Beyond the crops, six decrepit slave cabins--three on either side--flanked a wide dirt road that wound down to the massive seventeen-room, two point five story mansion dressed with green vines and little white flowers. Bordered by trees, exquisite stone statues, and a flower garden decorating the backyard, the Quenby House was the epitome of post-civil war Southern ideas: symmetry, hierarchy, and order. It was a marvelous building built on blackmail, deceit, and bones. Though its exterior showed life and was a mastery of human architecture, the dead walked behind the house’s beautiful jaws. A blessing and a curse, Maxwell had described it in his will. That short, handwritten document was the only communication Evelyn Carr had ever shared with her father. She had nothing from her mother.
Pain and fatigue jabbed at Evelyn’s heel and calf with each step. Sweaty clothes stuck to her flesh like a second layer of unwanted skin. Terrence, usually one with a good laugh, kept quiet apart from his tired panting.
Away from the crops and drab cabins, the couple shambled through the bowling green backyard, past raised gardens spilling over with long grass and multicolored flowers, and by old statues with blotches of green moss on their smooth stone skin. Unlike the mansion’s face, the back lacked colonnades and had a second-story porch a third of the size. Evelyn imagined her greatest ancestor, a gorgeous Scandinavian woman with pale white skin, tall blonde hair wrapped in braids, and a stunning heart-shaped face, looking over her lands in the early 1800s.
Terrence stepped ahead of Evelyn and turned the knob of one of the two double doors. Holding it open with his back, he allowed Evelyn passage into the dark house. It was quiet, apart from their footsteps clacking across the hall’s rickety floor. Past a few sideboard tables decorated with old vases and authentic 19th century oil paintings, they reached another set of double doors that spit them into the massive foyer, stopping just below the two curving stairways that covered the interior balcony above Evelyn’s head. The floor was blanketed with thin red carpet and, beyond the balcony, the foyer opened all the way to the second story. Hanging from the high-domed ceiling was a massive, crystalline multi-tier chandelier that had been updated in the last century to use dimmed, flame-shaped bulbs that gave off the illusion of real fire.
Beneath the chandelier stood two figures. The first was a short little girl in a belted yellow dress. She had blonde locks that tumbled down her shoulders and adorable freckles across the bridge of her button nose and under her dry and lifeless blue eyes.
The tall figure next to her wore a black long-sleeved shirt with matching pants and a featureless white mask that hugged his entire head. Button-sized holes were cut out over his unreadable eyes. Holes the size of peas were cut out on his ears.
They both stared blankly at Evelyn and Terrence.
Deathly silence hung over the Quenby House.
“I thought you’d be gone,” Evelyn said to Mary Sullivan. “Catherine and Stephen are.”
Suddenly, the little girl charged Evelyn. Before she could react, the little girl had her arms wrapped around Evelyn’s torso and the side of her face pressed against Evelyn’s flat stomach. Evelyn held her arms up, unsure how to react. She traded looks with Terrence, whose eyes were wide and his lips parted.
“Thank you,” the little girl said in her tiny voice, tightening her embrace. Hesitant, Evelyn wrapped her arms around Mary Sullivan, feeling the icy-cold body. But somehow, deep within her, something felt warm. Alive.
The man in the featureless white mask, Andrew Doyle, who took his life on the day he helped take Mary’s, watched the scene. Was he touched? Jealous? Amused? His emotions were unreadable.
Mary let go off Evelyn and gave Terrence a hug.
“Strong girl,” he chuckled.
When the sweet moment ended, Mary pulled away and headed for the front door. Trading a look, Evelyn and Terrence followed her. They glanced up at the interior balcony behind them, noticing the five spectators: a sweater vest-wearing old man, a sultry woman in a shapely and glossy green dress, a teenage football player with a handsome face and dimpled chin, a girl with straight black hair to match her black eyeliner and lipstick, and a naked fat man with an oblong head and extreme underbite. All of them suffered from the wound that killed them, but at this moment, Evelyn looked past the gore and into their watering eyes.
