Memory Whispers

by Angel Smits

  The book was the length and width of a newspaper page and about three inches thick. Flipping open the front cover, Faith found the book consisted of actual newspapers bound in the single volume.

  “Thank you,” she breathed. The man hefted the book off the counter and took it to the table. Clarissa slumped in her chair.

  “If you need anything else, let me know.” The young man stepped away. “Call me when you’re done.” He moved back behind the counter and returned to his work.

  Slowly, carefully, Faith and Clarissa flipped the timeworn pages. The paper was weathered and fragile despite the obvious preservation process. Nothing triggered any images for Clarissa and nothing familiar showed up.

  Disappointed, Faith turned the last few pages. Suddenly a full copy of the article that had been in the red box in the trunk faced them.

  Faith’s heart pounded in her chest. She wasn’t sure if it came from the excitement of finally finding something, or the joy at seeing Cord’s image again. It had barely been twenty-four hours, but she missed him. That was silly, since she’d only known him a couple of days. Why did it seem like a lifetime?

  Clarissa’s audible gasp startled Faith out of her reverie. Paler than before, Clarissa’s fingers clasped tightly around the edges of the book. “I see her. She’s begging for her life. I can feel rage. No! No!” Clarissa cried out. Her face turned ghost-white.

  The image seemed to fade as quickly as it had come, but Clarissa’s composure didn’t return. She looked at Faith, a deep pain in her eyes. “Turn the page.”

  Faith stood, leaning across the wide book for a better look, then did as Clarissa suggested. It was her turn to gasp. A picture of a young girl filled a quarter of the page. Her beauty was transmitted over time, even through the grainy black and white picture. The girl in the mirror.

  Young Girl Murdered. The headline screamed in Faith’s head.

  “Who . . . who is she?” Faith recognized the face but didn’t really want to know her name. But running away wouldn’t change the facts.

  “Delta DeLange. She’s the one who’s trying to hurt you. The one who broke the window.”

  “But how . . . Why?”

  Clarissa hesitated, shivering. “Revenge.” She closed her eyes. “The sheriff’s looking for him. I can see them in the brothel.” Her eyes snapped open. “Rafe Cumberland murdered her.”

  Nine

  “WHAT?” FAITH didn’t care that her voice echoed through the cavernous building. She dropped into the chair next to Clarissa with a thud. “That can’t be true. Cord would never.” She shook her head vehemently, waving her hands in the air, as if trying to erase Clarissa’s words.

  “Not Cord. Rafe.” Clarissa grabbed Faith’s flailing arms. Their gazes clashed, and Clarissa managed to break through Faith’s confusion. “They are not the same person.”

  “Aren’t they? At least a little bit?”

  “Maybe a little.” Clarissa paused. “Let’s get out of here.” Struggling, she picked up the heavy tome and took it over to the counter. Faith met her at the exit. Their footsteps rang out in the silence. Outside, the sun slipped toward the horizon, plunging the city into a late afternoon glow.

  Clarissa broke the silence first. “Who were you?”

  “What?” Faith struggled to recover. “Oh, in the past?” Faith laughed nervously. “Maria Cumberland. Rafe’s wife—and a prostitute.” It was all really absurd. She’d never been married and didn’t know what a hooker’s life was like.

  “So, are you Maria right now?”

  “No. At least I don’t feel like it. I feel like Faith McCoy, but I share a lot of interesting dreams with Maria.” They reached Faith’s car.

  “For her they weren’t dreams.” Clarissa pulled open the passenger door and climbed in. “They were the fabric of her life. You didn’t share that life.”

  “I know that. But it’s so confusing.” Faith settled in the seat beside her.

  “And Cord is not Rafe.” The click of their seat belts and the roar of the engine were loud in the silent parking garage.

  “The other night, when I was in Cripple Creek, I put on a dress of Maria’s.” Faith stared out the window without really seeing anything.

  “And . . . ?”

  “I felt like her. I don’t know how to explain this, but I knew her. I understood her.”

