“What is it?” she asked in her deep husky voice.
“I want to see Mother. Let me in, Vivian.” She disappeared for a few seconds but quickly reappeared only to shut the door behind her. She took me by the elbow and attempted to steer me down the hall, but I wrenched free of her grasp. “What are you doing?”
“Zea is sleeping now, Joanna. Come back in a few hours, please,” she said with a sniff.
“You can’t send me away—she’s my mother. I want to see her now. You can’t keep me out, Vivian,” I warned her.
Vivian’s eyes welled with tears, but I made no move to comfort her. “She is very sick now. Her seizures have become worse; she has several a day. I think you should call someone, maybe her priest.”
“She doesn’t have a priest, as you well know. What are you saying? Move aside! I want to see her!” I wanted to get away from her, push past her, but that’s when I saw the blood trickling from her nostril. “Vivian, you’re bleeding.” I reached for a towel from the tray outside Mother’s door and offered it to her. “What have you done to yourself?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong, Joanna. Except try to help. That’s all I have ever tried to do.” The blood was bright red and staining the towel quickly.
“Please sit down and tilt your head back.” I led her to the chair. Vivian did as I asked, but she was weak…I wondered when she’d last eaten anything. I didn’t ask and frankly was surprised that I cared. And of course, I stole a glance at her wrist. As always, she wore long sleeves and kept her arms covered, but I couldn’t forget what I’d experienced the night she came to attack me. The night I’d vomited in my bed.
The day after, I hadn’t sought her out, and we had successfully avoided each other for quite some time. When we did encounter one another, nothing else was said. I tried to talk to Dan about all this, but he didn’t want to hear it. He accused me again of being unkind and waved away my concerns.
I had to admit there were times when Vivian was nothing but smiles and sunshine. She’d come to me privately and insisted that I teach her how to dance the Charleston. Other times she would read with me so that I could go over my lines. I had scored a small part in a local play, Field of Roses. Those times when she was cheerful, she was infectiously so, and one couldn’t ask for a better friend. But then she would become melancholy, refusing to speak or eat. By the look of her, I could well believe that she had been fasting again recently. Why else would she appear so frail? That’s when I saw the strange blue tattoo on the palm of her hand.
Suddenly she grabbed my hand, and it was a horribly uncomfortable feeling. Then she was in my face, so close that I could hear her ragged breath. “I can bring her back, Joanna. I will do this for you if you want me to, but you should know something. It will cost you. It will cost us both.”
“What are you talking about, Vivian?”
“You know. You already know.” Then she released me. I felt as if I’d been dunked in a pool of ice water.
I walked backwards until I felt the door behind me. Vivian’s wide eyes were on me, watching my every move like she was a cat and I was the proverbial canary. I opened the door and went inside the room.
How long had it been since Mother had invited me into her room? It felt like a strange place. There were books piled up on every surface. A strange collection of glass jars was on the narrow table at the end of the bed.
“Vivian?”
“No, Mother. It’s me, Joanna.”
“Joanna?”
Mother’s frail voice came from behind the lacy bed coverings. Why were these hanging here? There were no mosquitoes this time of year. But like all things concerning my mother, I always felt like I was intruding on her privacy, pushing myself into her space.
“Joanna?”
“I’m here, Mother.” I sat on the edge of the bed and reached for her hand under the lace. It was cold and stiff.
“Joanna,” she said in a whisper.
“Can’t you see me? I’m here, dear. Let me move back these curtains, if you don’t mind. Then you can see me.” She didn’t move or say anything else. The room felt very cold, even though there was a low fire burning in the fireplace. I would need to stoke that up soon.
I reached for the edge of the lace and gathered it in my hand but not before getting a glimpse of her face. Her eyes rolled back, and her body tensed as she moaned. Mother was having a seizure; drool was pouring from the side of her mouth that was leaned toward me. I could see her trying to grab my hand, but I could not move. I could not move a muscle.