Mary pulled open the front door and skipped between the tall colonnades and down the steps before running for the brick road that was flanked by ancient, moss-covered oaks. From the doorframe and with fingers twined together, Evelyn and Terrence watched the girl running to her newfound freedom. She twisted back and smiled widely at the couple before continuing her sprint and eventually dissipating into ash that was taken by the wind long before it hit the ground.
Feeling a burden lifted from the house, Evelyn and Terrence turned back to Andrew Doyle and allowed him room to exit. He turned his head to Evelyn and then to Terrence. Without a word, he twisted around and headed for the back door and scorched cotton field beyond. Though the door slammed behind him, all knew that he was here to stay… possibly for eternity.
On top of the interior balcony, the other phantoms departed throughout the house. The last one to go was the sweater vest-wearing Barker, who gave them a nod before turning back into the hallway. If their true killers were the Doyle twins, they would’ve left with Mary. Evelyn felt pressure growing in her heart, knowing she had more work to do.
But first…
Hot water from the copper showerhead spilled down Evelyn’s face and bare body, splashing softly to the bottom of the old tub. Pink water swirled down the drain as the final bit of hooked-nosed and creepy Stephen Doyle washed from her pale skin. Other mysteries required her attention: finding her father, finding the killer of her five lingering houseguests, and finding Bella Ann Day. Like a thread tacked to a cork board, all three mysteries were linked together. It was merely a matter of finding the true connection, and as a private investigator by trade, Evelyn was confident the rest would fall into place.
Evelyn turned the shower dial and stepped out of the tub. She grabbed a towel off the rack and swaddled herself with it. Putting her palms on the icy marble sink counter, she waited for the fog to clear on the chipped, gold-rimmed mirror. Like golden seaweed, wet hair dangled over her face and clung to her high cheekbones. Wrinkles branched out from her blue eyes. A brush of indigo swooped under her tear ducts. Beneath her still gaze, she saw mask-wearing Catherine Doyle charge at her and felt the shotgun’s recoil punch her shoulder. Evelyn’s fingers squeezed the rim of the sink and then she pulled herself away from the mirror. She may be thirty-three years old, but she felt ancient.
Holding the towel up, she walked out into the bedroom. With the canopied bed, untouched jewelry station, and various antique furnishings, it looked like a screenshot from Gone with the Wind. Still dripping from his bath in a different restroom, Terrence--wearing his boxer briefs--sat at the corner of the tall, king-sized mattress with his face buried in his hands.
Evelyn stood before him and lifted his chin with her finger. She met his downcast face to her own. He looked tired. Beaten down. Just like Evelyn.
She kissed him.
He grabbed her waist.
Leaving the damp towel on the bedroom floor, they let the night slip away.
Arms under her fluffy pillow, Evelyn opened her eyes to her husband. Resting his spine against the bed’s backboard, Terrence studied the open laptop on his covered lap. Sunlight and the chirp of morning birds spilled into the room.
“Hey,” Evelyn said quietly.
“Hey,” Terrence replied in kind. “Sleep well?”
With pursed lips, Evelyn nodded. She didn’t remember dreaming. She didn’t remember falling asleep. Stretching, she forced herself up and rested her back against the backboard. She glanced over at the computer screen. The local news broadcasted an update on nine-year-old Bella Day. The flashing caption read, “Missing for Seventy-Two Hours.”
Evelyn felt the day’s weight crush her like a boulder.
“Remember when our biggest problem was selling violins?” Terrence asked.
“Barely,” Evelyn replied. She pecked Terrence on the temple and swiveled her legs out of bed. Her toes curled on the cold hardwood floor.
With raised brows, Terrence followed her trek to the dresser. The scars painting her bare back were reminders of her car “accident.”
As Evelyn threw on the day’s clothes, Terrence asked, “Where are you going?”
Evelyn slipped on a long-sleeved black t-shirt. She twisted back to her husband. “To cash in a promise.” She held a bobby pin in her teeth and fixed her hair. “You coming?”
Terrence closed the laptop and set it aside. Stretching tall and wide, he got ready for the day.
