Darla picked up the worn book and flipped through the underlined, highlighted, and dog-eared chapters on topics including “Using a Pendulum,” “Interpreting Your Dreams,” “Conducting Séances,” and “Automatic Writing.” She had to admit feeling intrigued by some of the topics.
“You write in your books a lot, you know that?” Darla glanced warily at Gilda.
“I do that when I really like a book,” said Gilda. “It drives my school librarian crazy, though, so now I just copy the sentences I like in a little notebook.”
“Well,” said Darla, “I guess I could take a look at it.”
“Don’t get too excited about it.”
“I mean, I really appreciate it. Thanks.”
“I got you something else, too.” Gilda removed the archangel candle from her bag. “This is for special protection.”
“A candle?”
“It’s not just any candle; it’s your special guardian angel candle. When you’re feeling unsafe, you light this candle and say, ‘Archangel Michael, please protect me and keep me safe from all danger and evil.’ ”
Darla took the candle and traced the image of the angel with her finger.
“You can say whatever words you want—just ask your guardian angel to protect you. Get it?”
“Does it work?”
Gilda wasn’t at all sure it would work, but when she looked into Darla’s hopeful, frightened eyes, she felt compelled to feign certainty. “Sometimes when I feel scared I think of my dad, who passed away, and I ask his spirit to help me get through it,” she said. “And it’s like having a guardian angel. So yes—it does work. It makes you brave.”
“Why aren’t you scared of ghosts—or anything?”
“I get scared all the time, Darla. But when that happens, I just try to talk myself out of it and continue my investigation. Sometimes I write myself a letter—kind of like a pep talk.” And sometimes I call Wendy in the middle of the night, Gilda thought.
Darla stood up and placed the candle on her pink dresser. “Why do you want to help me with this stuff?”
The question caught Gilda off guard. Why do I want to help her? True, she wanted Darla’s help with her investigation, but it was more than that. “I figured it must be scary to see all these spirits everywhere, but to have to pretend that you aren’t seeing them. I mean, I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have my friend Wendy to talk to about some of the stuff that has happened during my investigations. . . . I guess I thought you could use a psychic ‘big sister.’”
Darla just stared at her guardian angel candle and wore a lopsided grin that looked as if she were suppressing a very big smile. “Okay, I guess,” she said. “I mean, it is hard not to be able to tell anyone when I see ghosts.”
“Exactly. Plus, I figure that with your talent and my experience, we could be a great investigative team.”
“What do you mean?”
“Darla, remember how you told me about the ghost in the white dress—the one you followed over to Mr. Pook’s house when you saw all those bones?”
Darla nodded.
“Well, I saw her today. I’m sure it must be the same ghost.”
“Did she show you the bones?” Darla whispered.
“No, she didn’t,” said Gilda. “But maybe if we did a séance together we could get some clues about her identity and figure out whether her spirit is trying to tell us something. Maybe she has a message about the Indian village—or something that happened later, like during the Civil War. If we uncover her story, seeing her won’t feel so scary.”
Darla nodded. “But Gilda—I really don’t want to do stuff with television cameras and ghost-hunting shows.”
“Definitely not. I hate those shows.” Gilda secretly felt that she wouldn’t mind being featured on one of the ghost-hunting shows, but nobody had ever invited her.
“And don’t say anything to Mama about this stuff either.”
“Got it. Mum’s the word.”
“What does that mean?”
“I won’t say anything.”
“Good.”
“So listen. Read The Master Psychic’s Handbook, and then we’ll get together to try a séance, okay?”
“I guess.” Darla suddenly looked doubtful.
“Darla, if you don’t face up to these spirits who keep trying to get your attention, you’ll have to go through your life always feeling scared—always trying to hide from things you don’t want to see.”
“Okay,” said Darla. “We can try it.”
“Great. Now I have to get ready to have dinner at my mother’s fiancé’s ex-girlfriend’s parents’ house.”
Darla wrinkled her nose. “Sounds complicated.”
“That’s an understatement, Darla. Well, toodles. Happy reading!”
After Gilda left, Darla glanced around the room before picking up the book of matches Gilda had left. She struck a match and carefully lit her guardian angel candle with a shaking hand.
