Touch Me in the Dark

by Jacqueline Diamond

  “I can’t speak for what was in her heart,” replied the minister. “But she was most certainly aware of her effect on men. All the girls envied her. The way she played one boy off against the other, no wonder Bradley had a fit of jealousy that night.”

  If Pastor Arbizo had been one of the young men drawn to Susan, that might be little more than his bruised ego speaking. “Susan must have been in love with Bradley,” Sharon insisted. “Back in those days, she took a big risk by sleeping with him, and she paid for it dearly.”

  “One could never be certain the child was his,” the reverend answered sharply. “She was a headstrong girl, I can tell you that. There were rumors that she was sneaking out with other boys after he went into the service. I don’t know how her parents found a man willing to marry her, but I was willing to perform the service. There’s always the hope that people can reform.”

  “Were the rumors the reason her parents locked her in the attic?” Sharon asked. “You can’t excuse that, surely.”

  The old man shrugged. “I believe they were trying to do what was best for her. Susan hurt a lot of innocent people, including her parents. My heart went out to Jody. She didn’t want to believe those ugly stories, you know. She never got over what happened. She sacrificed her own chances at marriage to raise her sister’s son.”

  Sharon wasn’t ready to give up on her look-alike’s defense, but the inner door opened and Karly and the young minister returned. “Thank you for answering my questions,” she said.

  “Been a long time since I thought about all that,” the old man said. “I didn’t expect I’d feel so strongly.”

  There was no way to sort out facts and motives after more than half a century, Sharon supposed. All these things had been over and done with long before she was born. Yet she hated to think of Susan having to face nasty, probably distorted rumors without being able to defend herself. And she wished the minister had displayed a more charitable attitude.

  The night Susan died, her family had come to this church without her. Now Karly and Sharon were being drawn here. Remembering Ian’s reference to an upcoming anniversary of the murders, she thought how easily one could read some cosmic significance into all the coincidences. Well, she preferred to leave that sort of thing to the Gaskells.

  “Do you know what?” Karly said as she rejoined Sharon. “Susan’s buried in the graveyard here. I’d like to pay our respects.”

  “It’s a small cemetery,” the younger minister told them. “Filled up a couple of decades ago. Hardly anyone visits there any more except young Ian Fanning.”

  “Ian comes here?” Sharon asked in surprise.

  “He comes by at least once a week to visit his parents’ graves. In fact, I saw him through the window a few minutes ago.” The pastor turned to his father. “Dad? I’m ready to go home now, if you are.”

  The old man nodded. To Sharon, he said, “I enjoy coming here. It’s full of memories, most of them happy ones, in spite of what I told you.”

  “I’ll have to lock up,” the pastor said apologetically. “We can’t leave the church open like we did in the old days. But I’ve given your sister a key, Mrs. Mahoney, so the two of you can practice. And we do appreciate your help.”

  “My pleasure,” she said.

  “Let’s go look at the graveyard.” Karly was already moving toward the exit. “I’m not in the mood to rehearse any more today. Are you?”

  Ian might still be there. “Sure, let’s go.”

  Sharon and Karly wandered past a Sunday school playground and into the cemetery. Although the churchyard covered less than an acre, thick trees and bushes shrouded it from the world. Headstones of an earlier era towered massive and somber, announcing the births and deaths of beloved mothers, devoted fathers and treasured children. She didn’t see Ian, but he might easily be obscured from view.

  Her own grandparents had been buried at a cemetery just north of Fullerton, in Brea, so Sharon knew she wouldn’t find their headstones here. As her sister exclaimed over a cherubic carving, she wondered what exactly she did expect to find.

  Susan’s and Bradley’s graves, perhaps. But what would she learn from those?

  She forced herself to admit the truth, that she hadn’t come here to solve a mystery but because she wanted to encounter Ian and learn something of his life outside the Fanning house. Sharon was too adult to dismiss the power of physical longing, but she knew that wasn’t the whole answer. Although Jim had been a kind-hearted and sometimes playful husband, she’d missed the intensity of her first love. In time, she’d come to believe she was no longer capable of that kind of absorption, but meeting Ian had taught her otherwise.

