The Curse of Misty Wayfair

by Jaime Jo Wright

  Rhett stood and motioned for Heidi. “Stand over here.”

  She moved toward him, casting an unsure glance at Emma. He followed her gaze.

  “She’ll be okay. I need to run to my truck.”

  Heidi stood over the dog as Rhett ran to the tailgate of the pickup. He came back carrying a piece of scrap plywood.

  Kneeling by the dog, he looked up at Heidi. She stood there helpless.

  “We need to get Ducie onto this plywood and off the road,” he instructed. “Can you help?”

  “Ducie?”

  “The dog?” His voice had a hint of irritation.

  “Oh.” Heidi knelt next to Ducie. Big chestnut-brown eyes stared up at her, begging for help.

  This was her fault. All her fault.

  It was now her turn for medical attention. One hour later, that is. Heidi was still shaking, although she’d done a decent job of hiding that fact by fabricating her special, nonchalant smile, often called upon in moments when she was certain the Apocalypse was all of sixty seconds from beginning. She sat on the edge of a kitchen chair, in the house from where the dog had run and Emma had followed. To her surprise, Emma’s mother was none other than the antique owner, Connie, who’d sold her that awful photo album with the doppelgänger dead woman. Apparently, Connie was Rhett’s mother too.

  Rhett had removed his jacket and also the flannel shirt that hung loose over his T-shirt. The greasy baseball cap was still secured on his head. He didn’t give her nearly the same attention as he’d given the dog. Rhett was pouring coffee into a mug as though driving one’s car through an animal into a ditch was just another day at the—well, not the office—the shop?

  Heidi blinked rapidly to do away with the white spots that often affected her sight when she was warding off panic.

  “Nothing’s broke?” Rhett inquired, his voice even.

  “My car might need surgery,” she quipped, but it came out a bit snappy. Even conversation directed toward her felt overwhelming. Trying to segregate the elements of the messy day was like trying to sort a bag full of macaroni noodles into a baby-food jar.

  “I meant you.” There was no humor in Rhett’s voice. He didn’t sound irritated either. Just a straight shooter.

  “No, I’m fine.” She wasn’t. She never was. But she lied to herself about it every day, so lying to a stranger was simple.

  “K.” He didn’t even ask what happened, or why she’d hit Ducie, the dog, or what she was planning on doing with her car half buried in his parents’ ditch.

  Rhett turned toward her, coffee mug in his hand. “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Huh?” Heidi blinked.

  “Cream or sugar?”

  Oh. Wow. He was prolific with his words. Heidi blinked several times and then shook her head. “Black.”

  He raised an appreciative brow and handed her the mug.

  Connie Crawford breezed into the room, easing out of her sweater and hanging it on a wood-stenciled row of coat pegs by the door. She patted her son’s shoulder as she passed him on her way to the coffeemaker.

  “Emma is fine,” she reassured them. Connie’s brief sweep of the room with her soft smile included Heidi.

  “I’m so sorry,” Heidi breathed.

  “I’m sorry you’ve had to sit in that chair while we all hustled around you the last hour!”

  “Oh no, no. I mean, what can I do? Can I pay the vet bill? Anything.”

  And please don’t sue me. She could feel the anxiety crowding her throat, burning tears behind her eyes. It was here. Full on. She’d be lucky not to throw up.

  “Heavens no!” Connie leaned against the counter, holding the warm mug between her hands. Her eyes were warm, if not downright apologetic. “Ducie is Emma’s service dog. We have insurance for him, so it will cover the vet bills. My husband just called from the vet with Ducie.” She glanced at Rhett. “It looks like a clean break of the tibia. They’re casting it now.”

  Heidi sucked in a shaky breath. “I’m so sorry,” she said again.

  “We got that part.” Rhett had an edge to his voice. Either he was irritated she’d repeated herself, or he was irritated at her. Probably both. She could see the tension in his shoulders, around his jaw, and the corners of his eyes.

  “Rhett.” Connie said his name as a mother might veil a slight scolding to her adult child.