I let the curtain fall and ran from the room.
Chapter Seven
Present Day
My hand rested on the phone, and I pondered whether to pick it up. This would be the first time I’d actually spoken to Alex since his hasty departure a week ago. I’d received a few emails from his assistant but nothing from him directly. And I knew he wasn’t happy with me. I wasn’t happy with me either, but avoiding contact with him was so much easier than seeing the hurt in his eyes, hearing the anger in his voice. Despite my trepidation, I answered politely.
“This is Joanna,” I said calmly.
“Good morning, Joanna. How goes the writing?” Alex sounded as if we’d never fought. Never made love in the morning, never sipped wine or watched movies together. I quietly breathed a sigh of relief and ignored the tiny sliver of my being that hurt.
“Pretty well. Loretta has been helping me with the research. No big answers yet, but it’s still going to be an interesting read.”
“We knew from the beginning that there may never be any answers about what happened to her, but I’m confident that you’ll write a wonderful book. Which brings me to the reason for my call…”
Alex and I chatted for well over fifteen minutes—all business, of course. Despite my essentially breaking up with him, he had managed to get me a guest spot on a talk show on television, and a half-dozen radio stations wanted to interview me. Apparently, people were very excited about Joanna Storm. I hadn’t thought about it before, but it would be the twenties again soon, just in another century. All kinds of nostalgia was popping up, including books about the 1920s.
“I’m telling you, this is nothing short of perfect timing. Be honest with me, though, will you make the deadline? I don’t want to put undue pressure on you, but it really has to be in no later than…”
“I know. You sound like Kathy. Yes, it will be in on time and sooner if I can get off the phone,” I joked as I had done in the past when we were still “just friends” and could get away with that kind of banter.
“Alright, alright. I can take a hint. You know what would be perfect for the book debut? What about a party at Morgan’s Rock? We could invite the press, some celebrities. I think I might even get Doug Phantom from Paravision to come.”
“The producer?”
“The one and only.” I could hear the smile in his voice. Alex wanted to do this, and who was I to object? I loved a good party, but I wasn’t a planner. Not in the least.
“You can’t expect me to plan a party and write a book, Alex.”
“I don’t. I’ve got just the lady that can handle this. And I have a good lead on a housekeeper, if you’re still interested, Megan.”
Memories of Aimee filled my mind. What a strange experience that was. To this day, I still had no idea who she’d been.
“Um, if you think she’s legit,” I answered quietly. I didn’t want to open this line of conversation with Alex. No reason to remind him that this place was haunted, or it had been. No reason for him to come back. I liked being alone.
“I do. She’s one hundred percent legit and as reliable as…well, me.”
I wanted to laugh, just like I would have done in the old days, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. “If you think she’s reliable, that’s all I need to know. Have her call me before she shows up, though. I don’t like surprises. Is she going to help with this party planning too?”
“No. I’ll have Becca do that.
She’s on maternity leave now, but she’ll be back in a few weeks. I’m thinking an April party? That should line up with the book’s release date.”
“Make it May. Just to be on the safe side,” I pleaded sweetly.
“May it is. I’ll have Becca email you any questions she might have, and I’ll ask Lori if she can call you later today. If you’re going to be around.”
“Yeah, I’ll be here. Thanks, Alex. I appreciate your help.”
“Hey, what are agents for?”
“I’m sure not all agents do what you do, but I’m grateful.”
“Yeah, but you don’t miss me. Do you?”
Now why did he have to go and ask me that? We were getting along so well.
“I miss your coffee and your organization skills. You should see my desk, Mr. Wagner. You wouldn’t approve,” I joked, pretending that he hadn’t meant to get personal with me.
“As long as you know where everything is, I guess that’s all that matters. Ciao, Megan. You will call me if you need anything, right?”
“Yes. But I’m fine, Mr. Worrywart. Talk to you later.”
