Night Mist

by Helen R. Myers

  Rachel suffered Jay Barnes’s insolent gaze sweeping down her body. It left her feeling as though she’d been undressed and more.

  “Not hardly.”

  “Say what?”

  “She’s my neighbor,” he said more loudly. “She’s, uh, returning something I’d dropped.”

  Mudcat made a sound of disappointment. “Well, don’t forget you’ve gotta get that paint job done.” Then he retreated into his office and once again slammed the door behind him.

  Rachel wanted to shout for him to stay. But the pain in her wrist intensified, letting her know what a mistake it would be.

  “I’ll give you one last chance,” Jay Barnes growled over the echo of the shuddering wood and glass. “If you’re the innocent you claim to be, get out of here.”

  “All right. All right,” she cried, jerking her hand free. As soon as she was able, she sidestepped him and backed toward the street. “You win. For now.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “You worry about it.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Not wanting to give him the chance to get near her again, Rachel ran out of the garage and into the welcome grayness. She didn’t slow her hurried pace until she reached the dirt road and saw he wasn’t following her. But her thoughts continued racing.

  If she couldn’t get any answers from Jay Barnes, she would try another way. One option remained viable. She didn’t relish the idea of doing it, but at this rate she didn’t see that she had a choice. Somehow she had to get into his room.

  She expected obstacles—upstairs. What she didn’t expect was running into the first one the moment she reached the boardinghouse.

  Contrary to what Jewel had anticipated, the old woman was up and dressed. As Rachel entered, Adorabella floated from parlor to foyer looking much like one of the spirits she insisted shared the house with them.

  As with all her outfits, her dress was ankle length to hide, as she put it, her bean-pole legs. The pink silk chenille clashed somewhat with lavender hair styled in wispy waves that competed with the frills at her collar and wrists. How she managed to keep her frail body balanced in her strappy pumps baffled Rachel, even if the shoes only had two-inch heels. Both Jewel and Sammy often pleaded with her to respect her age and her frailty, but Adorabella insisted her feet were her vanity and she would show them to an advantage as long as they suited her. She did use a silver-handled cane that, when not saving her neck, was used like a schoolteacher’s pointer. Rachel found herself at the end of its sterling tip the moment she shut the screen door.

  “There you are!” Adorabella cried, her rice-paper cheeks flushed by excitement and rouge. “Come look at what they’ve done this time. I’m so glad you’re back. I wanted another witness, but when I heard you’d gone out, I thought, ‘What am I to do now?’ Mr. Bernard is with his fogies and I’m afraid to ask if Celia’s dragged herself back yet. Of course, Jewel can’t count, you know. She’s got the power. People would say it was all her doing.”

  Rachel cast a yearning glance toward the stairs. “Look at what?” she forced herself to ask, knowing instinctively that she didn’t want to hear any more, and she certainly didn’t want to get involved.

  “Come, come, come. It’ll do no good just telling you. We’re going to take a picture, too. That is, as soon as Jewel gets back with some film for the camera. We’ve decided to send the photo to the Nooton Gazette. Last time I had a message from the other side, that smart-alecky editor in chief over there told me to get him a photograph. I’m going to see he gets one this time. I’ll prove they’re here, once and for all.”

  “Adorabella,” Rachel said, continuing to linger behind, “I really do need to go up and—”

  Her landlady rapped her cane on the wooden floor twice. “Don’t dawdle, Rachel.”

  Aware she wouldn’t get away until she’d obliged her, Rachel followed. But with a sinking feeling. She remembered only too well the last “encounter” she’d witnessed on behalf of Adorabella. All the portraits and photos in the parlor had been askew, and the glasses around the liqueur decanter were turned on their sides. One had still been rolling back and forth.

  “You just missed them,” Adorabella had whispered.

