by LK Rigel
“I’m so sorry.” Tears filled the doctor’s eyes. “It appears Amelia had a massive heart attack. The infection weakened all her systems, and she just wasn’t strong enough.”
Sara stared past Dr. Kasaty. Aunt Amelia’s mouth was open, but no breath went in or out. No! Sara wanted to scream. Death was wrong. It was unfair. Aunt Amelia didn't want to die and she shouldn’t have to.
Everything people said about death being a natural part of life was a lie.
EVEN IN DEATH THERE was paperwork. Sara shifted in her seat with a backache from the horrible guest chair in Marnie Sims’s office, turning the still-full Styrofoam cup the administrator had given her a half hour ago. It was a bad morning for coffee.
“Ms. Blakemore, did you hear the question?” Sims looked up from the form she was filling out.
“I’m sorry,” Sara said. “It’s just not something I ever considered before. Can I think about it?”
“They like to know as soon as possible. It’s a matter of logistics.”
“Cremation then.” It’s what Sara would want for herself. She had no idea what Aunt Amelia wanted. She signed the papers to release the remains to the mortuary
Out in the car she sat and stared, seeing nothing. Finally she called Bram’s cell. He’d be awake now. Whatever he’d done, she needed to hear his voice.
“Bram, Aunt Amelia died.”
“My god, babe. From a broken ankle?” he said. “How is that possible?”
“She had one of those super infections, and it spread through her whole body and made her weak. I was there in her room. She had a heart attack.”
“When are you coming home?” Bram said.
“I…I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to arrange for a service. I’m named as her next of kin. I met one of her friends yesterday in the village. Maybe she’ll have an idea about what to do. I don’t think Aunt Amelia was religious.” The line was quiet. “Are you there?”
“Yeah, babe. If you’re next of kin, you have to take care of it. What do you need from me?”
“A hug.” It felt good that he asked.
“You got it, babe. Look, I know what we said about space and all that, but I’m coming up right there. Today. Now. I don’t want you to go through this alone.”
“But can you take the time off?”
“I’ll tell them I need family leave. That’s what it’s there for, right?”
“Oh, Bram,” she said with relief. “I do need you.”
As soon as they hung up, a text came in from Bram: {{hugs}} See u in 5 hrs.
Sara dropped her phone in her bag, and the splitting headache that had threatened all morning finally erupted. She left the car in the parking lot and walked down to The Book Beak to get some decent caffeine and to tell Peekie about Aunt Amelia.
- 8 -
Skeleton Key
“I KNEW SOMETHING BAD WAS coming.” Through tears, Peekie fumbled with cups and spoons and pulled shots for Sara’s latte. “I knew it. I had a bad feeling earlier when you stopped at the rubbish bin.”
“Oh.” Sara felt a flush of embarrassment spread over her face.
“Yes, I saw you toss away Spot’s swill. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
“It was the worst coffee I ever tasted. Ever. No exaggeration.”
Peekie dumped two shots of espresso into a cup and started two more. The hiss of steam and the bumps and grinds of the machine were comforting and anchored Sara to reality.
“It was like looking into the past, watching you on Bird Way,” Peekie said. “The morning sunlight made a halo around your hair. You move like she does, and I thought: there goes Amelia, walking away. And I knew right then I wouldn’t see her again.” She wiped her tears and focused on the espresso machine.
The bells at the door jingled. Bonnie Norquist entered the shop like a mini whirlwind. She dropped her briefcase on the sofa by the window and headed straight for Sara, her arms spread wide. “You poor thing. I just heard and came to tell Peekie.”
There was no avoiding the hug, but Sara’s whole body went stiff and she twisted out of it as discreetly as she could.
“If there’s anything I can do, let me know.” Through blotched mascara Bonnie looked at Peekie, “I can’t believe she’s gone.”
It was so confusing. Bonnie seemed sincerely broken up, but Aunt Amelia had definitely been afraid of her—or at least put out about something. Then again, Sara didn’t know her aunt like these two did. Even her doctor knew her better. Sara felt cheated out of her share of Aunt Amelia and ridiculous resenting them for it, but she couldn’t help herself.
