Shades of Midnight

by Linda Winstead Jones

  “No,” he interrupted.

  “Then who?” Eve asked. “Who?”

  The reverend shook his head. “I have no idea. She would never tell me. I will tell you that she regretted her decision immediately. In her heart she was a good person, and she knew what she had done was wrong. She just…” He swallowed hard. “She came to that realization too late. Dear God, I should have stopped her, somehow. I should have found a way. Alistair might not have killed her, if I had only done my job properly.”

  For the first time, Lucien felt sympathy for the aging preacher. He held himself responsible for Viola’s mistake, he blamed himself, still, for her death. It was a heavy burden to carry for thirty years.

  “Don’t feel guilty, Reverend,” Lucien said as he and Eve stood. “Alistair didn’t kill her.”

  Younger looked properly confused. “Then who did?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  *

  The temperature had dropped with the sun, so as they sat by the bonfire, with many of the other residents of Plummerville, Eve held Lucien’s hand and leaned in to him, stealing a bit of his warmth. Some of those who were gathered here sat directly on the ground, as she and Lucien did. Others had come prepared with blankets and pillows.

  All the members of the Plummerville Ghost Society were present, but they were spread around the U-shaped gathering. Daisy and Buster were talking in low whispers about something, Katherine sat next to Miss Gertrude, who gave Lucien the evil eye every now and then, and Garrick sat near his father.

  Garrick. Viola’s son. Was Douglas Hunt the man she had invited into her bed in order to make another child? It made a kind of twisted sense. She’d kept his secret about Garrick, and he would keep hers. She doubted he would have found the invitation distasteful, in any case.

  Lucien had told her that none of them, not the spirits or those still living, were perfect. In her mind, she had made Viola perfect. The loving wife, a kind woman. And she had been those things, Eve imagined, but she had also harbored dark secrets.

  Would Douglas Hunt have killed her to make her keep his secret?

  Eve recognized many of the faces around the fire, other than the society members. The man who ran the general store with his wife; a few of the ladies from church, including the preacher’s wife; Gerald Porter; a few courageous children; Douglas Hunt and Mrs. Markham, who sat side by side.

  Most of the ghost stories that had been told thus far this evening were old tales she had heard many times. Occasionally a name or place was changed, but the tales… and the endings… were familiar. People jumped and shuddered and squealed in the appropriate places, as the tales were told.

  Lucien was oddly quiet this evening. He studied the faces around the fire pensively, occasionally frowning. He had been as shocked as she by the news about Garrick. No doubt he was also dismayed by the request to keep that news to himself. She knew how he detested lies of any kind.

  He was so lost in thought that now and then he seemed to forget she was here, but he always made up for the lapse with a gentle smile or a squeeze of her hand.

  The crowd thinned as the hour grew late. It had been a long day for most, and one by one, and sometimes two at a time, they said good night.

  Most of the children who had been around the bonfire when the ghost stories had begun were gone, some carried by their parents, some led away by a mother or a father’s guiding hand. Only four children remained. Zeke, his friend Seth, Miss Gertrude’s nephew Chester, and the little girl who had so easily charmed Lucien.

  “Zeke,” Lucien said, glancing across the way and capturing the child’s attention, and everyone else’s, with his deep, clear voice.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I believe it’s time for you and your friends to get to bed.”

  One did not question the dictates of a fortuneteller, especially not when the command was delivered in a voice like that one.

  “Lucien?” Eve whispered as the children said good night and ran toward home.

  He squeezed her hand and spoke to the crowd. “I have a story to tell. One you haven’t heard before. At least, not in its entirety. It doesn’t have an ending. Yet.” He had the attention of the entire crowd. “I’m talking, of course, about Alistair and Viola Stamper.”

  Someone seated at the far end of the U-shaped gathering scoffed; it was a man Eve had not seen before. “We’ve heard that story a hundred times!”

  “Not like this,” Lucien said. “You were told a story, I’m sure, but it wasn’t the truth. I’m the only one here who knows what really happened that night, thirty years ago.”

