Perhaps that explained Misty Wayfair. Perhaps the unsettling visit to the asylum, following Simeon Coyle through the woods, the vision across the river of a bare-legged woman—perhaps all of it compounded with each other until they became half-real, half-imagined circumstances.
Mr. Amos was right. Her mind wasn’t with it today.
Thea straightened her shoulders and drew in a steadying breath. Mr. Amos groused in the corner, fumbling with equipment. The man’s shoulders appeared more hunched today, perhaps borrowing from some unknown stress. Simeon perhaps. She’d seen him exit the portrait studio again, early this morning. This time, Mr. Amos had walked with him, toward the asylum, and had not returned for over two hours. That she’d gained entrance to the studio was made possible because of a note Mr. Amos had left her, and the fact he apparently trusted her and the town enough to leave the door unlocked.
Thea determined to busy herself with work she’d been doing before the vase had shattered and she’d turned into an immobilized statue herself. She scooted a waist-high podium, Greek in style, wood made to look like marble, a few feet to the right. Bending, she hoisted a potted fern onto its platform.
Mr. Amos coughed, the hacking rattle of an old man, as he dragged a chair next to the plant. He stood back, hands at his waist. “That’ll do.”
“The photograph is of a family?” Thea inquired. He’d told her earlier, but she’d forgotten in her preoccupation with forgetting everything else.
His lips pursed. “No.”
It was more than apparent that the photographer was not welcoming the forthcoming visitor. Thea gave him a studious look. Mr. Amos ignored her.
“Who is it, then?” she finally asked when it became obvious Mr. Amos was not going to offer it.
“Kramer Logging’s Mr. Edward Fortune,” Mr. Amos supplied.
The memory of Mrs. Amos’s brief history about the nephew who’d inherited Kramer Logging instead of the Coyles came to mind. Thea raised a thin eyebrow. “The Mr. Fortune?”
“That’s what I said, didn’t I?” Mr. Amos readjusted the plant on its stand.
“Why does he need his portrait taken?” Thea tipped her head in question, struggling to come to terms with the idea that in a few moments she would be meeting the man who had come into the Coyles’ rightful inheritance.
“How should I know?” Mr. Amos strode past her and headed toward the back room. Thea followed, curiosity getting the better of her good sense and by no means stilling her tongue.
“And he was Mr. Kramer’s nephew?” She tried to let Mrs. Brummel’s gossipy sketch of the Coyle family history fall into place in her mind.
Mr. Amos made a pretense of raising a sandwich to gobble before Mr. Fortune came for his sitting. He nodded, his mustache twitching as he took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Nephew by marriage. When things turned sour with Kramer’s daughter, Mathilda, and after the whole Misty Wayfair debacle, Edward stepped up to help. But don’t be fooled. He’s no saint. Everything about that family is a shame. That logging company shoulda been Simeon’s.”
The final words were a muttered growl.
Thea hesitated, but then dared to ask, “Would Simeon have wanted it?”
Mr. Amos’s head shot up. “Who knows? But he wasn’t given the chance, now, was he? Suffered for the sins of his grandparents—sins or choices, doesn’t matter.”
“Does Mr. Fortune seem at all apologetic to the Coyles?” Thea crossed her arms over her chest and watched as Mr. Amos fiddled with his napkin.
He groused under his breath, but finally answered. “Doubtful. He took over the company before Simeon was born. Never seemed to try to set things to right. Maybe he doesn’t even know exactly what happened. It was all a mess.”
An idea came to Thea’s mind. It was so simple, almost strange to consider. “So, Simeon would have been a logging baron if his grandmother Mathilda Kramer hadn’t—”
“Hadn’t married Fergus Coyle?” Mr. Amos stopped and gave Thea a direct stare. “Yes.” His eyes dimmed, and he looked toward the back window in the direction of the asylum. “Time changes what one values. And with Simeon’s sister, Mary, just passed on . . . it’s not as though a pair of orphaned siblings even care about a logging company anymore.”
