by Alice Ayden
Cora believed the fire occurred from a quarrel between an Austen ancestor, her lover, and her not so forgiving husband, but Cora didn’t want to ruin Lillia’s story of believing warring factions of snakes had gone at it. She again motioned to Lillia that she really needed her.
Lillia nodded at Cora. “You see the four red chairs spaced round the room?”
Cora figured Lillia would discuss how the red of the chairs matched the red in the mantle a Morgan smuggled over from England not long before the Revolutionary war; or how Charles, the British soldier ghost, refused to allow even a teeny vase to be placed on it without smashing it to bits.
Lillia looked at the tourists, eager to ensure she had their undivided attention. “Each chair has his or her own unique story. A prize to the one who knows them all.”
The tourists instantly huddled together like participants in a game show needing to return the appropriate response to move to the next level.
Lillia joined Cora.
Cora pet Darcie. “How’d you get down here so fast?”
“Miss Darcie wanted to see the last minute party preps, and that’s the group that won my contest.” Lillia smiled and waved to them. “They get their own private tour with me and get to stay for the party.” She leaned in close to Cora. “Don’t know if staying for the party will be a treat though.”
“Johnston came up the stairs. I didn’t want to be trapped in my room. I was afraid of what I’d find in Grand Maeve’s,” Cora spit out.
Lillia nodded.
“So I hid in your room.”
“Good.” Lillia smiled and curtseyed at a few tourists admiring the paintings of the ancestors. “I’m in love with your nails. Where’d you get that color? And love to the nth degree that dress. Looks like melted vanilla ice cream. Are those crystals? Love. Love. Love the subtle lace. Usually not a big lace fan, but it doesn’t make you look like one of those creepy shrunken faced dolls I’ve seen in museums with the antique fabric and thousand year old lace. And your boobs look awesome.”
Cora shook her head. She didn’t want to hear that. “Your room?”
“People see my room, pat me on the head, and leave me the hell alone.”
“WTF with the Johnston picture?” Cora asked referring to the picture on Lillia’s mantle.
Lillia scrunched her nose. “Guy’s a total dickwad. Would need directions to take a proper piss.” She peeked around Cora and smiled at the tourists. “How’s it going?”
“Almost have it,” one tourist said.
“I need to remember. Everything.”
Lillia grabbed Cora, and they went out the backdoor. “Good.”
Cora detected a mixture of relief and ‘it’s about time’ in Lillia’s voice. “I know. At first, I thought it was easier, but what if my memories hold the key to something? What if I know something that could save someone?”
“Like the missing girls?”
Cora stepped back. “How long have you known?”
“I don’t think you fell down the stairs at the Christmas party. I think you saw something. Here, hold Darcie.” Lillia handed the cat to Cora and started twirling. “Cool day, isn’t it Bitty?”
Bitty glared by. “Piss off.”
Lillia didn’t stop twirling until Bitty disappeared from view. She instantly stopped and grabbed Darcie back from Cora. “Darcie doesn’t like the twirl.” Lillia rummaged through a tiny bag Cora hadn’t even noticed. She pulled out a folded piece of paper, unfolded it about a hundred times, and handed it to Cora.
“I made a pamphlet about it. See.” Lillia pointed to the paper. “Pink bullet points. Since dissociative amnesia is a type of amnesia that’s usually brought on from some kind of trauma, the event or events...” Lillia emphasized the last word. “...if they are too traumatic, the brain will shut off preventing the memories.”
Cora nodded. She heard it all at the shrink’s office.
Lillia ignored Cora’s nod. “It’s probably like stomping on a gushing hose. Water’s still there, but now the hose is like, ‘What the frick? Who just stepped on me?’ And then it backs up the water from where it came and whammo! You got hose bulge or in your case a massive migraine cause your head’s ‘bout to explode.”
Some staff set up chairs and fiddled with more tulle over some of the hedges.
“Cool job, guys. Thanks. I like the metal tulle look. It’s like uber feminine meets metal mash. It’s sorta punk 'n steamed.”
Cora winced at her cousin. “You’re the one who drank all the coffee, aren’t you?”
