A part of him hoped that the number would be disconnected, or that the person on the other end would answer and tell him that no one by the name of Ligeia lived there.
But then someone answered. Someone with a soft voice. "Hello?" The greeting hung in the air for several awkward seconds before the investigator finally found it in himself to reply.
"Hello, am I speaking to Ligeia Poole?" He grit his teeth, locked his fist around his ballpoint pen.
There was ponderous silence on the other end, but then a reply trickled out. "May I ask who's calling? That was my married name, but it's been quite a long time since anyone's called me that."
His mouth went dry and his legs couldn't seem to stop fidgeting. He hadn't been off the mark after all. This was the woman he'd been looking for. Vivian's mother.
And she was, in fact, still alive.
It was going to be difficult for him to break into this conversation in any gentle way, and so he chose to simply dive straight in. "I'm very sorry for bothering you this afternoon, ma'am. My name is Harlan Ulrich. I'm a private investigator working out of Toledo, Ohio, and I have just a few questions for you in relation to... your daughter. Vivian?"
The line crackled, and for one despairing instant, Ulrich thought she'd hung up.
But then the gentle voice resumed, albeit uncertainly. "Mr... Mr. Ulrich, is it? I... I don't understand what this could be about. I did, once, have a daughter named Vivian, but she's been gone for many years. She passed on ten years ago, nearly to the day." She cleared her throat, the soft tone of her voice now relaying distress. "What is this about?"
He had to tread carefully. He couldn't simply lay everything on her at once. It would do him no favors to claim that he'd been hired by her ex-husband to chase their daughter's ghost around. "Well," he began delicately, "I've been hired to look into your daughter's suicide by a certain interested party. Client confidentiality is paramount, of course, and so I mustn't say more on that matter lest I violate my contract, however I was calling in the hopes of corroborating some details about your daughter's life and your relationship with her. If I could have just a bit of your time, I'd appreciate it."
Ligeia could be heard to take in a deep breath. "Michael hired you, didn't he?"
Ulrich didn't answer that question, though apparently his stammering reply was enough to convince her. "W-well, I can't really--"
"It's that time of year. The time of year when the guilt gets to him. He can put it off all Spring, all Summer, but in the Fall he always tends to get melancholy. And in Winter, it's the worst."
"The guilt?" asked the investigator. "What do you mean?"
"What, exactly, did your 'client' tell you about me, sir?"
Ulrich loosed a nervous laugh. "Truthfully? He said that you and your daughter had a very rocky relationship. That you divorced him some years before Vivian passed and that you were not in contact with your daughter in the years before her death."
Whether it was a laugh or an indignant sob that entered his ear next, Ulrich was uncertain. "Is that what he said? That's... that's quite a colorful retelling of the events. Certainly juicier than the explanation he came up with for the last PI who called me."
Ulrich dropped his pen on the table and leaned forward so quickly he nearly toppled his mug. "Excuse me?"
Ligeia replied. "He's seen her again, hasn't he? He's seen Vivian outside of that hotel? It's the same thing, every year. Every winter, he starts into this same mess." She sniffed back tears. "That's what this is about, isn't it?"
Ulrich grunted. "Y-yes." He couldn't say much more than that, couldn't ask the questions that were now accumulating in his brain like so many inches of falling snow. Though he had no family of his own, Ulrich found himself embroiled now in the turmoil of the Poole family, and was getting the other side of the story. Micheal had said his piece, had given the investigator one possible angle. Now it was Ligeia's turn to give her version of the facts. Though he couldn't yet be certain, Ulrich suspected that the truth was couched somewhere between both accounts.
