Ravenswood (Ravenswood Series Book 1)

by Christine Zolendz

  When was the last birthday someone sung to me? I couldn’t remember.

  I flicked on my kitchen light and listened quietly. My grandmother and I lived in separate apartments in the same house, just a thin wall between us. She liked her privacy, and honestly, she had more of a social life than I did, so she needed her space. It used to be awkward growing up here and having breakfast with some of her more eccentric men friends.

  But that night, the house was silent. I wondered if she had a date. It was both our night off, so anything was possible. We had plans for my birthday: dinner, and I smelled a cake being baked earlier that morning. I hoped she used vanilla frosting; chocolate sucked.

  A small knock sounded from the other side of the wall. I smiled to myself as I undressed and rummaged through my dresser for something to wear for bed.

  “Hey, Gram!” I rapped my knuckles on the wall to answer her. There were days where all our conversations were spoken through the drywall. I heard her move something, probably her chair across the wooden floor.

  “Before you even ask, no, he didn't show up. Again.” I sighed, pulling an old soft T-shirt over my head. “How late can a baseball game go? It’s not even like he’s playing either. He’s just watching it, on a TV, with a bunch of other guys.”

  At least I thought that’s what he was doing.

  I walked into the kitchen and heard her do the same. She stayed silent. She always let me talk through my complaints, and then she’d come over, open a bottle of red, and offer her advice. The advice was always horrible, but I listened nonetheless.

  “I just hate this feeling. It makes me want to eat a gallon of ice cream.” I laughed.

  I pulled out a bowl and box of cereal, one of those generic brands, circles and oats that tasted like cardboard. I poured a mound of the cereal into the bowl and splashed in some milk; for some reason, I was starving. I shoved a spoonful of it in my mouth and crunched.

  “I think it’s the beginning of the end,” I said through a mouthful of food.

  I wiped at my chin with my sleeve as milk dripped down, then padded through the back pantry, looking for some napkins. I stopped in the middle of the hallway when a cold breeze bit sharply against my bare legs. That’s when I noticed the back door, the one facing the bay, was wide open, the screen swaying gently along with the salty wind. Just beyond, the tide lapped at the shoreline, hissing and sloshing.

  Slowly, I set my bowl of cereal down. My back door should not be open. I never leave the house unlocked or doors wide open. Never. I quietly tiptoed to the door and peeked my head outside; again, that strange feeling crept up along my neck, making me rub my shoulder against my cheek to rid myself of the sensation.

  Something bright red at the bottom of the steps caught my attention. I leaned down to get a closer look. It was one of my grandmother’s shoes. I felt the blood drain from my face and heat spike across my chest. My fingers went numb and lost hold of the screen door. It slammed shut behind me. I whirled around, looking out across the yard and down along the shore. Empty.

  Was she walking around somewhere with only one shoe on? Did she stumble home after a few too many drinks from a date and not notice one of her shoes was missing? An eerie feeling crawled up my spine.

  Stupid though, I was just talking to her inside!

  I pounded on her back door, but there was no resistance, it thudded open and crashed up against the wall. The hollow sound echoed out across the beach behind me and got washed away by the waves.

  It was dark inside, but from behind me the moonlight streamed in, falling softly over the stark white skin of a leg jutting out from behind the other side of the table. A bony leg that belonged to the red shoe outside—the one at the foot of the stairs.

  My hand instinctively flipped the light switch. The silence that followed was thunderous—so dead quiet, I could hear my pulse rush past my ears.

  And then I couldn’t scream loud enough.

  Later, the detectives would show me the envelope she was clutching. Smeared with blood and other bits of things. They couldn’t let me see all the contents. Said it was now evidence in a murder investigation. I didn’t know if I’d ever get to see the rest of the items, but there was one thing I knew as a certainty.

  That crazy old fortune teller was right.

  Dead people have secrets.

  Chapter 2

  “Miss Halerow?”

  My grandmother was dead. Not just regular dead—the murdered kind of dead.

