“That’s good to know.” It didn’t come into play when she took on a client, and it was none of her business, but what sort of person thought a feng shui expert was spiritual? More important, why did Paxton Birch’s mother feel the need to have an exorcism performed on her home?
“On the other hand, Nilla has felt things.”
“Like what?”
“I think she’s overly sensitive, but I thought you should know that in light of what I want to ask you.”
He hesitated again. That and the way he’d ignored her last question made Anna uncomfortable, but Paxton seemed a decent enough man, and the prospect of working in his library intrigued her. “I’m listening.”
“You know the murder was officially declared an accident?”
“I thought it was still an open question.”
“To most people it is. There was a huge outcry at the time, talk of a cover-up. Then weird things started happening at the house. Hence the legend.” Again he puffed out his cheeks. “But legend isn’t good enough. The Ryant folks discovered there was no official declaration of murder, so if they still buy the house—and that’s a big if—it will be for far less than it’s worth.”
“You mean they want to buy the house with its reputation intact.”
Paxton smiled. “Exactly.”
“The history of the house isn’t enough?”
“Not without a murder.”
“Where do I come in?”
“Ah.” It was half word, half sigh. He was loosening up. Her quick grasp of the situation was making it easier for him to state his purpose. “I have four days, five at the most, before the developer calls off the deal. And if it falls through, it may be years before I have another opportunity like this. If you could finish your research as quickly as possible, it would help.”
“How soon I finish is going to depend on what’s here and how quickly I can find it.” She tilted her head at the shelves to her left, emphasizing the challenge before her.
“I understand that, but I’ve got this time limit.”
What Paxton was asking her was beginning to sink in. “Do you mean you want me to finish researching your family tree in four or five days?”
“If this deal goes through, I’ll make a lot of money. If it doesn’t, I’ll have to sell the house at a loss. Yesterday you gave me a rough estimate on this job. I’ll pay you triple that.” He punctuated his last word with a palm slap to the arm of his chair.
Triple. That was more than enough to reshingle her roof. She desperately needed to do that. She needed the money, period. Her mortgage had been paid off with insurance money after her husband’s death, but Sean hadn’t thought to cover more than the house. Why would he? No one expects to die at thirty-five. At that age, you have all the time in the world.
For nearly two and a half years the bills for everything from car repairs to groceries had been her responsibility alone. It wore on her. She needed a buffer, a little room to breathe in her bank account. And if she didn’t repair the roof now, other problems—like water damage—would only make matters worse.
“That’s very generous.” The prospect of finishing such a job in four or five days was daunting. It could take fifty, sixty hours of work—there was no way to know. But it might take less time than that, and the rewards were tremendous.
“There’s more.”
Anna sat straighter in her chair. She waited. “Yes?”
“I want you to prove my house is haunted.”
3
“I’m a genealogist.” To Anna, her response seemed obvious and commonsense in the face of Paxton’s odd request, so she left it at that. She didn’t do ghosts.
Paxton nodded in agreement. “I understand, and primarily I’m hiring you to research the family tree. But if Ryant leaves—and they will in a few days—I don’t see a sale on the horizon.”
Someone slammed the front door, and Anna heard footsteps in the entryway. Heavy, thick-soled steps, not Bee’s high-heeled ones.
Paxton stood, slid his chair under the table, and wandered to the library window. “I’ll be honest with you,” he began, his back to Anna. “We can’t handle another month of bills. It’s sell to Ryant at a good price or sell at a big loss. And if Ryant has no reason to keep the house, all they’ll want is the land. The house will be torn down.” He turned back to her, his eyes searching hers. “We need your help.”
“I’d love to help, but I don’t see how I can.”
“I know, I know.” He shook his hand rapidly, as though he wanted to erase what he’d said over the past few minutes and begin again. “Let me explain. Ryant found out that the murder was declared an accident. A man died here in 1970, but as far as the police are concerned, he wasn’t murdered. It’s a closed case.”