  “I gather you don’t like that.”

  “No, I don’t. I . . . I grew up in a very strict household.”

  “Being a prostitute isn’t quite what you pictured in your life?” Clarissa’s eyebrows rose as Faith turned in her seat.

  “Not hardly.” Faith rubbed the strain from her eyes, not sure which was worse, the sun’s glare or the visions in her mind.

  “That’s why you can’t believe Cord and Rafe are different?”

  “Sort of.” Faith shook her head, trying to clear her confusion. How easy it would be to listen and believe in Clarissa’s words, but Faith couldn’t. Rafe and Cord were too intricately intertwined in her mind. The man watching her through yesterday’s window of the observation room was one and the same as the modern man she’d left behind in Cripple Creek.

  Traffic grew heavy as they headed out of the city. The mass of downtown commuters made it necessary for Faith to concentrate on her driving, and she was thankful for the distraction. Clarissa sat quietly, her head back against the seat, presumably listening to the soft music coming from the speakers.

  Cars filled the parking lot at the Angry Bean. Faith pulled into the only empty space, right next to Clarissa’s car. Several long seconds passed.

  “Thank you.” Faith ran her finger around the steering wheel. “At least you don’t think I’m crazy.”

  “No more so than I am. Think about what I said.” Clarissa stepped out of the car, then turned back to face Faith. “Call me if you need me. If I have any more visions, I’ll get in touch.” Clarissa headed into the little coffee shop without glancing back.

  As Faith headed home through the shadowed city, she thought about all she’d learned today. Rafe a killer? Why did that knowledge make her heart ache? The man who had been so gentle in her dreams, the image that had made love to her, had committed murder?

  But how?

  And why?

  FAITH TOSSED AND turned most of the night. Her unanswered questions made sleep difficult and elusive. Somewhere near dawn she finally fell into a fitful slumber. She awoke to a hungry and demanding cat pacing across the bed. “Mornin’, Singe,” she grumbled and pulled the pillow over her head. The gentle thud-thud-thud of the cat’s paw on the other side of the pillow told her she wouldn’t get any more sleep.

  “All right.” Tossing the pillow aside, she looked at Singe as he sat next to her. He methodically licked his left paw as if he had all the time in the world.

  “Miserable feline. Who pays the rent around here anyway?” A soft meow was her only answer.

  A short time later, Faith drank her coffee, and Singe lapped up the saucer of milk she gave him in their morning ritual. Faith stared at the phone. She was only a phone call away from hearing Cord’s voice—his real voice. She’d heard the dream one in her sleep. The dreams were different this time, just flashes. Bits and pieces of voices and darkness.

  If she called him, what reason would she give? She’d left Cripple Creek and him behind. He was a stranger and likely to remain that way. A stranger with a dangerous kiss.

  “It’s just you and me, Singe.” She rubbed the cat’s thick fur, letting his soft purring soothe her. She almost wished she could go back to sleep. Almost. The thought of the dreams coming back deterred her.

  “We’ve got work to do.” She should bury herself in her darkroom, but her mind raced. That work would have to wait. Too many questions plagued her.

  Though her newspaper years had been few, she’d mad
e some contacts. An article she’d written a couple years back about land deeds came in handy. It took only a couple phone calls for her to locate Timothy Gibson, the brothel museum’s owner.

  Her fingers trembled as she dialed the number. After several seconds a young girl’s voice identified the household. In a few moments Tim Gibson’s daughter, Lorenia Watson came on the line.

  “Is Mr. Gibson available?” Faith asked.

  “No, my father isn’t feeling well enough to take calls.

  “I . . . ” Disappointed, she forced a light business tone into her voice. “I’m Faith McCoy, the journalist who requested permission to photograph the house in Cripple Creek.”

  “Ah, Ms. McCoy. Opal mentioned you. Is there a problem?” Her voice was distant.

  “Everything’s fine. I just have some questions the curator was unable to answer. I was hoping Mr. Gibson might be able to help me.”

