I opened my mouth to protest, but Aunt Lydia’s expression stopped me. “Of course,” I replied, forcing a smile.
I trailed Richard to the front door, where he turned on me.
“What the hell was that about? I didn’t mind staying for dinner, but apparently you don’t want me here.”
“I think we should cool things down a bit.” I examined my fingernails, studiously avoiding his gaze. “We’ve spent so much time together lately, maybe we should take a little break.”
“Because . . . ?”
I looked up into his face. His somber expression clearly indicated his disappointment. “Because I think things are moving a little too fast.”
Richard lifted his hands, palms out. “You need to stop this, Amy. This is your anxiety talking, not you.”
“Of course I’m anxious. Two people murdered and Sunny missing . . .”
“That’s not what I mean. You’re freaking out over our mutual attraction. And I do think it’s mutual, whatever you say.”
“Maybe so, but we have to be realistic.”
“Why?” Richard cupped my chin with his hand. “Why do we have to be anything? Why can’t we feel what we feel and forget all the other nonsense?”
I stared into his beautiful gray eyes. “I just don’t want to be hurt again.”
“Then you don’t want to live.” He released my chin and slid his fingers down my neck in a soft caress. His hand came to rest just above my left breast. “Because you can’t protect your heart and really live. Because really living means taking a risk.”
“But how many times?” I cursed the tremor that had invaded my voice.
“Over and over, if necessary.”
“Not sure I can do that.”
“I think you can. I think you’re stronger than you know.” Richard leaned in and kissed my lips. A gentle, lingering kiss that sent heat radiating throughout my body.
I pulled away. “I’d better go.”
“All right. But I will be back. I’m not giving up on this. I’ve waited too long to find you.” Richard opened the front door and stepped onto the porch but looked back at me before he made it to the stairs. “Promise me one thing.”
“What?” My grip tightened on the doorknob.
“Watch that video. Dimensions, remember? Watch it and then come talk to me.”
I owed him that much, at least. “I promise.”
He pressed his fingers to his lips, then held his hand out toward me. “One more kiss. My promise to you that I am not playing games.” As he turned away, the porch light turned his skin sallow and made him appear, for once, older than his thirty-five years. “See you soon,” he called over his shoulder as he took the stairs in two leaps and jogged toward his house.
Chapter Twenty
As I wandered toward the kitchen, Aunt Lydia called to me.
“I’m back here,” she said. “And I want to talk to you.”
Great, here comes the lecture. I stiffened my spine and marched onto the back porch, holding my head high.
Aunt Lydia sat in the rocker, cradling a glass of sherry between her hands. “I poured you one. It’s on the side table. Grab it, and sit your butt down, and listen to me, young lady.”
I picked up the glass and sat in the wicker chair, crossing my legs at my ankles.
Like a little schoolgirl, waiting for instruction.
I uncrossed my legs. “I know you think I was rude.”
“Yes, because you were. But that isn’t what I want to tell you.” Aunt Lydia took a sip of her sherry. “I’m not about to get into whatever is going on between you and Richard. That’s your business.”
“Thanks.” My eyes widened in surprise. I’d been so sure she was going to lecture me about ushering Richard out of the house. “So what do you want to talk to me about?”
“Your great-grandmother.” Aunt Lydia straightened until her back did not touch her chair. “I know you’ve heard things from your mother, and they aren’t untrue. In fact, Debbie was right more than she knew.”
I scooted to the edge of my chair. “Right about what?”
“That Grandma Rose was intentionally cruel, not just afflicted with dementia. Of course, she couldn’t help that part, but I always wanted to believe that her illness was the reason she acted the way she did. I mean, the primary reason. But now”—Aunt Lydia took a long swallow of her drink—“I’m not so sure.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Things we’ve learned recently. Things you and Richard have uncovered. Like the whole situation with the well water. You see, my father was on the town council back in 1958 during the orphanage tragedy. And he talked to his mother quite a bit. They were close, you see. My dad was an only child, and his father was a distant sort, not much for talking. Especially, heaven forbid, talking about feelings. So my father always shared any personal concerns with his mother.”