Mr. Amos sniffed, then turned back and gave Thea an honest nod. “Simeon and Rose have only each other. The last of the Coyles. The last of the Kramers, for that matter. Half the town wants to blame Misty Wayfair for that. No one points a finger at Edward Fortune. He got the lucky end of the whole sordid tale.”
Mr. Amos cleared his throat, breaking himself from his musings. He waved her off, although Thea said nothing.
“Simeon and Rose, they haven’t much future really. Death has a way of dealing its hand when you least expect it. I rather believe it’s all poppycock, but folks say Misty will come to claim them too. It’s just the way of it with the Coyles. Misty Wayfair won’t be at rest until every last one of them has passed on and joined her.”
Chapter 15
Mr. Edward Fortune was indeed a debonair and cultured man who seemed misplaced in the small backwoods town of Pleasant Valley. He wasn’t unkind; rather he was indifferent. As indifferent to Thea as she was to the fern that framed Mr. Fortune in the photograph. That the owner of Kramer Logging was accustomed to getting his way was apparent by the simple fact he all but told Mr. Amos where he would stand, how he would position himself, and at what angle he wished the portrait to be taken.
Mr. Amos blustered about. He was perturbed—annoyed even—and he was barely concealing it.
“This plant needs removing, if you will.” Mr. Fortune gave a haphazard wave of his hand. “Ridiculous greenery is completely unnecessary.”
Mr. Amos gave Thea a silent glare, and she hurried to do Mr. Fortune’s bidding. She wished she could exchange places with Mr. Amos and take the photograph herself. Although she wouldn’t mind a postmortem of Mr. Fortune.
Thea hid her wince.
That was unkind.
Yet, as she removed the plant, she couldn’t help but picture the entitled logging baron hoisted on her metal frame, gray and unmoving. It wasn’t the most awful thing she’d conjured in her mind, though she had no intentions of driving the man to his death. Still, it seemed highly unfair that, for whatever reason, Misty Wayfair found it necessary to haunt the Coyles when really Mr. Fortune was the one who had inadvertently ruined it for all them.
“Very good.”
The approval of Mr. Fortune did nothing for Thea’s ego, and she wasn’t interested in what Mr. Fortune might or might not think of her. She was itching to stand where Mr. Amos stood, behind the camera, peering through the lens and calculating the overall schematic appeal.
“I do have meetings to attend to, so if we could take this portrait posthaste,” Mr. Fortune announced to the room with a pointed, blue-eyed stare beneath a crown of gray hair.
“Certainly,” Thea murmured when Mr. Amos made no effort to respond.
“And,” Mr. Fortune continued, now having an audience, “I would like to have the portrait developed and delivered as soon as possible. It is a gift for my wife.”
“Mr. Fortune, I must ask that you stop talking.” Mr. Amos stood behind the tripod, having slipped a plate into its slot. His mouth quirked in an irritated scowl. Thea knew he was soon ready to uncap the lens. The light would filter through and the picture collide with the wet chemical on the plate. Lack of movement was a must.
“My apologies,” Mr. Fortune muttered without sincerity.
Thea tried to fathom how this man was a distant relative to the Coyles. But it was impossible. They were so different.
Mr. Fortune’s expression changed from posed to alarm.
Thea spun as she heard Mr. Amos’s gargling cry. He grabbed at his arm, staggered, and crumpled to the floor in a heap. His legs tangled with the legs of the tripod, which wobbled and toppled to the floor in a wild shatter of wood and glass.
“Mr. Amos!” Thea raced to his side, dropping beside
him on the floor. His eyes were closed, his face a grayish hue that boded no good.
“Go fetch the doctor!” she shouted over her shoulder at Mr. Fortune.
“Mr. Amos.” Thea patted his cheek, whiskers rough beneath her palm. He was unresponsive, and she hadn’t a clue what to do. When Mr. Mendelsohn had dropped dead not long ago, she’d merely stood beside his form, staring down in utter shock and—ashamedly—relief. But there was an urgency in her blood now. The kind that came from the tiny roots of affection that had formed for the cranky old photographer.
“Please!” she begged Mr. Fortune.
The logging baron seemed frozen in place. In shock perhaps, or maybe from sheer bewilderment at the sudden shift of events and inconvenience to his day.
