Bliss House: A Novel

by Laura Benedict

  Chapter 30

  “Yes, it’s certainly beautiful,” Bertie said. “But I don’t think I like it.”

  After Rainey had poured them both some iced tea, Bertie had told her that she was happy to visit while Rainey worked on the wallpaper. At first Rainey had demurred, but Bertie insisted, and Rainey decided that maybe being alone right then wasn’t the best thing. She needed some company.

  Rainey stepped back, holding the third strip of wallpaper she’d managed to remove from the wall that day. Whoever had put it up had managed to do a reasonably good job hanging it. They hadn’t used permanent glue, at least. She was methodical and slow in her peeling and scraping, much to Bertie’s distress. Bertie seemed to be afraid that the whole wall would come down, but Rainey had been lucky. There was very little damage to the mural underneath.

  There was less of a blue field than she’d thought when she’d pulled away the first corner the night of the party. Each square foot contained at least twenty-five or thirty eyes. Despite the remaining traces of paper and glue, she could feel the delicate paint strokes beneath her fingers.

  “All eyes,” Bertie said. “I never knew. Only that Michael restored it when he was a teenager.”

  “Do you think it’s the same all over the room?” Rainey said.

  “Rainey, I need to talk to you,” Bertie said. “I’d decided that I wasn’t going to say anything, because I hoped everything was going to be okay. But since that poor woman died—well, I think that mural is the least of your troubles here.”

  Something in Bertie’s voice made Rainey want to tell her to be quiet, to just go away and not say anything else. Like a comedienne playing a tragic role, a serious Bertie instantly took her attention and unsettled her. Beneath her hand the wall felt warm and tremulous, as though the feathers hid something very real and alive.

  “The Judge’s mother never wanted to live in Bliss House,” Bertie said. “In fact, she didn’t like being a part of the family at all. Her family had been in Virginia since just after the Revolutionary War. Randolph Bliss—the first one—didn’t get here until just after the Recent Unpleasantness.”

  “The what?” Rainey said.

  Bertie looked quizzical a moment. “Oh. You know, the War Between the States. Or, as my mama called it, the War of Northern Aggression.”

  “You mean the Civil War?”

  “You didn’t grow up around here.” Bertie gave a dismissive little wave of her hand. “Old people talked about things differently. It wasn’t me who used the term. It was my mama.”

  Rainey turned back to her work, unsure how to respond.

  “The first Randolph Bliss came down here from New York right after the war with a lot of money, and he made a lot more money buying and selling people’s land, mortgaging it. Exploiting them. But he went back home after a year or two, and people thought they’d seen the back of him forever. He was not a nice man.”

  “I thought a lot of people did that,” Rainey said. “I guess it’s not a very proud beginning for the family. It’s kind of ugly.”

  Bertie leaned forward. “I feel like you’ve been misled, Rainey. You shouldn’t have come here at all. Especially not to Bliss House.”

  “I don’t understand,” Rainey said. If she hadn’t had the steamer wand in her hand, she thought Bertie might see it trembling. “Does the family have a reputation as bad as the house’s?” She gave a lame little laugh.

  “You grow up around here and you hear about these things all your life, like they just happened yesterday,” Bertie said. “I didn’t feel like I knew you well enough to tell you that you shouldn’t have bought this house. You were so anxious to live here. And you’d already been through so much.”

  As she spoke, Bertie arranged her tea things around her as though making a little picture of them. Rainey waited.

  “Randolph Bliss came back in the late 1870s, and he seemed to have changed. He was excited about living here and started getting friendly—well, as friendly as he could—with the local families. You know he built the first library in town? Then he brought that French Hulot fellow here, and they started building Bliss House,” she said. “You have to understand that there weren’t a lot of people building such grand places around here back then. Even the wealthiest people built frame homes. You had to make the brick on site, or at least nearby, and there wasn’t the free labor that, say, Thomas Jefferson had earlier in the century.”

