by Krista Walsh
“It’s still a big risk when you’re trying to make things right with him. Why won’t you let it lie?”
Daphne let out a breath. “Because the kid’s face will be stuck in my head if I don’t help figure out who did it. Sure, there might be a great story at the end, but if I can do something, I’d rather do it than sit around and hope someone else finds answers.”
Denise eyed her for a moment, then tilted her head in resignation. “So, where do you plan to start?”
“I want to know more about the hospital. Its history for the last couple of decades.”
“The history? You think that has anything to do with what happened tonight?” Denise leaned back in her chair and crossed one leg over the other, the nurse seeking information.
Daphne brushed her hair out of her face, a few locks having fallen free of her braid. “I get the sense that it does, although I could be way off base. It’s early days yet.”
Denise tapped her fingers against her glass. “If you really want the history of the place, I’d skip the library and go straight to the source. Harold Cly was the caretaker of Peony House for decades. I doubt those walls kept any secrets from him.”
“How do you know about him?”
Denise rolled her shoulders in a slow shrug. “So many years working at the hospital, you pick up gossip about the other campuses. The old man’s a legend for his dedication. Apparently he kept working even after the hospital closed.”
A knock sounded at the front door, and the two women exchanged a glance.
“Back door,” said Denise.
Daphne nodded and ran her glass into the kitchen, then gave her friend a wave and hurried out into the night, leaving Denise to handle Hunter.
Her shaking had stopped by the time she got to her car, but she sat with the engine off for a few minutes to center herself.
The hospital’s caretaker. It wasn’t much of a lead, but it was a start.
***
She got home well past midnight. The lights were off on the main floor of the house, so she crept through the front door and tiptoed up to her apartment on the second floor to avoid waking up the intruder alarm, also known as Benji, the Maine Coon cat. The last thing she wanted was for her nosy downstairs neighbor to come out and start asking questions.
Once inside, she tossed her purse on the rug beside the couch and turned on the TV at a low volume. She added her shirt and jeans to the pile of clothes next to the stacked washer-dryer, ignored this morning’s dishes in the sink, and grabbed her raggedy oversized T-shirt on the way to her office.
She pulled it over her head and dropped into the wooden chair in front of her computer.
Looking up the public details for Harold Cly, she found he lived in an older part of town — fashionable, but not trendy, a moderately priced area full of modest starter homes built in the nineteen-seventies. Other than his public contact information, she couldn’t find him anywhere else on the internet. No social media for Harold.
When she accepted she wouldn’t learn anything else for now, she opened a new email and stared at the flashing cursor. Go behind Hunter’s back or disappoint Gerry. At the moment, she honestly didn’t know which would be worse. An idea niggled the back of her mind that if she could gain a bit of time, she might find a solution that kept everyone happy. She typed the email and hit send before she second-guessed her message. Send someone out to Peony House, boss. Young man found dead. Strange circumstances. Promised Avery I’d stay out of it, but don’t worry: I have a plan.
Even if she had to sacrifice the story, there was no need for the paper to miss out. Now she just had to come up with a plan before tomorrow.
To-do list completed, she returned to the living room and collapsed on the couch in front of some new British crime show. She fell asleep before she learned who’d committed the murder.
Three minutes later, or so it felt, her alarm went off. Bleary-eyed and dry-mouthed, she stretched out her arm to shut it off, only to knock her cellphone off the table. The clatter jarred her awake, and she peered over the side of the couch. Her mother’s cheerful face stared up at her from the middle of the screen with an incoming call, her Top 40 ringtone choice filling the otherwise silent apartment.
Daphne grabbed the phone and brought it to her ear, brushing her sleeve across her mouth to clear the hint of drool lurking in the corner. “Hello?”
“You missed dinner again last night.”
She glanced at the clock on her entertainment system. It flashed seven forty-five in happy blue digits. Considering she hadn’t called to say she wouldn’t be there, she wasn’t surprised her mother was checking in on her. If anything, she was surprised Cheryl Heartstone had waited so long.
Groaning, she rolled onto her back and passed her hand over her eyes. “Sorry, Mom. I was out, and now I’m running late.”
“You sound funny. Were you drinking?”
Daphne swung her legs off the couch and sat up, closing her eyes until her head stopped spinning. “Yes.”
She launched to her feet and used the momentum to carry herself into the bathroom. She switched her phone to speaker and set it on the counter as she performed her undressing routine: a quick glance in the mirror at the green eyes above her too-long nose, the white scar on her right cheek, and the thin lips, then a critical eye over her skinny figure and flat chest and the usual wish that she could add some meat to her bones. Her clothes for the day hung on the back of the door, foresight she thanked past-Daphne for, and she smoothed down the creases in the dress shirt and slacks.
“On a work night? That doesn’t sound like you.” Her mother’s tone switched from curious to concerned. “What did you get up to?”
Daphne spread toothpaste on her brush and began scrubbing her teeth. “I found a body.”
“You what?” She heard a sputter and suspected her mother had choked on her morning tea. “Do you want me to come over?”
“No, Mom, I’m fine.”