  Rachel had been amused. She’d also never thought anything about repercussions when she’d added her signature as witness to the statement Adorabella had Jewel write. She’d been under the impression it was simply something for their personal album of memoirs. Later, however, when the reporter from the Gazette stopped by the clinic—after researching her background enough to see newsworthiness in a story about a Gentry in Nooton—the idea of allowing Adorabella her fun rapidly grew less innocent or harmless.

  “All right, I’m coming,” she sighed, preparing herself for the worst. “But I’m warning you up front, I won’t sign anything, and I’m not giving any interviews, either.”

  “No need, no need. That’s why we’re taking the photograph.”

  Before Rachel could ask why they needed her then, the old woman tapped her way through the parlor to the dining room. Rachel brought up the rear. One minute, she told herself, then no matter what, she would return to her own agenda.

  Adorabella stopped in the entryway of the dining room and posed, her cane thrust toward the table. “Now, what do you make of that?” she demanded, her frail voice lowered dramatically.

  Rachel considered the crystal vase that a few hours ago had contained the huge bouquet of roses. All the blossoms were now scattered around the tablecloth, and most were petalless.

  “Well?” Adorabella asked, sounding more proud than upset. “Don’t you think this will convince them?”

  Rachel eyed her landlady before looking back at the mess. “Are you alleging that the spirits of the house did this, too?”

  “Who else?”

  Clearing her throat, Rachel reasoned, “The blossoms were almost dead, Adorabella.” She didn’t want to hurt her feelings. When the old woman got depressed, she had a tendency to get even more reckless with the pills and liquor. “They could have fallen off naturally.”

  “The stems, dear, look at the stems. Some of them are out, too.”

  She had a point there. “I don’t suppose someone happened to see this happening?” she asked hopefully.

  “Of course not. That’s the whole point,” Adorabella declared, accenting the last two words by beating her cane on the carpeted floor. “Jewel and I were in the kitchen and no one else was around. But don’t you see what’s most fascinating? No, of course you don’t, because you’re not standing in the best place. Come over here.”

  The woman took hold of her arm and led her to the side of the table. Releasing Rachel, she pointed to the right side of the vase. “See?”

  Even as she told herself it was an illusion, Rachel stared at the J spelled awkwardly with the rose stems. She blinked hard, but the image remained.

  “My beloved husband’s name was Justin. I’ve been trying to contact him for over twenty years. He died up in the room Celia is renting, but we’ll keep that our little secret, if you please. No need to upset her. Of course, I was angry with Justin for the longest time for not chasing her out of there, but maybe this is his way of making up for it. Isn’t it clever of him to use his favorite flower to get a message to me? And look…he even used the petals to make a heart and let me know he still loves me. He always was such a romantic man.”

  The petals were indeed more organized after the crooked J, but Rachel didn’t see a heart as Adorabella did. She saw a lower-case o. J-o. A cold chill raced down her spine. No, she thought, it couldn’t be.

  Joe?

  “Got it!” Jewel rushed in from the kitchen, an Instamatic camera in hand. When she looked up from locking in the film cartridge and saw Rachel, there was a brief flicker in her dark eyes before she asked Adorabella, “How do you want this?”

  Ever the born director, her landlady prodded Rachel along. “Rachel and I will stand at the opposite side of the table and you stay
there to get in the writing.”

  The farce had gone on long enough. Rachel hung back, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t participate in this.” She began edging out of the room.

  “Nonsense. One picture, that’s all.” Adorabella hooked Rachel’s arm with her cane.

  Short of creating a scene and rousing unwanted curiosity, there seemed to be no way out of it. Rachel relented, but as she faced the camera, unsmiling, it also crossed her mind that she would be wise to placate Adorabella, especially when she didn’t have a clue as to how long she would be out of work, and that she might have to ask for a few days’ extension on the rent.

  At the first opportunity, she made her excuses and began to withdraw.

  Jewel followed her to the stairs. “Be careful,” she said, her voice vibrating with ominous warning.

