Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy

by Allison, Jennifer

  “So,” said Gilda as she attempted to walk without bumping into people with her wide petticoats, “what do you think of our new stepdad?”

  “Mr. Pook?” Stephen paused, searching for words. “I don’t know. He’s okay, I guess.” It was Stephen’s typical response to subjects that involved uncertainty and troubling emotions—a response that irked Gilda.

  “That’s all you have to say? Our mom is about to marry someone you just met, and all you can say is, ‘He’s okay’?”

  “I like his house. And I like what little I’ve seen of St. Augustine so far.”

  “That’s a start,” said Gilda. “But what did you think of him? Were you surprised at all when you saw him at the airport for the first time? I recall feeling just a little bit terrified of his mustache.”

  “At Mom’s age, looks probably don’t matter so much.”

  “Speaking of Mom, did you notice anything different about her?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the completely uncharacteristic wardrobe, hair, and makeup she has on today, for starters. And don’t even get me started on the new habits she’s developed.”

  “What habits?”

  “Eating green jelly at all hours, for one thing.”

  “At least she isn’t smoking. And I thought she looked nice.”

  Gilda stopped in her tracks. She faced Stephen with hands on hips. “Stephen,” she said, “have you ever considered learning a few more words to express yourself? I mean, you can probably squeak by on ‘nice’ and ‘okay’ and the occasional ‘sweet,’ but I think you’re limiting your ability to communicate with other humans.”

  “Okay, now you’re starting to drive me crazy. Can’t I just walk down the street like a normal person on vacation without overanalyzing everything?”

  “No, you can’t,” Gilda retorted. “We don’t have the luxury of being ‘normal people on vacation’ because our mom is about to get married to a man who lives in a haunted house.”

  “Here we go.” Stephen rolled his eyes.

  Gilda tried to explain everything she had experienced during the past couple days: The vision of the ghostly woman in white; the story of Charlotte Furbo and her suspicion that Charlotte’s parents might have murdered their own daughter; the discovery of a possible Indian burial ground on Eugene’s property; and finally, the mysterious message, LOOK IN THE WELL.

  “So here’s my idea, Stephen,” Gilda concluded. “I met this girl named Debbie Castle who not only knows a lot about ghosts, but she’s also an assistant to a city archaeologist. Anyway, I bet she knows a lot about the history of the old houses around here. If anyone can help us figure out whether there’s a well on Eugene’s property, she can.”

  “But, Gilda,” said Stephen, “aside from the probable insanity of the whole story you’ve outlined here, I just heard Mr. Pook telling you that there’s no well on the property when you asked him just a few minutes ago.”

  “Right. There’s no well that he knows about. Or that he’s willing to tell me about.”

  “Why would he keep it a secret?”

  “Stephen, Eugene has a human jawbone displayed in his living room, but when I heard him talking with the city archaeologist yesterday, he acted like he had no idea that there might be any bones buried on his property. Mr. Pook is not the most forthcoming guy.”

  Stephen fell silent for a moment, thinking. “Is that really what that thing is—a jawbone? I thought that was a little weird when I saw it.”

  “Exactly. He says it’s a Timucua Indian bone that was just found on the property.”

  “I suppose you never know,” said Stephen. “If antiques are his business, I can imagine he might want to hide some valuable artifacts or bones or something somewhere on the property, like an old well.”

  “Good thinking, Stephen! A plausible hypothesis!”

  Stephen cringed, as if any compliment from Gilda must contain an implicit insult. “But more realistically,” he said, “there probably isn’t any well if he says there isn’t. And besides, I thought we were going to do some sightseeing before all this wedding stuff takes over, not ghost hunting or well hunting or whatever.”

  They had just reached the ghost tour office, and Gilda caught a glimpse of Debbie Castle sitting at the counter inside, typing on a laptop computer.

  “Come on,” said Gilda, grabbing Stephen’s arm and pulling him toward Debbie’s office, “I’ll introduce you to Debbie.”