“Bye, Megan.” And with that, he hung up. I put the phone back and breathed a sigh of relief. Now what was I doing? Oh yeah, reading this weird book. I picked up Vivian Kemal’s book and again felt the strange, tingly feeling that let me know something was wrong. Majorly wrong. I was just about to flip the book open when the phone rang again. I nearly jumped out of my chair. With a laugh I answered it, “What did you forget?” I assumed it had to be Alex. He was the only one who ever called me. The only one who cared, really. Except my ex-husband’s attorney. He’d called me this morning, and I quickly reminded him that if he had anything to say to me, he would have to say it to my attorney.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m trying to reach Megan Pressfield. Is this her?”
“Um, may I ask who is calling?”
“My name is Micah Todd. I’m a friend of Loretta Bradley. She gave me your telephone number.”
I frowned at hearing that. Loretta knew how much my privacy meant to me. How dare she give my number out to anyone without asking me first? “How may I help you, Mr. Todd?”
“Micah, please. I’ve got some information for you. Loretta said you were doing some research on Joanna Storm. I found some old photos that might interest you. I work for the Rockville Gazette. It’s a small paper, but it’s been around for a long time, so long that we have an entire floor dedicated to records. If you want to see the pictures, I’d be happy to show them to you. Or if it’s more convenient, I can scan them and send them.”
“That’s so kind of you. Yes, please, I would like to see them. If you could scan them and email them to me, that would be great.” I gave him my email address but decided to dig a little deeper. Maybe he knew something I didn’t. I’d studied reams of folders, read books about Joanna, but for some reason I felt like I didn’t really know her. Although I guess I knew her better than most. I had been her at one time, at least for a little while.
“Okay, I can do that. But at some point I’d love to talk to you about the book. You know, for the newspaper. Joanna Storm is kind of a big deal around here. People can’t get enough of her, even after all these years. It’s really strange how they never figured out where she went or what happened to her.”
“Yeah, I think so too. So, you think she went somewhere?” I asked curiously.
“She must have left. If someone as big as Joanna Storm had been killed or died in an accident, we would have found her body by now. Don’t you agree? There’s been no trace of her. She must have left Rockville and Morgan’s Rock. I can’t say that I blame her. She had a cult following, that’s for sure.”
Very strange choice of words.
My computer beeped to announce that I’d gotten an email. It was from Micah. I clicked on it and opened it up. There were five photographs and two articles. Some of the photos were pretty grainy but not so grainy that I couldn’t see who was in them. There was one with Danny Petit standing with Joanna outside the Palace Theater in Los Angeles. Must have been one of her opening nights. And here was a rare photo of Mother and Father. Rather, Joanna’s mother and father. More pictures of Joanna waving and smiling to photographers as she always loved doing, but the last photo… This was one I had never seen before.
This photo was of Paden Kincaid and another woman. He was kissing her. Not chastely on the cheek either. He was kissing her, and she was kissing him. Clearly that was Paden with his shoulder-length blond hair, hair that was not the style then but suited him just fine. I’d felt it beneath my fingers during our countless lovemaking sessions. He was a few inches taller than her. She had her hair pulled back in an elegant bun, but I knew that profile. I knew it well.
Paden Kincaid was kissing Vivian Kemal.
“You know what, Micah? I think I have an opening for lunch. Do you have time today?”
I heard papers shuffling around before the reporter answered me. “Of course. I’ll make time for you. Where would you like to meet?”
“You name the place. I don’t know my way around too well yet.”
“How about the Rainbow Grill? It’s on Petra Street, just two streets over from the library.”
“Got it. I’ll see you there in an hour.”
“Great. Bye!”
He hung up and I cried my eyes out.