  Not certain whether she was being warned or threatened, Rachel’s heart made a faint lurch. “What do you mean?”

  “You and I both know it wasn’t Mr. Justin who left that message. It was put there for you.”

  As much as she yearned to put a great deal of distance between herself and the woman, Rachel also saw the need to appear calm and confident. “Do we? For all we know, it’s a message to the widow of Jack Bonnard.”

  She was grateful to see she’d scored a point with that, but Jewel recovered quickly and shook her turbaned head.

  “Seen you talking to him.” She nodded in the direction of Beauchamp’s. “You look hard enough for trouble, Doctor, you’ll find it. That’s what the spirits be saying.”

  “I was merely checking on Mr. Barnes’s hand. He’d hurt it yesterday and I bandaged it for him last night,” she explained when the woman failed to make any comment. Then she experienced a flash of perception. “Wait a minute. No ghost was responsible for those roses, you were. Why? To scare me into taking you seriously?”

  The older woman muttered something in a language Rachel didn’t understand. “Believe what you want,” she replied darkly. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Rachel waited until Jewel disappeared back into the dining room before continuing upstairs. The woman was a case for the books, all right, she thought with a sigh. But added to the events of the past few days, along with Sammy’s decision to put her on probation, she didn’t need this.

  The events of the morning were taking their toll on her. Her head was spinning and her nerves felt as though they’d been put through a tenderizer.

  All the more reason to resolve the mystery surrounding Jay Barnes and Joe Becket.

  Once in her room, she set to work looking for something she could use to unlock her neighbor’s door. The hardware, she decided while eyeing it across the hall, was old. A small screwdriver or hairpin might do the trick with the lock, except that she owned neither—and she wasn’t about to go downstairs and borrow anything. Which left what?

  C’mon, Gentry. You’ve seen plenty of whodunits and thrillers to have learned something.

  She snapped her fingers. How obvious!

  Hurrying back to the dresser, she grabbed her purse, pulled out her wallet and flipped through her credit cards. Which could she sacrifice in case the experiment didn’t work? She didn’t charge anything these days, because she simply couldn’t afford to, but she’d held on to the major bankcards in case of an emergency. After a moment, however, it struck her that the raised digits and letters on each card might create a problem. She needed something shaped like this, but completely flat.

  The bottom card was her driver’s license. Ideal, she thought and dashed across the hall to try it out.

  It amazed her how easily it worked. After only the second attempt, she heard a metallic clicking sound, and when she tried the knob, it yielded.

  But her congratulatory mood quickly turned into concern. No matter how she looked at it, this was a criminal offense. “Miss Conscientious,” as Roddie used to call her, although she knew he’d said it with pride rather than mockery, had become a common burglar. What would her brother, her idol, have had to say to that?

  As she mentally browbeat herself, the door slowly swung open on its own, as though deciding for her. Nevertheless, she stayed where she was a moment longer, looking inside.

  It was just four walls, a ceiling and a floor, she reminded herself. Nothing could harm her. And she’d come this far—she had to finish.

  His room was no less bare than hers, or dull, she noted, grimacing at the tiny print wallpaper against a background of ash white. The bed was larger, she envied him that. But as for the rest—the bureau, a side table and a chair—she decided she wasn’t the only one who’d chosen for location rather than atmosphere. All she had to figure out was why.

  He had two views compared to her one: a window that looked out over the front yard, and beyond to Beauchamp’s and the street, as well as one that matched her scan of the driveway and Black Water Creek. Was that significant? If so, it was also disturbing, since the only reason she could think of to warrant such a need was if someone was interested in keeping track of the comings and goings of people.

  Rachel wandered from one side of the room to the other, her mind churning. What should she be looking for? Something—anything—that gave her more of a clue as to who he was.

  There wasn’t much to inspect, and searching the obvious—the closet, drawers—proved uninspiring. She’d thought she traveled light; Jay Barnes made her look like the original material girl. Most of the bureau drawers were bare, and when she checked the closet there was an empty canvas bag on the floor and a few pairs of jeans and a sports jacket on the hangers. Nothing suspicious. Nothing to identify him.