  Debbie looked up from her computer and smiled when she saw Gilda and Stephen approaching. “Hey, Gilda! Getting ready for the big wedding day tomorrow?”

  “Sort of,” said Gilda. “We actually wondered if you could help us with something. Oh, and this is my brother, Stephen.”

  “Nice to meet you. So what can I do for you two?”

  “So how scary are these ghost tours?” Stephen asked, piping up.

  Gilda stared at her brother, dumbfounded. Then she realized something: Debbie was cute. Really cute. That’s why Stephen is suddenly interested in ghosts! Gilda thought. What a doofus!

  “Scary enough!” Debbie replied. “But we don’t have any tours running until later this evening. I could give you some tips on haunted places to visit around town in the meantime if you want.”

  “Actually,” said Gilda, elbowing Stephen in the stomach, “we have a question that requires your expertise in both archaeology and ghost stories.”

  “Oh! Even better,” said Debbie.

  “We’ve heard that there’s a hidden well on Eugene Pook’s property,” said Gilda, leaning forward and lowering her voice. “And there’s a very important reason we need to find it.”

  36

  The Secret History

  These drawings of the property show that there used to be something right here,” said Debbie, pointing to an old layout sketch of Eugene’s house. “But from the way it’s marked, I’m guessing it might be a cistern instead of a well.”

  “What’s a cistern?” Gilda asked.

  “It’s kind of like a reservoir,” said Stephen. “They used them in the old days for catching and storing rainwater.”

  “Very good, Stephen! A cistern wouldn’t be as deep as a well,” Debbie explained, “maybe no more than five feet for the houses in St. Augustine. A lot of old houses around here had them as a source of freshwater in the old days.”

  Debbie, Gilda, and Stephen were huddled around a table in the St. Augustine Historical Society research room—a place that contained all sorts of information on the history of the old city. Within minutes Debbie had located papers documenting the history of Eugene’s property from the time it was first built.

  “If there is a cistern on the property,” Debbie continued, “it’s probably lined with the same coquina stone they used to make the fort and the streets in the city.” She squinted at the documents. “Of course, these site drawings are very old, and it’s obvious that they built a couple additions onto the house since that time. . . . I think that whatever this is may be underneath part of the house—which could make it difficult to find.”

  “She’s right,” said Stephen. “It looks to me like it’s about where Eugene’s kitchen is now.”

  Gilda felt a distinct tickle in her left ear. She remembered the cold spot in the kitchen and the way her mother had stood in the middle of the floor as if she were hypnotized—listening to a ghost. And that’s where I saw the message about the well—in the kitchen, Gilda thought. “So you’re saying they maybe just built the kitchen floor right on top of the old cistern?”

  “We can’t know without investigating it, but it’s possible,” said Debbie. “If you ask me, it’s a little suspicious that there’s no updated documentation of the house’s layout after the new addition was built. I mean, in St. Augustine you have to have an archaeologist come out to your house and do a survey of the property before you start tearing down or building just about anything in the historic district. And if any artifacts or bones happen to turn up when the digging starts, we have to com
e out there and document that stuff, too.”

  “But how can we find out what’s down there if it’s underneath the house?”

  “Simple,” said Stephen. “We just pull up Eugene’s floorboards.”

  Suddenly Stephen is an expert on cisterns and carpentry, Gilda thought. Note to self: the next time I need Stephen’s help with something, bring a cute, Southern college girl on board.

  “Do you think we could do that?” said Debbie. By now, she seemed almost as eager as Gilda to explore the property.

  “Sure, we could do it,” said Stephen. “We would just need a pry bar. The only problem is that we’d have to move the boards carefully so it wouldn’t leave a single mark on the floor; otherwise my mother and Eugene would probably disown me.”

  “I’d get in pretty big trouble, too,” Debbie agreed.

  “And that’s when you’d both tell them that it was all my idea,” Gilda joked.

  “That’s big of you,” said Stephen, “but I don’t think we’d be off the hook that easily.”