Lillia shrugged. “Party’s bring out the worst in the family. I had to be prepped.”
“The picture of asshat on your mantle?” Cora couldn’t help but curl her lip as if she were discussing a gruesome autopsy. She wanted to keep curling her lip but remembered Grand Maeve’s idea of not allowing any expression to damage the skin.
Lillia looked down at the ground as if caught in the act. “It’s to remind myself: dream, learn, study, love.”
Cora winced. She didn’t get it.
“No matter what, there’s always something worse.”
Cora understood. “Johnston is the something worse.”
Lillia nodded. “Brightens even the suckfestiest of days. Nothing’s ever as bad as looking at that picture. I mean, damn, the dude was definitely at the back of the line for everything.”
“Couldn’t you just get an inspirational saying?”
Lillia shook her head. “I’m more of a visual person.”
“And your computer?”
“You can get the cases in different colors. That one just happened to match this ball kicking shade of nail polish.” Lillia spread out her fingers to show Cora. “See. I think it matches the pink of my dress perfectly.” She held her nails against the layers of pink tulle, and her nails literally disappeared.
“Not the color. The CAAT file? I wasn’t spying on you. I didn’t mean to—”
Lillia shook her head. “I don’t care about that.” She scrunched up her face as she let everything absorb. It only took about three seconds. “Oh! Ding. Ding. Ding. Got it.” She put Darcie down, and the cat ran through the garden out of sight. “Miss Darcie needed to chase one of the goats who did something naughty to the fence post. She warned that goat yesterday, and Darcie must be obeyed.”
“Oh, Miss Morgan.” one of the tourists hung out the open door. “We think we have the answer.”
“Fudge nuts.” Lillia took a deep breath and smiled her best Silly Lillia smile. “Be right there.” She leaned into Cora. “Just don’t go anywhere alone tonight. I have a bad feeling. And don’t trust…” Lillia hesitated. “After the party…I’ll tell you what I know.”
Cora watched Lillia skip back inside. She wished she was as strong as her cousin who could hide in plain sight. Lillia was right, nothing good came from one of their family parties. Cora didn’t want to focus too hard on it because every time she tried, something inside her head clanged. She had to wait until it was safe. She knew she couldn’t do it alone. “If I really saw something…” Cora thought about the missing girl she recognized from the TV. “I’ll never forgive myself if I could have saved her.”
Chapter 31: Memories
From open kitchen windows and doors, cinnamon and apple sweetness swirled through the air with the intoxicating whiff of melted chocolate and burnt caramel.
Cora took in deep breaths until she could taste Mrs. Hodghes’ infamous eighteen layer chocolate decadent cake. Her chocolate cakes weren’t made. They were born.
Through one of the side windows, Cora saw Grand Maeve surrounded by people in the entrance hall.
“The 120th has begun!” she declared to laughter and clapping.
Cora saw someone in one of the third floor windows and assumed it was her elusive Uncle V Morgan.
“Weird family,” Cora said.
The last of the chocolate cake aroma melted, but Cora knew the cake inside and out from the decadent dark cocoa to the twice sifted flour to the boiled cara
mel to the organic vanilla. If ever she had an advanced degree, hers would be in chocolate.
Cora sat down on one of the hundreds of white wooden chairs which waited haphazardly for no rhyme or reason. Each attached to another with metallic tulle that twisted through the backs and legs anchoring one to all. Cora tried to deduce a pattern or decipher a reason why each chair faced different directions, but she gave up.
Mrs. Kiness joined her and sat down.
“How long have you known me, Mrs. Kiness?”
“All your life, dear.” Taken aback by the question, Mrs. Kiness’ voice betrayed her defensiveness. “I knew your mother all of hers. As you know, my sister - Mrs. Hodghes - and I grew up in this house with your grandmother.”
“You knew that crazed Dragoo Morgan, didn’t you? When he went all kaflooey and bloodbathed every Austen and Morgan he could find.”
Mrs. Kiness rolled her eyes. “I would not quite word it that way. One minute he was normal, and the next he was something else.” She shuddered. “I suppose he could not escape his fate or true nature. His was a troubled soul.”
