“Okay, Ramsey. Do what you can, and thanks for the help.”
“So, I repeat,” Hayes said. “Now what?”
“Get on the phone. Call Marsha Webster’s office and the university. Check to see if she’s at either place. Then call Russ Carson. Maybe we can get a little help from one of them.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going back inside to use the facilities. I drank too much coffee this morning.”
Winward walked back across the slushy parking lot and found the public restrooms inside the building. On his way out, he veered back into Jonathan’s office and smiled at the secretary as she looked up.
“Hey, there. It’s me again,” he said. “I decided to leave a message for Mr. Fields.”
“Certainly, Detective,” she replied, reaching for the ringing phone. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“No problem.”
“Fields, Attorney at Law . . . Good morning, Mr. Jones. We’ve been waiting to hear from you . . . Yes, sir. That’s right . . . I’ll be glad to.”
Winward’s eyes shifted as she wrote on a pad, the initials M. C. jumping out at him. Averting his gaze, he pretended to study a painting on the wall. He smiled as she hung up.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, detective. I believe you said you wanted to leave a message?”
“I’ve decided to wait until I see Mr. Fields in person. Thanks anyway.”
“Certainly.”
Winward left the office at a casual pace. By the time he reached the car, he was jogging.
“No luck,” Hayes announced as Winward slid behind the wheel. “Everyone’s out. And no one seems to know where they are.”
“They’re in Roswell. They’re meeting with Merideth Chandler.”
Hayes’s head snapped around as Winward started the car. “How do you know that?”
“I went back inside to have a more in-depth chat with Field’s secretary.”
“Now I suppose you’re going to tell me your natural charm had her purring like a kitten and she just happened to mention it.”
Winward’s cocky grin broadened as he gave Hayes a sidelong glance. “Not exactly.”
Tom sat in Jonathan’s rental car and watched through the rearview mirror as his friend got out of the yellow taxi that had pulled in behind him. Jonathan scanned his surroundings as he walked forward and opened the passenger door.
“I’m glad you waited,” he said, getting into the car.
“Yeah well, if you’d been much longer, I wouldn’t have. It’s almost nine o’clock. What took you so long?” Tom asked. He put the car in gear and started up the long drive that led to the Chandler house.
“I paid for the scenic route to make sure I wasn’t being followed. There’re quite a few people out there who wish they’d stayed home this cold, slippery morning. I’ve also been trying to reach Marsha, but the line’s been busy, and her cell sends me straight to voicemail. So I called the office to see if Marilyn had heard from her. Marilyn couldn’t talk. Winward was there.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she called me Mr. Jones. I asked her to keep trying to get in touch with Marsha and when she did to have her call me.
I also told her where we’d be and gave her Merideth Chandler’s number, as well, just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“Who knows?” Jonathan asked, throwing up his hands. “A magpie could swoop down and snatch my cell out of my hand because it’s shiny. Or I could fry it by dropping it in a toilet. Anything’s possible. The point is, I want Marsha to be able to reach us no matter what.”
Tom’s heartbeat sped up with heightened concern, but said, “Maybe Kelly’s better. Maybe she’s sleeping and Marsha took he phone off the hook so she wouldn’t be disturbed.”
“Probably.”
The two men exchanged glances and Tom saw the foreboding he felt looking back at him.
“Hell, who are we kidding?” he growled, pulling to a stop in front of the manor house. “I don’t like it, man. Something’s not right.”
“Yeah well, the sooner we get this meeting over with, the sooner we can find out what it is,” Jonathan said as he opened the car door and got out.
Tom led the way to the door and rang the bell. It soon opened to reveal the same starched gentleman.
“Mr. Shear, please come in. Mrs. Chandler’s expecting you.”
“Thank you.”
Tom stepped inside and was instantly awed. In one quick glance, his artist’s eye took in the high dome ceiling painted to depict a celestial sky. The hand carved alabaster crown and chair-rail moldings surrounding the cavernous foyer contrasted sharply with the rich hue of the wide mahogany staircase. A massive crystal chandelier hung suspended in the center of the entranceway and cast a soft, prismatic glow on the black veined marble floor beneath his feet.
As Jonathan followed Tom inside, the butler eyed him with suspicion before motioning toward a set of open double doors.
