“Tell me, please,” Thea coaxed.
“I was researching when the hospital was first constructed. I wanted to uncover its purpose—its origins, as a part of my story. Why build an asylum in the woods? This isn’t a populated area, Miss Reed. The demand for a place such as Valley Heights seemed unwarranted at best.”
Thea stayed silent, afraid that if she responded, Mr. Fritz would cease talking.
He licked his lips and glanced toward the doorway. “It’s believed that Mr. Kramer of the logging company built it. Really no more than twenty years ago. That’s not that long ago, Miss Reed. Not long at all. So why is there already a second doctor on staff, the first having left no more than a few years ago? Word of patients having passed? Mental patients often live out long lives in hospitals run properly—even improperly, for that matter. How is it there are death records on file of several patients? That piqued my interest, as you must imagine. But then . . .”
Mr. Fritz’s pause made Thea desperate. She clasped her fingers together to keep from throttling the man with his dramatic glances at the lace-shrouded window. The shadows it cast made the parlor eerie. Ghostly.
“Then?” Thea pressed.
“Then—” Mr. Fritz drew in a shuddered breath—“there was another name on the register for the asylum construction. Fortune. Mr. Edward Fortune.”
It had far less of an impact on Thea than it had on Mr. Fritz. She frowned. It stood to reason Mr. Fortune’s name would appear on the paper work. He had, after all, been Mathilda Coyle’s cousin, Mr. Kramer’s nephew. He had become the heir appointed after Mathilda’s very public family ousting.
Mr. Fritz continued. “Edward Fortune was already in his sixties when the hospital was built. Think of the arithmetic, Miss Reed! Mr. Kramer would have been in his nineties. Nineties! How invested would a man nearing a century have truly been in constructing an asylum? Very little, I’d imagine! Therefore, it leads me to believe the driving force behind the establishment was not, as it was made to appear, Mr. Kramer at all. But rather, Mr. Fortune.”
Thea blinked, still trying to comprehend the implications that seemed very apparent to Mr. Fritz.
He studied her face. “You’re not following.”
Thea shook her head. “No. Well, I am. But I don’t see—”
“Why it is important?” Mr. Fritz gave her a nervous smile. “It was built over the well, Miss Reed.”
She frowned again.
“The well,” he insisted again. “The well they found Misty Wayfair’s body in. Strangled. Pale and gruesome in her death. A moldy stone well covered in moss and disregarded, as the old homestead it was on had been long abandoned. There was no newspaper here when she died, but with a little digging, it wasn’t hard to uncover who found Misty Wayfair after she’d passed.”
“Who?” Thea breathed.
Mr. Fritz swallowed hard. Thea saw his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. “Mathilda Coyle.”
It started to make sense. A little. Thea calculated the additional information. Edward Fortune, building an asylum over the place of Misty Wayfair’s death. Mathilda Coyle, the one who discovered the body of Misty Wayfair.
“I can only continue to wonder why Misty Wayfair haunts the Coyles but not the Fortunes as well,” Mr. Fritz mused, tossing another furtive glance at the window.
“Are you saying you believe Mr. Fortune or Mathilda Coyle were responsible for—” Thea stopped. She couldn’t say it. Didn’t want to say it.
“Did they kill her themselves?” Mr. Fritz choked out, as if the words were dragged from his throat. “I have to believe there’s more to it we don’t yet understand, Miss Reed. It’s not by chance there is still a rift between the families today. And a rift over an unapproved marriage for religious purposes? Perhaps in a place such as Milwaukee, but here? In the Northwoods of Wisconsin? People cannot afford to be that biased for that long. No, something darker divided them. Something far darker.”
“What?” Thea breathed, though she needn’t have asked the question.
“Murder,” Mr. Fritz rasped. “Murder—and sickness. Sickness of the mind, Miss Reed. Someone was very, very ill.”
Thea stared at him. The impact of his suspicions taking root in her mind.
Mr. Fritz surged to his feet, startling her. He strode over to the window and pushed back the curtain. “Misty Wayfair has come back now. Her tale is coming to light, and she will have it told.” He turned back to Thea. “She will avenge her death. I’m quite afraid that I—we—have not seen the last of her.”