  A throat cleared. “Miss Halerow?”

  How long have I been here?

  I stared across the table into a pair of thick, strong hands. One hand hovered over a yellow legal pad and pen—a small star shape was doodled in the far right-hand corner—the rest of the page filled with unreadable upside down words.

  “Miss Halerow? May I call you Rainey?”

  “Uh huh.” There was so much blood. Her shirt was soaked red. What a mess. She’d be so angry, her shirt was ruined.

  “Rainey, let’s go over the events of the night again…so I have the timeline correct.”

  Under her body, the floor was covered with blood. It just stretched out and spread through the lines of grout in the tiles, filling up all the cracks. The heels of her feet had made trails where she’d struggled and kicked out. They made eerie X and O shapes in the sea of crimson. She was gone. That was the last time I’d ever see her—speak to her—talking through the wall while someone—I felt the tears swelling and the pressure in my sinuses building.

  “Rainey? One more time. Let’s go over—”

  “I did. I-I went over everything,” I said, rubbing my eyes to get the images out. They ached from crying, stung and itched from being awake so long. “What time is it?” I asked. The clock face on the far wall hung empty. The glass window that housed it was covered with webbed cracks, and the thin black hands that once told time lay uselessly along the bottom.

  Detective Robertson kneaded his fingertips against his temples and smiled tightly. “It’s just past seven. Do you need another coffee?”

  My fifth cup was cold and crumpled up on the edge of the table; next to it sat my blackened cell phone, battery dead. Dead. Like my grandmother was dead.

  I leaned my elbows down and slumped over. Detective Robertson was new. Two other detectives questioned me before, same questions, all worded differently, of course. My answers never changed.

  “Hungry?” he asked, drumming his fingers on his pad. “There’s usually a breakfast bus right outside. I could have someone run and get you a bagel.”

  “No, thanks. I’m not feeling hungry.” My grandmother was dead. All I could see was her bloody body in front of me. I didn’t want a damn bagel.

  “How long did you say you lived with Adelaide Delacroix?” he asked. Again.

  I looked up, barely able to focus on his eyes. “All my life, like I’ve said.” Though she wasn’t Adelaide Delacroix to me; she was Delia Debarow.

  “She owned her own business, and you worked with her there?” he asked, scratching at the scruff on his chin.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This business being…sorry…I didn’t quite get the gist of it.”

  “Spirits and Words. I already told Detective Cosgrove and Philps. It’s a book bar.” My throat was thick with saliva, my voice heavy with sorrow. Why did they want me to repeat the same things, over and over again?

  His eyebrows arched high, and he cleared his throat again.

  “It’s a literary bar. A place where you go and read books and have a few drinks.” I sighed heavily, not even able to think about what would happen to the place now that she was gone. “On the weekends, I talked her into letting me play piano there. I thought it added to the ambiance.”

  “Yeah, you play well?” he asked, clicking his pen again.

  I shrugged, unable to answer. I was trained at Julliard—held a Bachelors of Musical Arts Degree—which I'd yet to use working for my grandmother, in a trumped-up bookstore that had a liquor license. She
always told me it was an enjoyable hobby to have—playing musical instruments—but it would never feed me or get bills paid. So I managed the bookstore, barely bold enough to play a few bars on the piano on a Saturday night when business was slow. A shiver ran up my spine—I didn’t want to think resentful thoughts about Gram, but my heart always ached for something more. It’s why I pushed myself to audition for the Philharmonic.

  “And if she were no longer capable of running the place, it would fall solely to...”

  “I’m not sure,” I whispered and touched my fingers along the edge of my cell phone.

  The detective’s eyes followed the path of my fingers. “I think Detective Cosgrove is still trying to find a phone charger for you. But while we wait, I’d like to get back to these numbers, and a few other things.” He slid the notepad across the table and tapped his fingers above a line of numbers.

  Halerow: 32856.

