Her hallway door swung open, causing her to start. She quickly closed the pad, dropping it next to her on the bed.
“Noel, you scared the crap out of me! I’m thinking I’m living with ghosts, and you come tearing in.”
“Sorry, sorry. But you’ve got to hear this. It seems our lovers did have some escape plans but I just didn’t notice it at first. These letters are so hard to read, but here he talks about a ship, a steamer. Sounds like they were headed to the Ohio River to catch one of the passenger paddle boats. He even makes a reference to going to the coast sometime in the spring of the next year. I guess she had decided to leave her husband.”
“Then why kill him?”
“Don’t know. Maybe he found out. Maybe there was a fight. He doesn’t look like the most forgiving man. Maybe he threatened her.”
“So, in a fit of passion, she killed him.”
“And her boyfriend comes over, helps her do away with the body, and gets the caretaker to check on the house.”
“What about Etta? She must have stayed behind.”
“I doubt she stayed for long. Someone must have gotten her out of there, paid her off. Or worse.”
Claire looked skeptical. It was just too neat. If Etta had known what happened, what had she done? Had she become another casualty in the game? Or was it possible she had remained after the murder? What kind of power could she have wielded in her position? No one would believe a maid over a wealthy member of the upper-class society.
“If they just left, maybe we can trace them. Find out their ship passage, something.”
Noel sighed. “I’m not sure about that, but at least we can look her up. Beatrice, I mean. Maybe she had some family who would know where she went.”
Claire agreed and leaned back, suddenly exhausted.“I’m going to bed too. Do you need me to stay in here?” When Claire shook her head, Noel backed out the door and closed it softly after her.
Claire got up and put her books and sketchpad away. She dimmed the lights and returned to her bed. She wouldn’t sleep in darkness, not tonight. She lay down, pulling her blankets tight around her. She thought about Cole, looking so tired and grim as they took out the body. The possibility of a successful business was becoming slimmer, and she doubted people would want to sleep in a room where a body had been found. She had little doubt the fact would hit the news at some point. Even people with great wealth were not immune to the probing eye of the press.
She knew Cole would still be awake. Working or reading, she wasn’t sure, but she felt more secure knowing he was in the house.
As thought sensing her unease, she heard the tick tick of something sharp striking the glass of the window and watched as the bird slipped though the opening in the French doors.
“Leta,” Claire said with pleasure. In all her research, she had finally looked up the name she had unwittingly given the bird. The origins of Leta was a shortened version of Aleta, a Spanish word for winged. It seemed to fit, even though Claire had no idea where she had gotten the title.
Funny, but she hadn’t mentioned the bird to either Cole or Noel either. It seemed like she had chosen to keep the dove as her little secret. She held out her hand and the bird swooped from the doorway to perch on her finger. She was amazed at the dexterity of the wild bird. And why had it decided to trust her? Why befriend her? She certainly hadn’t trained it, but the way it behaved made her think it was somehow knowledgeable of humans.
“You’re just my little companion,” she said softly, looking into the bright eyes of the bird. The bird let out a gentle sound and then fluttered to Claire’s shoulder where it gently began to preen her hair as though caring for a child.
The bird was still sitting comfortably in the crook of her neck when Claire fell deeply asleep.
She dreamed she was painting. She was standing in that dark cellar room, the harsh light of the lantern casting dancing shadows across the uneven walls. Dabs and smears of paint covered her nightshirt, where in her passion, she had wiped stained hands on the cloth. And she painted. The subject was the same, the woman, the window, the breeze, and the night. But now she was angry, betrayed and hurt. The colors were a blur. She felt the salty tears on her face, tasted them, and felt the bitterness of years.
Chapter Seventeen
When she woke, she thought she was bleeding. Smears of red and brown streaked over her hands. She sat upright in bed in a panic, choking back a cry. But it wasn’t, it wasn’t, because there was blue, and there green. In dots and splotches, paint crawled over her hands, her arms, the long white tee shirt with the giant poodle picture. It stiffened the cloth, and shadows of color had transferred to the sheets.
“I dreamed I was painting,” she said in a whisper.
She hadn’t thought of the painting in the basement. With all the scary activity of the last weeks, she hadn’t even recalled the odd piece of art tucked out of sight. But now it seemed of greatest importance.
“What have I done?” she asked herself. In the dream, she had painted. And obviously, she had painted in reality as well. Sleep walking, sleep painting, what else could her crazy mind be doing?
With shaking hands, she gathered clothes for the day and crept out the door, closing it softly. She couldn’t face anyone now. Couldn’t answer questions, couldn’t explain. For now, she would wash away what she could and hide the rest.
The water was hot, but because she made it that way. The latex paint washed with a good scrubbing, leaving small stains of hue on her skin here and there. She washed and breathed and concentrated on the day. She would go back to see the painting, but she would go alone. She had to see what she had done. Had she ruined the painting? Had she carelessly destroyed it in her sleep? She was no artist, and the person who had originally designed the painting had obviously had more talent than her. She felt a surge of regret. The painting had been good, and now?
