The House of Memory (Pluto's Snitch Book 2)

by Carolyn Haines

  “Who cooked and cleaned for the last Roswell who lived here?”

  “I don’t know, but Althea can tell us.”

  “Let’s find out. If Herman Roswell’s help is still alive, I need to speak with her.”

  “Brilliant idea. We can talk to Althea, and you can drop me at home. What if David needs to call us? One of us should be near the telephone. I’ll call the sheriff’s office and let Reginald know what’s going on.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  At last, luck crowned me from a clearing Alabama sky. Althea knew the back-porch truth—Doddie McCann, Herman Roswell’s former household helper, had taken a job sitting with an elderly man on Mulberry Street. I held the address in my lap as I drove Zelda’s coupe, searching out the landmarks Minnie had given me.

  Doddie had been a young woman when Herman, a bachelor in his midfifties in poor health, lived on the Roswell property. She’d cooked and cleaned for Herman until he died. Althea had made a phone call, and Doddie had agreed to speak with me. Robert Wiles, her current employer, a former chemist who compounded drugs and who had an impeccable reputation, was confined to his bed. He slept most afternoons, lulled by medication, the heat, and the oscillating hum of several fans.

  The connection between Doddie and the Roswells went back even further than her service to Herman, according to Althea. Doddie’s mother and grandmother had worked for the Roswell family in a number of capacities, from cook to nanny to housekeeper. If anyone could help me, it would be Doddie.

  When I arrived, Doddie was sitting on the front porch waiting. She put a finger to her lips. “Mr. Robert’s restin’, but it ain’t peaceful. I’ll leave the door open so I can hear if he needs me.”

  Doddie was still a relatively young woman, and a beautiful one, but caring for others had taken a toll on her. Gray had begun to claim her temples, and crow’s-feet—I hoped from laughter—marked the corners of her eyes.

  “How is Mr. Wiles?” I asked.

  “He’s leavin’ us. A little bit each day. I think when he sleeps, he visits the folks and the places he loves, and he says his good-byes.”

  The remarkable calm she demonstrated told me a lot about Doddie’s relationship with time and death. She wasn’t afraid. She would travel with Mr. Wiles on that journey as far as she could go.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Sorry for me, but not for him. He’s been waitin’ a long time. Not too much longer to go. He won’t last until the muscadines come ripe. He loved muscadine jelly and told me stories of how he’d make up a batch of wine every August. I’ll just make his passin’ as easy as I can.”

  It occurred to me that Doddie had seen more than her share of death. She’d worked for Herman when he died; now it was Robert. And who knew how many others she’d cared for in their final days? Althea said Doddie was the best person to hire to be with those who were old or ill. I’d lost many people, most tragically. None had had the benefit of a loving hand as they released this life and moved on to the next. I’d never had a chance to sit at a bedside and offer the comfort and strength Doddie gave so generously.

  She noticed my sadness. “No need to be sad. Mr. Robert, he’s ready to go. His wife passed on some years back. I was with her, too, and it was harder. She didn’t want to leave him alone, but there wasn’t any stoppin’ what fate ordained. His children moved away and don’t come home. Nothin’ but his old hound dog LeRoy to hold him here, and I promised him I’d see LeRoy over the River Jordan, too. I love that dog as much as he does.”

  As if he heard his name, the dog, a big redbone hound, slipped out the screened door without a sound and came to settle at Doddie’s feet.

  “Seems like he loves you, too.”

  “Dogs know. He’s been sayin’ good-bye to Mr. Robert all this week. He goes in there, puts his head on the bed under Mr. Robert’s hand, and just stands that way for an hour or more. He’d give his life for Mr. Robert, but not even LeRoy can stop the passage of time.”

  Her words brought tears up. My mother had bonded with a cat. After the accident that took her life, the cat had been inconsolable for weeks. He missed my mother, and, though he loved me, it was never the same. I blinked the moisture away. What kind of investigator cried in front of the person she was interviewing?

  “Would you mind telling me about Mr. Herman Roswell and your time at Roswell House?”