“Okay.” I wasn’t sure where this was going, but Aunt Lydia looked so serious, I knew it must be important.
“Anyway, if the town council did know the real reason why Eloise Fowler and those children died, and they covered it up, then my father would have been part of the conspiracy. Which would’ve torn him to pieces. He was a kind man, always trying to do the right thing. He would have suffered greatly if forced to keep such a secret.”
“You think he would have confided in Rose, just to have someone besides your mom to talk to?”
“Yes, undoubtedly. Which would explain certain things I’ve never really understood before.”
“Such as?”
“Such as why Grandma Rose changed dramatically after that time. Oh, she was always stern and self-centered. But she didn’t become erratic until after the orphanage tragedy. Of course, I was only six when that happened, but I do remember how Grandma changed. I used to be in awe of her, but she could be fun sometimes, playing card games with me, or teaching me piano, or allowing me to use a touch of her powder or lipstick to play dress-up.”
I gestured with my hand, sloshing the liquid in my glass. “But she was different after ’58?”
Aunt Lydia stared down into her sherry. “Yes. Retreated from most public gatherings, except for church. Didn’t want to interact with me or many other people. Jumped at loud noises as if she expected something bad to happen at any moment. Started muttering to herself a lot.”
“That could’ve been the start of her slide into dementia. The early onset of it.”
“Perhaps, but”—Aunt Lydia slid her finger around and around the rim of her glass—“there was more to it than that, I think.”
I studied my aunt for a moment. Her head was bent over her hands, an uncharacteristic pose for someone with her ramrod posture. “You think she put two and two together like we have and realized that Daniel died of iron poisoning, just like Eloise and those orphans?”
“Yes, I think perhaps she did.” Aunt Lydia straightened and finished off her sherry in one swallow. “She was so convinced Eleanora had murdered Daniel that she actively fought to have Eleanora convicted. Produced the herbal and talked about the torn-out pages, of course, but she did even more than that.”
“More? What more could she do?”
“Oh, spread a lot of rumors about Eleanora practicing witchcraft and so on.”
“How do you know that?”
Aunt Lydia’s knuckles turned white as she clutched her empty glass. “Some of her friends used to visit us when she was ill, and they told me things. I mean, Grandma Rose didn’t recognize them half of the time, so they talked to me instead.”
“She was in love with Daniel, right? I figured that out from my research, just reading between the lines.”
“Yes, and she swore that Eleanora Heron had used enchantments of some kind to lure Daniel into marriage. But that was nonsense. Sure, Grandma Rose loved Daniel, but he never loved her. He was ten years older, for one thing. He liked her well enough, from what I heard, but thought of her more like a little sister than anything else. Any romance was all
in Grandma’s head. At least that’s what her contemporaries told me.”
Examining my aunt’s tense face, it dawned on me that this was one of the secrets Aunt Lydia had kept from me—one of the reasons she hadn’t welcomed my investigation into our family history. She had good reason to suspect Great-Grandmother Rose’s motives for testifying against Eleanora. I supposed it was hard for my aunt to admit the depths of her grandmother’s jealousy and duplicity, even now. It certainly didn’t paint a pretty picture of Rose.
I pointed at Aunt Lydia’s glass. “More?”
“No, better not. Help yourself if you wish, but I’ll never sleep if I have more.”
I shook my head. Not that sleep was probably in the cards for me, either way. “I’m fine too.”
“Of course, Grandma Rose was furious when Eleanora was acquitted. Vowed to find new evidence to somehow bring her to justice.”
“But she couldn’t be tried for murder again. Double jeopardy.”
“I know, and I guess Grandma Rose realized that pretty quick. Anyway, her friends told me she stopped talking about the murder after Eleanora left town. Although she never forgot. She even put money in a trust at the Lutheran church to pay for the perpetual upkeep of Daniel’s grave. I found that out later when I was dealing with her finances.”
