by Blair Howard
There was no doubt about it, though: the image was mesmerizing. To sit in front of that portrait and not look at it would have been impossible. Her picture completely dominated the room….
And that, I thought, is no accident.
“We haven’t really looked at it, have we? The box, or the other stuff that came with it. Maybe we should.”
“She’s here, Harry. I can feel her presence.”
“Here? No, Amanda. She’s not here. She’s been dead for more than a hundred years. Your mind’s playing tricks on you. It’s this old house. It’s straight out of those Hammer movies of the 1960s. Any minute now, Christopher Lee is going to barge in here with his fangs bared.
“Look. I think the best thing we can do is get your business sorted out and go home, and then put the place up for sale. Get whatever you can for it, and forget about it. Though who the hell would want to buy it aside from Duckworthy, I don’t know. I wouldn’t take it as a gift.”
“And what about her?” She nodded at the portrait. “What about my grandmother’s request that we try to find out what happened to her?”
“That’s not going to happen. I told you: there’s no way, nothing to go on, nowhere to start. It’s not just a cold case; it’s a dead case. Hell, Amanda, you know that.”
“I do, but now I feel like I have to know what happened to her, or at least try to find out. You promised to help me. I don’t care what you say or think, I did hear a piano playing last night, and I know it was that one. I also know it was her playing it.”
“Oh my God, Amanda. That’s cra—that’s so off the wall I can’t believe you said it.”
She shrugged and got to her feet. “Come on. Let’s go. There’s nothing to be gained sitting here with you disparaging me.” She wasn’t so much angry as accepting. She reached out and pulled me to my feet, then led me to the door. And there I paused and turned again to look at the portrait.
Pleading. That’s what she’s doing. Then I shook my head. That line of thought is not good. Get a grip, Harry.
Okay, so now I’m going to be brutally honest with you. I’ll admit I was more than a little unnerved. I tried to persuade myself that I didn’t see what I thought I saw, that the woman in the painting wasn’t looking at me, but…. Hell, I’ve been trained, have trained myself, to be observant, and I am. It’s what I do. I can survey a room or a crime scene and I don’t miss a thing, and I mean nothing. Nothing that’s big enough to see with the naked eye escapes me, and that was what was bothering me now. Deep down, I knew I’d seen what I’d seen, but… hell, I couldn’t have. It wasn’t possible. And no, I didn’t tell Amanda. That would have really freaked her out.
God damn it, I thought as I stepped out into the hallway. Am I going nuts?
I pulled the door closed behind me, took Amanda by the hand, and walked slowly back to our room. I don’t how I was feeling, but if Amanda didn’t want to let it go, then neither did I. I needed to look at that box.
Amanda set the box together with the watch on the small white table near the bay window. I sat down and picked it up. Amanda took the seat opposite me, and watched as I turned it over and over in my hands, looking for… something, anything, but there was nothing. Whoever had made it was a true craftsman, an artist. It was about fourteen inches long by nine inches wide, and maybe five inches deep. The surface was very smooth. I held it up so that the light from the window shone across it, but even then there was nothing, not a damned blemish. I held it close to my ear and shook it. Yep, there was something inside it. I was tempted to slam it down on the floor, but I didn’t. I’m not saying I couldn’t, just that I didn’t. Finally, I set it back down on the table and looked across it at Amanda. She had her eyebrows raised. I had no answer, so I simply shrugged and pulled a face at her.
She smiled and looked out of the window. “Don’t worry, Harry. It will come to you. It always does.” She got up, reached across the table for my hand. “Come on, let’s go outside and look around. It’s a beautiful day. How about we go for a nice long walk? Maybe some fresh air will clear our heads.”
“Sounds good to me, but only if you’ll promise not to push me off the cliff,” I said with a grin.
“You got it. Let’s go see if we can get some sandwiches to take with us.”
