Something wasn’t right. Standing with her back turned to Gilda, Mrs. Joyce seemed transfixed by something invisible.
“Mom?”
Mrs. Joyce remained silent.
“I heard something—someone calling for help.” Gilda approached, trying to see her mother’s face. “Mom—are you okay?”
Now Gilda felt a tremor of fear because she saw that her mother’s face looked different: Her mother’s freckled skin had turned pale; her hazel eyes looked dark with fear. It was still her mother’s face, but Gilda had the disconcerting feeling that someone else was staring at her through her mother’s eyes.
13
A True Southern Bride
I hope you brought your umbrella, Patty-Cakes, because it’s spittin’ rain out there.” The screen door slammed behind Eugene, who entered the house with rosy cheeks, his mustache dappled with raindrops. “Here—I found your purse in the car.”
Eugene’s sudden entrance seemed to shake Gilda’s mother from her trance. She rubbed her hands against her temples, as if suffering from a bad headache. “Oh—thank you, Eugene.”
Gilda stared at her mother. She heard Eugene rummaging through a coat closet in the next room.
“Are you okay, Mom?”
“Of course. I’m fine.” She walked to the sink and turned on the faucet.
“Mom—what is your deal?!”
“Please don’t talk to me with that tone of voice, Gilda.”
“Mom—do you realize you were completely zoned out a minute ago?”
Mrs. Joyce rubbed her arms. “It’s so cold in here!”
“You’re always cold, Patty-Cakes.” Eugene walked into the kitchen and placed a crocheted shawl around Mrs. Joyce’s shoulders.
“Mr. Pook,” Gilda ventured, “we just had a strange incident here.”
Gilda noticed that her mother’s eyes flashed. She doesn’t want me to say anything because she’s scared, Gilda thought. I bet she doesn’t understand what just happened any more than I do.
“What kind of incident?” A shadow crossed Eugene’s face.
“Don’t worry; we didn’t break anything,” said Gilda hastily, “but we did hear something strange. It sounded like a voice calling for help. And I think it scared my mom—”
“I didn’t hear anything,” Mrs. Joyce interrupted.
“Are you sure, Mom? I heard it very clearly.”
“You know,” said Eugene, staring down at the floorboards, “these old houses make all kinds of noises. Why, with these old houses and the wind blowing through the palms outside when it rains, people think they hear all kinds of things—children crying, people talking, you name it.” He looked at Gilda pointedly. “Of course, that explanation probably isn’t as interesting as believing in ghosts.”
“I didn’t say it was necessarily a ghost,” said Gilda, making a mental note that Eugene had independently introduced the idea of ghosts. “But I definitely heard a person’s voice.”
“All I know,” said Mrs. Joyce, “is that I was resting there on the couch, and the next thing I knew, I was standing here in the kitchen, but I don’t remember getting up to come in here. And I felt so dizzy. . . .”
“You probably just need a good night’s sleep after your trip,” said Eugene. “And speaking of ghosts”—Eugene grinned as if he were about to reveal a big secret—“how would you like to do some ghost hunting tonight, Gilda?”
The offer surprised Gilda. “I thought you said you don’t believe in ghosts.”
“I don’t,” he said, “but a little bird told me that ghost hunting is one of your favorite hobbies.”
Gilda guessed it wasn’t worth trying to explain to Eugene that her investigations were far more than “hobbies,” and that she had already solved several mysteries, including one of national importance.
“I just ran into Mary Louise and Darla on their way back from Darla’s dance class,” Eugene explained. “Mary Louise invited you to go out to dinner with her and Darla, and maybe you can all go on one of the ghost tours this evening. Mary Louise—she loves those ghost tours.”
Maybe he’s trying to get rid of me for the evening so he can be alone with Mom, Gilda thought. She had an urge to reject the invitation, if only to thwart Eugene’s plans, but the allure of a St. Augustine ghost tour was too great to pass up. Besides, Gilda thought, I need to learn more about the most notorious ghosts in the city. Maybe it will help me understand what type of ghost might be haunting Eugene’s house—if any.
“So what do you say?” Eugene asked.
