Bliss House: A Novel

by Laura Benedict

  “No. I think she’s inside the house.” Gerard said. “Come on.”

  They went to the porch where, only the day before, Ariel had come to them. Rainey carefully avoided looking at the warped smear of Randolph’s blood Ariel had left behind on the porch.

  Gerard tried the back door, and Rainey went to the window that looked into the butler’s pantry. Nothing.

  “What about the servants’ entrance?” Gerard crossed the porch, tested the door. Locked.

  “I don’t carry that key,” Rainey said.

  “We’re going to have to break in. Unless one of us runs out to the springhouse and goes up through the stairway.” Gerard stopped. The porch beneath them began to shake, slowly at first, then more violently. Neither of them was knocked over, but Rainey grabbed onto the porch railing for support.

  There was the sound of glass shattering, and Rainey turned to see the window in the upper half of the mudroom door splinter in its frame and fall to the ground.

  Gerard leapt to Rainey’s side, curving his body around hers protectively. But he couldn’t protect her from the sounds emanating from the new opening in the door. A deep rumbling coursed through the house in waves as though the earth had opened, revealing its terrible heartbeat. Rainey started to cover her ears, but when she heard the scream and unintelligible shouting, she knew she had to listen. They had to go inside.

  There was nothing in his head but a red, burning rage. Rage beyond which he couldn’t see. It was a heavy curtain, hiding everything he’d ever known except this moment. He had some idea of where he was. The walls, the balustrades, the open ballroom—they were familiar, but they felt distant. He knew the girl lying on the floor. The cripple. The one he hated. The one he knew he had to kill. To do that, he had to go forward, toward her. But each step was agony. The floor was unstable, and he could hardly breathe. Any air that got into his lungs was hot and felt as though it was melting his flesh as he drew it inside.

  But it was the sight of the two women flanking the girl that brought him to a halt. One of them was small and about his age, but very like a child. The other, taller. So familiar, so alive that the sight of her made him want to weep. Their hair was red and gold, like tendrils of flame. Yes. Their hair wasn’t hair at all, but flame. Soft, crackling flames that released no smoke, but only heat.

  A hot stream of urine ran down Jefferson’s leg, into his shoe.

  There were more people beyond the women, moving around the ballroom. But they didn’t seem quite so real. They were strangers. Women and children. Young children. A man and a boy. They seemed lost. Aimless.

  But these two women weren’t lost. They were coming toward him, their shining eyes focused on him. The younger one seemed frail in her pretty robe, but he somehow knew that she was the more dangerous of the two. He wanted to beg for their mercy, but his body was so paralyzed that he couldn’t free the words from his mouth.

  One of them was reaching out for him. He said her name out loud. Karin. Over and over. Begging. He didn’t want her to see him cry, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  There was so much he wanted to tell her. She needed to understand that he would’ve stopped his father if he’d known he was going to hurt her. That he, Jefferson, had never wanted to hurt her. Or anybody! Not even the crippled girl. He had just lost his head. For so long he’d just wanted to please his father. But hadn’t he killed his father for her as some kind of retribution? Hadn’t that counted as something?

  When she brought one of her long fingers to his chest, a single finger whose nail was pale and broken, a sad thing beside the rest of her perfect bronze nails, he hardly recoiled. And when the flames—so warm, so beautiful—traveled down her arm to her hand, igniting the lighter fluid soaking his shirt, he tried not to scream.

  He saw a hint of forgiveness in her eyes when she embraced him. The flames licked his throat, his chin, his cheek. Still, he didn’t make a sound. He would accept her, return her embrace. Even when she took him over the balustrade of the gallery, propelling him to the ground, the only sound was Rainey’s anguished cry of disbelief as she watched from below.

  Chapter 91

  Lucas held up the shirt that the hospital staff had dutifully bagged for him on his admission for smoke inhalation. He didn’t need to hold it any closer than arm’s length to know it was unwearable. Worse, the smell of it suffused him with dread. He stuffed it back into the bag with the rest of his belongings.

