Zeke unwrapped the bundle, situating the knife on top of my father’s handkerchief. He didn’t touch it. He hovered over it until his face was inches from it.
“You say Vivian Mason threw this at you?”
“Yes,” I said. “She left the house and I followed her.”
“You’re sure it was her?”
“Of course, I’m sure. Black hair, tall, lives here. Yes, it was her.”
Zeke shook his head. “That’s impossible.”
“What do you mean? I followed her.”
“I just don’t see how--”
“I’m telling you, I saw her with my own eyes. She left this house and I followed her.”
“She rode into town with me, Sarah. I had errands to run and she asked for a ride. There’s no way she was the one you followed, unless she is able to be in two places at once.”
“What?”
“There’s no way she could have made it back here, then up the trail to the cabins. It’s virtually impossible,” Zeke said.
“But I don’t understand.” I pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. There were so many facts, so many nuggets of information spinning around in my head, that I couldn’t keep everything straight. If it wasn’t Vivian, who in the world had I followed?
Zeke sat down next to me. When he pulled me into his arms, I shivered and leaned into him, savoring the feel of his body next to mine. “We need to hurry if we are going to get Anca to the bus on time,” he whispered into my ear.
“I’m going to get Anca’s suitcase. I’ll be right back, okay?”
“Sure. I’ll just wait right here.”
Zeke’s exhaustion kept him from propriety. He didn’t stand up when I left the room. When I turned back to look at him, he had folded his arms on the kitchen table and cradled his head in them. I watched him there, still and quiet, until his breathing became regular and deep. He was asleep.
I left him there.
***
The third-floor attic had the most natural light and the best view of any room in Bennett House. Leaded windows graced all four walls. The floor was constructed of wide-planked wood. The white-washed walls made the room seem bright, even if the sun wasn’t shining. Anca never came up here--she had listened to too many of Mrs. Tolliver’s ghost stories. Mrs. Tolliver was a great one for telling tall tales about mysterious goings on at Bennett House. I ignored the stories of witches and demons, just like I ignored the children that teased me, just like I ignored the mothers who pulled them out of my path. Anca, on the other hand, would not walk under ladders, own a black cat, or go anywhere where spirits might reside. She slept with garlic under her pillow, and vases of flowers and herbs strategically placed around her room for protection. Despite the random junk accumulated over the decades, the attic was arranged with some semblance of order. In one corner, old furniture, some broken and unusable, some dated or no longer necessary--like our old washboard that should have been thrown out when we purchased our washing machine, and a dozen old tin milk cans, now rusty and covered with dust--were stacked against a wall. Next to them, boxes of my grandfather’s papers were stored, waiting for my father to go through them and write our family history--his family’s history, rather. The suitcases and trunks were on the opposite wall, stacked one on top of the other.
Anca’s suitcase, a faded cloth valise that was probably as old as she was, lay next to a pile of trunks. One of the trunks that I had never seen before caught my eye. It was made of fine wood, with polished brass hinges and an impenetrable iron lock. My heart pounded as I read the name tag which hung on the front of it. Grace Kensington, my mother. Vivian had stolen this from her, had taken it out of the house before she had burnt it down.
On a whim, I moved the trunk away from the wall and tried the latch, hoping that it wouldn’t be locked. It wasn’t. I lifted the lid and the scent of cedar assaulted my senses, fresh and clean as a spring day. An old hand knit woolen sweater lay rumpled in one corner. I held it up, taking in the missing buttons and the moth hole in the collar. I sneezed and set the sweater aside. Nestled in the corner lay a leather pouch shaped like an envelope.
“Sarah,” Anca called from the bottom of the stairs, “I am ready for my case.”
“Coming,” I said, as I grabbed the pouch and closed the trunk, careful to put it back as I had found it. On my way downstairs, I did a quick detour to my room, where I stored the pouch under my bed, tucked well up in the box-spring, just in case Vivian came snooping.
***
The fog had burned off by the time Zeke and I had Anca and her valise loaded into the car. I was amazed that she had so little to take with her. Other than her coat, a utilitarian gray wool affair, and her two hats, one for church and one for every day, her little valise held all she needed in the world.
“You’ll be sure and tell Mrs. Tolliver to bring eggs every other week,” Anca said.
When we pulled up to the station, a long line of soldiers had queued up for the bus to San Francisco. We got out of the car. Zeke handed Anca the valise, gave her a quick hug, and left us alone.
“All aboard,” the bus driver said, as he moved down the line, taking the tickets.
“May God be with you, Sarah Jane,” she whispered in my ear as she hugged me. “I will pray for you every day.”
“Thanks.” I pulled away and smiled at her.
“Anca, Anca,” Mrs. Tolliver called out, waving one arm as she hurried over to us. She carried a small burlap bag, similar to the one she had with her on the bus the day I had come home. “I’ve brought you some vegetable soup.”
“Bless you.” Anca took the bag and tucked it under her arm.
“I won’t say good bye,” Mrs. Tolliver said.
Anca smiled. She waved to both of us and boarded the bus. Mrs. Tolliver and I stood shoulder to shoulder until the last soldier boarded, the doors closed with a whoosh, and the bus pulled away.