28
Aren’t You Jealous?
Dear Wendy:
I laid out in the sun all day and I am super burned! I’m hoping it will turn into a tan by the time I get back to school, though.
Well, my hand hurts from typing, so I’ve gotta go. Time to read another fashion mag, flip myself over, and fry the other side!
JUST KIDDING ! ! !
I remain your freckled, shade-loving friend.
NEWS FLASH:
Remember the Woman in White story I was telling you about--that ghost-woman wearing a bridal gown that the neighbor-girl Darla saw? Well, this morning I saw her. That’s right: I, Gilda Joyce, SAW A GHOST. As you know, this is a big deal for me, because I don’t usually see ghosts except in my dreams. Sure, I get messages in other ways, but this was highly unusual. I still don’t know who this ghostly woman in white is, but I have a couple ideas:
1. She may be the ghost of a woman who was murdered by her husband and then buried in her wedding gown.
2. She might have been a yellow fever victim who died on her wedding day (incidentally, I had a weird dream about someone being buried alive in the “yellow fever” cemetery in St. Augustine. I also know that a lot of the Timucua Indians who lived here died of yellow fever.).
3. She might be an alien from outer space who is plotting to steal all the chocolate, peanut butter, and banana sandwiches on earth. (Just testing you there to make sure you’re awake.)
OTHER NEWS :
I now have a psychic “little sister.” (Don’t worry; she’s totally potty trained.) So far, it’s kind of like a two-person sorority where I help her develop her psychic skills and she helps me talk to ghosts. (At least I’m hoping she will.) I’ve always thought that I’d be a better big sister than I am a little sister because I’m so good at teaching people stuff, you know? (I can hear your snortlaugh all the way from Michigan, Wendy, so have some tact.) But seriously, I think I might be able to help Darla become a real psychic.
Are you jealous??
Are you SURE you’re not jealous?
Not even a teensy little bit?
Crikey! I can’t believe I almost forgot to mention the other piece of ho-hum news! Why does NOTHING EXCITING ever happen to me?! (That was sarcasm, incidentally.)
Today archaeologists began excavating the property next to Mr. Pook’s house because they found evidence of an Indian village there. They think there might be an Indian burial ground nearby as well-possibly on Mr. Pook’s property.
Yes, Wendy, the horror-movie implications of staying in a house that’s probably built on an Indian burial ground are not lost on me. (Have I mentioned that this house may have also been used as a hospital during the Civil War?) If you don’t hear from me in a few days, send some backup down here to see if we’re all still alive.
Seriously.
I have been wondering whether some of the odd happenings around Mr. Pook’s house have any connection with the Indian jawbone he keeps on display in the glass-topped coffee table in his living room. (Can yo
u believe it?! I mean, really. Come to think of it, I’ve been meaning to ask my mom what she thinks of that little coffee-table display. ) Well, Mr. Pook is going to be pretty surprised when a bunch of his stuff gets thrown out and replaced with Hummel figurines after the wedding! You know how when my mom gets in a bad mood, she starts throwing out everything in sight and you really have to keep an eye on stuff like your manuscript pages and extra boxes of Twinkies? All I can say is: good luck keeping a human jawbone around during one of Patty’s famous cleaning binges, Mr. Pook!
Well, I’d better be going, Wendy. I’m off to dinner at the home of some true Minorcans ! (Hold your questions, please; I’ll explain later.)
Your friend and colleague,
Gilda Joyce
29
Gopher Stew
When Gilda, her mother, and Eugene arrived at the Furbos’ large house on the outskirts of St. Augustine, Mr. Furbo greeted Eugene with a slap on the back. “So, after all these years, Eugene finally finds a girl to marry him!”
Mr. Furbo’s stocky physique, blunt features, and ruddy skin reminded Gilda of a rough sculpture molded from clay. She noticed prominent scars on his hands and arms; she guessed they were the result of farming accidents. During the drive to the Furbos’ house, Eugene had explained how the Furbo family owned several hundred acres of land on the outskirts of St. Augustine. “They know this land like the back of their hands, and they’ve been through everything here—good times and bad,” Eugene had said. “They’re tough folks—some of the most hardworking people I know.”