  “Damn, I take one little vacation, and you end up burning down a house and getting locked up in the hospital. What gives, Chappell?”

  Brandon Stuart, his work partner, stood in the doorway of the hospital room holding a plastic shopping bag in one hand and an oversized coffee mug with the words Life’s Waaaaaay Better at Virginia Beach in the other. He held up the mug. “Got you a souvenir. Gayle wanted to get you some candle with shells stuck on it, but I thought it was fruity.” He tossed the shopping bag onto the bed.

  “What would I do without you to protect my masculinity, Stuart? Once again you’ve saved me from your wife’s excellent taste. These my clothes?” He opened the bag on the bed and was relieved to see the pair of blue jeans, sandals, and polo shirt he kept in his work locker. They didn’t smell anything like smoke. “Hey, shut that door.”

  Brandon shut the door, and Lucas undid the hospital gown he wore and slipped it off. His own clothes felt good. The shirt was soft and comfortable. He was just as glad he’d had no clean dress shirts left in his locker. He would have to replenish them, though, ASAP.

  When all the proper forms were signed, he and Brandon left the hospital and went to Brandon’s waiting cruiser.

  “We got your car from the Bliss place—or what’s left of it, anyway. So, Judge Bliss’s kid burned it down? Can’t say I’m sorry to see it go. County had to block off the driveway. Lots of folks wanting to check it out.”

  “Yeah, it was something like that.” Lucas stared out the window, watching the landscape go by. A late summer thunderstorm had passed through that morning. Most of the rain had dried, but any leaves still in the shade shimmered with water. He was glad for the sunshine. When he thought about the house, the opaque darkness of the stairway filling with smoke as he blindly made his way down to warn the techs, both his throat and his mind constricted. In the hospital they’d had to sedate him so he could sleep. The judge’s kid had died, but the girl, Ariel, hadn’t needed to be hospitalized at all. That was a mystery he knew he’d never have an answer to.

  He answered all of Brandon’s questions he could, filling him in on the deaths of the real estate agent, the judge, and Nick Cunetta, and how they were all connected.

  “The woman, Rainey Adams, who moved into the house with her kid didn’t seem to be personally involved, at first. All she had in common with them was . . .”

  Brandon cut him off. “That damn house.”

  “That damn house,” Lucas said.

  Brandon was still technically on vacation, so he dropped Lucas off at the state police post with his bag of smoky clothes and the coffee mug. Before he drove away, he asked Lucas if he would see him in the office the next day.

  Lucas nodded. “Might as well get started on the paperwork. I’m sure DeRoy Lee has a shiny lawyer all lined up.”

  “Yeah, but no judge to help him out.”

  “There’s that.”

  On his way into the post Lucas paused by the large covered trashcan near the front door and stuffed the bag of clothes inside. He didn’t need a souvenir.

  Epilogue

  Bertie was glad to be done with the trial of DeRoy Lee. Almost a year to the day after Nick’s death he was found guilty of first-degree murder, after cutting a plea deal over his assault on her. He had—inexplicably—pleaded not guilty to killing dear Nick, despite there being several minutes of video that showed him committing the murder. The sentencing wouldn’t be for another couple of weeks, but she would be in the courtroom for that, too. She watched as the bailiff led him away, looking twenty pounds heavier a
nd much less satisfied with himself than he had when he worked at the bookstore. The glamorous silver-blond ponytail was gone. The prosecutor, whom she had known for many years, had told her that DeRoy had had a particularly nasty case of lice that required him to shave his head. Bertie thought the lice couldn’t have made a better choice of victims.

  “Are you okay?” Rainey touched her arm. Around them, the other spectators were filing out of the courtroom.

  Bertie noticed that quite a few of them were staring rudely. Most were curiosity-seekers (Randolph had called people like them trial junkies), not people she knew. People like Ethan Fauquier, who had employed DeRoy at her husband’s suggestion, avoided her eye, but she knew Ethan in particular would surely be on his phone as soon as he got out of the building. Nick’s secretary and his sister were being shepherded out by the assistant prosecutor, their heads bowed. The sister shared Nick’s coloring and sleek black hair, and had wept openly when the jury was shown photos of the crime scene.