“That was nice of you to come and say goodbye,” I said to Mrs. Tolliver.
“So you know.” Mrs. Tolliver studied my face.
“Know what?”
“You’ve discovered you can see beyond the veil. We’ve known all along, but Anca told me not to speak of it.” She grabbed my hand in her cold dry one, pulled me close, and looked me in the eyes. “You have a friend in me, Sarah. You fight when you need to.”
“I need to go, Mrs. Tolliver.” I pulled out of her strong grasp and pointed to Zeke, who now had the car idling. “He’s waiting for me.”
“You can’t deny it, girl,” she said. “You can’t deny what God gave you.”
“You take care, Mrs. Tolliver.”
Chapter 17
Zeke got out of the driver’s side of the car, and, always a gentleman, opened the door for me.
He settled himself behind the wheel. “Who was that lady you were talking to?”
“Mrs. Tolliver, Bennett Cove’s resident witch, fortune teller, and all around eccentric.”
Zeke put the car in gear and headed away from the bus stop. Rather than driving home, he continued down Main Street two blocks to the Sand Dollar. Famous for their clam chowder and fresh seafood, the Sand Dollar also made fabulous hamburgers. As we pulled up to the café, a car pulled out of the parking place a short distance from the café. Zeke maneuvered my father’s Studebaker into the spot.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
The Sand Dollar had a crowd of soldiers and civilians alike waiting for a table. Many sat on the benches in front of the restaurant, others stood in groups. Zeke said hello to a few of the men standing around outside. They smiled and waved at him. One man clapped Zeke on the back and shook his hand. Zeke cast a glance in my direction, then slipped into the restaurant.
A sharp knock on the passenger window pulled me out of my reverie. A woman with a friendly face smiled at me as I rolled down the window.
“Sarah, my name is Cynthia Forrester. I am a writer--”
I started to roll up the window.
“Wait. Ple
ase. Just listen.” She slipped her card through the window. “If you ever want me to write a story from your point of view, call that number. I am willing to sign a contract, giving you full right to edit anything before it goes to print. If you want to tell your story, I hope you’ll call me. I won’t bother you again.”
She stood up and walked away. I was so busy watching her that I almost didn’t notice the black sedan I had seen on my first day home, and later at the hotel. It turned into the alleyway next to the cafe. Zeke’s contact. A uniformed chauffeur got out and opened the back door for the man I recognized from the Bennett Arms. He got out of the car, walked toward the restaurant, and reached the door just as Zeke came out. Zeke pulled the paper bag containing our food close to his chest before he cast a swift glance in my direction.
They stepped out of earshot of the crowd gathered around the front door of the café. The man spoke to Zeke, conveying an authority that I could sense without hearing their conversation. Zeke listened to him, focused on his every word. He mouthed something back--I would have given anything to hear the conversation--then he looked at me, an uncomfortable expression etched on his face.
A few seconds later, Zeke got in the car, handed me the bag of food and sped out of the parking lot.
“Who was that man? He looks familiar.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before.” Zeke lied with ease. “He was just asking directions.” He pulled an expert U-turn, then headed back to Bennett House.
“If this is going to work, you’re going to have to be honest with me. I saw you talking to that very same man in the hotel a couple of days ago, and on the day I came home.”
Zeke was just about to turn onto the twisty road that wound up the hill to Bennett House. He pulled over on the narrow dirt shoulder, put the car in park, and turned to face me. “Okay, here’s the truth. He’s the man who hired me to find your mother. He needs to remain anonymous because he works for the FBI. He’s here to make sure Vivian Mason doesn’t get away. I can’t tell you anything else.”
“But I have a right--”
“You don’t,” Zeke interrupted. “You don’t have a right to know. I’ve told you too much already. Please. Just trust me.” He kissed my forehead, put the car in gear, and pulled back onto the road headed toward Bennett House.
“What are you thinking about?” Zeke asked as he drove, keeping his eyes on the road.
“French fries, and my stepmother--Vivian Mason, or whoever she is.” My stomach growled. “If it wasn’t Vivian who I followed this morning, who was it?” We were now on the gravel road that led to Bennett House. “Do you think that Vivian could have snuck back here? Maybe she had an accomplice drive her. You know, it’s a perfect alibi, since as far as you’re concerned, there’s no way she could have made it back in time.”
“Something’s not right. It seems like we aren’t seeing something that is right under our noses,” Zeke said.
We took our food into the kitchen and ate at the refectory table. After we finished, Zeke threw away our paper wrappers and wiped our crumbs away.
“Do you want to get a book and sit in the office with me while I work?”
I frowned at him.
“Don’t look at me that way. Someone threw a knife at you today. I meant it when I said I’m not leaving you alone anymore.”
“But even in the house--”
“Especially in this house.”
I leaned against the chopping table in the middle of the kitchen, the same table where Anca and I had rolled out bread dough just a few hours ago. Zeke came over and stood close to me. I wrapped my arms around him.
“It’s important that you have as little interaction with Vivian Mason as possible. She’s dangerous, Sarah, ergo you will not be alone with her. Okay? I don’t mean to sound bossy. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Together we walked into the office, arm in arm. Once we were inside, Zeke closed and locked the door behind us.