“You may wait in the drawing room. I’ll inform Mrs. Chandler of your arrival.”
Tom nodded and followed Jonathan into the drawing room where they stood absorbing the wealth around them. He knew the formal furnishings were meant to impress, but Tom felt nothing except lonely despair as he gazed around the antique room that could have been a display in a museum depicting another era.
“Wow, what a place,” Jonathan remarked under his breath.
“Yeah. Quite a lavish prison, isn’t it?”
“Prison, Mr. Shear? You are Thomas Shear, aren’t you?”
Startled, Tom turned to see a woman in miniature standing ram-rod straight in the doorway. Her elegant, silver-white hair was worn in a loose chignon and she was immaculately garbed in an ankle-length, long-sleeved dress the color of peaches made from the costliest silk. Her watchful eyes were the bluest of blue, and Tom felt penetrated by their challenge. Her very presence demanded respect, and Tom complied as he stood humbled before her. The only crack he detected in her perfect façade was her tightly clasped hands.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Thomas Shear. And I beg your pardon. I meant no disrespect.”
“Is that how you see me?” she asked. “Locked away in my ‘lavish prison’?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “But I also believe you were forced here by the ignorance of others.”
She stepped further into the room and seemed to consider his words. A slight smile creased her lips.
“You’re very candid, Mr. Shear. It’s a strength I have found lacking in most people.”
Her smile lingered as she closed the distance between them. “Even though I’m sure you know who I am, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Merideth Chandler.” She held out her tiny hand and Tom took it in a firm, but gentle hold.
“I’m honored to make your acquaintance, ma’am. May I introduce my good friend, Jonathan Fields?”
Jonathan offered his hand and gave a slight bow as she placed her hand in his. “As Tom said, Mrs. Chandler, it’s an honor. I want to thank you for accepting me into your home without invitation.”
“Whether or not you are accepted, Mr. Fields, will soon be determined. I was under the impression Mr. Shear would be coming alone. Please do not think of me as being ungracious, but would you mind explaining why you are here?”
“Allow me, Mrs. Chandler,” Tom replied. “Jonathan is more than just a very good friend. I have also found it necessary to obtain his services as a lawyer. He has been with me throughout this whole ordeal and has even been witness to some of its more bizarre occurrences. Without Jonathan and Kelly as my anchors, I’m afraid my reaction to everything that has happened would’ve been devastatingly different.”
She eyed the men in silence. “Very well,” she said. “Please, gentlemen, do sit down.”
She perched herself in a chair and Tom noticed the chair she chose had a ledge in front. When he saw that her small feet sat securely on the ledge and not the floor, he understood why. Once she was
seated, he and Jonathan sat together on a sofa obtained more for its antiquity than for its comfort.
“Mr. Shear, before this discussion goes any further, I must be candid with you, as well. Because of a news report I heard this morning, I almost refused you admittance.”
“But you didn’t. Why?”
“I need to hear what you have to say. I may be a foolish old woman for allowing this, but let me assure you, I have not done so without taking precautions. Peter is standing with his hand on the telephone prepared to make the appropriate call if necessary.”
“I can assure you, ma’am, he’ll have no reason to do so. As far as the report you heard this morning, all I can say in my own defense is that I had nothing to do with that little girl. I was with Kelly all night and knew nothing of what had been happening until Jonathan came this morning to roust me from her apartment. If the police think she escaped from my gallery, then she must have, but I swear to you I have no idea how she got there.”
Merideth Chandler did not speak as she scrutinized every nuance of Tom’s expression. Her remarkable blue eyes seemed to delve into the very pit of his thoughts. Tom remained motionless beneath her deciding stare.
“You’re either an excellent liar, Mr. Shear, or you’re telling the truth.”
She looked from one man to the other before settling her watchful gaze back on Tom. Then she bowed her head and took a deep breath. When she raised her eyes once more, Tom saw an anguish-laced determination in their depths.
“I want to know why you think my husband was murdered.”
“Because of the nightmares I began having soon after I moved into your house.”
“Nightmares are not evidence, Mr. Shear.”