“Why would the developers listen to me?”
“Because they want to. It’s a ghost story.”
“I’m not following.”
“It’s enough that you throw suspicion on the death as a murder. Just help me shine a light on the possibility. Do the family tree, too, but while you’re doing it, find something, anything.” He turned toward the bookcases. “In all this there’s something about why that man died.”
“But . . .” Anna rose and walked up to the nearest shelf. “How am I going to find it? And in four days? The time it would take—”
“I know.”
“And I’m sure you don’t want me taking material home.”
“Bee would never allow it.”
“I wouldn’t even know which books or documents to take. I have to go through all of this.” Her eyes traveled from bookcase to bookcase as she looked from one side of the room to the other. “I just don’t—”
“I have a solution.” Instantly Paxton became animated, speaking with an urgent tone and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “You can stay here overnight. That way you can work longer hours and you won’t have to travel back and forth. Bee’s a good cook and she can make your meals. Bring research help if you want to. Anything you need.”
Anna wondered, for the briefest of moments, if there was a dare in Paxton’s voice. Stay overnight in my haunted house. She dismissed the thought. He seemed kind, albeit overcaffeinated. Besides, everyone in Colorado knew of him. He was a public figure and wasn’t likely to risk his reputation by pulling some stunt.
Paxton seemed to sense her unease. “Myself,” he said, putting a hand to his chest, “I don’t believe in the ghost stories. People have died here, sure. My mother, for one. But it’s an old house.”
“People having died here doesn’t worry me.” That was the truth. People had died on every spot on the face of the earth, and where—even how—they’d died meant nothing, except to God. She didn’t believe in lingering spirits.
Still, there was something troubling about the house. She’d felt it the moment she’d entered. In the cold entryway, echoing with footsteps. In the sitting room, with its drab sofas and armchairs covered in a worn, rose-hued fabric. And in the library, in spite of her love of books and her eagerness to thumb through old, neglected documents. The house was a shell. No one really lived here.
“Professor Karlson is staying overnight until Friday, so you won’t be the only guest.”
Anna wasn’t certain that was reassuring. “I have a dog. A German shepherd mix, about seventy pounds. I can’t leave him with someone or put him up in a kennel.” If he said Jackson had to stay at home, that was a deal breaker and she wouldn’t give the job another thought.
“Bring him. Let him run around the grounds.”
Anna surveyed the library, considering the proposal. The number of books, journals, file folders, and who-knows-what the Birches had squeezed into the room was astonishing. If she said yes, she’d have to bring Liz Halvorsen with her. And not just for her help. Anna was painfully aware of how wild her own imagination could be and knew she’d never be able to sleep in the house with only the Birches and Professor Karlson in residence.
“He’ll have
twelve acres to explore.” Paxton was sweetening the pot.
“He’d like that.” And Liz could help, Anna reasoned. Her friend had helped with research before. She knew her way around a genealogical database, and she could halve the time needed to complete the Birch family tree. Besides, Liz had oohed and aahed when she’d heard Anna might be working at Sparrow House. If Anna didn’t invite her to stay overnight, she would never hear the end of it.
“What do you think?”
“I could bring a friend to help?”
“Absolutely.”
“She’s Liz Halvorsen, the owner of ElkNews.com, the woman you talked to about the professor.”
“Sounds good to me. I like her website.”
“You read it?”
“Oh, yeah. We don’t get the paper up here.”
Anna couldn’t wait to tell Liz that. She’d be thrilled that the Birches of Sparrow House went to her website for their news. “Another thing. Liz might want to write about her stay here. Would you mind?”
“Mind? Are you kidding? Publicity is just what we need.”
“Good, because with Liz you’ll probably get it.” Anna took another look at the library shelves. There didn’t seem to be a downside to this job. It was a gift from God, an answer to prayer. “Where would I stay?”