He pulled a folder out of the leather folio that he carried with him all the time. He unfolded a series of strange looking maps and spread them out on his desk. He sat down and started to study them, and it didn’t take long for him to become so engrossed in his task that he all but forgot about me.
I paced around the room for a minute, sat down, and tried to read, but I couldn’t concentrate. “I think I’ll go to my room.”
“Hang on.” Zeke put the maps back in the folio, which he in turn tucked under his arm. “I’ll walk you upstairs.” He smiled as he placed his hand on the small of my back. In his free hand he carried the shotgun. “Lock the door behind you.” When we came to my bedroom door, he handed me the shotgun. “And keep this with you.”
I did as he asked, standing on the other side of the door as he shook it to test the lock.
“Are you okay, Sarah?”
“I’m fine,” I said through the door. “I’m going to bathe and change my clothes. I’ll be down in an hour or so.”
“We need to keep our heads on straight, Sarah. I need to stay focused, and so do you.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Just keep the door locked, and I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
As soon as Zeke’s footsteps faded away, I pulled the leather pouch I had found in Grace’s trunk from its hiding place. I sat on my bed, opened it, and emptied its contents onto the counterpane.
Two passports tumbled onto my bed. They both had blue leather covers and gold embossed lettering on the front. My hands started to shake. I opened the passport. Inside, the spot where the picture should have been was empty. The pages of my mother’s passport were filled with stamps from other countries. I recognized Switzerland, Italy, Germany, all places she had visited in the past. My own passport and birth certificate were at the bottom of the pile, along with a bank book from First Bank of Maine. I opened the bank book, surprised at the great sum of money on deposit.
A locket, exactly like that which Grace wore around her neck, wedged itself in the bottom of the envelope. I took it out and held it in my hand, remembering Grace’s words as though she whispered them in my ear. It holds a picture of my husband and daughter. She would clutch the locket while she said these words, a wistful smile on her face. With shaking hands I undid the catch and opened the locket. Inside was a picture of me as a baby. I had never seen any baby pictures of myself, but I knew that red-headed child, with the ringlets that couldn’t be tamed and the dimpled face, was me. I was in the arms of a tall, lean, athletic-looking man with the type of Patrician nose that one often sees in old portraits of kings and lords.
Although the picture was somewhat faded, the man had dark hair, sad brooding eyes, and strong muscular arms. I imagined he played polo or jumped horses over tall fences.
I guessed that the man in the photo was my biological father, but I didn’t share the same gut wrenching connection to this man that I shared with Grace Kensington.
A picture of her as a young girl was on the other side of the locket. I stared at it until my eyes hurt. I closed the locket, attached the chain around my neck, and tucked it under my blouse, where it rested out of sight, but near my heart. I focused on the other passport that had fallen out of the leather pouch.
This one didn’t have any gold letters on the front of it. Inside, the pages were similar to the passport that had belonged to my mother, but the interior paper was a little off color and not quite the same thickness as my mother’s original passport. This passport was a forgery.
Eager to share what I had found with Zeke, I put the passports back in the leather pouch and headed downstairs, not bothering to bring the shotgun with me.
I knocked on the office door, which was closed and locked. I heard papers rustling, a drawer opening and shutting. “It’s just me.”
“What’s happened?” Zeke opened the door and searched my face. “You look like you’ve had a shock.”
I went into the office and sat down at Zeke’s desk. The maps had been stowed away, so
he didn’t lock the door behind me.
After I sat, he went over to the credenza behind my father’s desk and poured some scotch in a glass for me. I took the drink from him and handed him the leather pouch.
He sat down on the corner of the desk and opened it. He took out my passport and birth certificate and set them aside. He picked up the other two passports and examined them thoroughly before he put them back in the pouch. He took out the bank book, studied it, and put it back in the pouch with the passports.
“Where did you find this?”
“In the attic. I stumbled across it when I retrieved Anca’s suitcase. There’s also this.” I reached under my blouse for the locket. I tried to undo the clasp, but my hands had started shaking.
Zeke came around behind me. I held my hair up. When his fingers touched the back of my neck, a shiver ran down my spine. He held the necklace up before him. The gold locket swung like a pendulum and shone like a beacon. He opened it. “These are you parents.”
I nodded.
“I’m glad you have this memento.” He closed the locket, and I once again held up my hair so he could affix the clasp. He kissed the back of my neck before he turned me around to face him. When we were face to face, he hugged me. I leaned in and tipped my face up to him for the inevitable kiss. Our lips had almost touched when the front door opened. Vivian was home.
“Just act natural, okay?” Zeke whispered in my ear. In one smooth movement, he unlocked the desk drawer, swept the leather pouch containing the passports into it, closed it, and locked it.
Vivian swept into the room. She had on trousers and walking shoes. Her hair was covered by a beige silk scarf with blue flowers embroidered throughout. She carried a basket on her arm, which contained a loaf of bread and a jar of jam, which I recognized to be Mrs. Tolliver’s.
The Spirit of Grace Page 16