“You know I can be there in two minutes.”
“Why would it take you two minutes? You live downstairs.” Daphne spat out the toothpaste and rinsed the brush.
“I’d need to get dressed.”
“Why? You live downstairs.” Daphne shook her head and pulled out the elastic from her demolished braid. She ran her fingers through the locks, shaking out her head so the blond hair tumbled down to her shoulders. She’d allowed it to grow longer than she was used to and wasn’t sure she liked the way it tickled her skin. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m fine. I’ll be heading out to work in a few minutes anyway.”
“You haven’t had breakfast yet.”
“I’ll grab something on the way.”
“Daphne Morgan Heartstone, you’re going to be the death of me.” She could almost see her mother throw up her hands in exasperation. “What am I supposed to tell Gram?”
“Do you need to tell her anything?”
“You found a body!”
“I fail to see how this should shock you, Mom. You know my job, and you know my nature. I’m surprised I don’t find more.”
“What happened to him?” The panic had left her mother’s voice, replaced with concern for the victim.
“I don’t know.” Daphne leaned her hands on the counter and bowed her head. “It was weird. Have you ever heard of anything strange going on at Peony House?”
“The old hospital? Not that I can remember, why?”
“Because there’s something off about it. The energy is all out of whack. Dark, as though the place has been used as a killing hot spot for the last sixty years instead of lying abandoned. The change didn’t feel recent, and the ghosts are troubled, too.”
She appreciated that she could have a conversation with someone who understood she meant literal ghosts. When Cheryl went silent on the other end of the line, Daphne knew it wasn’t because she didn’t believe her.
“The energy might stem from some lingering trauma that no one cleaned up,” Cheryl said at last. “Do you think the
ghosts had something to do with the body?”
“I’m not sure yet. I sensed someone else’s magic when I was there, but it wasn’t anything I recognized. It was green. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Not off the top of my head, no.”
Daphne leaned into the tub to start the shower. “I’m going to go talk to the former caretaker today and see if he knows anything about the history of the place. He worked there before it closed, so he’ll probably know if ghosts have always been an issue or if something big happened to shift the balance between our world and theirs.”
“If he’s willing to admit it,” Cheryl said. “I don’t envy you that conversation.” She paused. “Are you sure you need to get involved with this, Daphne? Ghosts, dark energies…why tempt yourself if you don’t need to?”
“I’ll be careful, Mom. I promise.”
There was a moment of silence before Cheryl said, “Well, all right. Let me know if you learn anything.”
“I will,” said Daphne.
She stepped one foot in the tub and opened her mouth to say goodbye when her mother said, “You should clear out your energy before you get it mucked up. You know what you’re like when your magic gets too cluttered with negativity.”
“Yes, mother.”
“And come home for dinner tonight. I’m making ziti. Love you, dear.”
A click and she was gone.
Daphne sped through her shower, jumped into her clothes, rewove her usual French braid, and added a touch of eyeliner and mascara. Then she ran out to her car before Cheryl could poke her head out the door and offer any more sage advice. Her mother wasn’t wrong about anything she’d said, but Daphne had no time for energy clearing. Not when there was a paranormal uprising to explain.
***
The drive to Harold Cly’s house took fifteen minutes, and the clock had just struck eight thirty when Daphne arrived at a bungalow she didn’t think two people could live in without stepping on each other.
Despite its size, the structure was in fantastic shape. The lawn was mowed to an even two inches, and the siding appeared to have been freshly painted — soft blue with white trim. Flowerpots hung over the railing of the small front porch, the purples and whites a perfect contrast to the cedar steps.
She sat in the car and watched the house for a few minutes, not sure if it was too early to go a-knocking. Then the blinds wobbled, and she knew he had seen her. If she didn’t want to kick their acquaintance off on a creepy stalker-like footing, she figured it was best to get the introductions out of the way.
She double-checked that her tape recorder and notebook were in her purse, gave the driver side door a hefty slam to ensure the latch caught, and headed up the driveway. The door opened before she hit the first step to the porch, and the caretaker stood before her.
Her first impression was that Harold Cly should have taken his exit years ago. His shoulders were stooped and his bony fingers rattled with a pronounced tremor where they clutched the door handle. His pale skin was so thin that every vein beneath the surface showed clearly in the morning sunlight, while so many wrinkles dragged his face down that Daphne was amazed he could still keep his head aloft. Yet beyond the exterior signs of age, the gray eyes hidden under the deep folds of his brow were sharp and clear. She sensed them evaluating her, peering at her deeply enough to gauge the quality of her soul.
She forced herself to stare back, not wanting to give him all the power of their encounter before either had spoken a word.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, taking control in spite of her efforts. His voice was brusque, but held no trace of hostility at the unexpected company.
“My name is Daphne Heartstone, with the New Haven Chronicle. I was hoping to speak with you about Peony House.” She handed him her card.
The news had been all over the radio on her drive over, so she expected him to have some idea of why she was there, but his wrinkled face opened in surprise. “The old hospital?” He appraised her, then scanned the street behind her before saying, “C’mon in.”