  Rainey interrupted her. “You mean slave labor?”

  “Well, of course that’s what I mean,” Bertie said. “Nobody around here is proud of it. It was barbaric. And there were hardly any people in Old Gate who owned slaves, anyway. Old Gate was a very Christian, Anglican town. The Anglicans hardly ever approved of slavery.”

  Rainey doubted that Bertie was right about the Anglicans, but she nodded, relieved that there was no stain of slavery on the house.

  “It’s what went on inside the house,” Bertie said. “About two years after Randolph Bliss arrived, he went back north again for a few months. He put someone in charge of the house and farm—it was mostly apple and peach orchards then—and when he came back six months later, he brought a wife, Amelia, and two children with him. No one had known one thing about them before. Don’t you find that strange?”

  “I guess,” said Rainey. “But you said that nobody liked him. Why would he tell them anything?”

  “I’m not being clear,” Bertie said, wringing her hands. She looked out the window as if looking for inspiration. Or courage.

  “Maybe we should talk another time,” Rainey said.

  I don’t want to hear any more. Not now.

  “No,” Bertie said, hitting the table firmly with her hand. “I’m not going until you’ve heard what I have to say. You can throw me out afterwards and never speak to me again, if you want. I’m worried for you. I’m worried for Ariel.”

  “I know Bliss House is . . . different,” Rainey said. “But that’s what drew me to it. And it’s been strangely good for Ariel. She’s actually speaking to me again.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Do you know what kind of miracle that is?”

  “Of course it’s a miracle,” Bertie said. “But it’s God who sends miracles. Not this house. There was a young woman who died here, and her death was definitely not His work. Neither was the Brodsky woman’s death. There were others, too. You need to be watchful.” She covered Rainey’s hand with her own. “You have to take care of your baby girl.”

  Rainey was struck by the intensity of Bertie’s emotion. It made her uncomfortable, but at the same time she was grateful. It had been a long time since someone who wasn’t Ariel had cared enough to contradict or argue with her.

  “Bliss House is especially unlucky for little girls,” Bertie said. “Some of the ones born into it never grew up to be women.” She cleared her throat. “They say there was something wrong with one of the children—a daughter—he brought back with him. Almost no one outside the house saw her. There was a lot of talk from the servants. They said she had fits, laughing or screaming for hours at a time, and that Randolph and his wife kept her chained for her own safety up in the ballroom. The room with the rings coming out of the ceiling. Those were for the chains. Then she was gone, and no one knows what happened to her.”

  Rainey had avoided the ballroom after looking at it once during the tour of the house, and she’d only looked in twice since they’d moved in. The mustiness had repelled her, and the rings in the ceiling—bizarre. Karin Powell had made a passing comment about the room being great for storage, or even a potential media room because of the lack of windows, but neither of them had wanted to linger inside.

  “Those rings,” Rainey said quietly. “Why in the world are they still there?”

  Bertie shook her head. “As far as I know, everyone who’s lived here simply kept the door closed. Even Randolph’s mother didn’t like to go in there, or let any of the children use it for play. I’ve never even seen it.”

  “I’ll take you up there i
f you want. There are lights instead of candles, now. But I can’t imagine a young girl living in there, much less being chained up. I don’t know if there were even electric lights then. It would’ve been awful. There’s a fireplace, but she must have been so cold. So alone.”

  Bertie wrapped her arms around her broad bosom. “I’d rather die than go in that room.”

  Her words hung between them for a moment.

  “Later, Amelia died. Some say it was of a broken heart because of her daughter, some say she killed herself with laudanum because Randolph had shamed her with so many other women. We have a portrait of him at the house,” Bertie said. “If you spend enough time in town, you’ll see some of his features on the faces of strangers. He remarried, of course. Those men always did.”