Cora regretted things she’d done and worried about what she didn’t remember. “I complex things up, don’t I?”
Mrs. Kiness remained quiet, and, for once, Cora thanked her discretion.
“You know, all this time I thought I was doing everyone a favor by not remembering…” Cora thought about it. “But it makes things more difficult. I don’t want to be the one everyone tiptoes around.” She motioned towards the house. “We got a whole household of those types.”
Mrs. Kiness nodded.
Father Bruiser lumbered towards them. In both hands, he carried a drink. “Another 120th. Mrs. Kiness. Miss Austen.”
Cora nodded. “Father Bruiser. I mean Father Brude. Sorry.”
Father Bruiser grabbed two chairs and put them together, or he tried to. Held together with tulle, the chairs refused to budge. After a few shoves, kicks, and a couple dozen cussings under his breath, Father Bruiser decided one chair would suffice.
“Started early, have you not Father?” Mrs. Kiness asked with a curled lip, not entirely pleased with her friend’s behavior.
His face reddened from provisions, Father Bruiser smiled. He took a swig from the drink in his left hand then his right. “Last night was rougher than a sand paper pillow. At the hospital the better part of it. Awful food. And then this morning. Another dreaded drudgery of duty.”
Cora gasped. “Bad news?”
“The worst of the worst.”
Mrs. Kiness flashed Father Bruiser a stink eye. “He means he presided over a wedding, don’t you?”
“Give me a funeral any day. Their lot’s over. A wedding means it’s just begun.” Father Bruiser fiddled with his priest’s collar. “The other day, in my premarital counseling class, this beautiful young lass told me of this sentimental gift given to her by her dying grandfather.” Father Bruiser stopped long enough to take an extra long swig from his glass. “I was ready to grab one of Sister Mary’s hand sewn vests to dry me tears. Then she says her fiancé has of yet not laid eyes upon the gift, but he has a lifetime to see it.” He threw up his hands.
Mrs. Kiness shook her head.
“Well, the entire room sobbed like they do when deaf Sister Agnes leads the choir and belts like a moose in labor.” He stopped to catch his breath. “An entire lifetime with the same bad breathed, crotchety, saggy faced sod. And hand to the Blessed Virgin, my stomach knotted up like Sister Emma’s cornbread. That was the most depressing thing I’d heard all blessed week. And that’s all with three funerals and a death watch at the hospital.”
Father Bruiser downed a few more drinks. “Those’ll put brisket up your sunshine.”
“Best to pace yourself.” Mrs. Kiness warned.
“Right.” He set the empty glasses on a chair. “I best wait about twenty for the next slosh of liquid ennui.”
Aunt Bitty stomped past them stopping only long enough to glare.
Cora watched Bitty disappear. “Was she always such an asshat?”
“Yes,” Father Bruiser quickly answered. “And an asshat she shall remain.”
“Come on, Father.” Mrs. Kiness helped Father Bruiser up. “Best get some coffee in your old bones.”
“Oh, I’m fine, Mrs. Kiness. Irish can hold their liquor as well as their tongues. I’m as limp as a sober horse on St. Paddy’s.”
“And with that.” Mrs. Kiness led Father Bruiser to the kitchen door and inside.
Cora sat silent for awhile, but soon heard whispers. She should have respected privacy, but she jumped up and walked closer to the hedge. She believed it her duty to fully understand whispers and gossip; whispers, in her opinion, were of no use to anyone.
“Spying? What would Jane Austen think?” Cora thought a minute. “She probably would have admitted those who trust that none are truly perverse are more apt to be grievously injured. Much embarrassment could be derived from repeating gossip filled with half heard whispers; it would be her duty to root out the truth.”
Armed with this belief in a higher purpose to what many would consider a rude hobby, Cora followed the winding path that led deeper into the garden. The young holly hedges were at least four feet tall and snaked around to hide.
