“Wake up, China,” she whispered. “I heard a door closing upstairs. Footsteps. And a thump—a couple of thumps. Something . . .” She swallowed, clutching. “Something’s up there. Moving around. Listen.”
If Jenna had been determinedly brave before we went to sleep, she was definitely frightened now. Her fingers on my bare arm were trembling and her breath was ragged. Her face was shadowed, but there was enough light to see that her eyes were huge, the pupils dilated.
I sat bolt upright, listening. For a moment, I heard nothing but the surrounding silence and her uneven breathing.
Then I heard it, a series of irregular thumps. Thump-thump-kathump-thump. It sounded as if it could be in the room overhead, or maybe in the wall. Jenna’s fingers dug into my arm.
“Is that your ghost?” I thought of Annie, who doesn’t thump. She occasionally rings a bell, but most of the time she just likes to make herself felt. She’s a presence with an attitude.
“It’s a coffin, China.” Jenna’s whisper was edged with hysteria. “Something is dragging a coffin across the floor upstairs.” Her breathing was getting faster and more uneven.
I remembered that Dorothea had said that Jenna could be something of a drama queen and that she liked to play at being frightened. Was that what was happening here?
“It doesn’t sound like a coffin to me,” I said crisply. “It’s not heavy enough. And stop hyperventilating. You don’t want to pass out.”
“Oh, yes, I do,” she said fervently. “I would love to pass out. If I did, I’d have an excuse for missing whatever happens next.” She took another couple of deep, fast breaths and closed her eyes as if inviting herself to collapse. After a moment, still upright, she opened her eyes. In a small voice, she asked, “What happens next?”
I swung my legs off the sofa and slipped my bare feet into my sneakers. “Well, you can stay here and faint if you want.” I reached for the white terry bathrobe I’d brought from my room. “I’m going to see what’s making that noise.” I slipped my cell phone into my bathrobe pocket and grabbed my flashlight and the broom that was leaning against the wall.
“But you can’t go up there by yourself,” Jenna wailed dramatically. “And you can’t leave me here all alone. I’m scared.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to come with me.” I shrugged into my bathrobe and knotted the belt around my waist. “Bring your flashlight.”
She made a woozy little moan, but after a moment she did what I asked, and the two of us made our way to the door. Cautiously, I pulled at it. It didn’t seem to want to open, almost as if something were out there in the hall, holding it. Something that didn’t want us to leave this room.
Taking a breath, I tugged at the door even harder. It gave just a little, then opened so quickly that I flung out an arm and took a step backward to keep from falling.
The darkness in the hallway was as thick as molasses and the air had an odd, heavy quality, as though it were compressed. It smelled of stale dust and musty carpeting. It was cold, too. Icy cold. It must be twenty degrees colder than Jenna’s room, I thought, remembering something Ruby had told me about researchers finding measurable temperature drops where psychic activity was going on.
I paused in the doorway to get my bearings, Jenna close behind me. I looked left, toward the staircase, where I could see the tall window at the end of the hall, a mysterious gray rectangle of moonlight in the utter darkness. Somewhere close by, I heard the skitter and patter of little feet. Rats, maybe.
But there was something else. Something that rustled. Or whispered, like the sound of many distant voices. Or just . . . waited, its breath fading in and out of the darkness, barely audible but darkly menacing.
Jenna heard it too, and whimpered. “There’s something out here, China.” She put an urgent hand on my arm. “Please. Let’s not—”
But we had come this far and I wasn’t going back. “You stay,” I said. I stepped out into the hall and glanced to the right—and my breath froze in my throat.
Coming toward us in the darkness was a shimmering figure. Cloaked in luminous white gossamer, sheer, fluid, shape-shifting, it seemed to float above the floor.
Behind me, Jenna saw it too. She gave a small shriek. “No! Oh, no! Please, no. I . . .” Her knees gave way. Holding onto the door jamb, she slid to the floor.
I couldn’t breathe. My heart seemed to have stopped and I could taste the acrid terror at the back of my throat. The whispers grew louder as I turned toward the apparition. Brandishing my broom, I aimed my flashlight full on the place where its face would be, if it had a face.