  Rhett pushed off the opposite counter. “Not much we can do about your car tonight.” He avoided Heidi’s eyes. “I’ll send someone tomorrow with a tow truck.”

  Connie moved past her hulk of a son, who only needed green skin and a raging growl to complete the persona. She seemed to read Heidi’s face, her pasted-on smile, and her stiff shoulders. She pulled out a chair at the table beside her, leaning forward on her elbows, hands still cupping the coffee mug.

  Heidi looked down at her coffee, un-sipped and perched in her hands. The liquid tremored a bit as her hands shook.

  Connie narrowed her eyes. “Are you truly all right?”

  “I am.” Heidi consciously made her shoulders drop. She softened her smile and met Connie’s eyes. Eye contact was always good. It helped people believe you were telling the truth. But the way Connie searched hers told Heidi that the woman was not one to be fooled.

  “Really. I just feel awful.” She did. Inside and out.

  “Accidents happen.” Connie gave her a reassuring smile. “The only reason Ducie even ran into the road was that Emma had the dog out for their evening walk and Emma’s scarf blew off her neck. Ducie was attempting to retrieve it. He was unleashed and ran out into the road. So it was our fault.”

  “You don’t leash service dogs at home.” Rhett growled like one as he crossed his arms.

  Connie shot him a stern glare. “You do in some circumstances.”

  He harrumphed and stalked from the room.

  “Ignore Rhett.” His mother waved him away. “He’s insatiably protective of his sister. You could be Winnie the Pooh and he’d still glare at you if he thought you’d put Emma or her dog in any danger.”

  That was—reassuring?

  Heidi sipped her coffee for something to do. To keep herself from crying. She hated this uncontrollable part of her. The kind that ran away with her logic and self-confidence and left a quivering mess behind.

  “Anyway,” Connie finished. “Emma has autism. She’s high-functioning, but routine is important and this will obviously be a setback for her. Rhett is a natural-born rescuer and fixer.”

  And she was a natural-born screw-up. Heidi winced. They’d get along fabulously.

  Connie tipped her head and studied Heidi. “Did you ever find out if you’re related to that woman in the photograph?”

  Change of subject. Connie was adept at calming nerves. Normally, Heidi would have allowed herself to be sidetracked, but that particular question revived events from earlier in the day.

  “Um, no,” Heidi answered.

  “I’d be curious to know if you are. I’d love to help you find out, if you ever want to.”

  The sound of work boots clomping on the hardwood floor brought both women’s heads up. Rhett marched back into the room, snatching up his keys from a key-ring hook on the side of one of the cabinets.

  “Let’s go.” He stood over Heidi.

  “Go?” Heidi craned her neck to look up at the superhero wannabe with serious personality issues.

  He stared down at her with the thunderous scowl of the Hulk.

  Connie interceded. “That’s Rhett’s refined way of saying he’ll take you home.”

  Heidi smirked—she had to—at Connie’s unveiled dig at her son’s manners. She supposed being driven home by Rhett wasn’t the worst thing in the world, but it was the Hulk in him that kept Heidi from thinking Rhett Crawford was even remotely a superhero.

  Chapter 7

  Thea

  A tiny bell tinkled out a melody as Thea pushed open the door to the only portrait studio in Pleasant Valley. That they even had a studio was perhaps a miracle in and of itself, as a t
own based solely on the collection of lumber certainly didn’t have enough population to support an entire year’s worth of salary for a photographer. Still, if she had learned enough from Mr. Mendelsohn, they would be partners by end of day. As a traveling photographer, he’d made it his art not only to garner sales door to door, but also engage the temporary comradeship of others established in the field. Thea hoped to garner the same results.

  Now, her shoes clapped along the floorboards as she gave the small studio a quick once-over. Amos Bros. Photography had been painted on the front window in stenciled letters with scrollwork beneath it. Each wall in the room appeared decorated to be a different room in an actual home. One of the walls was cream with emerald green bordering and hand-painted bouquets. A velvet-covered chair, a white pillar of four feet or so, a few plants, and an easel were positioned strategically. In the chair, an orange cat was curled up and watching her through slits for eyes, its tail twitching up and down.