  “It’s tragic,” Rainey said. “Karin Powell told me that there had been many deaths in the house, but that’s true of all old houses, right? It doesn’t have anything to do with Ariel and me.” Why was she defending the house? Was it because she’d felt Will’s presence out in the driveway? It couldn’t have been him with Karin Powell in the servants’ wing. The whole thing was ridiculous.

  Something else—someone else—was here.

  It wasn’t her, Ariel had said. It wasn’t Karin Powell who fell.

  “But years and years of tragedy, Rainey?” Bertie said. “Randolph’s mother was a tough woman, and even she eventually gave up living here.”

  “Every old house has some sadness attached to it,” Rainey said, trying to convince herself. “If our house near St. Louis had survived, there’s no way I could still live there after Will died.”

  Bertie shook her head. “Why, of course you couldn’t.”

  “What happened with Karin was a coincidence.” Rainey put the hot steamer wand down and shut off the machine. “There was obviously something wrong with her. You know how high-strung she was.”

  “What if it was the house?” Bertie said. “Or what if someone killed her?”

  “Karin was sick. That’s all. And I’ll tell you this, because I know I can trust you: Ariel saw her, Bertie. At least she believes she did. She also believes there was someone in the shadows, watching, but I don’t think there was anyone else there. Ariel’s just a young girl who woke up scared in a place that was strange to her. As for Karin—I think this house was convenient for her.”

  “Don’t you see?” Bertie said. “That proves it! You both need to leave here. If it’s a question of money, dear, I can help you.”

  Rainey sat down in the chair closest to Bertie’s and took her hand. She could see the intense worry in Bertie’s face.

  “You’re such a sweetheart to care about us like this. I’m looking out for Ariel. She’s safe. But if I ever feel she’s really in danger, we’ll leave here, okay?” She squeezed Bertie’s yielding hand. “I promise.”

  She hoped she sounded more convincing than she felt.

  Chapter 31

  Lucas leaned back in his chair, listening to one of the investigating deputies who had spent the past twenty-four hours interviewing party guests and friends of Karin Powell. He knew that they didn’t much appreciate having to provide support to a visiting detective, but it had been their own sheriff who had asked the state to step in. Right now, his own supervisor was satisfied to continue investigating it as a suspicious death. But she was a hawk on the budget and had made it clear that she could pull the plug at any time.

  Nearly everyone from the party, with the exception of the guy who owned the bookstore and Gerard Powell, had gone home with a significant other or a family member after the party.

  “So, what about the professor from Culpeper?” Lucas asked.

  The deputy, Tim Hatcher, was a tall, enthusiastic kid with a serious cowlick at the back of his head that tended to bob whenever he nodded. Which was often. “He’s covered. A grad student, Martina Manly, walked out with him to his Porsche around ten-thirty and drove him back to his condo in Culpeper. She told me what they did next, but . . .” He blushed.

  “What? Was the professor there to comment on the details, or was the girl just showing off for you?”

  “Something to do with her red cowboy boots,” Hatcher said. “The professor—who wasn’t present for the interview—apparently has a, uh, thing for boots.” Finally regaining his composure he said quickly, “Neither of them was more than acquainted with Karin Powell.”

  “Is there a consensus on what time Gerard Powell and his wife had their big fight?”

  The deputy looked back in his notes. “Ten o’clock. He didn’t come back inside, but she did.”

  Lucas was feeling impatient. Maybe it was because of the August heat, or the two other, more clear-cut cases on his desk at the post that needed attention. Brandon had another three days and a weekend to go on his vacation. He couldn’t return to work soon enough for Lucas’s taste.

  “I get the impression that Karin Powell liked a show,” he said. “Strange that no one saw her leave.”

  “But she didn’t really leave, did she?” Hatcher said. “I guess the husband probably didn’t want to know the details. Since they were fighting and all.”

  “What do you mean?” Lucas asked. Though he knew exactly what the deputy meant. He’d obviously heard—from his fellow cops or the people he’d interviewed—that Karin Powell slept around. Polite reticence was a lost art.