As they hustled down the curved foyer steps, they heard someone clear their throat. Evelyn and Terrence turned back to the interior balcony. Fifteen-year-old Zoey Pinkerton, the goth girl with black everything but her pasty white face and mortal wound on the back of her head, rested her elbows on the balcony railing. The buttons pinned on her black hoodie boasted mottos from The Green Party.
“I’m going to see your father,” Evelyn answered the girl’s unspoken question.
“Why?” the girl asked with snark.
“He said he’d tell about me about Maxwell when I solved your case,” Evelyn replied.
“You’re doing a really good job,” Zoey replied sarcastically.
“Watch the house while we’re gone,” Evelyn commanded, ignoring the comment.
Zoey scoffed and turned her chin away from them.
Terrence smiled at her. “I can’t wait to have teenagers.”
Zoey turned around glared at him.
Evelyn and Terrence headed out the front door, locking it behind them.
Their rusty minivan sputtered down the red brick road to Quenby. Fat, moss-covered oaks flanked both sides. Their long branches reached over the road and touched fingers, turning the path into a tunnel. It ended at a horizontal single-line street: Quenby Avenue. Directly opposite off was a small wooded area, but on the side was rolling farmland with the occasional cluster of trees or cattle-watering pond. Pastures and tractors blurred by as Terrence sped into the town of Adders, Georgia.
Like most deeply rooted rural towns, the main street was lined with mom-and-pop shops, home-cooked restaurants, and churches. There was a big farmer’s market stocked with plump black berries, freshly harvested vegetables, eggs, and homemade donuts. A barn-shaped building advertised line-dancing twice a week and live music. A luthier by trade, Terrence would know more about that than Evelyn. String instruments were the heart of bluegrass, country blues, and Southern rock.
Evelyn’s skill set contained tracking, surveillance, and imitation; perks that helped her make a small living as a private investigator in Detroit. Though Adders was quiet and had crisp country air, Evelyn was conflicted on which home she liked better. Detroit was hard living in their small, one-bedroom apartment. Sirens wailed through the night, and the endless climb to earn the month’s rent beat her down like a sledgehammer. Nonetheless, the two and a half weeks Evelyn spent in “quiet” Adders thrust her into more life-threatening situations and exposed her to much more horror than she ever personally saw in the Motor City.
Main Street vanished, and they were back to farmland. Down a winding road, their rusty minivan crunched gravel and sputtered to a stop at the quaint house’s long driveway. A fenced-in pasture enclosed a large area around the sides and back of the property. Within, a handful of horses grazed and galloped playfully.
Wind chimes hung on the house’s front porch. Un-mowed grass carpeted the earth. Small green bugs leapt between weeds. Evelyn and Terrence exited their cruddy minivan. They hiked up two steps and knocked on the door. Under the awning’s shade, they waited for David Pinkerton.
“You’re going to be waiting there for a long time,” a voice with a rich Southern twang yelled out. From the inside of the horse pen, David leaned on the white fence in the same way his daughter had on Quenby House’s interior’s balcony. Standing five-foot-six, David had a shaggy gray goatee, mop of black/gray hair, and drooping blue eyes. Just like their first meeting, he wore a wrinkled shirt, Levis, and mud-caked boots.
“How you doing, Mr. Pinkerton?” Terrence asked politely.
“I’ve had better days,” David replied. “Come to follow in Maxwell’s footsteps? I got a new mare that needs breaking in and will be happy to teach y’all. Won’t be free, of course.”
Evelyn bounced down the steps and approached the fence. The stench of horse dung grew stronger. “I wanted to talk about my father.”
David swatted away a fly. “Yeah, me too. After you find my daughter’s killer. That was the deal, investigator.”
“Maxwell is alive, Mr. Pinkerton,” Evelyn said, avoiding the runaround. “I saw him.” In a flash of memory, she heard the deafening shotgun blast and felt the warm blood spatter.
The old farmer eyed her suspiciously. “He visited you?”
“In a way,” Evelyn replied. “The point is, I need to find him again. You named him Zoey’s godfather. If anyone knows where he’s been hiding, it’s you.”
David tugged at his goatee. “You know our relationship went south after he fueled Zoey’s bad habits. I haven’t seen him in fifteen years. Last time you were here, you asked what I would do if I learned Zoey’s remains were found in Max’s basement. What the hell did that mean?”