  “What information are you lookin’ for?” She had light-brown eyes that didn’t flinch.

  “There’s something in that house. Something . . . dark. I need to know what it is and how to get rid of it.” Perhaps I should have beat around the bush and tried to trick Doddie into telling me what I needed to know, but time was running out for me. For Camilla. Either Doddie would tell me or not.

  “What do you see there?”

  She knew. There was no point lying. “Two little dead girls, twins. A dark image of a woman, standing in an upstairs window, watching. Always watching. She’s surrounded by thousands of flies.” I watched carefully for the skepticism or doubt that I expected. I saw none.

  “My granny knew a woman like you. She had the gift of seein’, too.” LeRoy stood and put his head in Doddie’s lap. She stroked his ears gently. “I’m not afraid of the living or the dead. Some go easy and some go hard, and I do what I can to make the passage without pain. I’ve had a few spirits come back to visit. I don’t see them like you do. They come to me different, but I know who they are. There’ll be the scent of vanilla, and I know old Paula Lamey is walkin’ the floors, come to check to see what’s what. Lord, that woman could make a buttermilk pound cake that would melt in your mouth. She was always baking for folks, always smelling like something warm and wonderful right out of the oven.”

  I envied her such pleasant visitations. “You were friends?”

  “I worked for her for two years. Just before she died, she gave me her china cake plate. When she stops by, she’ll move that plate around to let me know she was there.” Doddie smiled at her memories. “Miss Paula loved to hear the gossip more than anything. I sat with her back around 1915, when her two boys signed up for the war. They never came back, and she let go of life, too. She fought it, but the will to live was gone. She just dried up until she hardly weighed nothin’ at all. When she left, it was just a whisper on the summer wind.”

  “You’re a strong woman.”

  “Not so strong. I just have a big belief that this life is part of a longer journey. Good folks continue down their path. Others, I can’t say. I don’t spend time worryin’ about such things.”

  “Have you ever sensed any of the Roswells . . . staying behind?”

  “Some chilly fall days, I smell the aftershave Mr. Herman wore. I’ll get ready for work and step outside to walk to the trolley, and I’ll catch that smell-good. I know he’s sittin’ on my porch. But he’s there for company, not harm. Might be nice to see him and talk to him. I can’t hear them either.”

  I had to be honest with her if she was going to help me. “Whatever is in Roswell House is not there for good. I promise you that.”

  “I know.”

  “What did Mr. Herman say about the house?”

  She petted the dog until he settled again at her feet. “There were accidents there. All directed at the females. Never a male. That’s what puzzled Mr. Herman. I don’t remember the names or details all that clearly. Mama Glenn, my granny, told me stories, and so did my own mama. They’re all mixed up with things Mr. Herman talked about.”

  “If you’d tell me what you remember, it might really help us.”

  She rocked a little as her eyes lost focus and she visited the past. “He told me about one of the Roswell daughters. Lorilie was her name, I believe. She loved horses, and they said she could ride like a Comanche. She’d ride across the fields, jumping fences and laughing with joy. Herman said the bond between her and the horse was amazing. But one day she was walking across the front lawn on a horse, and the horse went crazy. Herman was a little boy, and he saw it. He
said it was like the devil grabbed hold of the horse’s bridle. The horse tried to run, but it was trapped. It fought, screaming with fright, and the girl was thrown and fell under its hooves. The horse fell dead on top of her. They both died on the spot.”

  My heart pounded. That wasn’t a riding accident. That was something else.

  “What else?”

  “One young woman named Tilly, I think she was a cousin, fell down those beautiful stairs. She was paralyzed from the waist down, and she died sayin’ that someone pushed her. Pushed her hard.”

  “Are there more?”

  “Oh, there were incidents galore. Trees suddenly fallin’ and nearly killin’ one Roswell bride. Carriage wheels that fell off in the front lawn just as folks were comin’ or goin’. Fires. Lord, Roswell House nearly burned down twice. There were plenty of stories.”

  “But no other deaths?”

