Practically the same response Aaron had given when I asked what he’d do with whatever Ashley and Vince had buried. I do not have a good answer for you at the moment. Especially in light of recent events and the uncertainty of who can be trusted.
I left the room to retrieve the package and set it on the table between us.
“So we’ve left the realm of hypothetical.”
I handed him Vince’s letter, which explained about the file contained within the larger envelope:
I’m not sure who will be reading this first.
If it’s you Granddad, please tell Cassie we’re sorry for deceiving her. Cassie, if you’re reading this, we didn’t mean to lie to you about how we ended up on the Cape, but we owe you so much for taking us in. If it’s anyone else, please handle this information delicately.
My real name is Jason Prince. While I was working toward my master’s in criminology at Temple University and interning with the N. Philadelphia police force, I stumbled onto a serious case of police corruption. I worried about my wife’s and my safety, so I sought help from the FBI. They were already building a case against a group of officers and pressured me to testify, but someone tipped off the corrupt officers, and I no longer felt confident that the FBI would be able to protect us. A friend and classmate connected us with a private protective agency in Albany, who set us up in a safe house, where we hoped to stay until charges were filed and the officers were in custody.
We shared some details with the agent, Henry Beamer, about the file, which we suspect he let slip, either by accident or intentionally. We felt it was too much a gamble to stay, so we left Albany quickly. We bought burner phones but were still concerned the calls could be traced back to us if your phone was being monitored, Granddad.
When Beamer showed up at the place where we were staying in Massachusetts, we had to leave again. We were starting to run low on funds and were so lucky to find you, Cassie, and a place to crash for a while. Granddad, we sent you a letter to let you know we left Albany, but when you didn’t show up, we had to assume you either didn’t receive it or that there was a problem with Whistler’s GPS device. There was no choice but to move forward with our own plan to leave the country. We are depending on Dad’s family to help us until we can connect with you.
The attached package contains a file of incriminating evidence I discovered during my internship, but I never had a chance to hand it over to the FBI guys in Philly before we left. The file was believed to have been destroyed in a fire, but obviously it wasn’t. What we don’t know for certain is whether or not the dirty cops knew the file still existed or if Beamer told them about it.
Granddad or Cassie, I’m entrusting you with the file. Whoever finds this, please get it to the right people.
Brooks shook his head and passed the paper back across the table. “Holy cow, Cass. What had they gotten themselves into?”
Holy cow, indeed. “You can’t blame them for trying to escape into new identities. If I’d been in their shoes, I’d have gone on the run too.”
“You’d never leave The Rock.” He was right on that count.
“But if someone feared for their life?” I took my empty teacup to the sink.
“Hmph. No wonder they were spooked every time I showed up out here,” he mused.
“It probably explains why the FBI wrangled the case away from you so quickly.”
“Maybe. Agent Benjamin didn’t get into those specifics with me, and it’s not clear from the letter whether the Philly FBI knew Vince still had the file.”
I wondered how much Aaron had known and what he’d shared with the local FBI office. He’d kept those cards close to the vest.
Brooks nodded. “Have you opened it yet?”
I shook my head. Every time I reached for it, Aaron’s words came rushing back to me. ‘You must believe me, the less you know, the better for everyone involved.’ I wasn’t afraid for myself as much as I was for Ashley and Vince.
“Is this about the fire Vince mentioned?” He waved a copy of a newspaper article dated around the time Vince and Ashley went to Albany. There’d been a fire in a Fish Town apartment building. Not a lot of damage, according to the newspaper accounting. Mostly files and paperwork. I was pretty sure I knew who was behind it.
“That, my friend, is a smokescreen. No pun intended.” All their drunk talk in Johnny Brenda’s about losing something valuable in a fire may have been intended to convince their pursuers that any evidence had been destroyed.
“You think they started the fire?” He looked doubtful. “How do you know it wasn’t an attempt to frighten them?”
