In the Blink of an Eye

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Miranda tries to remember the last time she flew and realizes that she hasn’t been on a plane since she and Michael went to Cancun on their honeymoon.

  You really have to start learning how to live a little, she scolds herself, inching her way forward as the line moves up. You should make some new friends, plan a trip to Europe, maybe join some kind of club . . .

  Especially if she’s no longer going to have Kent in her life. The thought of losing his friendship stings more now that she’s left Lily Dale—and Andy—behind for good.

  Kent has his faults. Who doesn’t? But he’s the only other person who would have been fascinated by what she captured on that tape in the yard of the house at Ten Summer Street. Now she’ll never know what’s buried under the lilac tree.

  The only thing that’s certain is that something is there. What else could the recorded digging sounds have meant?

  “Miranda!”

  Startled, she turns to see Kent hurrying off the escalator, waving at her.

  “Oh, my God . . . what are you doing here, Kent?”

  “Don’t go back to Boston. Please.”

  She scowls. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “We have the whole summer ahead of us, Miranda. It’s going to be great. And I didn’t mean to freak out on you. It’s just that—”

  “I screwed up, Kent. I know it was wrong to lie to you. And I’m really sorry.”

  “I’ve been trying to understand why you did it.”

  She only shrugs.

  “I guess you got caught up in your—” He pauses meaningfully, and manages to avoid the word obsession. “Curiosity about that place, huh, Miranda?”

  She offers a tight smile. “I got caught up in a lot of things while we were in Lily Dale.”

  Kent gives her a questioning look.

  “His name was Andy. I’ll tell you about him later,” Miranda says. “The important thing is that—”

  “Excuse me.” Somebody taps her on the shoulder. “The line is moving.”

  She looks up to see a wide gap opening between her and the man in front of her. She automatically moves to close it, but Kent puts his hand on her arm, holding her back.

  “Come on, Miranda. Don’t get on the plane. Come back to Lily Dale with me. I can’t make this trip and write this book without you.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “You’re right, I can.” Kent grins. “But it won’t be as much fun alone.”

  “You got that right.” Miranda hands him her bag. “This is heavy. You carry it.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Yeah, and let’s hurry. I have to get my luggage back from the baggage check. You’ll never believe what I picked up on tape last night.”

  “ARE YOU ALL right, Dulcie?” Julia asks, her hand clutching the little girl’s arm as she leads her up the front steps. “You’ve been quiet all the way over here, and you didn’t even get excited when I said we could have pizza. I thought you loved pizza.”

  “I do. It’s just . . .” She trails off.

  Julia glances at her. Her vacant blue eyes are troubled.

  “Just what?” Julia prods, fishing for her key in her pocket She opens the front door and leads Dulcie inside.

  “Something happened this afternoon,” Dulcie tells her, toying with the end of one of the blond pigtails Julia braided for her before she left this morning.

  “What happened, Dulcie?” Julia absently reaches out to tuck a wayward wisp of hair more securely into the elastic at the bottom of the braid. “You can sit down,” she adds, guiding Dulcie to the sofa.

  Dulcie sits. “When I was alone upstairs . . .”

  “Your father left you alone upstairs?” Julia finds that surprising. Paine said he wasn’t going to let Dulcie out of his sight all day, and cautioned Julia to do the same tonight.

  “He was just outside the front door, loading stuff in the car.. He was only gone for a minute, and he could hear me the whole time,” Dulcie says defensively. “And I was fine . . . except . . .”

  “What happened?” Julia asks again, studying the little girl intently as she kneels beside her.

  She listens intently as Dulcie tells her about the latest vision of the lady. How she was crying and arguing with somebody. How she fell down the stairs, presumably to her death. How she tried to warn Dulcie.

  Don’t let him . . .

  Don’t let who what?

  What does it mean? Kristin wasn’t killed in a fall down the stairs. She drowned.

  Maybe the lady isn’t Kristin.

  But if not . . .

  Who is she?

  “Did you tell your dad about this?” Julia asks Dulcie.

  Paine didn’t say anything about it, but he rushed off the moment she got there. She was late getting back from her message session, and he had to drive all the way down to Jamestown for the meeting.