  “Questions? What about?” Lorenia didn’t sound receptive to allowing Faith to talk with her father.

  “I want to get the complete history of the house, including something about the current owner. The book could be important to the future of the museum. Even Opal seems concerned about the lack of visitors lately.”

  There was a long pause. “I don’t know, Ms. McCoy. My father’s a frail, old man.”

  “I only have some simple questions. It’s important to me and could be very important to the book.”

  “Very well.” Another long silence filled the line. “Can you be here around two this afternoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll warn you, Ms. McCoy. I don’t want him upset. He may be old, and I may be old myself, but he’s still my father.”

  “I understand.” Faith’s breath rushed through her lungs. She grabbed a stubby pencil from the cup by the phone and wrote the directions on the back of her utility bill. It didn’t sound hard to find.

  Lorenia Watson said good-bye. The line went silent in Faith’s hand, and she stared at the receiver until an obnoxious buzzing startled her.

  Two hours. Two hours to prepare for what could be the most difficult and important interview of her life. She tried to focus on the tasks at hand.

  Did she really want to hear what he had to say? Did she have a choice?

  TIMOTHY GIBSON’S home was actually a “cottage” at one of Denver’s posh retirement communities. A millionaire’s cottage on the south side of town. The community bordered the area where many of the old Cripple Creek millionaires had once lived.

  Faith drove up to the gate and took several calming breaths. A uniformed guard came to greet her, and he checked her name on his clipboard. When he was satisfied with her I.D., he returned to the little cubicle and pushed a button. The large wrought iron gates swung open. Faith drove through the gates, her palms damp on the steering wheel. They clanged shut behind her, trapping her inside. She shuddered and forced her mind to look at the beautiful area around her.

  The driveway wound between tall, aged pines. A lush, green golf course stretched to the right. The old, rather formidable main building of Prescott Estates came into view. Built to look like a large medieval castle, signs indicated that the office, clubhouse and central hub of the complex were inside. Two turrets shot upwards into the sky. As she slowed her car to look at it, she envisioned armor-clad guards walking back and forth between the parapets.

  Outbuildings dotted the wooded area behind the castle. She followed the main road until it turned into a paved path. Large, wrought iron numbers labeled the fifth building on the right as number eighteen.

  An attractively dressed, older woman stood on the front door’s threshold. Her artfully coiffed hair blazed white in the sun. A hesitant smile settled on her lips, and Faith’s tension diminished.

  “Hello, Ms. McCoy. You’re very prompt. I’m Lorenia Watson, Tim Gibson’s daughter.”

  “Hello, it’s nice to meet you.” Faith returned the woman’s smile and followed her into the hall.

  Faith looked around with interest. The air of old money permeated the room, accompanied by a homeyness that pleased her. Her shoes echoed against hardwood floors as she followed Lorenia.

  To the right a curved staircase led upstairs. Down a short hall, she saw the kitchen. On either side stood a set of double doors. Lorenia opened the doors on the left that led to a spacious living room.

  The furnishings were old, and while well preserved, they showed definite signs of use. Lorenia settled on a wide couch, indicating a matching chair for Faith.

  “This is a lovely complex.” Faith perched on the edge of her chair. “I’ve never been here before.”

  “Few people ever get inside those gates. Father is the last of a dying breed. Cripple Creek’s elite are fading away. In May he’ll be a hundred and two years old.” As if to distance her mind from the thought, she reached to a waiting tea service and filled two cups.

  “Quite a milestone,” Faith said.

  “Perhaps. My father had a difficult life. I must warn you, I’m against this meeting.” She offered Faith the cup. For several moments only the gentle clink of the spoon in Lorenia’s teacup broke the silence.

  “May I ask why? Perhaps I can avoid upsetting him. Is that your concern?”

  “Indeed, it is my concern.” Lorenia leaned back in her seat. “But after your call, I started to wonder if perhaps this isn’t fate. You want to talk to him about the house. And that very topic is the cause of much of the unhappiness in my father’s life. Perhaps by talking with you he can come to peace with his memories.”