It was a possibility I hadn’t considered, and one I wasn’t happy to think about now.
“The biggest unknown is who, besides Henry Beamer, is aware the file wasn’t destroyed by the fire?”
No doubt the same question was behind Aaron’s desperation to find it.
“So what should we do with it?” Vince’s instructions were to get it into the hands of the right people. “Who are ‘the right people’?”
Brooks remained quietly pensive for several minutes.
“Let me have some private time with this.” He took the file into the library, where he began paging through the evidence. I was too tense to wait in the kitchen and left for a walk with Whistler. I returned an hour later and found my friend staring into the remaining embers in the fireplace.
“So what’s the verdict?” I tried to be light.
“As much as I hate to admit it,” he rubbed his hands over his face, “this really does belong in the hands of the FBI.”
“Okay then.” I shrugged. “I trust your judgment. But I’ll let you do the honors.”
“The dilemma is, how should I say I came upon it?” He stared at me intently. “I’d like not to involve you in any way.”
“Tell them it rose from the ashes like a phoenix.” I added a log to bring the fire back to life.
He made a face.
“Why must you say where it came from?” I plopped down onto the opposite end of the couch.
“The credibility of the source?” He made a face that all but said, Duh. “How would you feel if I gave it to Agent Benjamin before he retires. I think he’d know how to handle it.”
When I didn’t say anything, Brooks added, “You know, Cass, he’s really not such a bad guy.”
“So I’ve been told.” Another endorsement, and from a most unlikely source.
31
Early November ~ two months after the disappearance
Two weeks later, I received a postcard of a beautiful Greek harbor with another cryptic message: The phoenix has risen again. Oikos modest. Doesn’t compare to BB. Have been listening to “The Winds of Change” and missing him. XOXO
I looked it up and learned that oikos was a Greek word for “house,” so I had to assume “BB” referred to Battersea Bluffs. It took awhile to figure out the last reference was to a song that began with sad whistling. They were missing Whistler. If only there was a way to assure them he was doing well.
The postscript had this message: Left Art of Sailor behind Vivlio techne!
My father’s sailing handbook! They’d left it behind, but where? I had initially thought the phrase “vivlio techne” to be a farewell signoff, but according to the translation website vivlio meant “book”—obviously they were referring to The Art of the Sailor—and one of the meanings for the word “techne” was “art.” They left the book somewhere with my paintings!
But I’d searched every nook and crawl space of the barn and carriage house and come up empty. I’d also checked the guest room, looking for a secret hiding place I may not have known about, but again—nothing.
I hadn’t slept well last night as I tried to think of possibilities for where they might have hidden that book. This morning I took my coffee into the library and lit a fire. When my laptop whirred to life on the built-in desk, the scent of burning sugar could not be ignored. But no photo appeared on the screen to give me a hint
of what the message was.
“What are you telling me?” I whispered, tilting my head back to rub my neck. That’s when I noticed my mother’s art books carelessly stacked on the shelf above the desk where I’d quickly shoved them the day we were emptying the carriage house of all my art supplies. I began arranging them in an orderly fashion and felt a smaller book had fallen in back of the pile. I reached behind the larger books and retrieved my father’s well-used sailing handbook. Vivlio techne. “Art books.” Now I get it!
Tears came to my eyes. It may have been a tattered old sailor’s guide, but for me it represented a treasured bond with my father. I flipped through the pages to read some of Papa’s notations, and a slip of paper fell out. The handwriting was familiar, and it read: Cassie—we left something important with Robert Toomey. Do a little digging.
Getting all the incriminating evidence in the hands of the authorities was critical in bringing those corrupt cops to justice. It would also be the beginning of Ashley and Vince’s journey home. They hadn’t wanted to leave it to chance that someone would be able to decode the message they left on the knotted rope—let alone figure out it even held a message.
If only this postcard had arrived earlier. It certainly would have hastened solving the mystery of their disappearance … and finding that file.