  She feared that depth of feeling and, at the same time, missed it keenly. Perhaps the only way to bring her response to him under control was to get to know Ian as he really was, not through the naive eyes of a teenager the way she’d seen Ethan.

  Yet she hesitated when, stepping from behind a massive headstone, she saw him a few dozen feet away. Down on one knee between two markers, he might not welcome the intrusion.

  The only motion came from a breeze rippling through his dark hair. Something in his stillness reminded Sharon of a figure from a 19th-century tragedy.

  Then Karly started toward him and he glanced up. Ian rose, welcoming them with a smile. “Sharon!” When she came closer, he said, “This must be your sister.”

  She made introductions, all the while drinking in his nearness. Outside the Fanning house, there was less darkness about Ian and more warmth. She would have been attracted to him no matter where they met or under what circumstances, Sharon thought. As he shook hands with Karly, Ian said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but somehow I knew your sister would have dark hair.”

  Sharon understood instantly. “Because we’re like Susan and Jody.”

  Karly gave an exaggerated shudder. “I think this stuff is interesting, but the two of you are positively obsessed! On the other hand, it is fascinating to have a link to the past.”

  They stood in the sunshine, admiring the twin bouquets of roses and daisies Ian had placed on the two graves. The stones, placed flat into the ground, acknowledged the final resting places of Martin and Diane Fanning, dead for thirty years. His mother, Sharon saw with a twist of sadness, had been thirty-one when she died, the same age that Sharon was now.

  “Where’s Susan’s grave?” Karly asked.

  “This way.” Ian led them toward an older part of the cemetery. Weeds tangled around the jutting headstones, too tall and close together for easy mowing with modern equipment. The massive stones seemed to testify to the significance of past lives. Flat markers might be more practical, but to Sharon the change reflected society’s tendency to pass over the dead as if they had never existed.

  The marker for Susan’s grave bore only her name and the dates of her birth and death. She had been twenty-six when she died.

  “What about Bradley?” she asked. “Did they bury him here, too?”

  “I’m not sure.” Distractedly, Ian thrust his hands into the pockets of his tweed jacket. “I’ve never found his gravestone and no one seems to know where it is.”

  “That’s understandable, I guess.” It would hardly be appropriate to bury a murderer near his victim.

  “What are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?” Ian asked. “I’m going over to the gallery where I exhibit. It’s not far from here. You’re both welcome to join me.”

  Karly declined. “I’m still nursing Lisa and, besides, I can’t presume on your great-aunt any longer. But Sharon, you could go if Ian doesn’t mind bringing you home.”

  “I should relieve Jody, too.” She hated to pass up the opportunity, though.

  “Jody loves having Greg around,” Ian said. “She told me he makes her feel like a kid again herself. I’m sure she won’t mind if you stay away a little longer.”

  “Then I’d love to.” Sharon felt as if she were playing hooky. But she deserved to play hooky.

  “I�
��ll call you about a time to rehearse.” Her sister bounced away, her step lively and vital among the headstones.

  Ian stood without speaking for a few minutes, staring down at the grave as if seeing it in a new way. Despite the distant sounds of traffic, Sharon slowly became aware that the cemetery had its own voice—the wind in the trees, the murmur of unseen chimes, and a low hum that might have been the blood pulsing through her own arteries.

  “I feel him here sometimes.” Ian’s voice startled her.

  “Bradley?”

  “Yes. My Dad never believed the whole story had been told. I doubt it ever will be.” He zipped his jacket against the breeze. “Well, let’s head out of here. I’m eager to show you the gallery.”

  He started to reach for Sharon’s hand. They both stopped and regarded each other uncertainly.

  “That’s all right,” she said. “In fact, I’d like it.”

  Ian offered her his arm, crooked at the elbow, and she accepted like an old-fashioned damsel. As they strolled toward the church parking lot, Sharon tilted up her face to enjoy the crisp January sunshine. Her spirits floated, free from the drag of everyday worries and unexplained mysteries.