  “Yes, I told him. He said not to worry. He said we’re leaving first thing in the morning, and that I don’t have to go back to the house ever again.”

  “You don’t,” Julia says firmly. “You’re staying here tonight. Your dad will be back later, and in the meantime we’ll—”

  She breaks off suddenly, hearing a knock on the front door.

  “Oh, great,” she mutters.

  “What was that?” Dulcie asks.

  “Somebody’s at the door. I’ll be right back.”

  Certain it’s a passerby wanting a reading, Julia decides she should probably take down her medium shingle until she’s able to get back to work.

  But when she arrives in the hall, it isn’t a potential customer on the other side of the screen door.

  “Andy!” Belatedly, she realizes that she never told him to come later. She got caught up in the crowd of mourners after the service and by the time she had a moment to look for Andy, he was gone. She meant to call him after the Stump service, but was in such a rush to get to the hospital—and from the hospital back to Paine’s—that she completely forgot.

  “Weren’t you expecting me?” As usual, Andy’s eyes are obscured by his sunglasses, but she can hear the confusion in his voice. “I thought we said that on Thursday we would—”

  “I’m baby-sitting for Paine’s daughter right now. I meant to ask you earlier if we could go out on the lake some other time, but I completely forgot about it. I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh.” He seems hesitant. “The thing is, Julia, I only have the boat for the rest of this week. I’m not getting as much use out of it as I expected, and I canceled the lease for July.”

  “Don’t worry. I can get somebody else to take me out—”

  “Or I can take you now, like we planned. It’s a beautiful night. The water is so calm it’s like glass.”

  “But Dulcie—”

  “She can come, too. Iris was her grandmother. It would be fitting if she was there, too, don’t you think?”

  “I guess.” Julia considers that. It would be meaningful.

  “What’s holding you back, Julia?”

  “It’s just . . . I’m not sure Paine would want me to take her out on the lake without his permission.”

  “But I want to go.”

  Startled, Julia turns to see Dulcie standing in the doorway behind her, obviously eavesdropping.

  “I want to scatter Gram’s ashes,” Dulcie says firmly. “It’s not fair that you were going to do it without me.”

  Julia and Andy exchange a glance.

  “I’ve got kid-sized life preservers on board,” he says in a low voice.

  Still, Julia is reluctant to agree.

  “Please, Julia,” Dulcie begs. “It’s the last chance I’ll have to do something for Gram. My mom would have wanted me to be there, no matter what my dad thinks.”

  “We don’t have to be out long,” Andy points out. “Like I said, the water is perfectly calm. Not a wave in sight And when we get back to shore, I’ll take both of you out for pizza.”

  “That would be great,” Dulcie pipes up. “I’m starving.”


  Julia glances at the urn she earlier placed carefully on a small table just inside the door.

  Dulcie is Iris’s last living relative. She—and not Julia—should carry out Iris’s last wishes. She should scatter her grandmother’s ashes on the water where her mother died. Then the two of them, mother and daughter, will truly be together for eternity. And Dulcie will carry the memory of this last journey with her long after she leaves this place. It might even bring her peace, a sense of closure, in years to come.

  “What do you say, Julia?” Andy asks, jingling his keys in his hand.

  “Okay.”

  “FORGET? NO! NO, Virginia, of course I didn’t forget,” Rupert lies, holding the door wide open. “Come right in.”

  As Rupert struggles to get hold of himself, Virginia Wainwright sweeps into the room, bringing with her a cloud of expensive perfume. She’s dripping in diamonds and silk, and her hair is sprayed into a snowy mound of tendrils high above her unnaturally tight-skinned forehead.

  Rupert happens to know that Mrs. Wainwright is no stranger to plastic surgery.

  In fact, that was one of the first messages he ever gave her from her late husband.

  “Forgive me if this sounds blunt, but . . . Harrison wants you to know that he loves your face-lift, Virginia,” Rupert recalls saying.

  She was stunned, of course. Convinced that information could only have come from beyond the grave. After all, she hadn’t told a soul about her surgery. Nobody knew—except, of course, for her doctors back in Houston, and her loyal maid who nursed her through the ordeal.