It did, although its owner had flung up an arm to shield her eyes from the bright light.
“Dorothea!” I exclaimed, feeling weak-kneed myself.
“Oh, good. You have a flashlight,” Dorothea said in her usual voice. “The batteries went out on mine.” She caught sight of Jenna. “Jenna, dear, why in the world are you sitting on the floor?”
Jenna’s eyelids fluttered. “I . . . think I fainted,” she said unsteadily. “I thought you were the ghost.”
“Ridiculous,” Dorothea said. “I am not a ghost.”
Obviously. But she had certainly looked like one.
“You heard what we heard?” I asked.
“I heard something,” Dorothea said in a sensible, all-business tone. “I didn’t know what it was, so I decided I’d better go have a look, in case the wind broke a window somewhere.” She shivered and pulled her white negligee around her. “I didn’t realize it would be so cold, though. I should have put on something warmer.” She frowned at me. “What are you doing with that broom?”
“It was handy,” I said, feeling a little silly.
“I see,” she said. She held out a hand to Jenna. “Get up, Jenna. That floor is cold.”
Jenna took her hand and got slowly to her feet, but her face was the color of pale cheese and she swayed. Any pretense to being brave about the ghost had vanished. Drama queen or not, she was clearly terrified, and I could hardly blame her. The sight of the figure in that white negligee floating down the hall had knocked the breath out of me.
“Jenna, you are white as a sheet,” Dorothea said with motherly concern. She put her arms around her and said, “You’re trembling. You should be in bed, my dear.”
Jenna leaned into Dorothea’s embrace. “I’m afraid . . . to stay by myself,” she murmured incoherently. “Please don’t leave me.”
“We were on our way to have a look, too,” I said, trying to make my voice sound normal. And if we didn’t go soon, we were likely to miss whatever it was.
On second thought, that might actually be a good idea. Who were we, to imagine we could face this . . . this thing? If it had been haunting this place for decades, the three of us weren’t going to make it leave. Not with a broom and a couple of flashlights.
At that moment, we all heard it again. The oddly irregular thumping noise.
“Yes,” Dorothea said, very quietly, “That’s what I heard.”
It still seemed to be coming from overhead, or from the walls. But I knew that wasn’t the force that was out here in the hallway. No, this was something else, more of a sensation than a sound, hovering over us, brushing against us, raising the hair on the back of my neck and goosebumps on my arms. A dark something. Ominous. Full of menace.
And then, from somewhere in the depths of the house, we heard the slow, hollow reverberation of a distant gong: one two three. As its last dull note eerily shivered and dissolved, Jenna swallowed a frightened moan and her face seemed to grow even more pale. She was trembling visibly. Her terror was palpable.
“There, there, dear,” Dorothea said soothingly, tightening her arms around Jenna. “It’s just that old brass clock in the sitting room—the one that came from India. Nothing to be frightened of.”
But her voice cracked. Around us, the blackness grew heavier
and blacker, seeming to pulse with echoes of the gong. My heart was rattling around inside me as if it had come loose from its moorings. I could feel myself being infected by Jenna’s fear.
I cleared my throat, tried to speak, then tried again. “If we’re going, I guess we should go.”
Dorothea gave me an encouraging smile. “You go first, with the flashlight. And the broom. Jenna and I will be right behind you.”
I could have argued, but I didn’t. I turned and started down the hall toward the faintly luminous window. Jenna was close behind me, shuffling along in her bunny slippers, clutching my bathrobe belt as if she were afraid that if she let go of me, I would disappear—or she would. Dorothea was beside her, a firm arm around her waist, as if she thought Jenna might faint again.
A fine team of stalwart ghostbusters we were, I thought, and was swept by a half-hysterical impulse to giggle.
But none of this was the slightest bit funny. Something—some sort of corporeal creature and quite substantial, by the sound of it—was making that noise upstairs. But something else—something that whispered, something inexplicably dark and terrifying—had hovered over us. There was no telling what we might find on the third floor, where two suicides and a murder had taken place. It was no laughing matter.