  Ian, too, seemed different away from the house. Younger, less troubled and far more open. Even the scar across his temple looked less severe in daylight.

  She felt content with him, and hoped the feeling would last.

  After parking in front of the Fanning House, Karly sat in the car sorting her thoughts.

  She supposed her interest in the story of Susan and Bradley must be a sign of how banal her life had become. On the other hand, bringing Pastor Arbizo and his church choir into her life had led her to a new outlet for her talent. The experience reinforced her belief that there was a pattern to human events.

  She doubted her husband would understand. As an engineer, Frank had difficulty appreciating anything that couldn’t be quantified. He even justified his enjoyment of music by pointing to its mathematic structure.

  When she’d met him, he’d seemed the perfect counterbalance to her impulsive nature. If only she’d considered that there wasn’t a whole lot of difference between an anchor and a stick-in-the-mud.

  They’d been married less than two years. She hadn’t expected to get pregnant so soon, although they’d both wanted children. These past three months had been rewarding for her but difficult, too.

  She hoped that at least Frank would be willing to watch Lisa while she rehearsed. He’d hardly spent any time alone with the baby.

  Thinking about Lisa, Karly began to feel anxious. She’d left her daughter with Jody rather cavalierly and had been gone nearly two hours, longer than she’d intended. She hurried up the walk and, since Sharon had told her not to bother ringing the front bell, went right in.

  Although Jody’s door stood ajar, no one answered when Karly called out. Inside, she saw the stroller sitting in the front room, reassuring in its familiarity. Since there was no sign of anyone around, she supposed they must have gone into the kitchen or the back yard.

  Curiosity teased at her. Ever since Sharon told her about the painting in the attic, Karly had wanted to see it, and here was her chance. Only that old couple, the Gaskells, might be about, and they surely wouldn’t object to her exploring if they happened to see her.

  With the delicious sense of a child prying into secret matters, Karly hurried up the stairs.

  On the second floor, Karly passed Sharon’s apartment and approached the narrow attic staircase Sharon had described. Her pulse sounded loud in her ears. Here was the path to the place where Susan had been locked away and where Bradley had murdered her.

  She would just peek in briefly. How many chances would she get to visit the scene of an infamous crime?

  At the top, the door stuck until she gave it a shove. The movement made Karly lose her footing and start to tip backwards. Gravity tugged as her hand scrabbled in vain along the wall, and then she managed to grasp the railing.

  A little shakily, she caught her breath and regained her balance. How stupid! She’d nearly broken her neck poking around where she had no business.

  On the other hand, as long as she was here, she might as well take a look.

  Inside the attic, light sifted through narrow, dusty windows, giving the scene a yellowish tone. The room was larger than she’d expected, reaching the length of the house beneath a steeply sloped ceiling. The cool air raised goosebumps on Karly’s arms.

  On both sides of a narrow pathway lay furniture and trunks covered in dust cloths. There was a scattering of toys as well. Where, she wondered, was the painting?

  From somewhere came a sigh, and was gone before she could track it. Just a hiss of air from the heating system, most likely.

  Moving along the path, she noticed a multi-paned glass door off to her right. The ceiling rose in that direction, providing easy access to what must be the balcony. An impulse seized her to go check out the view over Fullerton.

  Before she could head that way, Karly registered a rectangular object straight ahead, covered by a drop cloth and propped atop a stack of boxes. This might be the painting, she thought. The balcony could wait.

  Again she heard a faint noise from the far side of the attic, a rolling murmur that hushed almost at once. Karly hoped that was the heater switching on, because this place sure needed warming.

  She reached the rectangular object and pulled away the cloth.

  Two figures posed formally, the man sitting and the woman standing behind him. With her auburn hair, she bore a striking resemblance to Sharon, but Karly would never have mistaken the two. Susan was slightly thinner and more angular.