Chapter 31
She’s very ill.”
Rose’s words of worry greeted Thea as she neared the office of the asylum. She had all but sprinted down the road to the asylum that morning, frightened she would encounter Misty Wayfair. Terrified she would hear singing. Mr. Fritz’s superstitions had been awakened with the sighting of her the night before. It crowded out Thea’s intentions of helping Simeon take another photograph of a resident. Even sifting through the disorganized office and its records gave Thea the feeling she was drowning in little bits of a deeper story that didn’t fit together.
She paused outside of the doorway. Eavesdropping.
Dr. Ackerman’s deep voice rumbled in response to Rose. “We knew she wasn’t doing well.”
“Yes, but—” Rose argued.
“But we are doing all we can,” Dr. Ackerman affirmed.
“Does she have any family? Anyone we should notify?” Rose’s voice was breathy with concern.
“Effie is alone, from what I know. When I came here last year, I was told she was one of the few who had no family.”
Effie? The poor woman they’d tied to a chair? The woman who, in her delusion, had linked Thea to Misty Wayfair.
Thea tilted her head and closed her eyes at the realization. What had seemed like the macabre exclamation of a madwoman now took on some merit in Thea’s mind. Her mother—assuming P. A. Reed equated to Penelope Alice Reed Wayfair—was connected to Misty Wayfair, and in turn so was Thea. The inclination that Effie knew more than she credited her for made Thea look at the ceiling as if she could see through the floor into the rooms above. She had no desire to revisit Effie. Ever again, truth be told. But if Effie knew something . . .
Thea heard Dr. Ackerman’s shoes on the floorboards. He was walking toward the door. She composed herself so it appeared she was just arriving. Taking a few steps, Thea met him at the door of the office. She saw Rose’s concerned face behind him.
“Miss Reed. Simeon said you would be in today for another portrait sitting.”
“Yes,” she replied, unwilling to let her wild and racing thoughts show on her face.
Rose stepped closer to the doctor and placed a hand on his arm. “Excuse me, I shall go see to her,” she murmured.
Dr. Ackerman looked down at Rose’s hand.
She dropped it.
“Yes,” he nodded. “I would recommend trying to get sustenance in her. If she can keep it down.”
“Certainly.” Rose gave Thea a weak smile.
It reminded Thea of the first day she’d met Rose. Her blue eyes were shadowed again, her face dropped with the inevitable weight of impending grief. If Effie was seriously that ill, if she was dying even . . .
Thea met Dr. Ackerman’s studious expression. “Is everything all right?” she inquired, pretending she’d heard nothing.
“Yes, Miss Reed.” Dr. Ackerman gave her a stiff nod and exited the room.
Thea stared after him. What had Mr. Fritz said? Dr. Ackerman was the second doctor to offer services at Valley Heights Asylum.
She hurried into the office, dropping her things on a chair and eyeing the mounds of unfiled paper work. Who was the first doctor, then? And why did patients seem to have a habit of dying so quickly here at the asylum hidden in the woods?
Simeon placed the camera in its housing as a nurse led a stooped-over man from the room. The patient had been more than cooperative, for he hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved at all. The unearthly star
e of his eyes ruffled Thea’s already troubled nerves. Simeon had kept the man at ease until Thea exposed the lens of the camera and the portrait was captured on the plates.
“I can develop the negative plates,” Simeon offered. He avoided looking at her.
They were alone in the empty room, captured by the bars on the window and the closed door. Tension separated them. Thea wished to eliminate it, and yet she wondered if it was safer to leave it be.
Simeon moved to pass her, camera box in hand.
Thea reached out and touched his sleeve. He paused, lifting his eyes. He was guarded, almost as if she had been the one to keep secrets from him. Or, more accurately, maybe because he was accustomed to being pushed away.
“I need you.” The words drifted from her lips before she could truly consider whether it was wise to speak them aloud.
Simeon didn’t react.
“We can’t live, Simeon, without knowing the truth.”