"Michael isn't well. You see, for years now, ever since the incident, he's been seeing her. When it starts to get cold outside, he claims to see Vivian's ghost near that hotel. He's had people go looking for her, has tried to seek her out himself, but nothing's come of it. Because he's insane. With all that money he's got, you'd think he'd spend it on something useful. Instead he hires PI's and sends them on wild goose chases. Sometimes they even get ahold of me, like you're doing. Michael comes up with all kinds of stories, embellishes the facts however he pleases. Always makes himself look better in the reminisce. And you know why he comes down with this sickness every year? It's because he's still holding onto that guilt." Ligeia sighed. "He deserves every bit of it, too. If my daughter really is out there somewhere, flickering in the corner of his eye, then I hope she's putting a scare in him. After everything he did..."
This was a lot of new information to handle, and it served to upend everything Ulrich had learned up to that point. Michael had lied to him already, and so these new developments shouldn't have been so surprising as they were, and yet the investigator was stunned at the ease with which Michael had hidden away these other details. These sightings of Vivian, it turned out, weren't a new phenomenon.
And regardless of Ligeia's opinion, Ulrich knew they weren't merely a hallucination, either.
"So," started Ulrich, "I need to clear some things up. According to your husband, you and Vivian were not close... had something of a difficult or strained relationship. Is it true that you left him and never spoke to your daughter afterward?"
Ligeia's tone grew firm. "It is true, but not for the reasons you think. I tell you, in this world it's amazing what a man can do, the pain he can cause, if only he has enough money and the right connections. You may be aware that he's rather well-off. It's always been that way; he actually inherited most of his wealth from his father. Over the years he cozied up to people in law enforcement, local government, influential businessmen looking for investors, and before anyone knew it the whole city was eating out of his palm. That kind of influence can win one a lot of favors. Including a draconian custody agreement."
Ulrich bit down on the back end of his pen. "You mean to say that he took you to court for full custody of Vivian and you lost?"
This incited her to chuckle dryly. "What went on could barely be called a trial. Vivian was of age to make the choice, however Michael managed to get one of his doctor friends to rule her incapable of making an informed decision due to her disability. It was ludicrous. From then on, he managed to plant evidence of my supposed abusiveness, of my poor mothering skills. He used my own history with depression against me to make me appear unfit, and when it was all said and done, I wasn't even allowed to see her."
"That can't be right," uttered Ulrich. "Such an arrangement is beyond imagining. No judge would ever--"
"Unless he was in Michael's pocket. And that's what happened. I had to move out of State, because anytime I tried to get close to my daughter or start an appeal, he'd threaten me. I dedicated myself fully to getting her out of there, to bringing her to live with me, up until the day she died. I feel confident that, had my daughter been under my care, that never would have happened." Her voice faltered, throat trembling over a knot of tears. "I... I didn't even get to attend my own daughter's funeral."
When he'd first met Michael at the museum and agreed to consider his case, Ulrich had never imagined such a sordid family dynamic as this. Throughout the course of this investigation he'd been lied to multiple times so that he wasn't sure who or what he could believe. Nevertheless, if even half of what Ligeia was telling him was true, then Michael's ruse of saintliness and patriarchal concern were crumbling away rapidly.
It occurred to him that the only person he could trust in this case was the ghost. Vivian.
"Why, in your opinion, did your daughter commit suicide?" asked Ulrich. "According to Michael, it was unexpected. Was it the divorce that did it? Had s
he struggled with depression in the past?"
"I hadn't seen my daughter for a long while when the end came. I'd spoken to her on the phone a few times, briefly, and she'd talked about how much she detested her father. But I never expected her to go to such drastic measures. My daughter had always been a bright and happy child. Despite her disability she always wore a smile. Unfortunately, that smile was hiding an enormous amount of pain. One day, I suppose the pain became too much, and..." She took a deep breath. "And to think... she could have had such a normal life. If only things had been different. If only she hadn't been injured. If only I'd..."
"You mean the injury to her spinal cord, during her birth?" offered Ulrich. "Michael did mention that."