  “Rupert? Are you all right?”

  He looks up, blinking. Mrs. Wainwright is looking at him with an expression that comes as close to concern as he’s ever seen on her self-involved face.

  “Yes . . . I’m fine.”

  Another lie.

  He glances toward the back of the house. Nan is sleeping in the bedroom. He isn’t sure whether her breathing is still as frighteningly shallow as it was earlier, or if he’s merely become accustomed to the desolate sound after an entire day spent at her side.

  You can send Mrs. Wainwright on her way, he reminds himself. You don’t even have to explain why you can’t do a reading for her right now. You don’t owe her anything.

  Except . . .

  Except that he’d be giving up a small fortune if he sends her on her way.

  But at this point, it goes beyond the money. The truth is, Rupert can’t bear to return alone to that back bedroom to resume his vigil. Despite his earlier, heartfelt promise to Nan, he needs a moment away, to regroup—to prepare himself for the long night ahead.

  Nan is so out of it that she certainly has no idea he’s left. And he can carry the baby monitor into his study with him, so that he’ll hear if anything changes.

  Rupert escorts Mrs. Wainwright into his study off the living room. “I’ll be right with you, Virginia. Please bear with me for a moment.”

  “Don’t be long. I’m so anxious to contact Harrison.”

  “I won’t be long.”

  Rupert returns to the back bedroom, where he finds Nan just as he left her, deeply asleep, her eyes closed. Her breathing is still rapid and shallow, but there have been no changes.

  “I’ll be in the other room if you need me, darling,” Rupert whispers, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead.

  He turns on the base monitor, still in its usual location on the nightstand, and picks up the receiver.

  In his study, he finds Virginia Wainwright anxiously tapping the toe of her designer shoe on the carpet. She stops tapping when she sees him, her gaze going directly to the baby monitor. “What on earth is that? Don’t tell me you’re baby-sitting. Do you have grandchildren?”

  He shrugs, loathing her. He turns on the monitor and sets it on a nearby table.

  “That’s going to interfere with the spirit energy,” Mrs. Wainwright informs him. “I read that—”

  “It won’t interfere,” he interrupts brusquely. “Now let’s get started.”

  She gives the monitor another wary glance, but settles into her seat.

  Rupert closes his eyes.

  Over the monitor, he can hear the faint sound of Nan’s breathing.

  Mrs. Wainwright swallows audibly, seeming to swish the saliva around in her mouth. Disgusted, he fights the urge to send her on her way.

  But that will mean giving up the money.

  And it will mean returning to the grim reality of the back bedroom.

  Rupert takes several deep breaths, pretending to sink into a meditative state. In truth, he’s forcing himself to move aside, for now, the tremendous weight of grief and stress. He has a job to do, a job that, after so many years, nearly comes naturally to him.

  At last, Rupert plunges in, eyes closed, voice trancelike. “Harrison is here,” he announces.

  “Yes!” Mrs. Wainwright’s voice is hushed. “I can feel his energy.”

  “He wants to know why it took you so long to get in touch with him. He says he’s disappointed.”

  “I’m so sorry, Harrison!” Mrs. Wainwright says.

  “He tells me that he wants you to stop flirting so much, Virginia. He’s showing me some kind of social event—I can see waiters in black tuxedos with trays of hors d’oeuvres, and out the window there are palm trees, and you’re all dressed up . . .”

  “Yes! The hospital ball. It was a black tie affair . . .”

  “You’re wearing some kind of heirloom piece of jewelry . . .”

  She gasps, clutching her hands to her breast “Yes! Yes, I know what he’s talking about. My grandmother’s diamond brooch.”

  “Yes, he says that’s it. And he sees you flirting.”

  “Flirting? I wouldn’t call it—”

  “Harrison says you were flirting with several gentlemen.”

  “Several? Are you sure?”

  “One in particular. Harrison says he was dapper.”

  “Oh, Harrison, he meant nothing to me!” Mrs. Wainwright exclaims. “It was just a harmless flirtation. We didn’t even kiss.”