32
Late November ~ three months after the disappearance
Finally the dust had settled in my life, and I’d found the time to read those journal entries of Mama’s given to me by Edgar Faust. Memories of my childhood became more vivid. One especially stood out, of being with Mama in her studio, drawing at my child-size easel. I’d looked up from my miniature masterpiece and found her crying. I don’t remember what she told me when I crawled up onto her lap, for Papa had whisked me away to Fiona’s room. Granny Fi had moved in with us when Mama become so weak and needed her help.
~
Thirty years ago ~ Battersea Bluffs
“Granny Fi?”
“Yes, my darling.” Fiona was sitting in her rocking chair with Cassie on her lap.
“What’s a lighterman, and why does he curse?” the child asked.
“Where did you hear about such things?”
“Mama said something to Papa about it.”
Zoe had come to the doorway.
“It’s your fault Mama’s sick all the time,” she yelled at her grandmother and fled.
“Why’s Zoe so mean?” Cassie asked.
“She’s not mean. She’s a teenager. Now let me teach you a song, and then you’ll know all about lightermen. Your Papa’s grandfather was a lighterman in London.”
“That’s in England.”
“My, you are a smart one. Now hum along while I teach you the words.” She began to sing in her lovely voice, “ ‘Light is the lighterman’s toil, as his delicate vessel he rows, and where Battersea’s blue billows boil …’ ”
“Battersea? Like where we live?”
“Exactly. But the Battersea in the song is in England. Your great-grandparents named this home to remind them of their lives before they moved here. “ ‘For love he has kindled his torch, And lighted the lighterman’s heart …’ ”
“Granny, what does a lighterman do?”
“They captain boats. ‘And the Thames Tunnel echoes the lighterman’s sigh, and he glides mid the islands of soft Eelpie’.”
“Eel pie? Yuck!”
“This Eelpie is a place, not a food.” Fiona softly squeezed the little one’s nose, which provoked a giggle.
And then Cassie grew serious. “Did my baby brother go to heaven?”
Fiona felt like the old woman she was. “Yes, m’ love. He’s with the angels now.”
“With Grandpa too?”
Fiona twisted her emerald ring. She’d never filled the empty hole in her heart left after Ambrose was killed. “Grandpa too. And your great-grandparents, who built this house a long, long time ago.”
The little girl sniffed at the air. “Granny Fi, who’s baking cookies? Can I have one?”
~
Entries from Jacqueline Mitchell’s journal:
Damn that lighterman’s curse, and damn Fiona for telling me about it in the first place. Too much pressure. Still, I aim to beat it and make James proud. But I shouldn’t have let Cassie see me so upset. Why did I tell her she lost a little baby brother? She’s too young to understand about miscarriages and curses. A child should never see her mother in despair. Thank goodness James came in and took her away.
***
That foul odor will drive me mad. Even now, after losing the baby, it follows me everywhere. In the studio. On the Bluffs. James doesn’t smell it, but his nose is useless. Fiona says it’s only pregnancy sickness. I think it’s causing the miscarriages. Why is it always the boy babies?
***
Lost another boy last night. I cradled him until I slept, his tiny finger curled around my own. When I awoke he was gone, almost as if he’d been a dream. But James was there, stroking my face, calling me his Queenie, telling me it didn’t matter. The awful burning smell is back. It’s that damnable curse that tortures me.
The ravings in Mama’s journal were proof she’d been deeply disturbed by the nearly choking invisible presence. I thought back to times when I’d gaze out my window to see Papa holding tight to Mama as they walked along the cliffs. I now wondered if he had been rescuing his distraught wife from replicating our ancestors’ dramatic leap into the ocean.
It was finally all fitting together. I rested my miserable head in my hands. It had taken years to decipher the scents and signals being issued by the spirits of my great-grandparents, to recognize the difference between the encouragements and the warnings. I had allowed my own fears to mislead me when I became nearly overwhelmed by that repulsive smell. The burning flesh odor as Zoe had described it.