  “May I help you?” The booming voice jolted Thea from her observations. A man of medium height and build entered the room from a doorway near the wall opposite the front entrance. His long mustache draped along the edges of his mouth, thoroughly and completely white. His hair was parted in the middle, yet it was hardly worth the effort, for there wasn’t much left atop his head to part at all.

  Thea composed her wits and ceased her meticulous perusal of the room. She cleared her throat. “Dorothea Reed.” She extended a gloved hand, and the elderly man eyed it. Seemingly unused to palming a lady’s hand, he took it gingerly, fingertip to fingertip, then released it.

  “Martin Amos.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Amos. I am a photographer—a traveling photographer—and I have settled in Pleasant Valley for the time being.”

  His eyebrow lifted. Not unfriendly, more like he waited before he drew any sort of conclusion about her.

  Thea swallowed. “I’ve no intention of setting up competitive services, I only wondered if I might be able to garner employment with you. For an interim period and a small sum, offset by allowing me use of your development room. I have a small black room in my wagon to create the negative plates, but for transfer to paper I need a more suitable work space.”

  “My development room?” Mr. Amos coughed.

  It wasn’t as though she’d requested entrance into his private living quarters.

  Thea nodded. It was never easy asserting herself now that Mr. Mendelsohn was gone.

  “Employment?” He cleared his throat again.

  “For a small sum. I must be able to cover my own living expenses. But I’m not looking for extravagance, Mr. Amos. I would appreciate the freedom to develop my photographs when I take them on my own time, outside of town.”

  Mr. Amos blinked. Finally, he crossed his arms, his gray wool suit coat stretching taut against thin shoulders. “You’re proposing I allow a traveling photographer entrance to my business and interaction with my clientele, so you can develop photographs that you took of your own accord and therefore stealing from me potential business?”

  Well, she had bungled this up well and good, hadn’t she? Thea opened the satchel she gripped tightly in one hand. “Please. I’m quite good at assisting accomplished photographers such as yourself. For pay, I would help you here in the studio. And as for my own work, if you take a look at it, you’ll understand. I’ve a very special type of photograph. . . .” She didn’t bother to mention that she also took the normal portraitures. Instead, she made a silent promise to stay honest and only photograph what she represented to Mr. Amos now.

  “Ah. Memorial photographs.” He spoke over her shoulder as she pulled out samples. Thea looked up and noticed his eyes fixed on the photographs that were pasted to thick paperboard.

  “Yes,” Thea nodded. “It’s a privilege to help family members capture the final pose of their loved ones who have passed on. I’ve all the equipment. Backdrops, framework, even sewing kits to assist with preparing the body if needed. I only do not have a decent place to develop the photographs.”

  The man waved her pictures away. “That’s—disturbing.”

  “So, you don’t offer memorial photographic services?” she asked innocently, knowing full well there was the possibility he did not, and hoping it was true. While it was traditional to take photographs with the newly passed on, many photographers still found it unsettling. Why wouldn’t they? In small towns such as these, they often knew personally those who had passed on and so collecting their last image was rife with memories, superstitions, and even for some, grief.

  “When I must.” He crossed his arms over his chest again. “I wouldn’t deny the last memento to a grieving family.”

  “However, you don’t travel to find them?” Thea pressed forward, borrowing confidence from the fact she’d heard Mr. Mendelsohn use this same line of reasoning before.

  “Door to door?” He sniffed. “Certainly not.”

  “There is business there,” she cajoled.

  He narrowed his eyes. “I refuse to monopolize on another’s grief. What? Would you have me knock on every door and ask if someone may have recently died there?”

  Thea nodded, hoping to keep her expression both pleasant and helpful. “Yes, and to inquire if someone is near passing over. Sometimes the person is too ill, so we must wait until they’re at eternal peace. But many find it a blessing not to have to seek out the services of a photographer. Many often wished they had, only it’s too late. You cannot exhume a body for memorial’s sake, of course.”