  Bertie didn’t care if people wondered why the wife of the man who had hired DeRoy Lee to kill Nick was at the trial even on the days she hadn’t been called as a witness. The things she heard about her husband and son caused her to cry into her pillow each night, but she was strong at the trial because she wanted to honor Nick’s memory. He deserved so much better than to have died that way. If only he hadn’t called Jefferson right away! She wasn’t sure what she’d expected when she’d taken the fingernail to him. Maybe just advice. Maybe just to know she wasn’t alone in her knowledge that Jefferson was involved in Karin’s death. But Nick had surprised them all. and been killed for it.

  At first, right after the Judge and Jefferson died, her closest friends had rallied around her, sharing her grief and disbelief. But after the salacious details of the Judge’s and Jefferson’s involvement with Karin Powell had been spread by the newspapers and gossips, they’d all fallen away. While her feelings had been terribly hurt, she understood that they just didn’t know what to say to her anymore. If she’d been in their place, what would she have said?

  I’m so sorry your husband was a monster who murdered two people and tried to have you killed. What a tragedy that your son was as crazy as his father.

  But it was all going to be okay. She was making new friends and she had Rainey and Ariel, who were settled in Charlottesville for the time being. Bliss House had been a complete loss, and the insurance company had arranged for the shell to be knocked down. Any undamaged brick and iron had been sold for salvage. Now, the whole estate was once again up for sale.

  Bertie took Rainey’s too-thin hand in her own. “Perfect,” she said. “Let’s go to lunch. We deserve a little celebration.” She peeked around Rainey to address Ariel. “Shall we get out of here, sweetie?”

  Ariel looked up from her phone. “Just a sec. I’m coming.”

  It did Bertie’s heart good to see Ariel texting. She’d made friends with another teenage girl at the hospital in Charlottesville, where she’d had four or five operations so far.

  The surgeons had been able to completely restore the sight in the eye that had been burned by the lighter fluid and improved the vision in the other. And while she would never win any beauty pageants (it was an unfortunate description, but it was the one that always came to Bertie’s mind), the surgeons had been able to help her feel comfortable enough with the way she looked to go out in public. Though she still balked at going to school. It had been more than three years since she’d set foot in one, and Bertie didn’t blame her. School was never her favorite thing, either.

  Rainey started to admonish Ariel, but Bertie interrupted her. “Here comes Detective Chappell.”

  Bertie put on a warm smile for the detective. Rainey looked uncomfortable at his approach, and Bertie felt bad for her. She’d never quite gotten over the feeling that the police had mistrusted her, and that their mistrust had endangered Ariel’s life. Bertie didn’t try to dissuade her. She’d learned quickly after first getting to know her the previous summer that it was impossible to argue with Rainey. She was stubborn—particularly when it came to protecting her daughter.

  If only I’d been that stubborn in protecting Jefferson from Randolph.

  “Mrs. Bliss.”

  Lucas took Bertie’s hand as though he were going to shake it, but stepped closer and gently embraced her. His simple act brought tears to Bertie’s eyes. Even on the days he wasn’t testifying, he’d been at the trial as much as his job would allow, watching DeRoy Lee like a cat who wasn’t about to let his prey get away. Before letting go of her completely, he told her he was very sorry for everything she’d lost and hoped things were going well for her. He seemed to understand that DeRoy’s trial meant a kind of closure, even though she hadn’t been the victim of the crime for which he was being prosecuted.

  “Oh, my,” she said. “So many people lost so much, Detective. I pray every day that the people my husband hurt will find some peace.” She put an arm around Rainey.

  “I’ll be here for the sentencing. You can count on it.” He looked to Rainey. “Let me escort you all out the staff door. There are too many reporters outside.”

  Rainey looked relieved. It had been a very rough year for her, and the trial had brought the reporters out of the woodwork.