It was the other part of why her emotions were so turbulent. If Simeon’s grandfather, Fergus Coyle, had truly been as the rumors claimed—the lover of Misty Wayfair—and if Misty was indeed Thea’s grandmother, then it was possible she and Simeon shared the same grandfather.
An indefinable part of her rebelled at the thought. Yes, she and Simeon seemed drawn together, linked by something or someone greater than them. But a part of her—an unexplored part of her—wished it to be also because . . .
“I know.” Simeon’s admission broke into her thoughts. His eyes searched hers, and Thea could read in them the same unspoken apprehension. His free hand rose, hesitated, then lightly settled on her cheek. She wanted to lean into it. To ignore the obstacles, the secrets, and to find, for just a moment, a sense of belonging.
But she dare not.
Thea pulled back. “Who was the doctor who ran the hospital before Dr. Ackerman?”
A line creased between Simeon’s eyes. “Dr. Ingles.”
She had the man’s name. Thea would give it to Mr. Fritz. Perhaps he could uncover more, and she uncover documents, and maybe then it would become clear what had happened here at Valley Heights. What had happened, even, to Misty Wayfair.
“I need to see Effie,” Thea said, lowering her voice so it didn’t filter through the cast-iron floor vents.
Simeon cocked his head, his brows furrowing. For now, his features were relaxed. Thea took a small comfort that he wasn’t upset with her.
“Why?”
“Because.” Thea looked at the door. It was still closed. She stepped closer to Simeon, avoiding the increased pace of her heart, and whispered into his ear, “She thought I was Misty Wayfair. What if she knows something?”
Simeon didn’t turn his head, but Thea could feel his breath on her ear as he whispered back, “She’s just a patient.”
Thea nodded. “Yes, but—not all patients are really that mad, are they?” She ignored the vision of Effie’s convulsing body before she’d been buckled to a chair.
Simeon didn’t reply. For a moment, Thea was worried, but then he gave a short tip of his head. “All right. But you’ll have to be stealthy. Rose is at lunch downstairs in the kitchen. The nurses will be doing their rounds. Effie is down the hall in seclusion. Last room on the left.”
“Thank you,” Thea whispered.
Simeon turned his face then. They were inches apart. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then rose back to her eyes. “Misty Wayfair has never been safe, Thea. Be careful. Even with Effie. Speak in low tones. Gentle. Don’t be forceful or Effie will startle. Even sick, she could react violently.”
Thea nodded.
Simeon’s chest rose and fell. He shook his head, as if sparring against his own thoughts, and backed away a step. “Be careful,” he said again.
And then he was gone.
Thea turned the doorknob to Effie’s room. The upper hall of the asylum was deserted. She knew at any second one of the day nurses in her starched white apron and hat could appear. She would have no good reason to explain why she was here in Effie’s room. Absolutely none.
She slipped in, shutting the door quietly, leaving her hand in the crack between the door and its frame. Drawing a deep breath, Thea faced the room. It was bright. Daylight shafting through the barred windows. The whitewashed walls almost glowing, the floors painted gray, and the bed covered in white linens.
Effie lay beneath a sheet and a blanket. Her face was pale, her cheeks gaunt. Thea moved next to the bed, finding her seat on a wooden chair by the window. She leaned over, looking into Effie’s resting face. The woman’s eyes were closed. Her dark hair unwashed and lying in strands around her shoulders.
“Effie?” Thea whispered. She reached out and touched the woman’s shoulder.
Effie’s eyes startled open. She took in Thea, the room, the window, and then settled back on Thea. She said nothing. Her lips were dry and cracked.
“Would you like some water?” Thea offered.
Effie only blinked.
Thea rose and moved across the room to a stand that held a basin, a cup, a pitcher of water, and a stack of linens. She poured a cup with water and returned to Effie.
“Can you sit up?” A question one might ask a sane person. She noted a metal pan on the floor. A vague scent of vomit wafted to her nostrils. Poor Effie. They eyed each other.
“Can you sit up?” Thea repeated.
Effie blinked. A slight shake of her head.
“I will help you.” Thea leaned over Effie and slid her arms beneath the patient’s. She hoisted Effie up at an angle, then propped her pillow behind her, folding it in half for extra fullness. She reached for the cup of water and brought it to Effie’s lips.