“I think we should all go back,” Jenna whispered faintly. “Sorry to be such a wuss, but can we please . . . go back?”
“We’ll just go as far as the staircase,” Dorothea said, in her reassuringly normal tone. “And then we’ll decide.”
It seemed to take forever, but when we got to the door that opened onto the circular staircase, I took a deep breath, grasped the knob, and pulled it open, reaching for the light switch, on the wall to the right of the door. I flicked the switch but nothing happened. I flicked it again. Nothing.
“Damn,” I muttered. In front of me, the stairway was a giant black well. Somewhere down the stairs I thought I heard an odd bumping sound and I stepped forward onto the landing, directing my flashlight beam downward. But the utter darkness swallowed up the thin thread of trembling light.
Behind me, Dorothea made an impatient noise. “The electricity must be off again. If it isn’t back on by morning, Joe will have to—”
But whatever she was about to say was blanketed by the sudden wild cry that echoed up the stairs, followed immediately by a series of soft thuds and louder bangs. And then a moan, and another, and then silence. This was no ghost. Something—and someone—had fallen down those narrow steps.
I didn’t stop to think. Flashlight in one hand, the other on the iron railing, I clattered down the stairs. Above me, Dorothea cried out, “Oh, China, please be careful! That stair, it’s dangerous!”
And then there it was, at the foot of the staircase, silent and unmoving. A sprawled figure wearing a black parka and black ski mask, arms flung out, jeans-clad legs at odd angles. I knelt down. I could barely see the face, but enough to recognize her. It was Claudia Roth.
And off to one side, on the floor, lay one of those rolling luggage bags, wheels up, one wheel broken. The suitcase had tumbled down the stairs and split open along the zipper, and I could see what was still fitted snugly inside.
It was a large brown leather book with silver corners and a pair of ornate silver clasps.
Chapter Seventeen
Queen Anne’s lace is a favorite of people who like to forage for edible foods. As a biennial, this wild ancestor of the garden carrot produces leaves and roots in the first year; in the second year, it produces flowers and seeds. You can mince the fresh leaves and add them to salad or soups. The roots are best harvested in the spring or fall of the first year when they are tender; second-year roots become woody. The peeled flower stalk has a carroty flavor and may be eaten raw or cooked. The flower itself makes a flavorful jelly or a pretty garnish. The ground seeds are spicy. However, if you’re pregnant, you should avoid eating any part of this plant. The seeds have been used for centuries as a morning-after contraceptive, and a decoction of the root can produce uterine contractions and cause a miscarriage.
And foragers, please beware! You must take extra care to be sure that what you are harvesting is wild carrot and not its deadly lookalike, poison hemlock. Crush a few leaves. If they smell like fresh carrot, you’re safe. If they have a foul odor, leave it alone. This is serious stuff, folks, so pay attention. Mistakes with this plant have cost lives.
“Anne’s Flower”
China Bayles
Pecan Springs Enterprise
I turned the shop door sign to open and went back around my sales counter.
“So what happened next?” Ruby was leaning against the counter, staring at me, her eyes round. I had just given her an abbreviated version of the events at Hemlock House. “Claudia wasn’t dead, was she?”
“Just concussed,” I said. “But she’s lucky she wasn’t hurt worse. Those stairs really are dangerous, especially in the dark. The med techs and the deputies took her to the hospital for observation. The doctor said the concussion was mild and that she would be her usual self in no time.” I grinned. “To quote Jenna, ‘No loonier than usual.’ I drove her home the next day. She was anxious about her parrots.”