Paxton grinned broadly. “The bedrooms are on the second floor. Bee can get two of them ready. We’ve had overnight guests before, besides the professor, I mean. Especially around Halloween. That and house and garden tours help pay the bills.”
Voices from the entryway, at first faint, grew louder, and Paxton, again jamming his hands into his pockets, swung in the direction of the sitting room.
“That’s the trouble with hiring college graduates,” a man said. “They know all the plant names and nothing about working in the real world—things like showing up.”
When Nilla called out, “Do you mean Devin?” Paxton stepped to the doorway.
“He’s supposed to be cutting wildflowers behind the carriage house,” the man said. “I told him to do that if it rained. He’s nowhere.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for him.”
“I’ll be in the tulip garden. And I have some more irises. They’re coming up early this year.”
“Wonderful! Leave them inside the front door. Bee will get them.” Someone shut the front door, giving it a hearty push or pull until it snapped in the jamb.
Paxton jabbed a thumb in the direction of the front door. “Nilla was talking to Mitch DeBoer, our groundskeeper. Devin Sherwood is his assistant. You may see them around the house now and then, and the Ryant people will be back Friday morning, but it’s very quiet in here with the door shut.”
Anna worried that Paxton was too confident of her success. “You know I can’t promise I’ll find anything.”
“I realize that. You’ll be paid no matter what.”
At the sound of more thunder he looked to the window, then down at the sill. “Not again. Hang on.” Mumbling under his breath, he strode quickly out the door.
Anna glanced at the window. It appeared in need of a good, modern caulking, maybe replacement. Pushing up with her arms, she rose several inches until she spotted the water pooling on the sill. She sat with a sigh, lifting a hand to smooth her hair, relieved to find that its natural waviness hadn’t devolved to frizz in the clammy air.
She wondered at the humidity’s effect on the older records and books in the library. That they looked in fairly good shape was testament to the usually dry Colorado air, not the soundness of Sparrow House. How many slivers of entry were there? Windows with dry, shrunken caulking, voids in the mortar between bricks. And the gray slate roof. She’d noticed cracks in it on the drive up.
Paxton returned, and Bee, holding a roll of paper towels, was a step behind him. “Sorry about that,” he said, taking his seat near the window. “You see what I mean. Only a corporation could afford to make all the repairs this old place needs.”
Bee tore several towels from the roll, wadded them, and began to mop the sill. The wad shrunk as it soaked up the rain, becoming more useless as she wiped. “It’s worse this time,” she said, running the wet clump one last time along the sill.
“I’m not surprised,” Paxton said without turning. He looked tired and discouraged. Anna could sympathize. The constant upkeep all houses required was draining, but if you weren’t bringing in enough money to keep up with it all, it wore you down.
“I’ll check it later today.” With the back of one hand, Bee pushed back a shock of dark brown hair. She looked to be in her early thirties—a good five years younger than Paxton but every bit as tired. “But it looks like it’s stopped raining for now.” Cradling the dripping towels, she exited the room.
“We were talking about money,” Paxton said.
“I like to get business matters out of the way,” Anna said. “I have a contract in my car. I’ll pop out and get it.”
Paxton tipped his head. “I’ll go with you. I can show you some of the grounds.”
Anna felt a few stray raindrops, leftovers from the passing storm, on her face and arms as she headed down the steps to her Jimmy. She reached under the front passenger seat and pulled out a zipper file, extracting a contract and a pen.
“I’ll need to go into town to get my dog and ask my friend if she has time to assist,” she said, filling the blank spaces of the contract. When she came to the project’s timeline her pen hovered over the page. “Four days or five?” she asked.
“Can we say four?”
She nodded and wrote. She’d guessed four. No one says four or five days then opts for five.
“Would you be able to come back this afternoon?”
“Yes, as soon as I can.”
“So Monday afternoon to, let’s say, Friday afternoon?”
“That’s what I wrote.” She handed him the contract and her pen. “I’ll need to get started immediately. Do you ever have Internet outages up here?”