Unfortunately, Cora didn’t do stealth. One foot on the path and she crunched a dry leaf. The whispering stopped. Cora hoped her prey hadn’t hid. She needed some fun. Cora peered through a compliant shrub but couldn’t see anything. She pounced in close but annoyed a spider. “Sorry,” Cora whispered. She moved a few inches, made sure she had a spider free path and concentrated. By then, whoever it was had disappeared. “Dammit.”
“Looking for me?” Johnston asked.
“Never,” Cora said as she fiddled with her red bracelet.
Johnston smiled. “Which one of your many boy toys gave you that?”
Cora wanted to say something cruel to make him wince, but a horrible thought occurred…“You gave this to me the night of the Christmas party.”
Johnston nodded.
Cora yanked at the bracelet until it ripped from her wrist and threw it into the bushes. “I thought it was important.”
“Ungrateful bitch,” Johnston sneered. “Wanted to give you something as cheap as you were.” He stepped closer to her.
Cora closed her eyes as images appeared:
In the storage room, Johnston spun Cora to face him and slammed her into some metal shelves. A shelf jabbed into her lower back, and the pain took Cora’s breath away. Only inches from Johnston, Cora tried to be brave, but he tasted her fear. She tried to scream, but nothing emerged.
His predatory smile. That vinegar stench.
“What do you want?”
Shouldn’t have asked that. Cora knew what he wanted and didn’t need him to spell it out.
He gripped her arms even tighter until Cora thought her bones would snap. She wished she’d never said anything. He moved his hand to cover her mouth, and he pushed her further until the shelves pinched kidneys.
Johnston giggled. It was disturbing.
Cora opened her eyes and stared at Johnston. He must have known from her expression that she was remembering things he didn’t want her to remember. He started to grab her.
“Is there a problem here?” Maines asked coming around the hedge. He glared at Johnston.
Johnston saw the many uniformed officers with Maines so he ran. The officers chased him out of sight.
“Remember, what he is,” Maines screamed to the officers. “Hopefully he’ll resist arrest.” He turned to face Cora.
She didn’t ask. She really didn’t care. Thinking Johnston wasn’t going to bother her again tonight was enough. Cora flashed Maines a look. “You know who his mother is?”
“Unfortunately. Let’s get out of this maze.” Maines led Cora out from behind the hedges until they were just outside the house.
Cora studied him. “You’re that detective Grand Maeve goes on about.”
Maines blush
ed and nodded. “I knew your mother.”
“How well?” Cora studied him. She couldn’t help but wonder. She did that whenever she met a man Maines’ age. Since her mother had never told anyone the name of Cora’s father, Cora always wondered, but she didn’t want to get into it. Not tonight. She still hoped for one normal day.
“Emily and I were…”
Cora looked behind her at Ausmor. From the open windows, conversations, clinking glasses, and screeching laughter poured like lukewarm lava.
“The party,” Cora said. “I suppose you’ve been to a 120th?”
Maines nodded. “Several, but not for awhile. Tell me what’s happening.”
Cora knew Maines was just trying to take her mind off her own madness, and she smiled in appreciation. “I can give you a play by play if you like.”
“Go.”
Cora concentrated. “I bet the Other Morgans are pressing their mousy little faces against the glass looking at us.”
Maines quickly looked behind them as Mags flung away from the window. “Yep. And I bet she could care less we have a warrant for her son.”
Someone sneezed five times, and someone else loudly sighed. “Mr. and Mrs. Dashon must be here.”
“She’s a cousin?”
“Mary Morgan - a prickly little thing. She sighs when the mail comes or the sun is just so, or a feather catches her eye.”
“And her husband?”
“His face puckers like he lives on lemons, but he always smells nice. Sort of like fresh rain and wood shavings.” Cora caught herself and wondered why she felt so at ease around Maines. “But he’s a sneezeaholic. Thirty sneezes in a row is his record.”
“So why did she?”
“He’s rich.”
Maines nodded. “Very important to some.”
A few claps rose above the hush of the crowd. “Lady Dashon, I presume. The sneezeaholic’s mum. Well, now we can’t go in.”
“You don’t like her?”
“She expands by the hour like a baking yeast roll. She requires abnormally strong thread and body building minions who can sew. Newspapers tightly follow her expansion. It affects the stock market.”