  “Well, people sure died, but most were marked up to fevers or accidents. No matter how strange the circumstances, the doctor or the sheriff could find a way to get beyond the facts to sayin’ it was accidental. No one in the Roswell family wanted the idea that there was a curse on the bloodline to get bandied about. That family had enough to overcome as it was. No need to put a hoodoo stain on it.”

  “What was it that the family had to overcome? I’ve heard they were wealthy and lucky.”

  “Money eases some troubles but not all. Death hovered over that family.” A soft noise came from inside, and she stood up. “’Scuse me.” She disappeared into the house, LeRoy right behind her.

  I wondered if I’d been dismissed, but in a moment she returned with a tray and two pieces of pound cake. “I made this cake yesterday while Mrs. Paula was visitin’ me. It’s her recipe, and Mr. Robert loves this when he feels up to eatin’.”

  The cake was so moist it almost melted in my mouth. Doddie hadn’t exaggerated. “Is he . . . okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He’s settled back to sleep. He needed a sip of water.”

  We ate our cake in silence, enjoying the buttery flavor. “This is wonderful.”

  “I’d make us some coffee to go with it, but the day is just too hot.”

  “I agree.” I returned my empty saucer to the tray. “Thank you.”

  “If you’re done with your questions, I’d better get to work. I’ve got clothes to iron while Mr. Robert is asleep.”

  “One more question. You never heard about any dead girls. Twins. They may have . . .” What was the polite way to say they’d had their heads removed? “They may have died violently.”

  “Never heard of any twins in the Roswell family.” She thought for a minute. “If those girls were Roswells, maybe they died from the curse that was put on the house.”

  I sat up. “So there was a curse?”

  “Happened back in my granny’s day. She always said she was reluctant to go to work there because all the Negroes knew about the curse. Didn’t harm a hair on the head of the menfolks, just the women. The Roswell women suffered plenty.”

  “Who cursed the house?” I thought of the man who’d died in a duel on the front lawn.

  “The Roswell land wasn’t bought all in one piece. It was bought up parcel by parcel by different family members. Now, Mr. Ramsey, he bought the most of it and built a nice house, but not like the big house Mr. Wick built.”

  “Why that land? What’s so unique? There must’ve been land in every direction.”

  “It’s that creek runs up behind the house. Tonka Creek. It’s deep enough for bigger boats, and folks said Ramsey Roswell was tradin’ in guns to both sides of the war, stealing food meant for the soldiers and selling it at high prices. He’d waylay the supply ships on the river and hide them away up Tonka Creek, kill the crews, resell the goods.”

  “This was before the actual house was built, right?”

  She nodded. “It was Mr. Wick who finally bought that high ground where Roswell House is, and that’s where the curse came about. That was just after the war ended. No one else had money, but he did. Mr. Wick wanted that high ground somethin’ terrible, Mama Glenn said. He talked about the showplace he’d build his bride. One day the Peebles family was there; the next they were gone, and Mr. Wick was building his grand house. There were whispers Mr. Wick hurt the Peebles children to get the land.” She stood and lifted the tray with our empty plates. “Only rumors, though. The family was gone, and no one looked for them to ask any questions.”

  “Were there ever stories or rumors about young women who were forced into prostitution associated with Roswell House?”

  The plates on the tray rattled. “There was talk. Back when Mama Glenn left there. Said it was too far out of town for her to find a ride, but that wasn’t the whole truth. She didn’t like what was going on in that house.”

  “When was that?”

  “Mr. Wick was a young man. There was talk he liked the young girls too much.”

  “That why your granny quit?”

  She shook her head, but the china on the tray had quieted. “Mama Glenn never said. My mama refused to talk. She started goin’ out there to help with parties, with the cleanin’ and servin’. She was just a girl herself.”

  “The law never investigated?”

  She scoffed. “Law? Like I said, up until Mr. Herman was left there alone, the law answered to the Roswells. Mr. Herman wasn’t like that. He repented for the sins of his father.”

  “And what sins were those, exactly?” My gut had clenched. I was onto something. Something that bound past and present together.