“It means I need to find my father to find Zoey’s killer,” Evelyn said sternly.
David stopped resting his arms on the wooden fence and put his hands in his pockets. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he studied the clouds drifting over the blue sky. Evelyn could tell he was trying to keep a lid on his frustration, but couldn’t stop his reddening cheeks and glossy eyes.
Terrence spoke up. “We don’t want to believe Maxwell did this to your daughter, but we need to get to the bottom of this situation.”
“When you first came here,” David said, “you said that you wanted to help the restless find truth. Not for profit, but the closure for those who lost their loved ones. I respect that more than I can express. Hell, I didn’t believe there were people like that anymore. Not since I met Maxwell. A man who took other’s burdens for the simple reason that it was the right thing to do. And now, you say he killed my daughter. Maxwell and I had our differences, but I would never pin something like that on him.”
“Help us then,” Evelyn pleaded. “We find him, we learn the truth about Zoey, his disappearance, and who killed those people all those years ago.”
With glassy eyes and a heavy frown, David Pinkerton studied her for a long while. “I don’t know where to find Max, but I know someone who might.”
Evelyn crinkled her brow, listening intently.
“Your mother.”
23
The Family Name
“Who is she?” Evelyn asked as she did when she was just some ugly kid in an orphanage. Back then, she only got vague replies and pitying smiles.
A stirring of emotions twisted inside Evelyn at David’s words. She was overjoyed to hear about the woman who had brought her into this world but enraged that she had been abandoned. Many nights in her youth, Evelyn had wondered about her mother. Her first thought was that the woman was dead. Perhaps via some horrible accident, fatal disease, or some other tragedy that forced her to surrender Evelyn. A more guilty thought followed, suggesting that Evelyn had killed her during childbirth. On the few rare nights when Evelyn was able to get past those scenarios, her mind went to crueler places. Her mother had surrendered Evelyn because she hated her or the responsibilities of an unwanted child. Evelyn held spite in her heart for that one until she was much older and understood the complexities of the world and humanity. Maybe her mother was living it up in Vegas, or taking care of ten more children and couldn’t mentally or physically handle another. Evelyn could go on theorizing forever. She refocused on David Pinkerton.
“Her maiden name is Lily
Copperdoe,” David explained, with grazing horses and blue skies to his back.
At the age of thirty-three, Evelyn finally learned her mother’s name. She felt her chest tighten. She didn’t expect the revelation to hit this hard. Terrence noticed and put his arm around her shoulder.
“Very pretty woman,” David reminisced. “Smart but complicated, much like my daughter.”
“What can you tell me about Lily?” Evelyn asked.
“Gossip and other things you don’t want to hear,” David replied.
“Try me,” Evelyn said.
“She was married when her and Max… you know.”
An adulteress. Wonderful. “Who was the man?”
David shook his head. “Nah uh. I promised Max I wouldn’t talk of her or the situation to anyone.”
“I’m her daughter.” Evelyn wanted to wring the guy’s neck and scream at him.
“And I’m a man of my word,” David replied.
“You’re very frustrating,” Evelyn told him. “Can you tell me where she’s at or is that off limits, too?”
David frowned at her. “I know she’s around. I don’t have an address.”
“Who can help us?” Terrence asked.
“Maxwell,” David replied.
Evelyn shook her head. “How does that work? I need Lily to find Maxwell. Not the other way around.”
“There’s definitely some flawed logic there,” Terrence interjected.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” David replied, feeling Evelyn’s building frustration. “Lily, for lack of a better word, exiled herself after having… you.”
That was a lovely thought.
David went on. “Lily’s parents are dead now. She had no siblings. The only person that might be in contact with her is Max. That’s why she’s your best lead.”
“She’s not if we can’t find her,” Evelyn thought aloud.
David’s frown sank lower. “If I knew more, I’d tell you.”
“We appreciate everything,” Terrence said sincerely. “We’re going to head back to the house and see if we can’t make heads or tails of this.”
The Haunting of Quenby Mansion Omnibus: A Haunted House Mystery Page 24