She turned off the water and quickly toweled dry. She was able to dress and hurry back to her room without meeting anyone else. But there were few people there now. Just Claire and Noel. And Cole.
She deliberately put on makeup and dried her hair, brushing it until it gleamed. She pulled it away from her face with a clip but let it fall down her back in a silken wave. Taking one last look in the mirror, she forced a smile. Good. She didn’t look crazy.
Claire was alone in the kitchen when Cole came in. She felt the immediate surge of emotion at seeing him and paused to just gaze at him, her eyes eagerly tracing his now familiar features. When he stopped to study her, she dropped her eyes to hide her expression, and glanced into her coffee cup, empty except for a few dirty brown grounds.
“Good morning. I’m not going to ask if you slept well. I doubt anyone did.” He moved to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup before sitting down across from her at the table.
“I slept alright. I’m feeling fine today. Better actually.” And it was true. Considering her apparent actions the night before, she felt rested. “I feel like something has been resolved, part of the story. Don’t you?”
“I hope you’re right. I’m just not sure.” He looked over in frustration, raking his hand through his hair in an impatient gesture.
“Well, you don’t have to worry about us.” She tried to look sure of herself. “Really.”
He looked at her cautiously, picking up his coffee cup as he climbed slowly to his feet. He busied himself at the sink, rinsing the cup even though he had drunk very little. He turned back to her and forced a weak smile, an expression that curved his lips but didn’t reach his eyes.
“I’m going out for a little while. I’ve got some business to attend to, but I’ll try to be back later today. What are you planning on for today?”
“Noel wanted to check the library. See if we can find any more information about Beatrice Hagen. What may have happened to her.”
“You think she was the one who killed him?”
“Yes, don’t you?” Claire responded, surprised.
He looked somber sud
denly. “I just can’t picture it. She didn’t look the type.”
“You’re looking at the portrait and assuming she was as she looked. I bet she was a much more complex character than that painter ever saw.”
“I’m sure you’re right. I just can’t imagine murdering your spouse.”
Claire nodded. “But the world was different then. She was probably forced into marriage, and he didn’t look to be her type precisely. He was older, rough, he may have been a real bastard. Maybe her lover was young and handsome...”
“So that’s what women fall for? A pretty face?” he prodded, chuckling.
Claire felt herself color, looking into his amused eyes.
“Just those of us with taste,” Noel snapped, stomping in. “Oh, I have the worst headache.”
“Have you taken anything for it?” Claire asked.
“Yes, but it may take a little while. In the meantime, is there any of that coffee left?”
Cole expertly poured her some of the now strong brew and sat the steaming cup before her.
“Do you want anything in it?”
“No, thanks. I drink mine black on days like this.”
Cole took one last prolonged look at the two girls seated at the table and pulled his keys from his pants pocket.
“I need to get going if I’m going to make it back by nightfall. Are you sure you’re going to be alright?”
“Yes, Dad,” Noel said, grinning playfully, then dropped her head with a grunt of pain, her hand reaching for the pain pills.
Cole left reluctantly, and Claire felt foolishly happy. Whatever evil had been stirred up by the location of Henry’s body seemed to have been dispelled, and she had high hopes of some sort of resolution soon. Except for the incident with the painting. Damn, she wished she could forget the painting.
Noel set her coffee down with an uncharacteristic scowl. “The weather always gives me such a major headache. Oh, just shoot me and get it over with.”
“Are you sure you want to do the library today? We can always wait for a few days.”
“No, no. We only have a few weeks before Christmas break. I’m just worried. If this isn’t resolved, Cole is going to close this place down. We’ll be back to being homeless, jobless. And Lord only knows about this place. It’s already affected you. Who can say it won’t still?”
“Noel, I’m going to be fine, okay? I feel like now we’re working on this, they’re going to leave me alone.”
Noel looked skeptical and slowly stirred her coffee, inhaling the rich fragrance with relish. “Claire, we’ve been friends for a long time. I only want what’s best for you, you know? But you’ve changed since we’ve been here. Aged. I just am afraid...”
“That I’ll be haunted where ever I go.”
Noel took out her spoon, taking her time sipping the hot brew.
“You haven’t had these experiences for a long time, years. And we get this job and you’re seeing them, and not just here. In the apartment, on the bridge, they seem to be getting more and more common. This place has opened a channel or something.”
Claire nodded, her eyes clouded. “Maybe it has, and if that’s true, I’ll just have to handle it. I’m not a child anymore. I think I’ll be more able to cope. Maybe to help them.”
They left by early afternoon, intending to get some research done before Claire had to be in class. The drive between Shelbyville and the University campus was a pleasant one with only a spattering of rain accosting the windshield. Parking on campus was difficult as usual, and Noel put her tag prominently in the window to avoid a ticket. They walked between the hovering buildings, walls of brick rising on either side, until they came to the entrance of the library. The building was an unattractive mixture of architecture; the glass and concrete entrance boasted tiled floors and pale paint. The open atrium lead into a tighter space furnished with the “stacks” as they were commonly called, shelves upon shelves of loosely organized books.