  “The sins of flesh and cruelty and oppression. Sometimes skin don’t matter. A person can be a slave even if she’s as white as the magnolia blossom. Now Mr. Robert needs me, and my chores are stackin’ up.”

  “Thank you, Doddie.” I left before I wore out my welcome. I had learned much of what I’d come to find out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The afternoon heat had climbed to a climax, with the temperature sitting at one hundred degrees. The brick and paved roads were a luxury for the motor vehicles, but heat shimmered off the surface in waves. I drove through downtown Montgomery, which looked like a ghost town. Sane people retired from the summer heat and prayed for rain. Another storm front gathered to the west, and the clouds darkened as I drove. I prayed it might bring us a cool breeze.

  I parked on the street and made my way to the Sayre house, a wilted flower of the South. My floral-print dress, sleeveless and cool, stuck to me in all the wrong places. I wanted a cool bath and a nap.

  Zelda and Reginald were nowhere to be found, and I was happy to retire to my room and strip down for a bath. It was nice to be in a quiet, empty house so I could think about the coming events.

  When I entered my bedroom, I found a letter on the bed addressed to me. I tore open the neatly written note from Uncle Brett and read that all was well at Caoin House. The wags about town were all talking about the superhot summer and the possibility of a big storm in the Gulf of Mexico. A hurricane. We’d had scares in Savannah from the storms that brewed along the Atlantic, but the Gulf storms were the most feared. While Uncle Brett’s property was north of Mobile, the biggest storms could devastate Caoin House.

  “I’m considering a trip to Alaska,” Uncle Brett had written. “When you return, we’ll discuss the possibility. It would not be a bad thing to spend the last of August and first of September in a cooler climate.”

  I could read between the lines enough to see that he was planning his trip to be sure I was safe. It wasn’t a vacation Uncle Brett sought; he wanted to get me away from my investigations of ghosts and the dangers inherent in my work. It touched my heart and made me miss him.

  I penned him a quick note, leaving out the dangerous encounter we’d had on the fish camp road. I kept it short and upbeat, noting that we had high hopes of helping Camilla within the next few days, and that soon we’d be traveling home. I also recapped my ride on the electric trolley car, something Uncle Brett would grill me about when I returned to Mobile.


  I put the note on the side table beside the front door with the two cents for a first-class postage stamp and hurried to the bathroom for my long-anticipated bath. When I returned to my room, I was refreshed and ready for the work ahead.

  The sound of Reginald’s laughter, mingled with Zelda’s excited voice, came to me. Though my hair was still damp, I went out to greet them. We gathered around the dining table to talk.

  “You’ll never guess what Reginald’s been up to,” Zelda said. “He saw that fine, fancy car of Jason Kuddle’s parked in front of the Confederate Café and stopped for a chat. That’s where he found my private investigator—wolfing down a huge plateful of food with two police officers. He was surprised to see Reginald, but he promised he was on his way to report to me as soon as he ate.”

  “Has he made any progress on the case?” I had my own news to share, but I wanted to hear Kuddle’s report.

  “Yes!” Zelda’s eyes sparkled. “He has a lead,” he said. “Joanne Pence left the hospital with relatives. He says she is safely home. I sent a telegram to the hospital for David. That will help him convince Camilla to come home with him.”

  “Excellent.” I had my doubts that Kuddle’s investigation had been thorough, but Zelda’s happiness was contagious. Now to deal with Roswell House and the influence it exerted on Camilla. “We don’t have a lot of time before David returns with Camilla. I—”

  A knock on the front door interrupted them, and Zelda excused herself to answer. She returned with a telegram in her hand and tore it open. “Camilla is refusing to leave Bryce. She says that Joanne’s still there, somewhere. She says her friend’s in danger.” Zelda looked at us, stricken. “Can’t David make her understand that she can’t do anything to help her friend from there?”

  “It looks as if we’ll have to try,” Reginald said. “Pack a bag. We’re going to Tuscaloosa. If there isn’t another train, we’ll have to drive.”

  It wasn’t a prospect any of us looked forward to, but the road was open, and while there’d been some rain, it hadn’t flooded or poured endlessly.