  He had the perfect voice for telling ghost stories, Eve decided as a chill ran up her spine.

  Lucien threaded his fingers through hers. “Most, if not all of you think that Alistair Stamper murdered his wife and then killed himself. You’re wrong. They were both murdered by someone else.”

  “How do you know?” Gerald asked. “Did they pop in to tell you what really happened?” He laughed at his own joke.

  Lucien pinned his eyes on the laughing man. “Yes,” he said softly. “They did.”

  All laughter died. The night was filled with silence. The only sound was the crackling of the fire.

  “This is ridiculous,” the elder Hunt said, jumping to his feet.

  Justina Markham also rose. “I agree. Would you walk me home, Douglas?”

  “Of course.”

  “Sit down,” Lucien ordered. The two complied without argument.

  Lucien looked at every face in the crowd, studying each one. Eve noticed that Daisy held her breath, and even Katherine seemed interested in what Lucien had to say. And they knew more than anyone else in attendance.

  “Alistair loved his wife, very much, but he was not a man without fault. He was… weak, where women were concerned, and in their three years of marriage he strayed more than once. He knew this weakness for women was a failing, and he fought it. He was winning that fight, I believe, until the day he died. A woman visited him that afternoon.” Lucien laid his eyes directly on Justina Markham. It was hard to tell, in this light, but it seemed she went pale. Then he looked at Miss Gertrude, a woman who had gone positively stony-faced. There were a few other women in the crowd, including Reverend Younger’s wife. He studied them all, his gaze lingering here and there. “A woman who secretly loved Alistair and hated Viola for taking him away from her, even though, in fact, she’d never truly had him.

  “Tired of sitting aside and watching her friend have all the fun, this woman went to Alistair’s office at the mill and did her very best to seduce him.”

  A hushed exclamation went up from the crowd. Daisy covered her ears, but only for a moment. No wonder Lucien had sent the children home!

  “I’m not sure if she succeeded or not,” he continued. “In any case, the encounter went far enough that Alistair was wracked with guilt. He wanted to tell Viola what had happened, and he planned to, but he could never bring himself to do so.”

  “So he killed her!” Gerald shouted.

  “No,” Lucien said calmly. “He did not.” He looked directly into Eve’s eyes, and after only a moment had passed she knew why he stared at her this way. He needed her strength, and her silent affirmation that he was doing the right thing. She squeezed his hand and he continued.

  “Alistair was drawn from his marriage bed by a noise from downstairs. A thud. A scrape. At first he thought that perhaps the wind of the storm that was raging had loosened one of the shutters and it was knocking against the house. He lit a candle and went downstairs, leaving Viola sleeping soundly.”

  In the distance, a rumble of thunder shook the night. Already Eve could smell rain on the wind. The entranced crowd seemed not to be aware of the rapidly changing weather.

  “When Alistair reached the ground floor,” Lucien continued, “he was surprised to find muddy footsteps in the foyer. It had been raining for a while, but the rain hadn’t started until after he and his wife retired for the ev
ening.” He looked at Mrs. Markham. “There was mud in the foyer when you found them, that next morning, wasn’t there?”

  After a pause that lasted a beat too long, she whispered, “I don’t recall.”

  The crowd remained silent. No one so much as moved.

  “Alistair heard a noise in the parlor,” Lucien continued. “He went into the room to investigate, and when he did his candle was extinguished. By a draft or the well-aimed breath of the intruder, we will never know. His attacker then stabbed Alistair in the chest. When the first blow of the knife struck he called out, waking Viola. When the second strike came, he fell. Dying, but not yet dead.”

  In the distance, lightning crackled across the sky. Thunder rumbled. The wind picked up.