Peekie handed her the latte. Her headache started to recede with the first swallow.
“I’ll have one of those too,” Bonnie said. “We can sit down and have a nice chat.”
Sitting down for a nice chat with Bonnie wasn’t on Sara’s to-do list, not even at the bottom. “I think I’d like to go back out to the house.”
“I just thought—”
“Bonnie,” Peekie said. “Not now.”
“What not now?” Sara said. “What is it?”
“Well, Turtledove Hill will be yours now, won’t it?” Bonnie said. “I just thought you’d like to know all your options.”
“What?” Like an idiot Sara stared from Bonnie to Peekie and back to Bonnie, astonished.
“Didn’t you know?” Peekie said. “She’s right. I’ve heard Amelia tell Gracien right here in the shop when she refused to sell him the vineyards.”
“He’s wanted to buy Turtledove Hill for years,” Bonnie said. “I’ve presented several very good offers.” She raised an eyebrow meaningfully. “Very good.”
Peekie handed Bonnie her coffee. “Amelia always said the place would go to her niece.”
“That’s you,” Bonnie said. “Unless there’s another niece we don’t know about.”
“No,” Sara said. “There’s no one else.”
“Of course you want to collect your thoughts a bit,” Peekie said.
Sara was dazed. “Are you trying to make a real estate sale?” Aunt Amelia was right to be irritated with Bonnie, if this was what she was like.
“I didn’t mean…” She had the decency to turn red with embarrassment. “God, I’m sorry, Sara.”
Peekie came around from behind the counter, a clash of earthy and ethereal. Her calf-length dress with long sleeves and billowing skirt combined with her long red curls and made her look like a heroine in a pre-Raphaelite painting. Or a hippie earth mother.
She linked arms with Sara and walked her to the door. “Why don’t you come back into town later? My night manager takes over at four o’clock. We can have a nice dinner at The Blue Pelican.”
“My husband is coming.”
“Bring him. I’m glad he’ll be here. You don’t want to be alone in that big old house.”
“Peekie,” Sara said. “You don’t believe the stories. That Turtledove Hill is haunted?”
“Ta!” Peekie frowned. “Don’t listen to that Spot,” she said. “His ghost whisperer nonsense is for tourists. I'm sure you’ll feel better when your husband gets here.”
That remained to be seen. But Peekie was right about one thing. Last night Aunt Amelia was alive in the world and would be coming back to her home again. Tonight she was gone forever. The emptiness of the big house would have been too much to bear.
SARA PULLED UP TO the back porch steps and parked the car. Unloading the groceries she bought in the village, she looked up at the widow’s walk. It stuck out over the roof like a deck and created the overhang above the guest room where she’d slept last night. It was covered with the wisteria and lilacs she’d seen from her window.
She could never get a lilac to bloom with any abundance at home, and here was a feast of them. She hoped she’d be here when the peonies bloomed.
Along with a few basics, she’d picked up some fresh cut flowers at the store—a redundancy, she realized now. She arranged the pink and white tulips and purple irises in a vase
, thinking of the pond in the eucalyptus grove. Was it still as pretty as when she first saw it? Was it even still there?
The possibility of really owning Turtledove Hill started to sink in. How would she take care of such a big place? It certainly needed work. The house did, anyway, starting with the staircases.
Oh, Aunt Amelia. If only you’d kept them repaired!
She set the flowers on the table in the nook. From there she could see the barn through the window. It was in better shape than the house with a recent coat of paint.
The barn, good lord! It hadn’t occurred to her there might be horses out there. Heart racing, she rushed outside and threw open the barn door. Thankfully, there were none inside. There was no sign of animal life at all.
Wooden crates and steel stakes were stacked in neat rows where the hay bales used to be. Cardboard boxes filled the empty stalls. All of it was addressed the same:
Poole Haven Wines c/o 1 Turtledove Hill Road, Pelican Chase, CA.