  The pressure of fixing an old man’s life weighed heavy on Faith’s shoulders. She had enough to carry already. She couldn’t take on more, but she saw no other way. “I can’t promise anything.”

  “I don’t expect you to, dear.” Lorenia smiled, sipping her tea and watching Faith over the delicate, china rim. “Perhaps I can help you some, and then the time with my father won’t be as long. He’s very fragile these days.”

  “I can understand that.” Faith tasted her tea also, buying time to calm her heart. She was so close to the answers. Would they be what she wanted? What she needed? What did Tim Gibson know about the Cumberlands? “I’d like to know how he acquired the house.”

  “He inherited it from my grandmother. Are you going to take notes?” She indicated the notebook in Faith’s lap.

  “Oh, yes.” She felt like a cub reporter on her first assignment. “Your grandmother?”

  “Yes. She was the owner, proprietor and I assume one of the participants in the business of the brothel.” The older woman shuddered, her cup rattled as it touched the saucer. “He never really knew her, but he knew what she was and what she had done to him.”

  “Done to him?”

  “After their daughter turned into a street walker, my great-grandparents raised him. They were very strict, even for their time. It wasn’t a happy childhood. When he was eleven he ran away.”

  “I’m sorry.” Faith’s heart hurt for the child he had been. She felt a twinge of disappointment. He wasn’t the little boy in the vision. Intellectually she knew that, but she’d hoped, just a little, that maybe the boy in the dreams and the boy the doctor said had died weren’t the same. That he really hadn’t died. She forced her thoughts away from her emotions. “How did he survive?”

  “He worked in Denver’s rail yards. When he met my mother, he was as poor as they come.” Her eyes grew distant, a proud smile hovering on her lips. “Mother was a beautiful woman. It was love at first sight and lasted over fifty years. He found with my mother the love and respect that his mother had denied him.”

  “How did he know about his mother? Did he visit her?”

  “Heavens, no. She sent money each month. His grandparents wouldn’t allow them to see each other. They never let him forget what she’d become. They preached to him about her
evil ways. He only saw her once, just before she died. She was quite elderly.”

  “Is he anything like her?” Faith saw the defiance in Lorenia’s eyes.

  “Somewhat, I’m sure,” she admitted. “His stubborn streak runs deep, and he has an ornery side that loves to play jokes on people. But he’s a God-fearing man. Until his recent illness, he faithfully attended church and was deacon for years.”

  Faith sat silent, staring at the scribbles that would eventually pass for her notes. There weren’t any answers here. “What was your grandmother’s name?”

  “Most of those women had a stage name of sorts. Her real name was Annie Gibson but she was known as Delta DeLange.”

  Faith’s heart fell to the floor. That couldn’t be. Delta died young. Rafe had killed her. Hadn’t he? Faith rubbed her forehead, trying to ease the confusion forming there.

  “Are you all right? Can I get you something?” Lorenia reached out and laid a hand on Faith’s arm.

  “No, I’m fine. Just the beginnings of a headache. I’m sure it will pass.” When had she become such a good liar? Faith forced her mind to focus on the notes on the page. They didn’t make sense.

  “H . . . how long did the house operate as a business?”

  “Until the twenties. My grandmother closed it, and she became somewhat of a recluse until her death. She spent her time taking care of the house. It was in beautiful condition when she died. When Father inherited it, he created the museum.”

  “Why is the observation room sealed off?”

  “I don’t exactly know.” Lorenia was silent for a moment. “I went with Father to see the house after her death. Father found me looking into that room and grew angry. He said Grandmother had told him the truth, and that he’d sworn no one would ever go through what she had. He locked the room that day. As we were going back to the hotel, I saw him throw the key down the sewer grate.”

  “I still don’t understand why.” Faith’s confusion grew.

  “It was my grandmother’s wish.” As if that explained everything, Lorenia picked up her teacup again.