“I thought it strange to find some women’s clothes hanging in there,’’ David said. He stroked his chin in thought. “Toiletries?’’
“In the bathroom up here. Where else? It’s fitted out to look antique, but all the plumbing works.’’
She watched him pluck at his knit shirt. It clung to his body as if wet. And a nice body it was, too. He must work out.
Will had a nice body, too. That didn’t make him trustworthy, or kind, or even a gentleman.
But this young man, so close to her own age, had kind eyes. He’s not trustworthy. He faked suicide, she reminded herself.
“Mind if I get a bath and a shave?’’ David asked. “The river left its mark on me.’’
“Do you have fresh clothing?’’ Keely didn’t want to risk running down to the Laundromat, though she supposed she should wash some of her own things as well.
“Stashed a few things along with my sleeping bag some time ago.’’ David waved toward the cupboard. “I visit the museum incognito often.’’
“Very well. But don’t come back to this room. I’m going to bed and don’t wish to be disturbed. I’ve had a long and trying day.’’ She felt exhausted, no longer had the strength to remain standing, though she couldn’t remember why she should be so tired.
What had happened today that was so unusual?
David wandered through the big house, shadowed by Lilac. He forgot that he was still cold and damp as he revisited memories he thought he’d lost. Grumpy’s room with the big four-poster bed where David had curled up with him when thunder or nightmares frightened him. Grumpy would read to him or tell him stories until he fell asleep. Always, David woke up the next morning in his own bed, carefully tucked in by Grumpy.
He barely poked his nose into the rooms where the aunts had slept when they visited on holidays, or when they needed a loan. One of the guest rooms had been converted to storage, two others housed natural history exhibits and Indian stuff, and yet another had pioneer cabin things. One small room toward the back of the third floor had become a maid’s room, complete with mannequin in Victorian black uniform with a wraparound white apron.
Next to Grumpy’s room he found a ladies’ private parlor. He couldn’t remember how Grumpy used it when he lived here. Closed off, he guessed. Grumpy didn’t want to visit his wife’s rooms after she died. He’d have to ask Keely what they found there when the town took over.
On the main floor the dining room looked as it should, with the long mahogany table and twelve chairs, all set with white linen, polished silver, and the good china. Everyday china and serving dishes filled the sideboard. Cobwebs connected the crystal stem-ware. They needed a good washing. Someone neglected their curatorial duties and he suspected it wasn’t Keely.
The housekeeper’s rooms off the kitchen had been converted to an office, complete with file cabinets, desk, three-line telephone, computer, copier, and employee lounge with modern microwave and coffee pot. A long work table stretched across another pantry where new donations and artifacts were sorted, measured, and recorded. Plastic boxes below held needles and thread and some other restoration equipment.
Satisfied that the staff knew how to run a museum, even if they were a bit lazy in the cleaning department, he aimed his steps toward the library and study. New research books on local history, costuming, cooking, and restoration filled one wall. Otherwise, Grumpy’s massive collection stood undisturbed but lovingly dusted. Good. He hated to think about the books falling to ruin from neglect.
Finally he approached the study. He held his breath until it hurt, then gathered Lilac into his arms and stepped over the velvet rope installed to discourage tourists from entering. The cat purred a moment, then jettisoned herself out of his arms. She immediately began sniffing around the corners of the room.
Grumpy had kept everything he valued most in this room. It still smelled of his pipe tobacco and musty old books.
David tiptoed toward the west wall, where two sets of French doors opened onto a flagged patio and the lawn beyond with islands of roses dotted about. They smelled rich and wonderful and welcoming on the night wind. Soft moonlight turned the garden into a fairyland.
Between the two doors, an alcove with a window bench jutted out onto the patio.
He’d curled up here often with Lilac, puzzling his way through homework and favored books while Grumpy sat at his desk with his accounts and stock reports. He sat in the window embrasure a long time, drifting in his memories of this room, of being loved and cherished.
Eventually he remembered his purpose and looked about for signs of something out of alignment, some hint as to which wall of books hid the entrance to a secret room.
He couldn’t remember. With closed eyes, he tried to recreate the memory of the late night, so many years ago.
On the occasion of David’s ninth birthday, Grumpy had drunk quite a bit of wine at dinner, even letting David have a few sips, watered down. Quite an end to a day filled with cake and ice cream, friends, animal balloons, games, and a magician. David thought he smelled again the alcohol on Grumpy’s breath, along with his pipe tobacco and spicy hair tonic.
He traced the steps they had taken from the door to the desk to . . . his mind twisted and refused to lead him further. “Once more into the breach,’’ he quoted, closing his eyes and walking the path again. This time he ended up standing to the right of the sofa, facing the fireplace. Ceramic logs lay there now, in imitation of the real fire that had crackled merrily most evenings during David’s time in the home.
“Okay, now if I were going to hide a door . . .’’
“What are you looking for?’’ Keely asked from the doorway.
“I thought you were asleep,’’ David hedged.
