of your grandpa, too. Funny—I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s there, all right. In a really good way.”

  As Aunt Teeta wrapped both arms around her, Miranda nestled into her hug. I wish I could tell you, Aunt Teeta. I think you’d understand . . .

  But now was not the time. And when Aunt Teeta finally pulled away, her face had gone thoughtful once more.

  “You know, honey, maybe after all these years, your grandpa’s hobby just got to be too much for him. More work than fun. Maybe he should have given it up a long time ago.”

  But he couldn’t, Aunt Teeta. And it did get to be too much for him, but he still couldn’t. Not till he found me.

  He was waiting for me. He’d always been waiting for me.

  It was another realization that struck to the core of her being. Miranda fumbled to change the subject.

  “Aunt Teeta, do you know if Hayes House was ever anything else?”

  “What do you mean, darlin’?”

  “Since it was first built, has it ever been anything else besides a house?”

  Leaning her head back, Aunt Teeta wrinkled her brow in deep thought. “No, it was always just a house, as far as I know. But way back when, one of your grandmas did take in boarders here for a while. Especially during the Civil War, with so many people coming in and out of town and not enough places to put them up. It worked out good for everybody—she loved to cook, and I’m sure the extra money came in handy. And folks could board their horses, too, out in her barn.”

  “There was a barn?” Miranda’s pulse quickened. Nathan with those two beautiful horses . . .

  “Well, not since I’ve lived here, but I know I’ve seen a picture or two somewhere. A barn . . . or maybe stables. I can’t imagine what happened to those old pictures, though. Your grandpa kept track of all that.”

  “But the barn—stables—were here?”

  “Out back behind the house. Of course, the property was much bigger then. Hayes land has been sold off little by little through the years.”

  “Did any famous people ever stay at the boardinghouse?”

  “Hmmm. That I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Maybe there was a guest book? Or a ledger? Old receipts, things like that?”

  “Oh, honey, if there were, then they’d be somewhere in all your grandpa’s stuff. Either here or at the museum. I wouldn’t have the slightest idea where to look.”

  Miranda couldn’t recall seeing any of those items at the museum. But she hadn’t really been looking for them—and hadn’t Mrs. Wilmington said the exhibits were changed on a regular basis?

  “Back then, it was common for travelers to stay over at plantations.” Frowning, Aunt Teeta rolled up her magazine to swat at a mosquito. “Of course, the hotel was more convenient for business in town, but there were only so many rooms, and not everybody could afford the prices. Lots of times, local families handled the overflow. Good ole southern hospitality— I don’t imagine they’d have turned anybody away.”

  Just what Mrs. Wilmington said. Miranda’s thoughts were jumping again, bouncing from one possibility to another. “So someone famous could have stayed here.”

  Her persistence seemed to amuse Aunt Teeta. “Anybody could have stayed here. Or eaten here. Or slept here. Or kept their horses and carriages here. Goodness, is this all part of your research?”

  “We need all the information we can get.” Deliberately evasive, Miranda looked up to see her mother smiling at them from the doorway.

  “I’ve got bacon and eggs,” Mom announced. “For whoever’s hungry.”

  The porch swing stopped. Aunt Teeta lifted her arms, a comical hallelujah.

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day! I’m so tired of funeral food, I could scream.” Then, a little guiltily, she added, “Though the intentions were kind and generous.”

  As Aunt Teeta stood up, Miranda headed quickly for the front steps. “Go on and eat without me, you guys. I won’t be long.”

  “Miranda?” Mom was surprised. “You didn’t tell me you were meeting your friends tonight.”

  “I’m not meeting them. I just want to take a walk.”

  “Now? Alone? Honey, it’s nearly dark—”

  “Oh, let her go,” Aunt Teeta scolded, motioning Miranda to make a run for it. “She’ll be fine. It’s perfectly safe around here.”

  “Yeah, Mom.” Miranda couldn’t resist. “It’s a small town, remember?”

  Mom knew when she’d lost the battle. “Two against one— that hardly seems fair.”

  Relieved, Miranda watched her mother and aunt close the screen door behind them. She was halfway down the steps when she heard the door creak open again, and Aunt Teeta’s voice unexpectedly stopped her.

  “I’m sorry, darlin’—but something just came to me.”

  Miranda turned around. Aunt Teeta was standing at the edge of the veranda, her expression vaguely distressed. While an uncomfortable silence stretched out between them, Miranda felt a stab of alarm.

  “Aunt Teeta, what’s wrong?”

  Her aunt roused. She fixed Miranda with troubled eyes and spoke hesitantly. “I was thinking about our talk. When you asked me about your grandpa—why he was so different near the end. I said I didn’t know, and that’s true. Only . . .”