  It was my last name, that’s all I knew. The numbers didn’t mean anything to me. They were written on the back of an old book my grandmother had in her hands when she died. When she was murdered. Slaughtered. Butchered in her damn kitchen. While I was right next door, pouring cereal in a bowl, whining about how my boyfriend didn’t pay enough attention to me.

  My eyes roamed over the book and bloody envelope covered in clear plastic evidence bags. Her blood had dried, thick and dark in a horrific splattered handprint across the top of the envelope. Even the necklace she never took off was stuffed inside, now crimson and crusted over, stuck with her blood to the spine of the book. I gagged back vomit.

  Detective Robertson noticed and quickly moved the bags to a small table in the corner of the room. “I know this is hard for you, but the more information we receive, the faster this will go. Do you recognize these numbers at all? How about the book?” He slid the envelope on the bottom, so from where I sat, all I would be able to see was an innocent looking book.

  Just a plain old book that was clutched in the hands of my murdered grandmother. It was about mythology or something. How could anyone hold on to a book while they were getting killed?

  I had seen it when the detectives first brought me here, swiftly pulling me from the crime scene and escorting me into the hard gray walls of an investigation room. It was completely insane. If the book were worth any money, why would it still have been in her hands? Still inside a crinkled up manila envelope? If someone was robbing her, wouldn’t they have taken something?

  Or did the envelope and book have nothing to do with it? Did she owe someone money? Did she fight with someone?

  On the front of the envelope was the name Rose Delacroix, but I kept my mouth shut, only answering when questioned, you know, being their only suspect and all. The book was probably some old artifact or something. Gram was always into that stuff; she sold antique books and old documents at the store all the time. Artifacts and books. She should have named the bookstore Old Shit and Words.

  “I’m sorry. I still don’t know what those numbers mean, or what that book is,” I said, my voice cracking hoarsely. “Maybe I will go for another coffee.” My mouth was so dry, and my chest ached so much.

  “Sure thing,” he said, wrapping his knuckles against the pad. “Why don’t you stretch your legs, and I’ll be right back.”

  I was too tired to move. My heart was too broken.

  When he came back in, he held a cup of steaming hot coffee and a phone charger. He placed the coffee in front of me, and I instantly cupped my hands around the Styrofoam mug. While I breathed in the dark, bitter aroma, he plugged the cell phone in for me and sat back down across the small gray table. Scratching his hand along his jaw, he started the questioning again.

  “Did Ms. Delacroix have any enemies? Anyone you know who might want to cause her any trouble?”

  “Detective, like I’ve said before, none that I’m aware of. But I didn’t know her as Ms. Delacroix. My grandmother’s name was Delia Debarow. That was her name. Her only name.” I never heard of the last name Delacroix, and I sure as hell didn’t know who this Delacroix was or why they thought that was my grandmother’s name.

  “Right,” he said, picking up his pen and repeatedly clicking its top. “So let’s get back to that timeline. When did you say you met up with your friends, um—?”

  I huffed out a low sigh. “Megan and Amy. We met for dinner and drinks at four. Then went to the carnival.” Eric was supposed to meet me, us really, but never showed. I was too confused to say the words out loud. It didn’t matter, did it? Him not showing up for me again didn’t make one bit of a difference in my life right now. Nothing would have changed that night. Eric would have walked us all home and made a stupid excuse not to come inside with me. Gram would still be dead.

  The detective adjusted his glasses and scanned the paper. Next to us, my phone turned on and started binging wildly with probably hours of missed texts and notifications. Right now my grandmother’s face would be plastered all over Facebook followed by gut-wrenching posts and comments about how much she was loved.

  “And you only separated from your friends when you went inside…” he brought the pad closer to his face, then tossed it back down on the table, “a fortune teller’s tent.”

  “Yeah. That took all of five minutes.” If only I stayed home, none of this would have happened.

  “Your friend Amy said it was a little bit longer,” he said darkly.