"Y-yes," she stammered after a brief hesitation. "Yes. I wish that my daughter could have lived a normal life. Perhaps if she had, she could have avoided this fate. And perhaps she could have run away from him. Instead, my poor girl was trapped in that house of his, like a prisoner. When she finished high school, he didn't even let her sign up for college classes and instead insisted he'd someday pass on one of his businesses to her. This, of course, was a lie. He dragged her around like a toy, stashing her away in his hotel whenever he tired of her and then parading her around when he felt he needed the pity from his associates. He always liked to play the martyr, Michael did. The strong 'single-father' was his schtick."
Another inconsistency. In Michael's account, Vivian had been a college student, home on break and staying at the hotel, when the tragedy had taken place. The more he listened, the more his head began to ache. It was becoming impossible to map out the details, what with all of the conflicting information flying about.
"I'm sorry, but I need to get off of the phone," said Ligeia. "If I were you, I'd drop this case and never do business with that man again."
"Thank you for your time," Ulrich said half-heartedly. "I appreciate it."
The line went dead, leaving Ulrich sitting in his living room, legs crossed and temples throbbing. There wasn't enough coffee in the world to set his head right. Peering over the edge of the table, he found Beardsley curled up beside the sofa. The cat blinked up at him sleepily as if to say, "Screw it, time for a nap."
The investigator would have liked nothing more than to dive into his bed and forget everything about this ridiculous case. Instead however, he stood up, leaned over the kitchen counter and stared out across his apartment.
"Look, Vivian, if you're here we need to talk. I'm in no rush to meet you again, but I'm getting the feeling that I won't get to the bottom of this until you've told your story. Your mother and father have given me a lot of crap. So, where does the truth reside? Was your father the liar you spoke of? Your mother? Both of them?" He scratched at his ear. "I don't know who the hell to believe, but I want to help you."
The heater kicked on and the warmth of the room deepened.
"OK," he mumbled. "I guess I'll be seeing you tonight, won't I?"
14
The day was long. Ulrich puzzled over everything he'd learned about the life of Vivian Poole, retraced his steps and considered the accounts of both her parents. Michael was a damn liar, and that much had been obvious for some time now. But what of Ligeia? Was she being completely honest about Michael's dictatorial role? No matter the man's lies, Ulrich still had trouble visualizing Michael as some kind of tyrant. Perhaps that was naive of him, but nothing about the man had signaled that degree of harshness during their previous meetings.
The morning and afternoon slowly burned down until the first pangs of dusk began accumulating in the sky and Ulrich's stomach grumbled. He'd been pacing around his place for the bulk of the day and found himself wanting to wander. Fetching his jacket, he stepped out with the intention of finding something to eat.
And maybe, he reasoned, he'd find himself a ghostly dinner date.
The very thought of encountering Vivian again made his pulse shoot up. Every fiber in his being simultaneously tensed and recoiled at the prospect, and yet he knew that he could trust no testimony on these matters but hers. Nonetheless, Vivian hadn't been the most vocal spirit he'd ever encountered. Getting her to tell her side of the story would take some doing, and it would require him to get much closer to her than he liked.
It was the only path to walk. If he avoided this, if he kept running from the terrifying spirit, then the matter would never be resolved. Vivian would never rest and, probably, neither would he.
It was interesting to learn that Michael had been seeing his daughter's ghost for some time. That it was a yearly occurrence, and that he had retained the services of other detectives in seeking her out, was curious. Probably nothing had ever come of those other investigations; Michael had almost certainly been written off as a grief-stricken man who was hallucinating.
Ulrich, though, had seen her. If Vivian was indeed a hallucination, then she was a nightmare that the two of them shared.
The day had been warmer, causing the snow and ice to thaw. Leaving his apartment on foot and trekking through the slush, Ulrich settled on a sandwich and coffee at Grounds for Thought, his favorite cafe in town. It was a longer walk there from his new pace than it'd been from his old apartment, but he needed the time to think and the wind wasn't so cold this evening as to dissuade him. And so, hands in his pockets and mind buried in thought, he marched into the dusk.