However, it wasn’t the evil stench of Robert Toomey that had pervaded Battersea Bluffs. After reading Mama’s journal, I was convinced it could only be Percy and Celeste’s deep expression of grief. All those lost Mitchell baby boys through Mama’s miscarriages and then my recent fruitless ectopic pregnancy. All would have been chances to keep the Mitchell bloodline going and, more importantly, to defy the lighterman’s curse. In their deep distress, they must have emitted an odor so egregious as to match their own misery.
And had I not had a last fling with Billy and the resulting failed pregnancy, I never would have grasped the significance. A bit of good had at long last come from that enduringly complicated relationship.
It was unnerving to consider I might have followed a similar path as my mother, had it not been for Ashley and Vince to help pull me from the dark cavity into which I’d crawled when the strange and disturbing stench of grief arose. They’d guided me away from the destructive influence of my mother’s paintings and helped me find the courage to overcome the grip they had taken on me.
And one last aspect would continue to mystify: How had the images of Percy and Celeste come to both Mama’s and my imagination and crossed over into our art? Was it our creative natures that caused Mama and me to be more susceptible to the force of such despair? To the excessive point where it could infiltrate our minds and possess us through our paintings? This was beyond my capacity to comprehend, and would likely remain so.
I’d returned again and again to the letters Edgar had passed along to me, and in so doing made some interesting discoveries. Evidently, my sister hadn’t taken care to read everything she’d sent, as stuck between the pages of one of Celeste’s letters was a telling note Mama had written to Granny Fi.
Fiona ~
It is urgent that we talk. Zoe keeps a diary, and I have done the unthinkable. But she has committed an act that I fear will strengthen the curse. Can we take a walk this afternoon when James is due in town? Tell him the fresh air will do me good. It won’t be a lie. That smell is so thick I can hardly breathe.
—Jacqueline
I puzzled over what Zoe could have done to have Mama so w
orried. That it had something to do with the curse only heightened my curiosity. I was positive there’d be more to learn from Mama’s journal, but what could be so terrible?
I was desperate to see if my mother had written anything to explain those morbid paintings so similar to mine. I remained hopeful Zoe would eventually grow to trust me enough to relinquish the journal, but was prepared for a long wait.
During my last phone conversation with Zoe, as I tried again to coax the journal from her tight clutches, we touched on a number of formerly taboo subjects, including Granny Fi and Robert Toomey. Zoe confirmed my suspicion. “Mama was disturbed by the same evil presence as I was. The Bluffs is haunted by Robert Toomey.”
“You’re wrong about that.” I searched my mind for something to convince her. “What about Edgar’s book? Didn’t that help you understand?”
“I could never bring myself to read it. In fact, I don’t even have it anymore.”
“Oh, but you must read it, Zoe.” I’d send her another copy of the book, but for now I tried to explain. “I believe with all my heart Percy and Celeste are a presence here—and not a bad one. I know it sounds crazy, but if you can believe in a bad ghost, then try to have an open mind about these good spirits.”
“I’ll try.”
“There’s an entire spectrum of smells in this house. It’s their way of sending messages. When it’s sweet, they’re guiding you or affirming something, and when it’s pungent and sharp, they’re trying to get your attention, send a warning, or change your mind. If you think back, what was happening in your life?”
My sister remained silent.
“Edgar says they have unfinished business.”
“Let me guess what that might be,” she said sarcastically. “Break the curse?”
Her bitterness saddened me, and I made one last appeal. “You read Celeste’s letters. She was willing to make peace with Robert Toomey, and I think we should do the same. If you’d just let me read Mama’s journal, maybe I could give you another perspective.”
“I don’t need your perspective. If Fiona hadn’t told Mama about the curse, she wouldn’t have continued trying to have a son. There wouldn’t have been so many miscarriages to weaken her body and her spirit.”
House of Ashes Page 33