The girls went first to the computer terminals to do a search online. They split up, both picking an area to search. Claire was interested in finding some information about Beatrice’s possible flight on the steamer down the Ohio River, while Noel held out for the actual family tree.
By the time she had to leave for class, Claire was frustrated and in a less than studious state of mind. Names and dates swirled in her mind, but none had been right. She had looked at sheaves of old newspaper, their brittle pages protected by plastic, and she had squinted over projectors with films of microfiche flashing before her. But nothing had helped. Nothing of use.
Defeated, she walked slowly to Noel to tell her goodbye, and they agreed to meet in the same area in a few hours when Claire’s classes were done.
Noel was in deep conversation with another student when Claire returned. Her companion sat with his legs carelessly propped on the desk, his mismatched hooped earrings swaying when he spoke fervently, which was often. Claire watched in fascination from a distance, smiling unwillingly as the guy gestured wildly as he talked, his face animated. He was obviously giving Noel an earful.
Noel grinned when she caught sight of Claire and waved her closer.
“Claire, this is Tonic. Tonic, my roommate Claire.” She looked at Claire’s blank expression and her grin widened. “Tonic works here at the library part time. He’s a whiz.”
Tonic turned sharp green eyes on Claire and smiled. “I needed some extra cash, and this is a great place for reading. So, are you the one looking up the long-lost ancestor?”
Noel stepped in, covering Claire’s silence. “Yeah, good old Great Aunt Beatrice. You’d be amazed what info Tonic dug up for us. He’s just,” she paused for dramatic effect, “beyond groovy.”
Claire kept a straight face at Noel’s antics, but Tonic was preening, pushing the long lank hair out of his face with one tattooed hand.
“It was a cinch,” he said, gloating. His face became suddenly sober, and he swung his feet down with haste, the high tops making a flat thud as they hit the floor. “Shit, here comes the boss. Gotta go. Been great though. Want my number?”
“Not now, but we’ll see ya around,” Noel said, gathering a stack of photocopies. She turned her brightest smile on him and blew him a kiss as she pulled Claire along.
“Oh, Ben would love that. He looked like he could really be your CLOSE friend,” Claire joked as they pushed the tinted double doors open, letting in the dusky light.
Noel grinned. “All for research, you know.”
The car shuddered across the bridge, and Claire found herself looking intensely on both sides of the railing. She hadn’t seen any apparitions recently, but in the overcast and misty atmosphere, she found herself anticipating the worst. The very idea of seeing this specter fascinated and frightened her, now she had a name to go with the face. The place was still, but powerful, causing the fine hair on her arms to prickle as they rumbled across the bridge. The vines on the far side seemed to reach out their spindly limbs to hold the crumbling concrete. Claire turned back and watched it recede, wondering if the figure in the center of the bridge had been real, or just her imagination.
Noel sat in the passenger seat and held her photocopies close to her chest, gesturing energetically with one hand as she described her meeting with Tonic and subsequent search in the library. According to her, Tonic was a genius and had easily accessed old newspaper articles and even a picture from the society page.
They pulled into the drive, surprised to see Cole’s expensive car not in its usual spot. Claire frowned at the empty space, feeling uneasy. Although their relationship was still in an awkward phase, a sort of limbo, his presence in the house was always a comfort.
The front door was locked, but the foyer light was on, illuminating the cracked tiles and scuffed stairway. An odor of dust and decay always seemed to pervade the space. Claire had a flash of John, falling and flipping, landing spread eagle on the hard tile, his blood pooling beneath his shattered body. She shivered and found herself holding her books f
irmly against her chest like a shield. What had he seen to make him jerk away, to move so violently to cause him to turn around and land, face first, without even the protective gesture of shielding himself?
Claire shook her head quickly and followed Noel through the doorway into the library. Cole’s presence was most marked here with his closed computer resting on the desk and the stacks of paperwork scattered about.
Claire stopped for a moment when she saw a familiar plan laid out on the desk. John’s handiwork, she was sure, because the precise depiction of the house was obviously an architectural plan. The first showed the facade of the building, the clean lines unmarred by the wearing of time and the elements as the house must have appeared when it was built.
The page beneath was the actual floor plan of the first level; the stairway, foyer, library, and parlor depicted in blue while the rooms in the new wings were drawn in red.
Stuck to the page using clear adhesive was a sketch where John’s body had fallen. Claire felt a shock, even with the flat depiction.
Turning to the next page, she saw a similar layout of the second floor. In the master bedroom was another taped figure. It was on the tip of her tongue to call in Noel, but given a moment of critical consideration, she decided against it. If Cole chose to hold on to his own theory, Claire didn’t want to appear like she was trying to snoop in his business.
But it made her shiver to see John’s death connected with the body upstairs. The link was something she had avoided, lending reality to the ghosts. Did they indeed have the power to kill? And if they did, why choose John, who had had nothing to do with the things they had experienced?
She stood for a moment, laying a light finger against the drawing, her fingernail tracing a line from the top of the staircase to the place where John had fallen. Hadn’t Cole told them about the last owner hanging himself in the same room? Had old Willie chosen to dangle himself over the foyer floor, or had he too had some help?
Talitha Page 20