  “No . . .” Rupert sighs. “But Harrison tells me the idea entered your head.”

  “Yes. Yes, it did. But then I pushed it right back out again. I’m so sorry, Harrison.”

  “He’s saying that he understands. He’s telling me that he knows you’ve been lonely. And he says . . .” Rupert puckers his brows, as though trying to discern the spirit’s message more clearly. “He says that the nights are the hardest for you. That’s when you miss him most.”

  Mrs. Wainwright sniffles. “That’s right. I can’t bear the nights. Even after so many years . . .”

  “Harrison says not to forget that he’s always with you. He was there in Florida with you when you received that disturbing phone call a few months ago . . .”

  “Disturbing phone call?” She frowns.

  Rupert’s eyes are open now, surreptitiously watching her ponder his words. “Yes, he’s saying you were very aggravated by something the caller told you, and that he was by your side.”

  “I don’t—”

  “He says it was long distance,” Rupert prods. “I’m not getting the origin very clearly but I feel that it was from somewhere north . . .”

  “The pushy telemarketer! That’s it! Yes, my dear Harrison, I was so very disturbed by that call. The man was selling magazine subscriptions and he had that awful New York accent. He simply wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  Rupert smiles, triumph momentarily obliterating everything else.

  Tonight it’s almost too easy.

  “MOM, PLEASE PROMISE me that you’re not going to check your answering machine back home every single day we’re away,” Christina says in the passageway outside the dining room. “Ship-to-shore calls cost a fortune.”

  “So? It’s my nickel.” Pilar is already hurrying toward the sign marked BUSINESS CENTER. She calls back to her family, “I promise I’ll meet you at the table in a few minutes. Go ahead and start if you want to.”

&n
bsp; As she makes her way to the public telephones, she wonders why she hasn’t been able to relax all day. She can’t seem to let go of her worries about the Biddles.

  After dialing her home telephone number and the password to access her voice mail, Pilar hears a mechanical voice announce in its unique staccato cadence, “You have one new message. Please press one to hear your message.”

  It’s got to be about the Biddles, Pilar thinks, pressing 1. She wonders, with a sinking heart, whether she’s about to hear that Nan has passed away. It’s what she’s expecting.

  “Hello . . . this is Katherine Jergins. I’m just calling because . . . well, because I realized that I was pretty rude to you earlier. I thought maybe we should talk.”

  “THIS IS INCREDIBLE,” Paine tells Howard Menkin as the two of them descend the wide cement steps leading away from the law offices of Anderson and Ogden. “How is it that this never popped up until now?”

  Swinging his briefcase in one hand and rubbing his mustache thoughtfully with the other, Howard agrees, “The timing is pretty fortuitous. And I find it interesting that Ogden failed to tell us exactly where his client got this so-called evidence.”

  They’ve reached the sidewalk of one of Jamestown’s busiest streets—which, in a city this size, on a Thursday evening, is fairly deserted. Paine finds the ghost-town aura almost as depressing as the news Tom Ogden just delivered.

  “Where are you parked, Paine?” Howard asks.

  “Just down the block.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “Thanks.”

  They walk in silence. Paine is still reeling from Ogden’s bombshell.

  Apparently, Iris and Anson Shuttleworth were never legally married.

  According to the newly produced evidence—a marriage license bearing the name of the officiant—the Jerry Garcia look-alike who presided over their barefoot nuptials was a fraud. In flagrant violation with Section 11 of the New York State Domestic Relations Law, the so-called Reverend Toby Bombeck was never ordained as a minister of any sort. In fact, he spent the better part of the last three decades in prison on various drug and criminal charges.

  Ogden, infuriatingly closemouthed when pressed for further details, did reveal how Edward Shuttleworth happened to run into Bombeck, a complete stranger, after all these years. It happened in some dive bar one fateful night not long after Iris died. They got to talking, Bombeck recognized Edward’s last name, and connected it with Iris, whose obituary had just appeared in the local paper. At some point that evening, Bombeck drunkenly confided that when he married Edward’s father and stepmother, he wasn’t legally qualified to perform weddings. He found it hilarious that the unsuspecting bride and groom never realized they weren’t really married.