Chapter Eight
“Miss Pressfield?” A young man greeted me at the door. He had slightly unkempt hair, a hint of a cleft in his chin and soft brown eyes. Being a writer, I paid close attention to such details because, I lied to myself, it’s always better to create characters from people you know or meet. I didn’t know why, but I hadn’t expected him to be attractive. Weren’t newspaper reporters supposed to wear out-of-date suits and have a paunch? There you go again, Megan. Typecasting. Surely this wasn’t Micah Todd. He looked barely old enough to have a job much less be a reporter at a newspaper.
“Yes, that’s me. Micah Todd?”
“Guilty,” he replied with a smile.
“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” I said politely.
“No, I haven’t been here long. I’ve got a booth for us right by the window. Hope that’s okay. Or we could sit at the bar if you prefer.”
“A booth will be fine.” I followed him to an out-of-the-way corner and took a seat facing away from the door. I’d never been to the Rainbow Grill before, but it looked much like any other hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Vintage road signs were nailed to the wall, as well as a few dozen license plates. I didn’t see one rainbow anywhere. Hmm…must be quite a story behind the name. I was sure like many small-town grills, this one had a unique backstory, but right now the only story I wanted to hear involved that picture of Paden and Vivian. I’d printed a copy and had it in my purse right now. I was tempted to bring it out and slap it on the table before demanding how in heaven’s name he got it.
The waitress wasted no time hustling to our table. That didn’t surprise me; there were just two other customers, and they were sitting together on the other side of the narrow dining room. “Hey, Micah. Want a soda or something? I know you ain’t drinking. You’re on the clock, right?”
“A soda would be perfect. What about you, Miss…I mean, Megan?”
“I’ll take water, please.”
“Sure thing. The menu is on the wall right there. Let me know if you have any questions.”
As soon as she left us, I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks for not outing me. I prefer to keep as low a profile as I can.”
“I gathered as much from Loretta. She told me that you liked your privacy. I respect that, and I can certainly understand it. I read about what happened with that Jameson guy. Can’t believe anyone would do such a thing. People never cease to amaze me.”
My hair prickled up at hearing that name. Why would he bring that up? An awkward silence passed between us, and I pretended to study the menu for a few seconds before I asked, “Reporters don’t drink on the job? I’ve known
a few. I don’t think they all follow that rule, Mr. Todd.”
Micah smiled and shook his head. “It’s Micah, and I’m also a sheriff’s deputy. But only part-time. There isn’t a big demand for law enforcement here in Rockville. Except during Spring Break. You wouldn’t believe how crazy it gets on the panhandle.”
“I bet. You have beautiful beaches here, that’s for sure. I bet those summer newspaper reports are just terrible.” I smiled playfully. I could very well see handsome Micah Todd hanging out with all the pretty Spring Breakers.
Micah’s smile faded a bit, but he shook his head. “The newspaper is a family business. My father was editor-in-chief for decades before he passed away. I’ll be full-time law enforcement come fall, once I find my replacement at the paper. I don’t want to run it, but I can’t just close shop.”
“Oh,” I said. “You’re the editor?”
“Try not to sound so impressed,” he said with a smile. “We only publish once a week, so there isn’t much to do. We have a handful of reporters, and most of them are volunteers. I’m sure you know this already, but the newspaper industry is slowly dying. I hate to see it go, but that’s just the way it is.”
The waitress returned with some chips and salsa and quickly took our orders. I pressed him, “Why don’t you go digital? Print publishing is dying. Everything has gone digital. That’s the future.”
He dipped his chip in the sauce and paused thoughtfully. “I know that, but print is so much more romantic, don’t you think?”
I couldn’t help but smile as I sipped my water. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the romantic type. But then again, I’ve never met an editor/deputy before.”
“But Miss Pressfield, you hardly know me,” he said before he popped a chip in his mouth.
I didn’t want to relax or let my guard down, but there was something about Micah Todd that encouraged me to be myself. Plain old Megan Pressfield. The girl who just spilled salsa on her shirt. Dang it.
“This always happens when I wear this shirt. It’s as if it’s attracted to spills.”
The Haunting at Morgan's Rock Page 15