“Such a sad story,” I said before finishing off my drink and standing up. “Here, let me take your glass into the kitchen with mine. You rest. Sure you don’t want something to eat?”
Aunt Lydia placed her other hand on my wrist as I took her glass. “No. And just set those on the side table.” She looked up into my face, her blue eyes very bright. “Stay. There’s more I need to tell you.”
I placed the two glasses on the table and stared out at the garden, now sepia-tinted by the twilight. “More? What do you mean?”
“Grandma Rose swore that Eleanora tore pages from the herbal, pages that contained recipes for poisons. It was the harshest evidence against Eleanora, but it didn’t convict her. Thank goodness, because I believe Rose lied. There were no pages ripped out by Eleanora, not for any reason.”
“Then who . . .” I turned, resting my hip against the table. “Rose tore out the pages? And did what?”
“Hid them, I think.”
“Why?”
“To strengthen the case against Eleanora, I suppose.” Aunt Lydia absently rolled a fold of her silk blouse between her thumb and forefinger. “I think she fabricated it all. Everything she told the court about Eleanora.”
“Because she hated her for stealing Daniel’s affections?”
“Yes, but also because she honestly believed Eleanora killed him. I’m convinced she believed that with all her heart, at least until 1958.”
“When the orphanage tragedy produced another possibility.”
“Yes.” Aunt Lydia sighed deeply. “Maybe she doubted her earlier certainty then. Maybe she even felt guilt for treating Eleanora so badly, although she never said so. But she did say some strange things at the end . . .”
“When she wasn’t in her right mind.”
“True, but there were things she said in her ramblings that never made sense to me. Not until now. It’s why I wanted to talk to you tonight. To let you know that maybe your mother had reason to flee this house and never return.”
I stepped away from the table and stood in front of my aunt. “Mom? How does she tie into it?”
“Do you remember Grandma Rose’s funeral?”
“Yeah, although I seem to have blocked some of the events out of my mind until recently.”
“I’m not surprised. It was probably traumatic for you and Scott, seeing your mom like that. Debbie’s always been so steady, so logical. But that day, she was hysterical. We had to call the doctor, who fortunately agreed to come to the house to give her a sedative.”
I sank back into the wicker chair. “What happened?”
“I’m not quite sure. She’d gone up to Grandma Rose’s room to get a photo of our parents that sat on the nightstand. But she was up there so long, your father became concerned. He went upstairs and discovered your mother, curled up in a corner of the bedroom, weeping. When he tried to get her to leave, she became hysterical, screaming about darkness and bugs and not being able to breathe. It was totally unexpected and irrational. Not like Debbie at all.”
Dark and cold. I recalled it now, my mother’s words. Something dark and cold.
Aunt Lydia leaned forward. “Now I wonder—did Debbie see something or find something in that room, something that made her realize that Grandma Rose had been lying all along? That our grandmother was a perjurer who had attempted to get an innocent woman convicted?”
“But why would that upset Mom so much? She hated Rose anyway. Wouldn’t she have been happy to prove she truly was an evil woman, not just a selfish, cold one?”
Aunt Lydia settled back in the rocker. “I don’t know, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. Maybe Debbie found those lost pages from the herbal? I can’t explain it; I just feel she discovered something that shook her to her core. Because, you know”—Aunt Lydia lifted her hands—“even if you hate a relative, they’re still family. And some people feel an ancestor’s shameful acts can taint them too.”
“But Mom would never think that way. She’s too practical.”
“Maybe so. She sure wasn’t that day. Anyway, she doesn’t remember anything. I’ve asked her plenty of times, and she always claims the entire day is a blur. She says the only thing she knows for certain is that she won’t return to this house.”
“Perhaps I should ask her.” I weighed this option. It made me nervous to contemplate discussing anything so irrational with my pragmatic mother, but it was definitely a long-overdue conversation. “But I think I’ll wait until next time I’m home. Don’t think I want to have that conversation over the phone.”