  “Look,” said Debbie, “why don’t we just go over to Mr. Pook’s house and take a look at what we’re dealing with? You never know; I might even be able to talk him into helping us uncover the cistern—if there is one. I’ve managed to convince lots of people that an archaeological excavation isn’t such a terrible thing.”

  “He’s pretty stubborn,” Gilda warned. “And he might even be hiding something, like some valuable artifacts he doesn’t want the archaeologists to know about. Stephen thinks he wants to sell them on the black market.”

  “I never said that,” said Stephen.

  Debbie sighed with exasperation. “To be honest, I don’t think that the things we find under the ground here in St. Augustine can rightly belong to any one person considering the hundreds of years of history we’ve got in this city! But Mr. Pook should know that anything the archaeologists find would still legally belong to him as a property owner; we just need to examine it and document everything. Personally, I think people should donate any artifacts we find on their land to the community, but it’s their choice.”

  “And what if we found human bones?” Gilda asked, thinking of the jawbone in Eugene’s display table.

  “Human remains are totally different. You don’t have any legal right to keep someone else’s bones just because you own your house! Even we archaeologists try not to disturb burial sites too much; we just want to know what’s down there so we can get a picture of the history.”

  The three left the research room and made their way back, passing the crowded shops and costumed visitors on St. George Street. “Oh, have you guys been to Tedi’s yet?” Debbie pointed to a bustling ice-cream parlor.

  “Do you think we might find some clues there?” Gilda asked.

  Debbie laughed. “No—I just suddenly have a craving for mint chocolate-chip ice cream. Want to stop in?”

  Gilda found a table outside the café while Debbie and Stephen ordered ice cream. She watched them through the window: Stephen was talking about something with gestures that looked more animated than usual. He’s trying to flirt, Gilda thought. I bet he’s telling her about some archaeology documentary he saw on public television.

  As Debbie handed Gilda a waffle cone stuffed with cookies and cream, peanut-butter cups, and chocolate sprinkles, Gilda’s cell phone buzzed with a text message from Wendy:COULDN’T FIND CHARLOTTE FURBO ONLINE. DID SHE GET MARRIED? MAYBE A DIFFERENT LAST NAME?? OR MAYBE YOUR HUNCH IS RIGHT AND SHE IS DECEASED OR MISSING!!

  Gilda quickly typed a message in reply:THANKS FOR THE HELP! I’M GUESSING DECEASED IS THE ANSWER! MORE INFO SOON—NOW I’M WATCHING STEPHEN TRYING TO IMPRESS A GIRL BY TALKING ABOUT HIS CAR, LOL

  As soon as Gilda hit send, she realized her mistake. She could practically feel Wendy’s jealousy boiling through her cell phone.

  WHAT???! WHO IS THE GIRL?!! AND WHY AREN’T YOU STOPPING THEM?!

  Debbie grinned at Gilda. “Gotta keep up with the gossip back home, huh?”

  “Sort of.” Gilda glanced down at Wendy’s follow-up text:

  HELLO???? ARE YOU THERE????? MORE INFORMATION, PLEASE!!!!!

  “Gilda finally figured out how to send text messages last week,” Stephen joked.

  Gilda was too distracted with crafting an answer to Wendy to bother responding to her brother’s dig.

  STOP THE HISSY FIT, WENDY! FYI: SHE’S AN ARCHAEOLOGIST AND SHE’S HELPING US WITH THE INVESTIGATION.

  “Sometimes I hate it when people sit there clicking away on their gadgets while I’m sitting right across from them,” Debbie complained. “It’s like, pay attention to the person you’re actually with, you know? Just yesterday I went out on a date with a guy who was texting the entire time. I was like, ‘Chill, dude. You’re not that important.’ ”

  “That’s so annoying,” Stephen agreed, trying to look like someone who had no interest in gadgets whatsoever.

  SO YOU’RE WILLING TO BREAK MY HEART FOR THE SAKE OF THE INVESTIGATION.

  “Excuse me a minute,” said Gilda, reading Wendy’s last message. “I think I need to make a call.”

  “Anything wrong?” Debbie asked.

  “Just a little fire I need to put out.”