  “It’s messed up,” Hatcher said. “The way people live their lives, sleeping with whoever the hell appeals to them. Like freaking alley cats. You know?” He blushed again, and Lucas almost smiled. The kid wasn’t going to be able to hold onto his naiveté for very much longer and remain a cop.

  Lucas was about to comment when the intercom on his desk interrupted. Gerard Powell had arrived for his second interview of the day.

  “I don’t mind coming in,” Gerard said. “I want answers just as much as you people do. More, I guess.”

  “There’s a nice volunteer lady who comes in every morning to make us coffee and sweet tea,” Lucas said. “You want something? Deputy Hatcher here will surely oblige.”

  The deputy gave a curt nod that set the cowlick off, but he couldn’t quite make eye contact with Gerard Powell.

  Gerard shook his head.

  “I never drink sweet tea myself,” Lucas said. “I had a babysitter put it in my bottle from the time I was old enough to hold onto it. I’ve had to cap half my teeth.” He indicated the chair on the other side of the desk. “Have a seat.”

  He closed the door.

  “I’m recording this just like I did this morning. I want us to have all the details straight.”

  When everything was set, Lucas sat forward in his chair, doing his best to imply a sort of professional intimacy. He wasn’t thrilled about this particular discussion. The deputy sat in a chair by the door, looking a little too interested.

  “We have the results of your wife’s autopsy, Mr. Powell. We wanted to give you a heads-up before we moved on anything further.”

  “Sounds good,” Gerard said. He picked up a pen from the desk and began to fidget with it. He didn’t take off his ball cap, leaving Lucas to wonder if he ever took it off—he certainly hadn’t when he’d come to see his wife’s body.

  Lucas opened the folder on the desk. “Still no final determination as to whether or not her death was a suicide. She was in excellent health, and there was no sign of disease or visible trauma, beyond injuries sustained in the fall. The medical examiner does note evidence of a recent gynecological procedure.”

  He glanced up occasionally as he read from the report to get a reading on Gerard, and left out the part about the bruising for now. “Significant enlargement and thinning of the uterus, with swelling around the cervix, indicating a recent pregnancy.”

  He paused.

  “She was pregnant,” Gerard said. “Yes.”

  “You didn’t mention that when we talked earlier.”

  “I didn’t think it was anyone else’s business. She was dead, and so was the baby. It wasn’t like
you weren’t going to find out.” He sounded resigned.

  “Were you happy about it?” Lucas asked.

  “When I was a kid, I used to have a hard time being patient,” Gerard said, still fidgeting with the pen. “I was always running around spouting off about everything I thought, heard, or saw. I was really bad at keeping secrets, you know? So I’ll tell you right off because I know you’re wondering if it was my kid: I had a kidney problem when I was a teenager, and they pumped me full of chemo drugs for two months. They saved the kidney, but they killed my sperm production and recommended that I have a vasectomy. Whatever sperm I might produce could be deformed or something. Satisfied?”

  The room was quiet enough that they could hear telephones ringing in the bullpen outside the closed door, and someone’s radio playing Dolly Parton’s classic “9 to 5.” The deputy coughed, and said a quick “Excuse me.”

  “Damn,” Lucas said. “That sucks. How old were you when you got the chemo?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “So you’re saying that your wife was pregnant, and that, for medical reasons, it couldn’t have been your child. I guess I’m a little surprised that the pregnancy wasn’t a bigger issue for you.”

  “My wife is dead. I’m way past the pregnancy thing.”

  Something about Gerard Powell was starting to bother Lucas. At first he’d thought he was just cold and dispassionate. Now, watching him, he saw the man was in a huge amount of pain. He had acted as though it didn’t bother him that his wife screwed around. That he couldn’t satisfy her or give her a child. That kind of act took a lot of fortitude. Or was his disconnection just the way he handled guilt?