If Poole was using the barn for storage, he must be taking care of its maintenance—probably anticipating future ownership. Never let them have Turtledove Hill, Aunt Amelia had said. She must have meant Gracien Poole—and his real estate agent, Bonnie.
Old saddles and tack were thrown carelessly in piles in the corner. She looked closer and saw that one saddle and bit and bridle were draped over the old steam trunk with J. MONTAGUE stamped on it. “Wonderful!” she said aloud.
She cleared off the trunk and opened the lid. The same men’s clothes were there, not so neatly folded as she remembered. She pushed aside the trousers and shirts. As she hoped, the brass bell was there at the bottom of the trunk. She picked it up by the leather thong still threaded through the top loop. Still no clapper.
Beneath the bell lay a skeleton key—and it looked like it would fit the door at the top of the landing. A sick feeling came over her. Could whatever Bonnie wanted be up there?
What if the slamming door in her dream yesterday wasn’t actually in her dream? Now she wondered if Bonnie had been in the house. It would explain the house key being in the wrong place—and the car driving away in the fog.
Bonnie had complained about Aunt Amelia’s refusal of Gracien Poole’s offers. What if Bonnie had sabotaged the stairs somehow?
“Stop it, Sara,” she said aloud. “You’re creeping yourself out.”
She put the skeleton key in her pocket and replaced the saddle on the trunk, hung the bridle on a hook, and made another fun discovery: stuck in the support post near the trunk, level with her heart, was the iron knife she’d used to strike the bell years ago. She pulled it out of the wood and picked up the bell by the leather strap.
You can’t unring the bell. If Aunt Amelia was joking, Sara didn’t get it. Anyway, there were no chickens here now. In the courtyard, she tapped the bell’s rim with the knife, half expecting Aunt Amelia to race out of the house in a snit. As the tone dissipated, something shuffled behind her.
“Who’s there?” She spun around, but it was only the barn door swinging shut. “Knock it off, girl. You’re acting paranoid.” All the ghost talk this morning was making her jumpy. In the house she left the bell and knife with the flowers on the kitchen nook table and went upstairs to the locked door.
The key turned easily. The door squeaked open to an alcove the size of a large closet. To the left another door led to the widow's walk. To the right through an archway was the observatory, the single room.
It was an octagon. Four of eight walls faced the ocean, with windows from floor to ceiling. Three opposite walls had the familiar grapevine-and-turtledove windows running just below the ceiling. Built-in bookcases filled the solid walls, empty of books but containing knickknacks and gewgaws. The doorway took up the octagon’s eighth wall.
Sara picked up a cluster of porcelain snowdrops from a bookcase shelf and blew off the dust. The little flowers were delicate and perfect with tiny green dots on the petals. They made her think of her mother, and she put them in her pocket to take down to the guestroom.
A rotting Turkish carpet covered the wood floor, and a sheet covered a large object in the room’s center. She pulled away the sheet, brown from a thick layer of dust, to reveal an old-fashioned cherry wood desk and swivel chair. Despite being careful, the fine dust filled the air and Sara’s lungs, and she started coughing like mad.
She went out on the widow's walk to clear her lungs. The view of the ocean was spectacular. She could see Turtledove Hill Road winding away from the highway, and then the long driveway that bordered the expansive lawn in front of the house. Pelican Chase was hidden behind a hill to the north. On a cloudless night here the sky must be brilliant.
A dove cooed from within the wisteria, answered by another. She moved her head slowly, scanning the branches until she spotted a nest with four black eyes peeking out at her. Mourning doves, still as statues. She’d done the research years ago; turtledoves didn’t live in the western hemisphere. Now she’d never know why the house was named for them.
Back inside the observatory, she spotted a journal lying on the desk. The burgundy leather was nearly the color of the desktop, and in her coughing fit she hadn’t noticed it before. On the first page inside the cover was written: Journal of Joss Montague. She turned on the overhead light and sat down to read.
- 9 -
The Journal
Lahaina, island of Maui, Territory of Hawaii, December 6, 1941
LAST NIGHT I WON MY soul in a game of chance. At least that’s what the Chinese fellow tried to tell me. He offered up a broken brass bell as collateral when I raised the bet on a pair of jacks. The pot had swelled to almost three hundred dollars, more than enough to haul my trunk down to the port and go home to Olivia.