  “Viola grabbed her dressing gown and drew it on. She didn’t take time to light a candle or a lamp, not wanting to waste precious seconds and assuming that if Alistair had gone downstairs he had taken some source of light with him. But her trip down the stairs was made in darkness. She called her husband’s name. She looked into the parlor, seeing nothing but black shadows even though her husband lay there dying. She turned toward the dining room, and that’s when the attacker grabbed her from behind and stabbed her, for the first time. She fell, not understanding what had happened. As she lay on the floor, the man who had stabbed her drew down her dressing gown to bare her back. He leaned over and whispered in her ear.” Lucien turned to Eve. “Darling, what did he say?”

  “I love you, my little Violet,” she said softly. She did not need to raise her voice. Everyone listened closely.

  “Ah, yes. My little Violet. Alistair’s pet name for her. Calling Viola by this name, the murderer then stabbed her again, and Viola died thinking her husband, who did have a weakness for other women, had tired of her and decided to kill her. For thirty years, she believed that her husband had murdered her. That belief kept her tied here, kept her bound to this earth, kept her trapped in that house. And Alistair stayed because he could not bear to move on without the woman he loved.”

  The wind made the dying fire crackle and dance, casting an eerie light over the hushed crowd.

  Lucien took a deep breath. “It was an act of great cruelty for the killer to use this pet name, something he probably overheard and remembered. It was a viciously callous way to end a woman’s life, to make her think that the man she loved would drive a knife into her back.” The anger in Lucien’s voice and on his face was clear for everyone to see. “This killer took Viola’s wrapper with him. Because it sported a muddy handprint that might alert the authorities to the fact that the murderer came from outside the house that night? Or for his own sick amusement?”

  A particularly strong gust of wind whipped a number of skirts about, causing one woman to squeal. Eve didn’t see so she couldn’t be sure, but she suspected it was Daisy.

  Lucien continued. “Alistair and Viola no longer haunt their home. Viola now knows that Alistair did not kill her, that the man she loved did not betray her. They’ve moved on, but the killer still walks among you.”

  In the ensuing silence, Eve heard only the crackling of the fire and the dance of the wind. Finally someone asked, “Who? Who did it?”

  The silent crowd awaited an answer.

  “That’s for you to discover.” Lucien stood, bringing Eve with him. “He is one of yours, a face you trust, perhaps even a man you like. Find the wrapper and you find the murderer.”

  “What kind of halfwit would keep that kind of evidence around for thirty years?” someone asked, laughing to break the somber mood.

  “A monster who would purposely make a young woman believe herself betrayed at the moment of her death,” Lucien said angrily. “That kind of halfwit.” He pulled Eve close and they headed for home. Neither of them turned to look at the crowd around the bonfire, but Eve felt the glares that followed as if daggers were being thrown at their backs.

  *

  They were almost home when he felt the first raindrop. Lucien grabbed Eve’s hand and together they ran. He pulled her through the front door just before the bottom dropped out. Thunder clapped, closer and more menacing than the last few rumbles had been.

  He lit a match, ignited the lamp in the foyer, and turned to take Eve into his arms.

  She sighed. “What on earth have you done?” she asked, her mouth working softly against his chest.

  “What was I supposed to do?” he asked, removing one pin and then another as he took down her hair. “Let someone in this town get away with murder?”

  “You’re angry,” she whispered.

  “Yes, and the more I think about it, the angrier I get. Watching them all tonight, sitting around the fire playing at telling nonsensical ghost stories and laughing and drinking, it suddenly seemed too much of an injustice to ignore.”

  “Do you think they’ll find the real killer?”

  Lucien shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe the murderer was foolish enough to keep the wrapper. Maybe someone will ask the right questions and the killer will be revealed.”

  “Who do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know. Hunt, maybe. The good reverend. I wish I could be sure.”

  Eve pushed his jacket off and onto the floor. “Did a woman actually seduce Alistair that very afternoon?”

  “She tried, at least, and he felt terrible that things went as far as they did. I don’t know if it was a kiss or something more, but… whoever this woman was, she was terribly jealous of Viola, and the only way she could avenge herself was with Alistair.”

  “How do you know that?”