“I did for a time. Now I’m awake. What are you looking for?’’
Did he trust her? “Something my grandfather left behind. Something he wanted me to have but was afraid to let my aunts know existed.’’
“If it was in the secret room below this one, we found it when we re-did the plumbing. It was empty.’’
“Oh.’’ David sagged. All his plans for naught. No money to start a new life. Nothing. No place to go. He crumpled onto the sofa, staring at the endless rows of books, the fake fire, the new carpet and drapes.
“Why didn’t you get a restraining order on your husband and divorce him?’’ He had to make conversation, just to keep going. He thought he knew the answer, but he had to ask.
She looked agitated, pacing from desk to windows to far wall and back to the desk. “He threatened to kill me.’’ She gulped. Tears came to her eyes. “He’d have done it, too. He’s a lawyer. Smart. He’s defended enough murderers to know how to get away with it. He knows how to make people mad enough to make mistakes and get evidence thrown out.’’
“You must be scared out of your wits. Couldn’t you go to one of the shelters?’’
“He’d find me.’’
“But here? Isn’t this the obvious place to look for you at night as well as during the day?’’
“I . . . I . . .’’ She moved faster, twisting her hands together, searching every shadow and starting every time the cat moved.
“Let me ask you this, Keely: How long have you been curator here?’’
“A long time. Since the town bought the house.’’ She relaxed a bit but continued her anxious prowl of the room.
“Twelve years,’’ David mused. “I met you at the dedication.’’
“That long. My, how time flies.’’ But she looked confused. “Could your grandfather have moved his ’treasure’ before he died?’’ She changed the subject and looked much calmer.
“He might. If he thought my aunts would find the room. They mentioned more than once that the old mausoleum should be torn down.’’
“There you have it. As soon as he got sick—cancer, wasn’t it—he took measures to secure it for you. Where else could he have hidden it?’’ She tapped her lips with her finger.
He noted that
she had a near-perfect manicure, except for one small chip in the nail polish at the tip of her index finger. Beneath that nail was an old dark stain that looked like dried blood.
“There’s a place in the dressing room off Grumpy’s room.’’
“I’ve been all through the built-in drawers. I had to inventory everything left in the house, including your grandfather’s underwear.’’
“But did you pull out all of the drawers and look in the cupboard behind them?’’ New hope brightened David’s mood. The whole room looked lighter, as if dawn approached while the moon was still up. “Let’s go look.’’ He stood, eager and happy again.
“What got you interested in history?’’ David asked, just to make conversation. He knew she wouldn’t talk about her life with Will.
“Oh.’’ Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “I’m not sure when it started exactly. I’ve always listened to the stories of old-timers, prowled ruins and museums and cemeteries.’’
“What were you looking for?’’ They ambled together toward the kitchen and the back stairs, as if the grand staircase was reserved for someone else. Someone, older and more dignified, who used to live there.
“Connections, I think.’’ Keely paused and looked about at the antique fixtures and wallpaper, portraits painted and photographed, the polished wood floors and high ceilings. “I like to look at the way people used to live, what they believed, their attitudes, and follow them forward to see how the past has shaped our lives today.’’
“Give me an example.’’ He smiled down at her, liking the companionable air between them, the almost instant “fit’’ of their personalities. The sense of trust that came out of nowhere when neither one of them had a reason to trust anyone.
Correction: neither one of them could trust their families, but strangers could become instant friends because they didn’t have the power to hurt you. Not like family could.
“Okay, did you know that the phrase ’bustle along’—meaning to move hurriedly and with ostentation—has many sources, but our modern meaning refers to a woman wearing a bustle, and usually a tight skirt. She couldn’t move very fast because when she hurried, the bustle swayed in a most unbecoming and obvious manner?’’
David laughed. “I’ve got one for you, but not as funny. Street names. A lot of them come from the pioneer family that originally lived on that street.’’
“Yes,’’ she chortled. “And if you study wedding announcements of prominent families in the past the guest list reads like a local road map.’’
They continued to trade anecdotes as they approached the master bedroom and its attached dressing room. Most of the long narrow room—just wide enough to fit a single bed across the end under the tall window—was made narrower by built-in shelves and drawers.
“We don’t open this room to the public. The door to the hallway is always locked; in fact, I don’t remember there being a key when I started work. Easier to control traffic and access if the only entrance is through the bedroom.’’
“What happened to all of Grumpy’s clothes?’’
“Is that what you called him? Grumpy? From what I’ve read, he was not the easiest man to get along with.’’
“We got along just fine. I loved him,’’ David said wistfully.
“Most of his clothes were too worn and threadbare to display. Valuable to the researcher, though. They are in climate-controlled storage off-site. That’s why the shelves are filled with ledgers and document folders that we need to keep but aren’t current,’’ Keely explained.
David slid down to sit on the floor, his back to the cupboard. Anxious as he was to find the stash of Confederate gold his multi-great-grandfather had hidden against the day the South rose again, he wanted to prolong this moment, this sharing with Keely. He hadn’t allowed himself to share his life with anyone since Grumpy had died. What sense in making friends when he’d spent five years planning his escape to a new life, leaving them all behind?