The woman raised her hand, fingers shaking, and touched the cup. Her eyes never left Thea’s face, never roved the room, or ventured to look out the window.
After a small sip, Thea withdrew the cup from Effie’s lips. “You are very ill, aren’t you?” she whispered, stating the obvious.
Effie didn’t answer.
Thea eyed the pan and hoped the woman wouldn’t lose the little water she’d taken in.
Effie’s hand shot out and clamped around Thea’s wrist.
Thea stifled a squeal and sucked in her breath.
Though most assuredly ill, Effie had not lost all her strength. Not yet. Her fingers bit into Thea’s skin. Her eyes came alive. Her voice was hoarse as she whispered.
“Misty?”
“No.” Thea looked at the fingers gripping her wrist. “No, I’m Thea.”
“Don’t let them come.” Effie’s voice was small, shaking. She fixed her eyes on Thea. “I don’t want them here. Please. Make them go away.”
“Who?” Thea leaned forward, telling herself to remember this was a madwoman who had been here for years.
“The nurses. They all think I’m insane.”
Thea couldn’t hide the frown. Effie was insane. Her occupancy here at the hospital proved it. The thrashing she’d witnessed was also evidence that all was not right with Effie. But she would entertain Effie’s fancies.
“Why do you think I’m Misty Wayfair?” Thea diverted.
Fear reflected in Effie’s face. She licked her dry lips, biting down on the bottom one until it drew a tiny drop of blood.
“You look like her.”
Effie’s admission curled around Thea’s nerves.
“Have you seen her? Her ghost?” Thea breathed.
A small wrinkle appeared between Effie’s eyes, like she was confused. It disappeared. “No. There is no ghost. Misty Wayfair is dead.”
Thea nodded. She glanced at the door, aware her time with Effie should be kept short. Or worse, could be cut short by one of the nurses Effie so feared.
“Then why?” Thea asked again. Trusting a madwoman was as ridiculous as it sounded. Yet, Thea couldn’t avoid the nagging feeling that something was very wrong. When she looked deep into Effie’s eyes, she saw an awareness there, in the depths of them. It stunned her.
“I saw her picture.” Effie dr
ug out the words. “A tintype. You are just like her.”
“Where?” Thea couldn’t veil the excitement in her voice. “Where did you see this?”
“A woman had it.” Effie looked beyond Thea, as if recalling. “She—lived here. And then she died. She was—my friend.”
“Who was she?” Thea knew. Oh, how she knew the answer already!
“Penelope.” Effie’s chapped lips lifted in a vague smile. “She was like me.”
Thea waited. Tears collecting in her eyes at the sound of her mother’s name.
Effie stared at Thea. “Strange things happen to us. I don’t remember what. But we would awaken. She with black eyes. Sometimes I will bite my tongue so hard I will bleed. They act like we don’t know, but we do. It’s as if we become ghosts, and we chase them for a while until we return our bodies and then . . .” Her hoarse voice wavered. She closed her eyes, then opened them. “Then we are strapped down. Well, I am. Penelope is free now. Sometimes I am free, but I have nowhere to go . . .” Her voice trailed away, and she closed her eyes once more.
Thea sat in silence, watching Effie’s chest rise and fall, slumber having overtaken her. That was it then. It had to be. She looked like Misty Wayfair. She had to be her granddaughter, and Penelope her mother. Penelope a patient here. Penelope tied to a chair. Restrained. Alone. Trapped.
She moved to rise when Effie’s eyes flew open. She reached for Thea’s hand and gripped it. “The portrait. Penelope hid it—in a crack in the wall. At the bottom of the stairwell.”
“How do you know this?” Thea frowned. Patients weren’t allowed downstairs. Their living quarters, the main room, was all upstairs.
Effie gave a tiny smile. “Sometimes we were free.”
Chapter 32
Thea closed the door carefully. Effie had drifted into a fitful sleep. It was time to leave before she got into trouble.
“What are you doing in Effie’s room?”
Rose’s hoarse whisper pierced the hallway.
The Curse of Misty Wayfair Page 28