Mrs. Strong said she would make a packed lunch for us, but it would take a few minutes. While we waited, I suggested we take a walk around the outside of the house. That took a while, more than just a few minutes. I don’t think either of us had realized just how big it was. The old pile could easily have covered half a city block. The gardens, once delightfully landscaped, now needed serious attention, but even so the grounds were a riot of wildlife and vegetation, most of it wildflowers. The air was crisp, chilly, bracing, but the sun was shining, and now that we were outside my mood lifted and I had the feeling that all was well with the world. It must have been contagious, because Amanda, too, seemed happy and at ease.
I walked out onto the gravel parking lot, turned, and looked up at the edifice. I could see our room’s three windows far above. Oh it was impressive, but it was something from another age, and needed help in the worst way. I couldn’t help but wonder what she intended to do with it, because this was no fixer upper. Granny Tyler was right; it was an albatross. I didn’t know if it was unlucky or not, but what I did know was that she couldn’t keep it, at least not without living in it. Money Amanda now had aplenty, but how long would it last trying to stay ahead of upkeep on this money pit?
Oh well. That’s no concern of mine. Or is it? I wonder if she meant what she said back on the mountain.
“Hello!” Mrs. Strong called from the top of the steps. “Come and get it!”
I’d never realized I was a romantic at heart, not until that day we walked hand-in-hand along the cliff tops. By noon the breeze had dropped almost to nothing, and the air had warmed. Amanda was at her most beautiful: she had on a pale pink, lightweight sleeveless summer dress over which she wore a white, lamb’s-wool cardigan. The white tennis shoes didn’t really go with the outfit, but hell, you can’t go hiking in heels, now can you? Me? Tan pants and a white golf shirt.
The fresh sea air did make us feel better. By noon, we had wandered more than a mile from the house and were standing side by side on the edge of the cliff. She’d let go of my hand and had wrapped her arms around my waist; I had my arm around her shoulder; life was good, very good.
“Harry,” she said, looking up at me, her eyes wide. “I do.”
“You do what?”
“I do love you.”
The words seared through my stomach like a spear; not in a bad way, in a good way.
“Me, too, sweetie,” I leaned down and kissed her gently. She seemed happy with that, because she tightened her grip around my waist, turned her head, and looked out over the ocean.
I was expecting her to speak, to say something more, but she didn’t.
“What brought that on?” I asked.
“I don’t know…. Well, I do. I just wanted you know… I wanted you to know that I meant it when I said it on the mountain.”
“I know you did, Amanda. I know you well enough to know you wouldn’t joke about such things.”
“What about you, Harry?”
“Me? Joke? No, of course not. I just told you: I love you too.”
She smiled up at me and squeezed my waist.
Thank you. She didn’t say it. She just mouthed the words.
Suddenly, I was overcome by a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach that things were rapidly spiraling out of my control. I wasn’t used to having such feelings. The more I thought about it, however, the more comfortable with the idea I became…. I really did love this beautiful woman. I looked down at her, kissed her, and then the words just… escaped.
“So,” I said, lightly, as I stared out over the ocean. “Will you marry me?” Oh friggin’ hell. Now you’ve done it.
“Oh my God,” she squealed. “Do you mean it?”
“S
ure. So will you?”
“What do you think, you fool? Of course I will.” She unhooked her arms from around my waist, grabbed my hand, dragged me away from the edge of the cliff, wrapped her arms around my neck, stood on tiptoe, and kissed me so hard I thought my teeth would break. And then she was sobbing.
“Hey, hey, hey.” I pushed her gently away. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, you great goof. I’m just so happy.”
I grinned at her. “Me too.” And I was. “I do have one condition, though.”
She looked up at me, wide-eyed. “What is it?”
“That pile of rocks has got to go.” I twitched my head in the direction of the Towers.
“Oh, don’t worry about that. As soon as we get home I’ll contact Duckworthy and make him an offer he can’t refuse. That or find a realtor and put it for up sale. Now, please… just hold me.”