There was a scuffling. The back-room door yanked open and slammed against the wall. Footsteps pounded across the wooden floor. A person knelt beside her. The instant waft of cedarwood and sawdust met her nose, and Thea’s shoulder was brushed by another’s.
Simeon.
“For all that’s holy—!” Mr. Fortune exclaimed on seeing his much-younger cousin.
Simeon ignored the man, and while fumbling to loosen Mr. Amos’s tie, he commanded Thea’s attention with his eyes. His face gave a severe twist, and she had to focus on his words to understand him.
“The doctor is four blocks down toward the boardinghouse. Turn right at the corner and head for the white two-story building next to the tannery.”
Thea nodded.
“Go,” he insisted.
Thea scampered to her feet. The toe of her shoe stepped on her hem, tripping her. She grabbed at Simeon’s shoulder to steady herself and keep from falling atop Mr. Amos.
Simeon’s warm hand encased hers, stabilizing her as she rose. Thea felt calluses on his palm. The heat of his fingers wrapped tight around hers. One more concerned look from him, as if unsure whether she was capable of fetching the doctor, and then he dropped his grip.
Thea raced for the door, sidestepping the shattered remnants of Mr. Amos’s camera. She ignored the burning sensation of a tear as it whisked down her cheek. The sound of her shoes clomping along the boardwalk. Dodging a few townsfolk who eyed her with question as she increased her pace to a sprint.
Mr. Amos.
This wasn’t about the past, not even about the future. It was right now. The present.
But for some reason, the old photographer’s words from earlier resonated like a horrific echo in Thea’s ears.
“Death has a way of dealing its hand when you least expect it.”
Thea rounded the corner and saw the two-story building as Simeon had described. Yes. Death was stealthy and swift, and when Death bit, it left a wake of unfinished business in its path. It touched them all, and apparently it would touch them again today.
The interior was as dim as Thea’s emotions. A lone lantern flickered on the middle of the table in the back room of Amos Bros. Photography. Crickets chirruped their consistent warble outside, conflicting with the pattern her fingers drummed on the table. She sucked in a deep breath, staring down at the photograph she held in her other hand. The faces of Rose and Mary Coyle stared back at her. She’d mounted it on cardboard this afternoon with shaking insides and a mind preoccupied with a crotchety old photographer clinging to life. Since she couldn’t very well sit at Mr. Amos’s bedside, she’d returned to the studio to clean up the shattered remains of the camera and to try to calm herself.
Mr. Amos hadn’t died. Yet. Thea ran her thumb over the image of Mary’s face. So cold, so lifeless. God save her from having to take his postmortem photograph!
What was this place, Pleasant Valley? Yes, she had traveled with the Mendelsohns, finding economics where others drowned in sorrow. Yes, she had convinced herself that offering photographs such as these would bring comfort—and they would—to the families left behind. But never had she allowed herself to learn their stories.
She cared for Mr. Amos. If even just a little. Watching a man grapple for breath, clutch at his chest, and then lay in the pre-pallor of a deceased condition was traumatic. It was why she hid here—hid from the ghost of Misty Wayfair, from the vague memory of her mother. Mr. Amos’s collapse was an illustration of life itself. It would all be brought to a sudden end . . . and then what?
Thea startled as the back door opened. The sound of the river flowing in the distance was accompanied by a swatch of moonlight.
Simeon entered, saying nothing, and shut the door behind him.
For some reason, she wasn’t surprised he’d found her here. There was some unspoken thread between them, something that defined them, as though they were walking a parallel journey that intersected, if just for a moment, in life.
He neared the table, removed his hat, and set it down next to the lantern. The chair’s legs scraped against the floor as he tugged it out and sat. He seemed at peace, for now. There was no tic in his face, his shoulders were level, and his body calm. Still, Simeon said nothing. He sat opposite her, his hands folded on the tabletop.
Silence.
Thea heard him breathe softly, matching hers breath for breath. Each of her hands held a corner of the Coyle sisters’ photograph. Now was hardly the time to slip it across the table to him. Not with Mr. Amos’s condition hovering over the shop. She did it anyway.