“Sure,” said Gilda. “It sounds great.”
“You can head over to her place whenever you’re ready, Gilda,” said Eugene. “Just be sure to take one of the umbrellas from over there in the coat closet. Now, Patty-Cakes, we need to hunker down and get ready for this wedding. For starters, you need to try on a vintage dress that I think would be perfect for you. It’s cut small, so you’ll have to go easy on the cake and jelly crackers until after the wedding, heh-heh. But it’s a real beauty—probably one of the most valuable vintage gowns in my collection. Pure silk and real pearls.”
“It sounds just lovely,” said Mrs. Joyce. “And I definitely need to find a dress.”
“Wait a minute, Mom,” said Gilda. “I thought I was going to be your wedding planner.” Gilda was surprised by her own disappointment. She realized she had actually been looking forward to functioning as her mother’s personal stylist for the wedding, scouring the local boutiques and vintage shops for possible dresses. Of course, her mother would probably reject most of her suggestions as “too flashy” or “too silly.” Still, it would have been fun to put her personal stamp on some aspect of the wedding.
“Gilda, this wedding is going to be perfect,” said Eugene in a tone that made it clear that he did not want her style advice on any aspect of the ceremony. “Simple, elegant, classic. You girls don’t have to lift a finger because I’ve already got it all figured out.”
“No problem,” said Gilda, doing her best to conceal how miffed she felt. “I’ll just focus on things that involve the children of the bride.”
“Such as?” Eugene asked.
“The children’s cake.”
“The ‘children’s cake’? I don’t believe we’re planning for a ‘children’s cake.’”
“Are you sure? I’ve read that in the really nice Southern weddings there’s often a special cake for the kids of the bride—I mean, in these nontraditional cases when there are kids involved in the ceremony.”
“Well, I’ve never—”
“Oh, I think that’s a really nice idea,” said Mrs. Joyce, who was eager to placate Gilda.
“Great,” said Gilda. “I’ll go down to one of the bakeries in town tomorrow. Oh, and don’t worry, Eugene, because I’ll ask about a special cake for the groom, too. That’s another tradition—”
“We do NOT need a cake for the groom,” Eugene interrupted.
“But—”
“And, Gilda honey,” said Mrs. Joyce, “we’d love for you to do a reading at the ceremony. Maybe you could even write something original for us—a poem or something?” Mrs. Joyce turned to Eugene, who looked less than enthusiastic about the idea. “Gilda is a wonderful writer. And Gilda, Eugene loves poetry, just like you!”
“Perfect,” said Gilda. “I’ll come up with something completely appropriate for the occasion.” She sensed that Eugene didn’t trust her to come up with anything he would actually like, and she couldn’t help indulging in a moment of sadistic enjoyment at his discomfort. “And don’t worry, Mr. Pook,” she teased, “I won’t forget to order those cakes!”
Eugene didn’t laugh as Gilda left the room.
I don’t think Mr. Pook likes me much, Gilda thought. Oh, well, the feeling is mutual. She couldn’t help thinking it was a little odd that Eugene was telling her mother what to wear to her own wedding. A true Southern bride would never allow that kind of nonsense! Gilda thought. She’d be taking charge!
As Gilda stepped outs
ide and opened the vintage, peacock-headed umbrella she had borrowed from Mr. Pook, she hesitated, wishing for the thousandth time that there were some way she could be in two places at once. If Eugene’s mustache was any indication of his taste in hair and clothing, she wondered if she should hang around to see what abomination he might have in mind for her mother’s wedding dress. On the other hand, the chances were good that she and Mr. Pook would get in a wedding-planning argument if she stuck around too long.
Why couldn’t Mom marry someone more fun—a stepdad who would at least have a sense of humor about the “groom’s cake”? Gilda wondered. Well, one thing is for sure: Mr. Pook is nothing like Dad!
14
The Ghostly Friend
As she made her way up the path leading to Mary Louise and Darla’s house, Gilda felt as if she had stepped into a magical world. Wind chimes hanging from mossy tree branches danced in the humid breeze. For a moment, Gilda thought she glimpsed orbs of colorful spirits hovering in the cloudy air, but then she realized they were actually solid glass spheres. All around, they hung from trees or rested against potted geraniums and ferns.