Mr. Furbo turned to Mrs. Joyce, gripped her shoulders, and held her at arm’s length, scrutinizing her appearance: “Well I’ll be . . .” He seemed to blanch for a moment, as if he found Mrs. Joyce’s appearance upsetting in some way.
“What’s the matter, Bob?” Eugene asked.
“You do have a type when it comes to the ladies, don’t you, Eugene?”
Gilda’s ears perked up at this comment.
“’Course, she looks older than Charlotte,” he added.
“Thanks a lot!” said Mrs. Joyce, laughing nervously.
“Oh, he means it as a compliment, Patty,” was Eugene’s hasty clarification.
“Come here, Theresa,” Mr. Furbo called. “See if Eugene’s new fiancée doesn’t look like she could be Charlotte’s older sister ! Or aunt!” It was difficult to tell whether Mr. Furbo was delighted or annoyed with Mrs. Joyce’s resemblance to his daughter. On one hand, he seemed happy to meet Mrs. Joyce—almost as if his own daughter had stepped into his house for a visit. On the other hand, there was an angry edge to his voice that suggested a reprimand—as if Mrs. Joyce’s appearance in his home was an unpleasant reminder of something he wanted to forget.
Is he angry that Eugene picked a woman who resembles his daughter? Gilda wondered. But why, exactly?
Dressed in pearls, a white blouse, blue jeans, and an apron, Mrs. Furbo emerged from the kitchen. She was a petite woman with an olive complexion and quick, birdlike movements. She gave Mrs. Joyce a fierce, hard stare and then disappeared back into the kitchen without smiling or even saying hello to her guests.
“Hello there, Theresa!” Eugene called after Mrs. Furbo.
What kind of Southern hospitality was that?! Gilda thought. Clearly, the Furbos had very mixed feelings about this visit from Eugene and his new family-to-be.
“Something smells wonderful in that kitchen!” Eugene added.
“We’ll see when we taste it!” Mrs. Furbo snapped from inside the kitchen.
“Well, Bob, as you already know, this here is my fiancée, Patty—the one I’ve been telling you about,” said Eugene. “And this is her daughter, Gilda.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Gilda. “We’ve been enjoying your datil-pepper recipes.” Gilda figured Mr. Furbo might warm up to her if she shared one of his interests.
“Well, good!” he said, clearly delighted at the mention of datil peppers. “I do love the pepper jelly!”
Mr. Furbo led the group to the dining table where he poured drinks from a pitcher for everyone. “So, Eugene. You waited to get married till you finally found another one like Charlotte!”
Again, Gilda detected a note of anger in Mr. Furbo’s voice—or was it fear? She couldn’t quite explain it, but there was something unusual about his tone.
Eugene shifted uncomfortably. “Well, that’s not exactly—”
“No, I can understand it.” Mr. Furbo looked at Eugene very directly. “Charlotte was a very special girl. Despite what she did.”
“What, exactly, did Charlotte do?” Gilda asked. It’s weird how he talks about his daughter as if she doesn’t exist anymore, she thought.
“Gilda, that might be a personal question,” Mrs. Joyce warned.
“Oh, most everybody in town knows that Charlotte left Eugene the night before his wedding,” Mr. Furbo said. “Actually, she left all of us that night.”
“It was a long time ago,” said Eugene, staring mournfully into his drink.
“What do you mean, ‘She left all of us’?” Gilda asked. She sensed her mother’s displeased look (Don’t ask prying questions!), but she simply had to find out more. Something about this situation is fishy, she thought.
“Charlotte moved away to Europe without much of a warning,” said Eugene, without elaborating further.
“How often do you and Mrs. Furbo see your daughter since she moved?” Mrs. Joyce asked, doing her best to steer the conversation toward a friendly, polite tone.
“Not often,” said Mr. Furbo.
“We never see her!” Mrs. Furbo snapped from the kitchen.
Gilda met her mother’s eyes across the table. For once, she and her mother were in complete agreement. There is something very weird about that, Gilda thought.