He stepped aside, and she entered into the narrow space, her shoes squeaking on the laminate flooring. The kitchen, dining room, and living room lay open, and even though the living room could only fit a loveseat, a chair, and an old CRT television, the wall of windows at the back of the house bathed the room in a natural light that removed any possible feeling of claustrophobia.
Harold didn’t invite her to sit down, so Daphne remained standing by the door.
“Have you heard that a young man was found murdered at Peony House last night?”
She didn’t know what reaction she’d expected — interest in the drama at his old place of employment, contempt for the human race — but fear would have been near the bottom of the list. The old man’s face turned ashen and he dropped down on the end of the loveseat, covering his face with his hands.
“No. No, I hadn’t. How did he die?”
“I’m not sure yet. The police haven’t revealed the cause of death.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” he said, peering at her around the sides of his fingers. “So why are you here?”
“I’m interested in the history of the hospital, something to give some meat to the story,” she said. “I was told you would be the perfect source.”
He stared at her for another long moment. Daphne’s magic shifted uncomfortably under his attention and she adjusted her shield around it, making sure her power was well hidden. She hadn’t picked up any magic from him, but her mother and grandmother had raised her to always be cautious.
Harold’s appraising gaze scanned her, as though prodding her mind, and she was about to retaliate with a search of her own when he broke eye contact.
Making no reference to the extended silence, he snorted and jerked his head in a nod. “That’s true, all right. No one knows more than old Harold. But I don’t have any stake in the place now, so I don’t see how I can help you.”
Daphne noted the dismissal, but held her ground. “I’m interested in hearing what the hospital was like in its hay day. You must have a good collection of stories to share.”
Harold brushed his fingers over his chin, his lips pressed into a fine line. His gray eyes glazed over and a shiver ran through him. He rubbed his palms together and asked, “You believe in ghost stories, miss?”
Daphne forced a smile, years of practice allowing the stretched truth to come easily. “I guess so. Around a good fire with a cup of hot chocolate? There’s nothing better.”
He jerked his head toward his living room. “Then come on and have a seat. I’ll make you some coffee and give you a horrifying hundred-year-old history lesson.”
4
Harold made a pot of coffee while Daphne leaned against the ceramic countertop and watched him.
The wrinkles on his face had collapsed in on themselves, shadowing his eyes and pulling down the corners of his mouth, but the cause appeared to be more absent-mindedness than irritation.
“You worked at Peony House for a long time?” she asked.
He grunted. “Feels like a few lifetimes ago, but yeah, I worked there a while before it closed. Started at twelve years old, pushing wheelbarrows around and what have you, and took over more of the maintenance as I got older. I kept it up for another fifteen years or so after the place closed while the family decided what they wanted to do with it. Even go back now on days when I have the energy. Patched the roof a few months back.”
A jolt of surprise caused Daphne to take another look at the nicely maintained state of the house. Her attention shifted to the swollen fingers and the scrawny arms poking out of his cream-and-pink striped shirt. In contrast to the wear and tear of his age, the sharp definition of his muscles and the calluses on his fingertips suggested frequent handiwork.
Harold Cly was far more than he appeared to be at first glance.
He poured thick coffee into two blue mugs, and Daphne’s veins sang at the sight of it. “Cream? Sugar?”
<
br /> “Both, please.”
He filled his mug with the same, then nodded his head toward the couch. She followed behind him, dropping down onto the opposite side of the loveseat and taking a sip of her drink. The strength of the coffee was enough to give her the morning rush of three cups, and the warmth did wonders in clearing some of the muddleheadedness she’d felt on waking up.
Daphne reached into her purse and took out her tape recorder. “Do you mind if I record the conversation?”
The old man eyed the machine. “If you feel you need to.”
She pressed the red button and set it on the table between them. “Just for the record, would you mind stating your full name and date of birth, please?”
The corners of Harold’s lips turned down, and Daphne wondered if he’d forgotten. After a moment’s pause, he said, “Harold Allan Cly, born January sixteenth, nineteen-thirty.”
With the formalities out of the way, Daphne returned to the story. “How about I start by telling you what I know of the hospital, and you can help me fill in the details,” she suggested.
“Works for me,” he said, leaning back in his chair.
“I know it was built in the early eighteen hundreds and was converted into a hospital in the early nineteen hundreds. It was a tuberculosis hospital first, and then they widened their scope until the place closed in the sixties.”
He nodded. “That’s all known fact.”
Daphne leaned forward. “I thought the hospital was one of the better ones at the time. So what does the public not know? You mentioned the history was horrifying.”
Harold bobbed his head. “In lots of ways, Peony House was ahead of its time. Some of the East Coast’s best doctors on staff, lots of fresh air and space for the patients to wander. It was always kept in peak condition, so when the families came to visit, they were impressed by the polished floors and the sun coming in through the spotless windows. The gardens were the envy of the town right up until the place closed. On the outside, it came off as a kind of utopia, and the staff were all happy to maintain that reputation if it meant bringing more patients in. But a few people noticed something different.”