“Come in, Gilda!” Mary Louise opened the door, and Gilda entered a comfortable, eclectic interior filled with the aroma of homemade cookies—a welcome contrast to the musty, spicy smell of old wood and datil peppers that pervaded Eugene’s home.
“I was just searching for our umbrellas,” said Mary Louise, taking Gilda’s umbrella and poncho, “although the rain will most likely stop by the time we leave.”
“In Florida, just wait ten minutes and the weather will change!” Gilda joked. It was a comment she had heard Eugene make several times already.
“You’ve got that right, honey.”
Gilda followed Mary Louise into the living room. “Those glass spheres you have in your yard are interesting.” She hoped that Mary Louise would explain their significance.
“I started collecting those years ago when I was much younger,” Mary Louise said as she sat down on the living-room couch and poured tall glasses of iced tea from a pitcher. “At one point I was thinking of turning part of our house into a bed-and-breakfast, and I thought they would add a nice touch for the guests. It’s funny,” she reflected, “even after I lost interest in those crystal balls, people just kept giving them to me for some reason!”
“You were hoping to see ghosts in them, right, Mama?” said a voice from the staircase.
Gilda looked up to see Darla, who had suddenly appeared in the living room. She froze, hoping Darla would say more about seeing ghosts.
“Well, yes,” said Mary Louise. “Someone did tell me that I might see a ghost or two in the crystal balls.” Mary Louise’s response surprised Gilda; she had expected Darla’s mother to say something far more dismissive or critical about the idea of seeing ghosts anywhere. Something like, “Don’t be silly!” or, “Sounds like somebody’s imagination is ready for Halloween!” Maybe the moms in St. Augustine are different from the moms in Michigan, Gilda thought.
“But we didn’t see any ghosts in them,” Mary Louise added. “Did we, Darla?”
“No,” said Darla. “We didn’t.”
Gilda sensed something simmering beneath the surface of this exchange between mother and daughter—some emotionally volatile story—but she couldn’t imagine what it might be. She longed to blurt out a series of prying questions about ghosts in St. Augustine and Eugene’s background, but she knew she had to be careful. Gilda stirred her sweet tea very quickly with her spoon. Remember, she told herself, you’re in the South. Mind your manners, and people will trust you more.
“Want some sweet tea and cookies, Darla?” said Mary Louise.
“Sure.” Darla walked across the living room and flopped onto a love seat across from Gilda.
“Sit up, darlin’,” said Mary Louise.
“Speaking of ghosts,” said Gilda, who felt too impatient to avoid the topic completely, “we actually just had a little unexplained encounter over at Eug—I mean, Mr. Pook’s house this afternoon.”
“Oh, did you now?” Mary Louise’s eyes flashed brightly. “Tell us about it.”
Gilda explained how she had heard the voice calling for help from somewhere in the house. She decided to leave out the part about her mother seeming to go into a trance, though; she found the experience troubling in a way that was just too hard to explain.
“Oh, I don’t doubt that it was a ghost,” said Mary Louise. “So much life and death went on in each one of these old houses. Some of them might have been used as makeshift hospitals during the Civil War.”
This was interesting. Had she heard the voice of someone who had lived during the Civil War? Maybe the wife of a soldier who had died?
“Yes, I don’t doubt that it was a ghost,” Mary Louise repeated. “We have a ghost here in this house, too.”
“Not anymore,” said Darla, tersely. “He’s gone now.”
“Darla used to see him. She had quite a gift for seeing ghosts when she was a little girl.”
“She did?!” Gilda was fascinated.
“Mom, do you have to talk about this?”
“Honey, Gilda is interested in ghosts.”
Darla sighed. Her knee bounced nervously.
“Anyway,” Mary Louise continued, “when Darla was younger, she used to tell me about a little ‘ghostly friend’ she would see in our house. She said he slept in her bed.”
“No,” Darla countered, “he slept on the floor in my room.”