No matter who, in the end, was telling the truth, Ulrich had no doubt that Michael and Ligeia's divorce had been a bitter one. Is there any other kind? he wondered absently. As he walked, he couldn't help but think back to his own childhood, to the falling out his own parents had had. It'd been a bit different in Ulrich's case. Nothing had been hashed out in court for him, and his fate hadn't been decided by a judge. Instead, his father, drunkard that he'd been, had simply lost interest in him and faded gradually out of his life. This, in large part, was the reason he'd decided early never to marry or have kids of his own, and when hearing about situations like Vivian's, he felt all the more secure in his decision.
The streets were empty. Now and then a car would swing by, headlights painting the facades of nearby buildings in brilliant white, but the bulk of his trip was taken in utter solitude. The dripping of icicles from nearby eaves provided an unreliable beat for him to step to, and the sky overhead seemed to grow darker every time he looked up at it.
She'd be coming soon. He knew it, and not simply because she'd followed him the night before. Like an old injury can sometimes help people predict the rain, Ulrich could feel something, a strange sort of ache, within himself. He was alone now, would probably be able to enjoy a meal and get more thinking done. But that the ghost would emerge again, to haunt him before the night was through, was never in doubt.
Entering the cafe, Ulrich let the warmth of the place wash over him, and was surprised at just how cold he'd really been. Rubbing at his reddened cheeks, he walked up to the front counter, no line to be seen, and offered a smile to the barista. Ordering a roasted turkey sandwich and a large coffee, he waited off to the side until his order was prepared and then carried it over to one of the tables in the corner, beside the rows of light brown bookshelves that teemed with used books and records. Grounds for Thought doubled as a used book store, a vendor of old curios, and often when he finished his meals he'd take a stroll through the stacks, looking for interesting things to take home with him.
He didn't even bother taking off his coat, but instead leaned forward and began devouring his food like a man starved. The bread, a toasted hearty white from a local bakery, crunchy romaine, thickly-sliced tomatoes and a thin layer of savory dressing surrounding turkey breast made for the most delicious combination in recent memory. He polished off one half of the sandwich and forced himself to wait on the second, nursing his coffee. With a little food in him, he started to feel more like himself. That was often the sole difference between his good days and his off days; a really good meal.
The coffee proved invigorating. Mug in hand, he turned to have a look at the shelvin
g unit cluttered with old periodicals behind his table. There were positively ancient magazines to be found there, along with more recent cast-offs, and customers were urged to read while enjoying their food and drink. He reached over and leafed through a stack of National Geographics more than a foot high and selected an issue about ten years old which documented the discovery of some uncontacted Amazonian tribe.
The record player behind the front counter offered a slow drip of old Christmas favorites. A not altogether unlikeable Andy Williams piece had been playing upon Ulrich's arrival, but as that record had ended, another had been loaded and his reaction to this second selection was a good deal less pleasant. Sinatra's "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" began to play, and as if to irk the investigator personally, the barista turned up the volume a few notches and began humming along.
Ulrich gnawed at the remaining half of his sandwich and cracked the cover of the National Geographic, however his attention was drawn away from it before he could read even a singe word.
For some reason he felt compelled to look over his shoulder. It was like he'd been tapped on the back, like he'd heard his name uttered on the wind, and felt an uncontrollable urge to turn around. Peering to his back he found the tall wooden shelves of dusty and sun bleached books. The yellowish lights had burnt out in some places, making the way to the cramped restroom around the corner unnaturally dark. There was a half-burnt-out exit sign, too, which signaled the back door to the cafe.
Something else caught his eye, too; wriggled in the very edge of his periphery.
The suggestion of glowing yellow eyes from around the corner made him choke on his food.
Sputtering, Ulrich raised a napkin to his lips and struggled to stand. He gave his table a bump, spilling coffee all over the magazine and the edges of his coat. In an instant, all of the blood in his body was mobilized in a series of thrashing heartbeats. At least, temporarily, the sounds of Sinatra's Christmas classic were drowned out.
Darkside Blues: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 3) Page 10