Suddenly he didn’t want to leave Keely behind.
But he had to.
She couldn’t go with him. She could never leave the museum she loved so much it had become her sanctuary.
So he patted the floor beside him, inviting her to sit. She did. They talked and laughed until long after the moon set. Better to spend one night talking to a ghost than alone for the rest of his life.
Keely awoke on the narrow child’s bed in the attic, as she had every morning since she’d made the decision not to go back to Will and the house of luxurious horrors he’d built for them. As she stretched, just fitting with the crown of her head against the top rail and her feet pushing against the bottom, she wondered if any new donations had come in to the museum.
Her hand brushed soft fur. She jerked it back and squeaked in fear, expecting to find a mouse had crawled into the ticking and chewed its way out.
The cat lay tucked into the back of David’s knees.
David. Such a lovely young man. The spitting image of his grandfather’s youthful portraits. Polite and caring, smart and eager to learn new things. Why hadn’t she met him years ago, before she met Will?
Because years ago he’d have been a teenager and she was finishing up her dissertation.
Carefully, she wiggled off the bed so that she didn’t disturb David and his cat.
Maybe this should be her last night hiding out here. She should leave the place to David. After all, he could never leave it, since this was the beloved place his spirit had chosen to return to after death. He’d run away from his emotionally abusive family only to find death. He just didn’t realize it yet. He might never realize that he’d died in the cold dark waters of the river.
Knowing him made her realize she could run no longer. She had to stand up to Will and expose him for the cruel brute he truly was. Would the world believe her? They would if she showed a judge and the press the latest round of bruises, broken bones, and knife nicks.
A strange sensation of déjà vu washed over her. She felt like she had stood here before, made this decision before. . . .
Nonsense. She needed to get to work.
She longed for the taste of steaming waffles with melted butter and sweet maple syrup. And apple sausage on the side. Oh, and the taste of fine coffee with real cream and sugar, and orange juice thick with pulp. But she dared not show her face anywhere in town where Will might find her. She’d done that before and he dragged her home to another round of abuse. Oh well, she’d make do with instant oatmeal in the microwave and generic coffee.
“I’d best get ready and hide the evidence that I’ve been here all night,’’ she muttered on her way down the stairs.
David woke up cold and damp on the iron bed of his childhood, feeling as if something were missing. Lilac pressed up against his knees, as she had always slept. He stroked one finger along her silky head, wondering . . .
Keely.
He sighed with regret that he must leave her as soon as he found the treasure. Somehow they’d never gotten around to looking last night. She was just so much fun to talk to.
Another time, another place, another life, he’d look forward to spending a lifetime talking to her, laughing with her, holding her. Making love to her.
But no. That could never be. She was dead and didn’t know it.
Should he tell her? He didn’t know which would be crueler: to make her continue hiding in fear of a man sitting on death row in the state prison or to force her to accept her death.
The smell of coffee made his mouth water. He wandered down the back stairs in search of the water of life.
Voices drifted up from the kitchen. The staff had arrived already. He and Keely must have slept later than he thought. He considered creeping back upstairs and hiding out again. The sight of Keely standing to the side of the doorway, obviously eavesdropping, drove him on.
She half turned to him and beckoned him to stand beside her, hidden from view.
“I see our resident ghost has been busy, Marla,’’ a matur
e female said cheerily. “Half my work in measuring, assessing, and recording the new donations is done already.’’
“Resident ghost?’’ Keely whispered. Her naturally pale face went whiter. “I did that work myself.’’
David touched her arm, in compassion. She had to find out someday.
“You don’t suppose, Veronica, that Keely comes back. . . .’’ a younger girl said. Presumably Marla.
“She was found dead here after her husband stabbed her seven times,’’ Veronica added. “Interesting that she crawled back here to her place of employment rather than go to friends, or the hospital, or even the police.’’
“She loved this old place and her work. Loved it more than she did her husband. And that’s why he killed her,’’ Marla insisted.
“Anyway you look at it, even as a ghost she’s a more capable curator than Marshall Gibbs,’’ Veronica snorted.
“Don’t let him hear you say that!’’
“Oh, he won’t grace us with his presence until he’s damn well good and ready. Plenty of time for us to get the real work done before he starts complaining about the dust. Always complaining that we never dust. As if we didn’t have anything more important to do, like give tours to the public.’’
“I dust every day,’’ Keely sighed. “And it never gets better.’’ She looked sadly at the dingy dining room through the swinging door, now propped open, and the cobwebs that stretched from glass to glass, to plates, to chandelier. “Is it true?’’ She raised sad eyes to David. “Am I dead?’’
“I’m afraid so,’’ David said gently. “I read about your death in the papers. I sent flowers to your funeral because you were kind to me when we met at the dedication. I’m sorry you had to hear it like this,’’ David whispered.
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