“In fact,” said Mr. Furbo, “we’re coming up on the twenty-year anniversary of the last time we saw Charlotte.”
Gilda felt baffled. It was hard to imagine having two living parents and not seeing them for two whole decades. Did Charlotte and her parents have a fear of flying? Were the plane tickets too expensive? Clearly, there was some crucial piece of information that everyone refused to talk about. JUST TELL ME ALREADY! Gilda wanted to scream. WHAT DID CHARLOTTE DO?!
“So, Mr. Furbo . . .” Gilda said, doing her best to sound ladylike and tactful, “have you ever thought of visiting Charlotte?”
“No,” he said. “Can’t say that I have.” The air in the room felt prickly with tension.
“She made her choice,” Mrs. Furbo snapped, still speaking from the kitchen.
“Um—so it sounds like you didn’t want her to move to Europe?” Gilda guessed.
“Among other things,” said Mr. Furbo.
Are they still mad that she didn’t marry Eugene? Gilda wondered.
Mr. Furbo squinted at Mrs. Joyce and again shook his head with disbelief. “If Charlotte was in this room right now, I’d swear that she and you were sisters.”
“Do you have any pictures of Charlotte?” Maybe looking at some old photos will get them talking about what actually happened in the past, Gilda thought.
Mrs. Joyce frowned at Gilda, clearly desperate to abandon the topic of Charlotte Furbo. But Gilda couldn’t resist; she simply had to see what Charlotte looked like after all of this cryptic discussion about her.
Mr. Furbo turned to an antique side table, opened a drawer, and pulled out a leather photograph album. “I believe the last picture we have of Charlotte was her engagement photo,” he said, flipping through the pages. “But I don’t look at these anymore.”
Mr. Furbo thrust the photo album across the table toward Gilda. “There she is,” he said.
Gilda looked at the black-and-white photograph of a pretty young woman with dark, wavy hair that tumbled over her shoulders. He’s right, she thought. She does resemble Mom, even though Mom looks much older. Something about the girl’s hazel eyes and tentative smile looked very much like the pictures Gilda had seen from her mother’s youth. On the other
hand, Gilda thought that Charlotte’s look was dreamier—more romantic and feminine than the old photos of Patty Joyce that usually featured bad hairstyles, blue jeans, and cheap platform shoes.
“She’s cute,” said Mrs. Joyce, a hint of jealousy in her voice.
“Stop complimenting yourself,” Mr. Furbo joked.
Mrs. Furbo emerged from the kitchen with bowls of chowder balanced on a silver tray. “I made your favorite, Eugene!” Mrs. Furbo announced.
Maybe she’s in a better mood now that she’s done cooking, Gilda thought.
“Patty and Gilda, you’re in for a treat,” said Eugene. “Traditional Minorcan clam chowder!”
“It’s not as traditional as we’d like it to be,” said Mrs. Furbo.
“Right. The old favorite was actually the gopher stew,” Eugene explained.
“Gophers?!” Mrs. Joyce froze, peering down at her bowl of soup as if it might contain snakes.
“Mom, he means the gopher tortoise,” said Gilda, proud that she had already learned this bit of local history from Captain Jack.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Joyce, who clearly didn’t feel much better about the idea of gopher tortoises. “Well. I don’t believe we have gopher tortoises in Michigan.”
“You didn’t tell me they were from Michigan!” Mr. Furbo put down his spoon and fixed Eugene with an accusing stare.
“What’s wrong with Michigan?” Gilda asked.
“What’s not wrong with Michigan?”
Gilda sensed that he was only teasing, but she restrained an impulse to get into an argument in defense of her home state. I need to stay on his good side if I’m going to learn any top secret information about Charlotte, she reminded herself.
“We always had the gopher tortoise stew at holidays and family reunions,” Mrs. Furbo lamented. “Then they went and made it illegal to eat it.”
So these are the people who might eat a gopher tortoise if they got a chance, Gilda thought. She remembered how Captain Jack had looked at her suspiciously. “You’d be surprised at how many folks would eat one of these,” he had said.
“The gopher tortoise is an endangered species,” Eugene explained. “Or close to endangered, anyway.”
Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy Page 12