  And the man might have been Ian’s brother, with a rougher face and coarser bone structure. He stared out so intently that Karly felt as if he were demanding something of her. The painting bore no signature, only the initials BJ.

  “Bradley Johnson.”

  Karly wasn’t sure whether she’d spoken the name aloud or whether someone had muttered close to her ear. She couldn’t tear her gaze from the painting to look around.

  The couple’s emotions transfixed her. The close air trembled with love and hope, passion and possessiveness. The people were so real that she imagined she saw their lips move and heard them whispering to her to set them free.

  And to set herself free.

  When she and Frank first met, he’d been adventuresome in his lovemaking and excited about Karly’s career. She’d been certain she was entering a new, exciting stage of growth.

  But now, much as she adored her baby, she herself was getting lost, replaced by some nebulous figure known as Mother. And who had Frank turned into? How had she wandered into a life so different from what she’d chosen?

  From across the attic came a high-pitched cry. Karly sprang back, her throat tightening. Maybe she shouldn’t have come here, because she definitely wasn’t alone.

  Chapter Seven

  After several seconds, she managed to squeak out the words, “Is someone there?”

  “Aunt Karly!” Greg’s voice bubbled through the air. “We’re over here!”

  Embarrassed at having been frightened by the sound of a child playing, Karly covered the painting and hurried toward the far end of the house. Soon Jody came into view, sitting in a rocking chair, and then Greg, hopping on one leg inside a cleared area where someone had painted a hopscotch board on the floor.

  Lisa lay sleeping on a blanket. Seeing her daughter on the floor bothered Karly, but Jody was right there in case of bugs or… whatever.

  “Well, hello.” The old woman tapped the arm of her chair. “I see you found us.”

  “Thanks so much for your help,” Karly said. “Sharon didn’t come back with me. We ran into Ian, and he’s showing her the art gallery.”

  “That’s fine.” There were pouches beneath the older woman’s eyes, and Karly realized guiltily that the children must have tired her.

  “This is a fabulous attic, the kind kids dream about,” she said. “Th
ere must be a great view off the balcony.”

  “Oh!” Jody clapped her hands together. “I’d forgotten! There’s some kind of problem, Ian mentioned. It’s not safe.”

  Karly was glad she hadn’t gone out there. “Thanks for the warning.”

  She was about to pick up Lisa when an open box caught her eye. Beneath a couple of wooden soldiers lay a rumpled length of ivory silk embroidered with pink and green rosebuds.

  “How lovely. May I touch it?” she asked.

  Jody followed her gaze. “Certainly.”

  Carefully, Karly lifted the garment, a lacy gown like babies used to wear for christenings. From the delicate stitching, Karly could see it had been made by hand. “This must be a family heirloom.”

  “Take it. Please.” Jody unfolded her tall frame from the rocker. “My mother made it for Susan. I was christened in that outfit too, and so was Martin, but by the time Ian came along, boys didn’t wear such things. How perfect for Lisa. There’s no point in leaving it here to rot.”

  “You’re very generous.” With dry cleaning the gown would be stunning. “Thank you. I’d love to have it.” Karly laid the dress over one shoulder and scooped up the sleeping Lisa, who nestled against her other shoulder. “I hope I’ll see you again soon.”

  “I’d like that,” Jody said. “We have a lot in common.”

  “Sisters under the skin.” As soon as the words were out, Karly wondered why she’d said such a foolish thing, but the older woman appeared pleased.

  She relished leaving the attic with this heirloom, as if possessing it made her truly a part of the people whose lives had been played out here. Maybe that was what the dead yearned for—a link to the living, a sense that the circle hadn’t been broken.

  Now all Karly had to do was face her husband tonight and see if she could loosen, just a little, the rigid pattern of their marriage.

  The Argyle Gallery stood on Harbor Boulevard, flanked on one side by a used bookstore and, on the other, by an Italian restaurant. After the solemnity of the graveyard, the scents of oregano and basil drifting from the restaurant lightened Sharon’s mood. “Have you been working with this gallery long?” she asked as they approached the entrance.