And I did.
Chapter 10
An hour later, we were seated side by side on top of a large, flat rock high above the ocean. The sky was the palest shade of blue, dotted here and there with small, puffy white clouds. It was one of those glorious days that only seem to happen when spring is about to turn into summer. The sea stretched endlessly away to the unbroken horizon; not a vessel was to be seen anywhere. A half dozen sea birds wheeled overhead, calling raucously to one another, diving down to the ocean, then rising again on outspread wings. A gentle breeze wafted gently toward us. For a long time we sat in silence, nibbling on Mrs. Strong’s pimento cheese sandwiches.
“Talk to me, Amanda.”
She shook her head, looked at me and smiled, but didn’t answer.
“Come, Amanda. Give.”
“About what?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. You know what about. I want to know what’s going on inside that head of yours, and we need to talk about the house, this one, and the box, and Elizabeth…. Look, I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to freak you out, but before I unload, I need to know something: Do you really believe in the paranormal, ghosts, whatever?” I said it jokingly, but I was deadly serious.
“Of course not, silly goose.” She said it, but she looked away as she did. I wasn’t sure if she meant it. There was something in her tone of voice.
She turned again and looked up at me. “The truth is, I don’t know. I don’t think I do, but something’s been nagging at me ever since we arrived here. I don’t know what. It’s... it’s just there. It’s like having something on the tip of your tongue, you know? It wants to come out, but it won’t. That’s just a metaphor. Don’t take it literally. Oh hell, Harry, you know what I mean.”
She was right. I did.
“You said you didn’t want to freak me out, though—about what?”
“That’s just it,” I said. “I don’t really know. I’ve been having weird feelings, too. Well, just one, actually. That painting in the sitting room. When we were in there this morning I was sitting in the chair in front of the fireplace. Remember?”
She nodded.
“Well, I closed my eyes for a few minutes, to think, and maybe I dozed off a little. Or not, I don’t know. Anyway, I had the strangest feeling I was being watched. I opened my eyes and she was looking at me. I blinked… and she wasn’t.”
“Oh my God,” she said. “You, too?”
“Whadda you mean?”
“Harry, I have that feeling all the time, and it’s not just her. It’s him in the dining room, too.”
“Miles, you mean?” The dark man.
“All the time. And I’m dreaming about Elizabeth. I woke up this morning, just before you did, and I was convinced someone was with us, in our room. And on the stairs when we went up after dinner; I swear someone brushed by me. I didn’t say anything to you either, because I didn’t want you to think, well….”
“So you do?” I said. “You think the house is haunted?”
“Oh, Harry, I don’t know what I think. It’s just too stupid.”
I looked at her. Her face was pale. “C’mere,” I said, putting my arm around her and pulling her close. “It will be all right.”
“You promise?”
I nodded, “I promise.”
The hell I did. She just about had me convinced, and I didn’t like what I was thinking worth a damn. My head’s way too logical to start believing in that kind of crap…. Still, the damned woman in the painting had been looking at me. I swear she was.
“What do you think about past life regression?”
I frowned at her. “What do I think about what?”
“Past life regr—”
“I know what you said, but that’s another of those cookie things the con artists sell to gullible… to people.”
“Are you saying I’m gullible? I’ll make you eat your words, Harry Starke. I am a hard-nosed journalist. I’m not gullible. Not even a little bit.”
“Okay, okay. It’s supposedly a technique that uses hypnosis to recover memories of past lives. Now past memories, I can handle; forensic psychologists engage in that kind of stuff with witnesses all the time. But past lives… no way. It’s all bull.”
“Maybe it is, but I was thinking that, maybe, when we get back home....”
“Oh come on. You’re not going to tell me you believe in that stuff, too. Maybe I should rethink my proposal.” Hey, whoa, I was joking.
“You brute.” She thumped me on my arm, and it hurt. “No, I don’t. Well, not really, but I was just thinking that perhaps it might be worth a try.... Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that with Elizabeth, and him too….”