  Miranda’s heart gave a sudden lurch. “Only what?”

  “He brought something home a few weeks back. Something he’d found on one of his treasure hunts. And after that . . . well, it might be my imagination, or it might be nothing at all. But that really affected him. Like he got restless and depressed at the same time. Researching for hours and hours, exploring till way past dark.”

&
nbsp; “What was it?” Miranda could hardly keep her voice level. “What did he bring home?”

  “I have no idea. But he was truly obsessed with it.”

  “Do you know where it is? Did he store it somewhere?”

  Her aunt gave a helpless shrug. “All I can say for sure is that he wouldn’t have thrown it away. He never threw anything away.”

  “Then do you at least remember where he found it?”

  “I’m pretty sure it was at the Falls. He went back there a lot after that.” Aunt Teeta’s expression grew sad. “And you know, when I think about it now, it was almost like he knew he was running out of time.”

  24

  IT’S CLOSER.

  Whatever this is I’m supposed to find, whatever I’m meant to do, it’s so much closer, I can feel it.

  Moving along the Brickway, Miranda could still hear Aunt Teeta’s words echoing through her head. She felt both stunned and excited; her thoughts and emotions were in complete turmoil. Pausing to catch her breath, she realized she’d been running.

  Concentrate, Miranda. You have to concentrate.

  But focusing right now was too much to demand of herself. And getting more answers seemed only to raise more questions.

  What was it you found, Grandpa? Because that’s when it started, wasn’t it? That’s when Nathan’s spirit started contacting you.

  It all made perfect sense—her grandfather’s desperation, his frantic mumblings at the Falls that day. That’s where you found something important, some treasure the Gray Soldier was connected to. That’s why you kept going back to the Falls. You were looking for clues. You were looking for a way to help him. Because you did know you weren’t going to be here much longer.

  I won’t let you down, Grandpa. Not you or Nathan . . .

  It had started to rain. Not very heavily yet, more a warm, clinging drizzle that thickened the air like fog and distorted everything around her. There weren’t many people out this evening. Hazy light glowed from lampposts and houses and a few shop windows, but the sidewalks were mostly deserted. And yet . . .

  There are things in this fog.

  Many presences in this fog.

  Miranda couldn’t see them, but she knew they were there. All around her, very real and very close.

  “Help us . . .”

  “We’re lost . . .”

  “We want to go home . . .”

  A clammy breeze trailed over her, as if ghostly fingers were plucking at her clothes, urging her to reach through the mist and into the past.

  “You’re the way, Miranda. You’re the way between the living and the dead . . .”

  Miranda stopped walking. Her hair and clothes were wet, and she didn’t know where she was. She hadn’t meant to stay out here this long, or to walk this far. But as she squinted through the rain, she saw the Magnolia Gallery looming high above her.

  She was standing on the steps of the entrance. Her hands were pressed against one of the tall, round columns, and she could feel a warm rush starting through her, stirring her deepest instincts.

  Take your time. Trust yourself.

  She slipped into it so naturally, it was like breathing.

  Suddenly she was there amid the muffled applause and conversation...the clinking of glasses...the flow of champagne. She was drowning in the sweet scent of roses. She heard the sobbing—“Nathan . . . oh, Nathan, why?”—the swish and fall of the curtain onstage, and the silence, the terrible silence . . .

  And footsteps. No . . . heavier than footsteps . . .

  Boots. Strong and solid, a bold walk, a man’s boots . . .

  Something brushed past her in the fog.

  A tall figure—a stranger—imposing and silent, his gray uniform woven from swirling mist . . . bringing bad news . . . bringing terrible news . . .

  Miranda’s senses kicked into high alert. She could feel danger emanating from that stealthy, solitary figure, washing over her like waves of a drowning tide. She could hear him muttering, words low and fierce, intense but hard to make out. An official tone, a tone of authority. And all the while, like sorrowful background music, came that constant, heartbroken sobbing, “Nathan . . . why?”

  Miranda was trembling and invisible. She was a ghost in this specter’s world, and his world was a cold, black night. He didn’t see her, didn’t know she was there, even though they were close enough to touch. She could smell his sweat, and the sweat of his horse, the duties and atrocities of war clinging to his body, the sad and angry tears dried upon his cheeks . . .

  She watched him pause . . . examine a small glass bottle in his hand. And she could smell that, too, as faint as it was—bitter and swift and final—a smell of certain death.

  Without warning, he turned around. Miranda could see him clearly now, and as she silently whispered his name, Travis Raleigh Fontaine slipped the vial of poison back into his pocket.