“No, you’d better have that talk face-to-face.” Aunt Lydia met my gaze and expelled a short breath. “I know Debbie would never say such a thing, but I’ve sometimes wondered if she saw a ghost.”
I straightened in my chair. “Seriously? Why would you think that?”
“Because of some things I have experienced in this house.” Aunt Lydia studied me intently. “You haven’t ever felt anything odd when you were here? A blast of cold air in the middle of summer, or drapes moving without any wind, or some shadow you only see out of the corner of your eye?”
“No, of course not.” My voice sounded shrill even to my ears. I could tell my aunt was not convinced. She probably knew I wasn’t being entirely honest. I had felt peculiar prickling sensations when I was in the front parlor. Like something wasn’t right. Like someone was hidden just out of sight, watching me.
But my mother’s practical voice invaded my thoughts, making me dismiss such ideas as nonsense. “Don’t tell me you have. I thought Richard’s house was supposed to be haunted, not this one.”
“I know it doesn’t make any sense. Not in any logical way.” Aunt Lydia gripped her knees with both hands. “Weird things happen, but when I think about them later, it feels like a dream or just my overactive imagination. Because even though I believe in the possibility, this is the wrong location for ghosts. Nothing’s happened in this house to warrant a haunting. Nothing I know about, anyway.”
I tipped my head to the side and looked her over. “Exactly. Besides, I’ve never heard you even hint at experiences with mysterious phenomena. You’ve always been honest with me about everything else—why not tell me about your fears of ghosts and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night?”
Aunt Lydia released her grip and waved one hand through the air. “Oh, you were just a teen when you first started visiting me. I know how heightened everything can feel at that age. I didn’t want to put silly thoughts in your head, and I certainly didn’t want to frighten you. I figured if you experienced anything similar, you would tell me. Then I would’ve talked to you about it, if only so you didn’t feel alone. But since you never said a word, I assumed
you hadn’t felt anything odd.” She pressed her hand against the arm of the rocker. “That it was all in my head.”
“All in your head.” I examined the deep lines bracketing her taut lips. “That was part of it too, wasn’t it? Great-Grandmother Rose eventually lost her mind, and you were afraid . . .”
“People would think I was going the same way. Yes.” Aunt Lydia sighed. “That’s something that definitely haunts me, ghosts or no ghosts. I witnessed Rose’s decline, her slide into oblivion. The idea that I could end up just like her is terrifying.”
There it was—the real reason my aunt had refused to ever speak about any peculiar happenings in her house. “I don’t think there’s any chance of that. You are one of the sanest people I’ve ever known. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for anything odd you’ve experienced in this house. Like doors not hung properly, rusty hinges, hidden cracks that let in blasts of air, or stuff like that. It’s an old house and not in the best condition.” I stood up. “You are not going mad, no matter how many shadows you see. I would wager a million dollars on that.”
“Good to know.” Aunt Lydia shook her shoulders as if casting off some burden and reached for her cane, which she’d propped against the rocker. “I believe I will make us dinner now. Even if it’s just soup and sandwiches, we need something.” Balancing her weight over the cane, she rose to her feet.
“I can help with that. But tell me,” I added as I followed her to the kitchen, “what was it that Rose said later in life that made you suspicious about her involvement in the Cooper case? In her ramblings, I mean.”
“Oh, just random things . . .”
The doorbell chimed, and we both jumped.
“News,” I said and hurried to open the front door.
Brad stood on the porch. He swiftly removed his hat and bobbed his head. “Hello, Amy and Mrs. Talbot.”
“You found Sunny?”
He shook his head. “No, sorry. But it’s turned into an official case now, so that will give us more resources.” He twisted the brim of his hat between his hands. “I came to tell you about Bob Blackstone. Since you called me, warning about him and all.”
A Murder for the Books Page 21