Faces up, Thea pushed the cardboard rectangle across the table.
Simeon stared at it in the dim lantern light.
She watched his face. It was resigned. He didn’t lift the photograph, nor did he touch it.
Instead, he said, “It will be touch and go for a while. Mr. Amos is not well.” Simeon’s thumbs tapped together as his fingers interlocked with each other and his hands rested on the table. “There are services he renders to the asylum.” His eyes raised to meet hers. “If you’re willing, your help would be a kindness.”
“What kind of services?” Thea ventured, though she thought she already knew.
Simeon dropped his gaze back to his folded hands. His right hand twitched upward, then relaxed. His cheek muscle jumped.
The photograph lay between them, like a third being in the room, daring them to speak of it.
Simeon cleared his throat. “There are patients—record keeping hasn’t been good. Dr. Ackerman requested we take photographs of each patient, so we can log their names, dates of admission, and—”
“Dates of departure?” Thea understood. Departure meant death. No one was admitted to a hospital with a troubled mind and left renewed and healed.
Simeon gave a short nod. “Yes.”
“Are they the ones in your album?”
He studied her face for a moment. “They are.”
Thea sucked in a small breath, blowing it through her nose softly in a stifled sigh. She looked at the wall, just above Simeon’s shoulder. “Does no one come to visit?”
“The patients?” Simeon’s voice rose a tad, enough to call Thea’s attention back to his face. It was scrunched in a scowl, then fell back into place. “No,” he replied. “No one visits.”
Thea nodded, taking in the short answer weighted with such depth, such pain that she sensed the agony in the core of her being. She had no desire to return to Valley Heights Asylum. Not to the gates, and certainly not beyond them.
But a distinct memory traversed her mind, and the words of Mrs. Amos, indicative that her mother very well might be tied to that place, were unforgettable. Her mother. She’d been wearing a dark cloak that day. It was worn on the hemline, with tiny threads trailing along the walk as she’d left Thea on the orphanage steps. Like a tiny trail of tears as the bond between mother and daughter permanently ripped apart.
“Do you know—was there ever a woman by the name of Reed at the asylum?”
At her question, Simeon reached out and drew the photograph of his sisters toward him. In that gesture, he seemed to acknowledge her own loss along with his. That tragedy of unanswered questions that lingered and was never resolved.
Why did melancholy claim
his sister’s last breath?
Why did her mother leave her behind?
“I’ve not worked at the asylum very long.” Simeon shook his head. He turned the photograph over, to the blank side of the cardboard. “I know of none living there by that name.”
His thumb rubbed over handwriting that Thea had forgotten she’d penned on the back of the picture’s cardboard setting.
Misty Wayfair.
She blanched. She shouldn’t have written it while she pondered the implications of the ghost and the Coyles’ relationship. It was an absent-minded, grief-induced action she’d meant to correct before handing the photograph to its owners.
Simeon turned the picture over, not seeming stirred by his sister’s death titled with their curse’s name.
“None living?” Thea frowned, turning her attention to his denial of knowing her mother. His words implied death.
Simeon pushed back in his chair. He left the photograph on the table and reached for his hat. Thea stood with him, matching his movements. He was finished with the conversation. She had made him uncomfortable, and he was preparing to take his customary flight.
“Simeon, please.” Thea rounded the table quickly, without thought, and placed her hand on his arm. The touch commanded his attention. But, to her surprise, his wrist turned, and his fingers enclosed her forearm.
They stood in the dusky room, warmth of their hands spread through the thin sleeves of their clothing. Eyes locked. Chests rising and falling in the quiet breathing so carefully controlled and revealing tempestuous emotion beneath.
Simeon’s hand tightened on her arm just as she lost her grip on his. He pulled, drawing her closer, secretively, as if even the walls would listen to his words. Long lashes framed his eyes, and as he blinked, they swept over cheeks that hinted at strength, in spite of the muscle that jumped in his jaw.
She could feel the warmth from his face as they stood shoulder to shoulder. A mere breath separated her from him, and in the space of that quiet moment, a lingering, a yearning passed between them.
The Curse of Misty Wayfair Page 13