  “A fair exchange, Ellena.” His voice trembled . . . a voice of eternal torment, a voice from beyond the grave. “My mercy . . . for your betrayal.”

  There was one sharp hiss as he struck the match. One brief spark between his fingertips, before he flung it to the ground, before it burst into flames.

  The tread of his boots faded. The glory of the opera house flickered once more, brightly, then disappeared. As Miranda sank to the gallery steps, the evening turned dark, and the drizzle became a downpour.

  Oh, God . . . what really happened that awful night?

  The spirit had gone, yet she still had an eerie feeling she wasn’t alone. When she glanced over her shoulder and saw the dim glow of light floating toward her through the rain, she wondered hopefully if it might be her mother or Aunt Teeta, carrying a flashlight, coming to find her.

  “Mom?”

  But it wasn’t Mom who stood before her, holding a lantern in one pale hand. With a hooded cloak of fog . . . long red hair tumbling down . . . bone-white face . . . eyes unearthly, shining tragic with tears.

  “You were my life, Nathan,” Ellena Rose whispered. “And now you are my death.”

  25

  MIRANDA WAS BACK IN HER OWN WORLD.

  The only thing she could hear now was the pouring rain and her pounding heart. Ellena Rose had vanished, yet the lantern light remained, moving steadily closer.

  “Hey, Miranda, is that you?”

  “Roo?”

  Surprised, Miranda saw that it really was a flashlight this time—no, two flashlights—and that Roo and Gage were hurrying up the steps to join her beneath the covered entrance of the gallery. Both of them were soaked. As they pinned her with the beams of their flashlights, she squinted and ducked her head.

  “What are you guys doing here?”

  Roo’s reply was matter-of-fact. "Looking for you.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “We called your house.” Gage smiled, shoving wet hair back from his eyes. “Just to see if you felt like getting out for a while. Your mom was really worried—she was about ready to search the town.”

  “When she told us how long you’d been gone, we thought maybe you’d walked over here,” Roo added. “And we were wet anyway.”

  Gage passed Miranda his cell phone. “Hit redial. And tell your mom we’ll bring you home after we get something to eat.”

  “Are you sure Etienne’s picking us up?” Roo frowned at him. “I’m starving.”

  “You’re always starving. And yes, I’m sure. I already called him.”

  “I don’t see any extra umbrellas,” Miranda teased, seeing no umbrellas at all.

  Gage gave a long-suffering sigh. “Roo likes the rain. She likes walking in it. Playing in it. Sitting in it. Thinking in it—”

  “It’s a spiritual thing.” Roo shrugged. “It makes me feel clean.”

  “So would taking a shower. Or me spraying you with a hose.”

  With a dismissive wave, Roo plopped down next to Miranda. She set aside the flashlight and started digging through the pockets of her overalls. “Damn. Most of my cigarettes got wet.�
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  “Then this is a perfect time to quit.” Sitting across from her, Gage grabbed for one of her pockets, but she twisted away.

  “Leave those alone. They keep me calm.”

  “Right. Like you’re so nervous all the time.”

  “See? They work.”

  “Call your mom, Miranda.”

  Miranda did so. After squaring things with her mother, she handed the phone back to Gage.

  “So,” Roo began nonchalantly. She struck a match, lit her cigarette, then flicked the match out into the rain. “Do we have to guess, or are you going to tell us what happened?”

  Staring at Roo’s match, Miranda couldn’t help but shudder. “How’d you know something happened?”

  “You have that look.”

  “Of wisdom?” Miranda tried to joke.

  “Of wiped out.”

  “I am wiped out. And you’re not going to believe what I just saw.”

  “Do we look like Parker? Hey, we believe in everything.”

  “I know how Ellena Rose really died.”

  Impressed, Roo took a drag on her cigarette. Gage offered an encouraging nod. And by the time Miranda related the details, both Roo and Gage were as enthralled as she was.

  “So Travis did it,” Gage murmured. “He poisoned her, then set the building on fire to hide the murder.”

  “A clandestine meeting.” With a vague frown, Roo tapped off her ashes. “They make love, he pours the wine, and no more Ellena Rose.”

  But Miranda met Roo’s frown with one of her own. “I don’t think there was any romance that night. And I’m not so sure he hid the poison in wine . . . or in anything.”

  “Explain.”

  “From what Travis said . . . and the feeling I got when he said it . . . What if he wanted her to know he was poisoning her?”

  “Double cruel.”

  Gage paused to mull this over. “If there were rehearsals going on that night, there must have been people around. Wouldn’t she have called for help or fought back when he tried to poison her? She must have figured somebody would hear her and come to help.”

  “You’re right,” Miranda murmured. “I think she took the poison deliberately. And willingly.”