  After escaping the burning house and being checked by paramedics, Gerard had taken Ariel and Rainey back to his house where—for the second time in as many years—they realized they were homeless. This time it was Ariel who was the strong one, who brought Rainey cup after cup of herbal tea, slept close against her while she had fitful dreams, read to her when she felt too tired to get out of bed. Gerard had fended off the press and their insinuations about the coincidence of Rainey staying with the man whose wife had been murdered in her house. Someone in the police department leaked the details of how Ariel had seen a vision of a young Randolph Bliss kill his brother and captive girlfriend, and the history of Bliss House and the Brodsky murder and earlier deaths there were once again front page news in the area. Ghost hunters flocked to the ruined property, and Rainey had to hire security to keep them away.

  It was a month before things died down. Ariel blossomed in the sunshine, taking Ellie for walks once the professionally curious stopped staking out Gerard’s home. Karin was cremated and, after a very private memorial service, Ariel helped Gerard pack up her jewelry and clothes to send to her sister.

  But while Ariel and Gerard formed a strong bond of friendship, Rainey held herself back. Her losses felt too raw: the house, the family she’d thought she would have with Randolph, Bertie, and Jefferson, the plans she’d made for restarting her career.

  When she felt strong enough, and had her finances in some semblance of order, she decided it was time to leave Old Gate. Not surprisingly, Ariel didn’t object. But neither one of them wanted to return to St. Louis. They settled on an apartment in Charlottesville for the time being, so they wouldn’t be too far from Bertie.

  The name “Allison” had been matched to a decades-old Charlottesville missing persons case. The girl’s mother had tentatively identified her daughter’s partially-decayed body, but DNA tests had confirmed her identity. Rainey had seen the heartbreaking images of the corpose and knew it must have taken a great deal of courage to identify it. But the woman wouldn’t see Rainey, and didn’t want Bertie’s apologies. Through Detective Chappell, she said she didn’t want anything to do with anyone from the Bliss family, and that she certainly didn’t believe anything some child had thought she’d seen in a dream.

  An autopsy of Michael’s body had revealed that his chest had, indeed, been crudely torn open, his heart twisted and crushed. And his DNA had revealed—several months later—that Rainey was probably his daughter.

  The house where Bertie had lived with her husband and son for half her life was in too much disarray to go back to for lunch. It had sold two months earlier, but she had been spending the time since then sorting and boxing things up, sending a few items to scattered family members, donatin
g even more to charity. She was downsizing.

  Rainey had looked surprised when she told her she’d bought Nick’s cottage, but she seemed to have come round. Ariel had said she thought it was a really nice thing to do, and couldn’t wait to help her move in. All of Nick’s belongings were gone, of course, and she’d had it completely renovated (not by Gerard, who had declined) so the whole situation was less macabre. She hoped to have the house and its precious garden in shape for a New Year’s open house.

  When they got to the Lettuce Leaf, a new hostess greeted them with a professional lack of curiosity. Bertie was grateful for the temporary anonymity. She had felt gawked at for too long in her hometown.

  “This way.” The hostess started to lead them to an empty table at the back of the restaurant.

  “Wait,” Ariel said, tucking her phone into her purse. “Let’s sit over there.” She took off her sunglasses and started toward a sunny table near the front window.

  Bertie was happy to see that Ariel was now completely unselfconscious about her limp. She moved quite nimbly, without hesitation.

  “Oh, no,” Rainey said.

  Ariel stopped at a table for four that already had one person seated at it. Gerard Powell stood up.

  “Gerard!” Bertie threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. “How wonderful to see you.”

  “Do you mind if I join you?” Gerard was addressing her, but Bertie saw him cast an awkward glance at Rainey.

  He had spent two hours testifying at the trial earlier in the week but had left immediately afterwards, and neither Bertie nor Rainey had talked to him. The months had been kind to him, and he looked like he had come to a better place after his wife’s death.

  Bertie wondered if Rainey was ready to forgive him for not watching Ariel more carefully that dreadful day. Yet Bertie felt that no one at the table carried more blame than she herself did.

  God knows, sometimes we all make terrible choices.