I shook my head, pretending to be sad, but she didn’t notice. We sat for a moment in silence. Then she brightened up and said, “I do feel better now, though. Hmmm, and I think I know why.”
She jumped up, hitched up her skirt, and straddled me. Pushed me down onto my back and kissed me. When she sat up again, I looked up at her smiling face, haloed by the sun that shone through her hair. It was one of those moments I’ll never forget.
I wrapped my arms around her, and she laughed like a little girl as we rolled off the rock and down into the long grass.
-----
We sat down to dinner at eight o’clock that evening. Except for the two elderly ladies, we had the dining room to ourselves. Art Strong greeted us, took our drinks order, and left a menu with us. It wasn’t much, just a couple of set choices of three courses each.
I was still deciding when Amanda leaned over and whispered, “Harry. He’s looking at me.”
“No he’s not.”
“He is too. Look.”
“Prrrrrrrr.” I blew air out through side of my mouth, flapping my lips like horse.
“Harry. That’s disgusting.”
“No it’s not. I was just thinking that maybe he was looking at you. If he was, who could blame him? There’s nothing I would rather look at.”
“Oh for God’s sake, be serious. Will you?”
“I am,” I said. “‘I love the way you look tonight,’” I sang in a low voice, and then grinned at her.
She blushed, looked away and then back again. “Really?”
“Of course.”
“You’re so sweet.”
“Oh yeah. I’m that, for sure.”
“What sort of man was he, do you think?” she asked, looking up at the portrait. “He looks very fierce, very mean. I can’t believe he was my great-great-grandfather.”
“He must have been pretty well off,” I said, thoughtfully. “Even back in the day, this place must have cost a fortune. Probably more than you could get for it today.”
She was right though: he was handsome, if only in an evil-looking son-of-a-bitch sort of a way. I don’t know if it was the dark atmosphere of the painting or the character of the man himself, but it was not what I’d call an attractive image of a man.
It was at that moment that Strong returned with the drinks. “Have you two decided?” he asked.
We both chose roast beef with minestrone soup to start, and appl
e pie for dessert, all made from scratch by the fair hand of Strong’s “good wife.”
I leaned back in my chair and again stared up at the portrait of Amanda’s ancestor. He looked kinda familiar. He reminded me of a character actor from one of those old black and white movies they used to make back in the 1940s. Claude Akins, maybe? Nah, not really. He was more Don Barry: florid face with receding hair….
“He grows on you, doesn’t he?” Amanda asked abruptly.
“Nope, can’t say that he does. I’m glad he belongs to you and not me.”
“Gee, thanks. Oh good. Here’s dinner.”
Strong set the soup in front of us and was about to turn away.
“Please, Mr. Strong. Would you mind sitting with us for a moment?”
“Of course, miss, but please call me Art. Now what can I do for you?”
“It’s him,” she nodded in the direction of the portrait. Strong twisted around in his seat to look.
“He’s not someone you’d like to run into on a dark night, is he?” He smiled at her as he said it, but….
“No he isn’t, but that’s not what I meant. What do you know about him, and about Elizabeth?”
“Not a whole lot that I haven’t already told you. He was a recluse, although there were times, so I heard, that he went off on long trips, sometimes for months. Other than that, I know nothing more than I told you yesterday. Nobody does. Nobody ever knew much about him. He was a loner, rarely ever seen in all the years he was here. Sorry.”
“You don’t know what his profession was?” she asked. “Or how he died?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what he did for a living. As to how he died: heart attack, I think. That’s probably something you could find out, though. There would have to be a death certificate.”
“What about his second wife?” Amanda asked. “Are there any photos or portraits of her? Georgina, didn’t you say that was her name?”
“Not that I know of… although they do say she was a striking young woman, not more than twenty-two or three.”
“Why do you think she would have committed suicide?”