“Almost never.” Giving the contract a cursory read, he signed it and returned it to Anna. “Our satellite connection is pretty reliable, and our router operates anywhere in the house but the basement. Cell phone coverage is usually good too.”
Anna slipped the contract and pen back into the zipper file and shut the car’s door, taking a moment to survey the mansion’s grounds. The grass, several inches too long and the deepest green, was crisscrossed by hedges of forsythia and lilacs, and in the distance were stands of pines, cottonwoods, and aspens. Everywhere, as her eyes drew closer to the mansion, were the more delicate touches of spring—a small herb garden with chives and parsley already growing abundantly, flower buds dangling like lavender bells from curved stems.
“It’s beautiful here,” she said.
“Let me show you some things.” He walked a few steps down the driveway, stopped, and pointed east. “To your right’s the carriage house. Mitch DeBoer lives there. And over there”—he pointed to the opposite side of the property and Anna swung left, tracking the line of his arm—“you can make out part of the greenhouse. It was built in 1930.”
Anna strained to see the greenhouse through the trees, shrubs, and sprouting vines and at last spotted the skeletal remains of its roof. “I see it. I think old greenhouses are charming. It’s a shame the developer doesn’t want it.”
“Some of its glass panels are broken or cracked, but it’s still a beauty.” His eyebrows arched suddenly. “Want to see it?”
“I’d love to.”
They started down the driveway, sidestepping the puddles and rain-softened ridges and ruts.
“Here,” Paxton said, moving to his left and stepping into the grass near the drive. He gestured for Anna to walk on the drive alongside him. “The road’s firmer along the edge.”
Here and there, planted carelessly, daffodils emerged from the grass, and farther west Anna caught sight of a rose garden. Reminding herself that she had only four days to complete her tasks, she pulled her eyes from the garden and focu
sed on Paxton. “Can you tell me more about the man who died? I’ll need to know what I’m looking for.”
“Ah.” He cleared his throat, eager to return to the subject. “There was a meeting at the house, October 1970. My dad, Matthew Birch, was a bit of a radical in his day, and he decided to gather his friends together for what they called a conclave.” He glanced sideways at her, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “They were going to change the world.” His tone was both biting and affectionate. He loved his father, but he couldn’t mention the man without adding a caveat, something that set him apart from his father and his father’s past.
“Isn’t everyone?” Anna said, smiling. All of this was before her time, but she’d heard of Matthew and his famous October meeting. The New Movement Alliance, they’d called themselves. It seemed terribly silly now, but the group had been deadly serious.
“Eight people were at the conclave, if you include my dad,” Paxton continued. “He wasn’t married to my mom at the time.”
“That’s a small conclave.”
“They wanted only the cream of the crop there. Committed people, no hangers-on. They wrote something my dad called the Colorado Declaration. A copy of it is probably somewhere in the library. It’s not a treasured family document.”
“Then one of the conclave members died. Or was murdered.”
“Kurt Ellison. They found him at the bottom of the attic stairs, his neck broken. But here’s the thing.” Paxton stopped. “Was he one of the conclave? My dad didn’t know him.”
“Then how did he get in the house?”
“He was there all four days, so someone knew him. Someone.” He emphasized the last word with a bob of his head. “But my dad never told the police who let him in, and he swore he didn’t know Ellison.”
“Why wouldn’t he tell the police?”
“Back in 1970 people like my dad didn’t tell the police anything. My guess is he was protecting a friend. Here we are.” Paxton slowed and pointed to the greenhouse, forty feet to his left off the driveway. Vines, many of them old and leafless, covered parts of the structure, and it was missing many of its glass panels, but its magnificent metal frame, flecked with green paint and more than a story high at its apex, remained. Where the roof curved to meet the short brick walls, spires of vegetation shot through the glassless panels.
Anna Denning Mystery Series Box Set: Books 1–3 Page 27