  He laid his eyes on hers. “Alistair told me. It just all came together as I was sitting there watching those idiots play at rousing ghosts, and I remembered… things I learned while Alistair was with me. He realized that this woman’s attempted seduction was fueled by jealousy, and it sickened him. I wish I could see her face, hear a name, know somehow exactly who this woman was.”

  A soft knock on the door made Eve jump. Lucien stepped in front of her when she made a move to answer, and opened the door himself.

  Douglas Hunt, red-faced and wet and angry, stood on her front porch and glared. His hands balled into fists. “How much do you want?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  “I beg your pardon?” Eve asked.

  Lucien stood in front of her, protective and determined not to allow this man to hurt her.

  “Do you want the house or our silence?” he asked. He waved a hand before Hunt could answer. “It doesn’t matter. Neither are for sale.”

  “How much do you know?” Hunt asked softly.

  “Everything,” Lucien said confidently.

  The man’s face fell. Wet and defeated, he looked not at all fearsome. “Are you going to tell?”

  “About Garrick?”

  Hunt nodded. “Yes. I don’t suppose anything else matters, at this point, but… I don’t want him to know. It will break his heart.”

  “Will it?”

  “Mr. Hunt,” Eve said, her voice much more friendly than Lucien’s. “It is not our intention to destroy anyone’s life. Our purpose is only to assist Alistair and Viola.” She stepped around Lucien and took his arm. “It was you, wasn’t it?” Her breath hitched. “Oh my. It’s true, isn’t it? Viola wanted a child, and she went to you.”

  He didn’t even try to deny the accusation. “I was only surprised that it took her so long. Viola was a passionate woman, and Alistair was… I thought he would be tired of her in a year. I thought he would get bored with her and neglect her, and then I could… I could…”

  “Move in for the kill?” Lucien offered.

  “No,” Hunt said. “It wasn’t like that.” What might have passed for a wry smile touched his lips. “My wife hasn’t let me touch her since the birth of Mabel, our second daughter. She found such activities… distasteful. She agreed to take Garrick into our home, to raise him as hers, as long as I gave up my mistress in Savannah.” He shook his head. “She was furious when Viola and Alistair married and moved to Pl
ummerville.”

  “But when you introduced them, you thought that might happen,” Lucien said.

  “Yes,” he admitted. “They were two of a kind, in many ways. But I never expected…” He choked on a word. “It never crossed my mind…”

  “That they might fall in love?” Eve finished softly.

  Hunt sighed. “Exactly. That was most definitely not in the plan.” He laid his eyes on Eve. “I wanted Viola here, so that perhaps one day things could be the way they’d once been, for us. She…” He shook his head. “She wanted to see Garrick, and be a good little wife, and belong here the way she had never belonged in Savannah.”

  “She wanted an ordinary life,” Eve whispered.

  Hunt nodded. “What do you want? I have money. Lots of money.”

  “I don’t want your money,” Eve said. “I want to know who killed Viola.”

  Hunt was interrupted by the approach of horses. He turned, saw Buster and Garrick approaching, and said a quick good night, slipping out to his own waiting horse and mounting in one smooth motion. He waved at the other two men and then took off, his horse throwing up water and mud as he sped away.

  Buster and Garrick dismounted and hurried to the porch, where they would be sheltered from the falling rain. They both looked unusually somber.

  “Was that my father?”

  “Yes,” Lucien said simply.

  “What was he doing here?”

  Eve answered quickly. Was she afraid his penchant for honesty would kick in? “He told me if I decided to sell the house to let him know.”

  “Oh.” Garrick looked a little confused, but not terribly concerned.

  “Come in,” Eve said. “We’ll light a fire and you two can get warm and dry. I’ll make tea.”

  Garrick shook his head. “No, thanks. We just came by to see if you need us tonight.” Buster nodded silently. “We’ve escorted the ladies home, and we could stay here, if you’d like, just in case the ghosts return.”

  “No, thank you,” Lucien said.

  Buster took a step back, but Garrick did not. He moved in slightly. “I thought this ghost business would be a lark,” he said, looking past Lucien to smile at Eve. “It’s not, is it? This is quite serious.”