  Gilda walked around the corner and dialed Wendy’s number.

  Wendy answered on the first ring. “What does she look like?” she asked.

  “Wendy, calm down. She’s definitely not interested in Stephen.”

  “But he’s interested in her. She’s cute, isn’t she?”

  “She isn’t cute. She has huge bifocals and wears support hose with Birkenstock sandals. She has a slight beard.”

  “I can tell you’re making that up.”

  “Wendy, I shouldn’t have said anything about her at all. I actually just thought it was funny.”

  “Funny?!”

  “Stephen’s acting like a puppy who wants to lick her face.”

  “Did they kiss?!”

  “Of course not! Look, there’s nothing going on here. I mean, seriously nothing. I doubt she’s going to ask him to the Sadie Hawkins Day dance, okay?”

  “You aren’t being a very nice friend right now, you know that?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to make Stephen like me!”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so? I’ll just use my mind-control powers on him right now.”

  Wendy was unusually silent for a minute. Is she crying? Gilda wondered. “Wendy? Are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wendy, Stephen does like you. It’s just—sometimes people don’t value the things that are right in front of them. Right now he’s obsessed with being the big man on campus next year.”

  “And what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You don’t even seem the least bit sad that you might be moving away. I mean, I guess we don’t have a beach here in Detroit, but you’d think there’d at least be some loyalty.”

  “Wendy, I tried to get your parents to adopt me, and you said no way.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I am serious. Look, right now I’m just trying to figure out whether Eugene Pook has a secret well on his property.”

  “A secret well?”

  “It’s a long story. Remember how I told you I saw a ghost? Well, a bunch of other weird things have also happened. Just this morning, the girl who lives next door and I tried to do a séance, and right afterward, I discovered a message that said ‘Look in the well.’ ”

  “Sounds kind of scary,” said Wendy.

  Gilda was about to say something dismissive (“I’m a professional, Wendy!”), but then she realized that she agreed. It was scary. However, she also realized that she was less frightened by the ghostly message than she was by her mother’s looming wedding day. I guess I’ve gotten so caught up in thinking about this mystery, I’ve hardly realized how nervous I really am about getting a new stepdad, she thought.

  But it’s really happening. And there’s
nothing I can do to stop it.

  “Gilda?” Wendy prompted. “Are you there?”

  “Sorry.” Gilda licked her arm. “I’ve got ice cream dripping down my wrist.”

  “Remember how my mom would always tell us, ‘Micromanage your cones, girls!’?”

  Gilda laughed, remembering Mrs. Choy’s nonstop directions about the best way to eat ice cream without spilling a drop.

  Wendy sighed. “She’s such a nut sometimes. Anyway, call me tonight, okay?”

  “Definitely,” said Gilda. “Oh, and Wendy—”

  “What?”

  “Put on that Gilda Joyce costume and go out trick-or-treating. You’ll feel better.”

  “You know what? That was actually a really insensitive thing to say.”

  “Why? I was serious!”

  “Well, you happen to know I’m not going out for Halloween if you aren’t here.”

  “Oh. Well—I’m not doing anything fun either, to tell you the truth. I’ll be tying bows on roses or lilies and that’s about it.”

  “Good. And don’t let Stephen do anything fun either, okay?”

  “Definitely not,” said Gilda. “He’ll be tied to a chair, locked in his room, and having the worst night of his life.”

  “Good,” said Wendy, drily. “That’s more like it.”

  37

  What Lies Beneath

  The moment Gilda, Stephen, and Debbie walked through Eugene’s front door and entered the living room, something strange happened: Lights throughout the house flashed on and off simultaneously.

  “Whoa!” Debbie breathed. “Now I see what you mean!”

  “You don’t even know the half of it,” Gilda quipped. “There was one night when a whole dollhouse moved from my room into the hallway all by itself!”

  “It might just be an electrical problem—bad wiring or something,” said Stephen.

  “Maybe,” said Debbie. “But in this town, ‘bad wiring’ is just another way of saying ‘old ghosts.’”