“I just assumed it was a typical imaginary friend,” Darla’s mother continued, “but then Darla began to tell me details about this boy’s entire life.” She eyed the lapful of crumbs on Darla’s shorts and handed her daughter a napkin across the coffee table. “Darla said his name was Tom, and that he had been killed, and that he died in our house.
“Well, I thought this was a little strange. And Darla kept going on and on about this boy. I was beginning to worry, because she kept talking about him and by now she was getting a bit older—too old for an imaginary friend, I thought. So finally I decided I might as well do some research to find out whether a boy fitting her description had ever lived in this house. I went down to the historical society and looked through newspaper articles and records. And what do you know: One of the families who lived here actually did have a boy who was killed. He was hit by a stagecoach. We think he must have died in Darla’s bedroom.”
Gilda observed Darla, who was busy breaking another cookie into tiny pieces. She hates talking about this stuff, Gilda thought. But why? Gilda realized that she also felt a sudden pang of jealousy toward Darla. This seventh grader had access to what seemed a veritable cornucopia of ghosts in St. Augustine, and she apparently had been born with the gift of psychic abilities without even having to try to develop them. Gilda had been working hard for years, and still she had to rely on dreams, hunches, and a healthy dose of traditional detective work rather than clear visions of ghosts to solve her mysteries. What would it be like to see and hear a ghost so clearly that he or she became an actual friend? And what would it be like to have a mother who took enough interest in ghost hunting to actually seek out some useful information about a haunting instead of saying that it was just a “spooky game”?
On the other hand, Gilda thought, if Mom ever tried to help me solve a mystery, I’d probably just get annoyed with her.
“That’s an amazing story,” said Gilda. “And it sounds like you have a pretty strong psychic talent, Darla.”
“Not anymore,” said Darla. “It kind of stopped.”
This was interesting. Could you lose psychic abilities the way some people forgot entire languages when they stopped speaking them? “Any idea why it stopped?”
Darla shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
“After I realized that Darla had actually seen a ghost,” said Mary Louise, stirring her sweet tea with a long spoon, “a lot of people around here wanted to talk to her about it. In fact, one of those ghost-hunter television shows even came
to our house to do a feature! It was very exciting.” She paused and stared at Darla, who was brushing crumbs from her lap onto the floor. “But maybe it was all too much; Darla was a little shy—”
“I wasn’t shy, Mom; I just didn’t see the ghost when everyone wanted me to.”
Gilda wondered whether even ghost hunting could become a chore like doing math homework once adults started pressuring you about it. I wonder if I’d be as interested in psychic investigations if Mom started urging me to find more ghosts? Gilda mused. I’d like to think that I’d still be just as committed to my work, but you never know.
“At least Darla was honest when she stopped seeing the ghosts,” Gilda suggested. “I bet a lot of kids would have made up a big story once they had the attention of a television crew.”
“I suppose that’s true,” said Mary Louise.
Darla crossed her legs and jiggled her foot nervously. She pulled a cell phone from her pocket and looked at it.
“Not now, Darla.” Mary Louise shook her head with exasperation. “These days it’s just constant! Texting on the cell phone, listening to music on her i-pot—”
“iPod, Mom,” Darla corrected.
“Whatever you call it. There’s always some gadget stuck to the girl’s head.”
“Most of the kids I know are the same way,” said Gilda, who often preferred writing letters on her typewriter to sending text messages, partly because she had read somewhere that cell phones can interfere with the ability to perceive ghosts. “Some of my friends have developed radioactive halos around their heads from all their electronic devices,” she joked.
Mary Louise laughed. “Oh, look,” she said, glancing out the window. “The rain stopped—at least for now. Shall we get something to eat and then do some ghost hunting?”
“Sounds perfect!” said Gilda.
“Can’t we just go out for ice cream?” Darla whined.
“Maybe we can do both,” said Mary Louise. “Gilda is visiting from up north, Darla, and we need to be good hosts.”
“We don’t have to go on the tour if you’d rather not,” said Gilda, secretly hoping that Mary Louise wouldn’t back down.
Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy Page 6