It was a bright and balmy April morning in Texas. I had gotten home the evening before and was glad to be back behind the counter of my shop, surrounded by the familiar Thyme and Seasons sights and scents. The crisp, clean smell of lavender blended with an exotic orange ylang-ylang that wafted through the open door of Ruby’s Crystal Cave. The big antique hutch was stocked with herbal vinegars, oils, jellies, teas, and potpourris. The corner cupboard displayed herbal soaps, shampoos, and bath herbs. Beside it, the bookshelves were filled with cookbooks and gardening books. Handcrafted wreaths and swags hung on the walls, along with bundles of dried yarrow, sweet Annie, larkspur, statice, and tansy. Through the window behind the counter, I could get a glimpse of the rack of potted herb seedlings for sale—parsley, sage, thyme, fennel, more—and larger pots of shrubby herbs: lavender, rosemary, and bay.
I sighed happily. The trip had been an interesting experience. I had enjoyed the people and the mountains and even the snow. But I was glad to be home.
Ruby pushed up the sleeves of her trippy psychedelic sweater. “So it was Claudia Roth who actually stole the Herbal,” she mused, shaking her head. “How many of the other books did she steal? Was Jed Conway fencing her thefts on the internet, too?”
“She didn’t steal it,” I said. “In fact, the book never left Hemlock House. It was hidden in the secret room.”
“You’re kidding.” Ruby blinked. “A secret room! Like the one in that old Mary Roberts Rinehart mystery?”
“Sort of.” I opened the cash register drawer and began checking to make sure there was enough change for today’s business. “Not nearly as spooky, though. It was only about the size of a large walk-in closet with floor-to-ceiling shelves, hidden behind a bookcase in Sunny’s third-floor bedroom. The bookcase swung out on little rollers—that was the noise Jenna thought was a coffin being dragged across the floor. Inside the closet, the shelves were full of books Sunny had stashed there, maybe to keep them for herself. Or to keep them out of Jed Conway’s clutches.”
“And Claudia Roth knew about this secret room?”
I opened a roll of pennies and dumped them into the cash drawer. “Claudia Roth knows about a lot of things, as it turned out. After all, she was one of the family. She and Sunny were closer than anybody knew. Anybody but Rose Mullins, that is—and Rose wasn’t about to share that information with outsiders, like Dorothea and me.” I closed the cash register and checked to make sure that the credit card system was on and ready to go.
“Rose is the housekeeper—right?”
“Right. After Dorothea arrived to take over the library, Rose told Claudia that the Hemlock House board couldn’t decide what they wanted to do with Sunny’s library. Dorothea had been hired to cata
logue and evaluate it, and then it might be sold. Which wasn’t exactly true, but Rose thought it was.”
“So Claudia decided she had to do something.”
“Exactly.” I began straightening the small display of herb seeds on the counter beside the cash register. “She was convinced that it was her duty to protect the thing that Sunny held most precious: the Blackwell Herbal. So she went to Hemlock House one weekend when Rose told her that Dorothea and Jenna would be gone. She moved the book from the display case in the library up to Sunny’s secret room.” I relocated an envelope of basil seeds from the parsley section up next to the bee balm, where it belonged. “She was doing what she thought Sunny would want her to do. She was keeping the Herbal safe.”
“But if that was her motive, what made her change her mind? Why did she try to take it away? In the middle of the night, too.”
“That was . . . well, it was my fault,” I said ruefully.
“Your fault?”
I opened the laptop behind the counter and turned it on. “Afraid so. The morning after I arrived, I quizzed Rose about the secret room. I even asked if she’d be willing to help me hunt for it. My questions made her nervous, and when she talked to Claudia, she mentioned that a stranger—that was me—was asking about the room. Claudia and I had a common bond when it came to parrots, but she saw through my cover story and thought she saw more than that. She thought I wanted the Herbal.”
“So she figured the safest place for the book was her parrot sanctuary.” Ruby shook her head. “But she had to go and fetch it in the middle of the night?”
“Well, she could hardly do it in the daytime, when everybody was around,” I said. “Actually, it was her second attempt to get the Herbal. She had come the night before, but she couldn’t get the bookcase to open the way it should—that was the noise that scared Jenna and prompted her to ask me to sleep in her room. So Claudia came back the next night, with tools. She was concerned that the book might get wet in the snow, so she brought the wheelie. Unfortunately, one of the wheels broke. That was the weird thumping noise.”
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