  I shrugged. I was too busy watching my phone vibrate and shift along the surface of the table. I had a voice message. Nobody ever called me. This was a texting world. Who called people and spoke anymore? A notification number slid across the screen, and my insides coiled with painful cramps.

  “That’s my grandmother’s number!” I said, grabbing the phone and knocking the coffee cup clear across the room. I held it out to show him. “There’s a voice message.”

  The detective sat back and folded his hands on the table in front of him. I didn’t wait for him to give me an answer as to what to do. I tapped open the phone and hit the voice message app and pressed the speaker on.

  You have one new message from three o’clock am, the robotic voice stated.

  “Rainey!” my grandmother’s voice yelled into the phone. “Rainey, do not go looking for anything. Please. Leave things be. Listen to no one. Trust no one,” she whispered. “And Rainey, baby, I’m sorry. I tried my best to protect you, but you have to get away. Take the money in the safe and run! Leave and never come back. Don’t let them find you!”

  Static filled the line, and then it went dead. Both of us stared down at it in silence.

  “Detective?” I whispered, unsteadily, my heart throbbing in my throat.

  His eyes flitted up toward mine. His brow furrowed and scrunched together.

  “How did my dead grandmother call me at three in the morning? I…I found her body at midnight.”

  “Rainey,” he said softly, leaning forward. “We’ll need your phone number, your service carrier…sometimes these things get hung up in transmission. It’s not your grandmother from beyond. Obviously, dead people can’t make phone calls.”

  But Delia Debarow, Adelaide Delacroix, or whatever her real name was, did.

  And whatever words any of the detectives used to try to get me to think otherwise never broke through my terror.

  No, that night I believed. Dead people did make phone calls.

  Chapter 3

  The funeral home smelled like wildflowers until it filled with the scents of perfume and sorrow, and something stranger and harsher, hidden even deeper beneath. I cringed each time someone said they were sorry or that my grandmother was in a much better place.

  A much better place was dead? That’s a great big hell no, asshole. Where was this much better place? What better place began on the bloodied floor of a kitchen? And what exactly were you sorry for? Did you have anything to do with it?

  Gram’s friend Mable pulled me forward, clutching me in her arms, staining my shirt with tears. A flash of fury swept through my che
st, yet I stood stiff, trying desperately not to push her off me. I didn’t even know this person. I didn’t know most of the people there. Any one of these people could have been her killer. Any one of these people could have put her in that much better place. Even the overly perfumed Mable.

  “Oh, sweet child. I didn’t even know Delia had a granddaughter,” Mable mumbled against my hair, squeezing me tighter. “She never mentioned you at Bingo. But I’m sure she loved you so.”

  Yeah. And now she’s dead. The one woman who made up the entirety of my family, gutted on the kitchen floor.

  What could I do with how much she loved me now?

  I still couldn’t even get the images of her out of my head. They were stuck there behind my eyelids, even when I didn’t close them.

  The detectives said it looked like someone she knew. There was no sign of forced entry, nothing missing, nothing strange in the house, save for the dead body in the kitchen. The place was dusted for prints, and the only ones they found were hers. They had no leads. They had absolutely nothing to go on. They couldn’t even figure out what the murder weapon was—something sharp and long, serrated, and possibly hooked—we owned nothing of the kind.

  It got worse. Within a few hours, her body decayed almost instantly, causing the coroner to believe she was somehow poisoned. With what, they couldn’t begin to understand. The damage to the body was incomprehensible. They told me no more.

  They were as clueless as I was. But they didn’t give up trying to figure it all out. They stood like centurions at the entrance of the funeral home, keeping a watchful eye on everyone who walked in. Hundreds of people came out to pay their respects. Everyone loved my grandmother, and everyone knew her. How well they knew her was another matter altogether, though. Everyone I introduced myself to seemed genuinely surprised Delia Debarow had a family. She never mentioned me to anyone at all. I knew some of the customers who frequented the store, but most of the faces were a blur of unfamiliarity.