  The man blanched, and his eyes widened. “Why, you are a spit of a—”

  “I believe you called me a ‘traveler,’” Thea provided, offering him a delightful smile.

  He blustered.

  Thea snapped her valise shut. “You are one of the Amos brothers, as the window implies?”

  He nodded, lost for words.

  “Well, Mr. Amos, shall we start?”

  Thea had exhausted all her gumption cajoling her way into attaining Mr. Amos’s tentative agreement. In the hours of the morning after she’d arrived, Thea had learned Mr. Amos was a happily married man. He and his wife, Greta, had three grown children, all daughters, all married, and all moved away. There were no grandchildren. His brother had passed away six years prior, leaving Mr. Amos sole proprietorship.

  One of the rooms in the secluded area of the studio had a small table and chairs in it, a countertop, and several photograph albums. A back door had a draft slipping through a gap at the floor, but it brought into the room fresh air and an early summer scent of life. Now, the most permanent resident of the studio, Pip the orange tabby cat, sauntered in, chin lifted in complete ownership of the place, and brushed by Thea’s legs.

  “Cheeky little fellow,” she muttered after him.

  Pip trilled a tiny meow in response.

  Thea familiarized herself with Mr. Amos’s work and had to admit he was a very fine photographer. She ran her finger across the border of one of his photographs, the fleur-de-lis a beautiful brass color, and the woman in its frame, young with coiffed hair that waved and flowed with such perfection that Thea could only stare. At times, she wished she were beautiful. That the camera would capture her image and convince her she was worth looking at. Convince her she was worth—something.

  Thea slammed the album shut, hiding the beautiful woman from her view.

  The instant the photo album clapped its pages together, the back door jerked open. Thea jolted, startled as a form burst into the room, completely unaware of her presence. His head was bent toward the floor, a bulky camera stand under one arm, while the hand of the same arm gripped a wooden camera box. In the grasp of his left hand was an album, and he blustered ahead, dropping it onto the table. The camera stand clattered against the counter as he balanced it there, and at the same time he bent and rested the case on the floor. Pip scampered from the room, leaving the mess behind in a whisk of fur and tail.

  Thea blinked. She’d not expected this. Not anticipated that Mr. Amos
already had an associate. Why then would he have even entertained the possibility of adding another?

  The man turned. Gray eyes lifted, squinting in deep contemplation. Straight hair fell on either side of his forehead, not combed or styled, just haphazard and thoughtless.

  Simeon Coyle.

  They stared at each other for a moment, both caught by surprise. A distinct, unsettled air fell over the room, as if neither were supposed to be there at all, and both were afraid the other might tell. Simeon was the first to break the stare. He ducked his head, fumbling at his back pocket and yanking forth a cap that he tugged onto his head and over his eyes. He held his face away from her, so Thea only had the privilege of seeing the left side of his profile.

  His shoulder lifted upward in an odd little jerk, then settled.

  Thea frowned.

  He noticed.

  “Pardon me.” Simeon ducked away and turned on his heel toward the open back door.

  “Wait!” Thea collected herself. She hurried after him, but Simeon was walking at a pace reflective of a man attempting to escape, but also trying not to run and bring attention upon himself.

  “Mr. Coyle!” Thea tried again, grasping the doorframe and leaning out into the daylight.

  Simeon stuffed his hands in his coat pockets, his shoulders hunched, and rounded a corner out of view.

  Thea blinked a few times. She’d not expected to see him, and obviously he’d felt the same about her. His retreat didn’t carry with it the feeling of fear. Rather, in that moment, it was as if she’d once again run into him, they had touched, and a spark like a cannon cracker had ignited. It seemed Simeon Coyle knew less what to do with that feeling than she did.

  Mr. Amos’s voice filtered from the front, drawing her away from contemplating Simeon and why he’d been here in the first place. There was a potential client in the front. Something about a family photograph. Mr. Amos was speaking with a woman.

  Will they be able to keep the child still?

  The mother gave a short response. He’d unintentionally insulted her child.