It didn’t hurt that my two boys had three pretty ladies on their arms.
The Chinese was the only one left in the game. The others—a pineapple plantation overseer and two naval officers over from Pearl Harbor—had folded.
The pot was mine; all I had to do was refuse the bell. No one would call me a bounder. It was broken, even if it was a pretty thing. But I allowed the bet, not because I was a great guy, and not because the Chinese was raving on with a sad story about the rape of Nanking, but because the bell was etched with snowdrops and it reminded me of Turtledove Hill.
I promised what gods there be that if I won I’d head home the next day. It was time to face Olivia.
The Chinese had three aces, and he laid them out in gleeful triumph. The poor sucker turned white as a ghost when I turned my three ladies over on the two boys.
“That bell save your soul,” he said, so woeful I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“I can always use a life insurance policy,” I said as I raked in the pot. “Even if it’s just Oriental superstition.”
“Not save your life. You fool. That bell save your soul one day. You mark my word now.”
I’ve packed the bell at the bottom of my steamer trunk. Whether or not it saves my soul remains to be seen, but it will make for an interesting story in years to come.
Island of Oahu, Territory of Hawaii December 10, 1941
My reunion with Olivia has been thwarted by Japan. The United States naval base at Pearl Harbor was attacked three days ago, and in a fit of patriotism I have joined up. A week ago, they would have rejected my sad twenty-nine-year-old sack of bones as too ancient, but now we’re headed for world war. As cannon fodder, my bones will suit as well as those of my seventeen-year-old shipmates.
At this point, I’m hoping the Chinese fellow was mistaken. A soul’s not much good without a body to keep it in. At all events, I’m keeping that bell close to hand.
Tokyo, Japan, September 1945
It’s over. As they say, war is hell. I won’t commit to words my time there. In a matter of days, I’ll be a civilian and on my way to California. The brass bell served me well. I bore witness to man’s brutality to man. My soul is bruised beyond doubt. But I’ve come through with my life, and for that I must be
grateful.
Now, on to Olivia. Our day of reckoning has been too long postponed.
“What?” Sara sat up straight. The late afternoon sky was gray with fog rolling in off the coast, and it was getting chilly. She’d fallen asleep reading the journal and left the door to the widow's walk open. She went out to the alcove to close it and saw the tail end of Bram’s truck in the courtyard parked next to her car.
Aunt Amelia’s dead.
She went back inside and closed the journal with regret. She’d never felt so attached to Hot Heat. Joss Montague’s journal was fascinating. His writing had swept her away and made her forget about poor Aunt Amelia, and she wanted to keep reading. Normally she’d feel disloyal to Bram, but under the circumstances that would be pathetic.
“Babe, where are you?” Bram called from somewhere on the second floor.
“I’m here.” An alarm went off inside her, a feeling of protectiveness for the observatory. “I’m coming.” She hurried out to the landing and lost her balance on the stairs. Oh, crap! A tread tilted, and she pitched forward. She was going to fall and break her damned neck.
“Livy!” a man’s voice called out. Two strong arms surrounded her from behind and guided her sideways. She grabbed the banister and regained her footing and looked up into a man’s concerned brown eyes. He had dark hair and wore a white shirt with an open collar.
“You’re safe now.” His voice was deep and gentle like warm honey, and Sara believed him. But…
“You?”
“You!” They spoke simultaneously.
He tilted his head in puzzlement.
“Yes, me,” Bram said at the foot of the stairs. “You were expecting someone else?”
The man dissipated into nothing. Sara gasped, still gripping the rail. “Did you see that?”
“What, babe? Are you seeing ghosts?” Bram grinned.
She raced down the remaining stairs.
“Oh, honey.” He put his hands on her sides, steadying her. His soft chuckle eased her nerves. She must have looked pretty silly freaking out like that. Going all day since breakfast with nothing but coffee had made her loopy.