  Rachel backed up to the bed and sat down. It didn’t make sense. Even she had a few things lying around that at least characterized her to some degree…a favorite tortoiseshell brush from a friend here, a well-worn paperback version of an Ayn Rand novel there. Jay Barnes had virtually nothing, save a few old newspapers piled on the chair by the window. She should have guessed it would be like this, though. In the bathroom he kept a toothbrush, toothpaste, throw-away razor and mouthwash. Not even any aspirin, for heaven’s sake, she thought, recalling how she’d once checked his side of the medicine cabinet. The man was practically invisible.

  What did it mean? There was a lesson to be learned from this, just as there would be if he’d turned out to be the original human pack rat. It took her a moment to realize that, but once she did her interest and excitement grew. It also convinced her that there had to be something hidden somewhere. A man couldn’t live here all these weeks and not be hiding something—unless he carried it on his person. Judging by Jay Barnes’s usual state of dress—or undress—that didn’t seem likely.

  So where had he stashed it? She drummed her fingers on the faded blue fitted sheet that was the only covering on the bed. Suddenly, she stopped and stared down. Obvious, yes, she told herself, but so had been the credit-card idea.

  Sliding to the floor, she searched between the mattress and box spring, careful that when she withdrew her probing hands, she left the sheet and mattress cover as neat as she’d found it. But again there was nothing.

  Rising, she checked behind the pillows and the headboard, and the single painting in the room, which was a faded watercolor of the bayou at dusk. None of those places proved any more helpful.

  She peered behind each piece of furniture. Again it amazed her to see how little the man had with him. She’d seen transients newly arrived off one of the freight trains who carried more belongings.

  “For heaven’s sake,” she muttered to herself once again in the closet. She slid to the floor and stared out at the room. He had to be hiding something.

  It was chance alone that had her gaze settling on the bed again. No, that wasn’t entirely true. She couldn’t help imagining him lying there in the darkness, hot, naked and waiting for sleep—or dawn. It took her several seconds to realize she was staring at the slight unevenness of the box spring.

  She sprang to her feet and sped across the ro
om, sliding the last yard on her knees. Crouching low, she peered under the bed and saw it—the gun first…and then the billfold.

  Knowing nothing about guns, and having a strong aversion to the idea of learning, she left it alone and tugged the billfold free. Flipping it open, she immediately saw that it wasn’t a billfold at all, but a leather identification…a policeman’s ID.

  She stared at the gold shield and then the laminated card bearing his picture. It was a terrible picture, but that wasn’t what had her whispering, “Oh, my God.”

  The sound of the door shutting softly behind her might as well have been gunfire. She gasped and spun around.

  “Lady,” he growled, “it’s time somebody taught you a lesson or two.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “I told myself it wasn’t possible,” Rachel whispered, looking from Joe Becket’s ID to the man glaring at her. “I know you look like him. Logic told me you had to be him. But he was so…different, so kind.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he snapped.

  She almost laughed. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “In that case, put that on the nightstand and move away from the bed. No tricks.”

  Instead, she continued to sit there, her body refusing to move, except to begin an involuntary trembling. “I can’t.”

  “This isn’t a bluff. Move.”

  “I…c-can’t,” she said, her teeth chattering. Reaction, she told herself. Too much happening in too short a time on too little food and rest. System overload. Psychic shock. “L-look, about breaking in…I know this looks b-bad.”

  “At least we agree on something.”

  “But I had my reasons.”

  “I never doubted it for a moment.”

  “What I’m t-trying to say is…this isn’t what you think.” It was probably worse. Even as that notion formed, Rachel struggled to rise to her knees; however, her bones felt like melting wax and the room was spinning crazily, leaving her nauseous. “Oh, God. This is too much to take in.”