“No, ma’am,” he said and heaved a sigh. “However, you have to understand, Mrs. Chandler. I’m an artist, a painter. That’s my life. All I want is my own gallery, to teach my classes, and to continue painting. And I bought your house with the intention of fulfilling those desires. I’m sorry if this sounds crass, but the assumed circumstances surrounding your husband’s death were just pieces of news to me that I paid little attention to. When I bought that house, I had no idea it was where his body was found. You also have to understand that I was never a believer or disbeliever in anything paranormal. But as soon as I saw that house, inexplicable things started happening to me. I was drawn to it, and soon after I moved in, the nightmares began.”
“What did these nightmares consist of?”
“At first they were of a particular abused little girl. I thought if I painted her, put the nightmare on canvas, I could vanquish the dreams. But that’s not what happened. Others began taking her place and soon I had a series of abused children hanging on my gallery walls. Needing answers, I researched newspaper archives that told me I knew explicit details of an actual crime I’d known absolutely nothing about. And I was stunned to realize that my brush had not been guided by imagination, but by the tangible spirits of those children.” Tom watched the demure widening of her eyes. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you?”
“You’re thinking ‘this man’s insane.’”
“If I thought that, Mr. Shear, Peter would be on the phone right now making that call. Is that all you have to tell me?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then press on.”
“After my grand opening,” he continued, “the police came to question me about the series. When it became obvious they were looking at me as a suspect, I called Jonathan.”
Merideth Chandler’s chin lifted a fraction higher confirming her conviction. “My husband did not murder those children, Mr. Shear,” she said.
“No, ma’am,” Tom replied. “I don’t believe he did. Things have happened that only a living, breathing man could’ve instigated. And I think that man murdered your husband to put the blame on him.”
Mrs. Chandler’s intertwined knuckles whitened as she blinked back tears. “What of Kelly?” she asked in a firm voice. “How does she fit into all of this?”
“Kelly’s the realtor who closed the deal on the house for me. Just before my opening, we became reacquainted and began seeing one another. Soon after, the spirits began manifesting. Maybe it was because she was a woman and could better understand their plight. I don’t know. But it was like I’d served my purpose by bringing them to life through my paintings, because then, Kelly became their focus.”
“How do you mean?”
“All but one invaded her body, forcing her to absorb their spirits. Now she’s host to their torment and sorrow. Her nightmares are horrendous and because of it, she’s slipping into a state of delirium. She’s even begun to take on the physical characteristics of their abuse.”
“Have you seen her?” Mrs. Chandler asked, turning an alarmed frown on Jonathan. “Is it true?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, his expression somber. “What Tom has been telling you, Mrs. Chandler, is true. And Kelly’s rapidly deteriorating because of it.”
“Is she in the hospital?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Why not?” she demanded, looking at Tom.
“Because I truly believe there’s nothing they could do.”
“Are you God, Mr. Shear? From the way it sounds, you’re gambling with Kelly’s life.”
Her words cut deep and Tom struggled to control his anguish. “I love Kelly, Mrs. Chandler, more than anything in this world. And I will do whatever it takes to bring her back. But I refuse to watch her wither away in some mental ward.”
He took a deep breath to help smother his emotions, and when he continued, his voice was controlled and calm.
“Before she slipped away, she said I was the only one who could help them, that I was the only one who knew how. But the only way I know is to find the man responsible for the deaths of those little girls. If I can do that, maybe their spirits will be freed and Kelly will be released. I do know everything stems from that house. That’s the connection. And that’s why I’m here. I need your help.”
Unseeing, she stared at the Persian rug beneath her feet. “It’s evil,” she said, as if to herself, her voice tight with dread. “So many terrible things have happened there, and it has absorbed them all.”
“I don’t think it’s the house that’s evil, Mrs. Chandler. I think the evil lies in the person responsible for the terrible crimes that were committed there.”
They were interrupted by the chime of the doorbell. Tom and Jonathan shared a glance of alarm.
“Expecting company, gentlemen?” Mrs. Chandler asked, observing the exchange. “The police perhaps?”
As if in answer, Peter materialized in the doorway like a starched harbinger of doom. “Excuse me, madam, but Detectives Hayes and Winward would like a word with you and your guests.”
“Thank you, Peter. Show them in.”
Tom and Jonathan rose as Winward and Hayes entered the room. Their eyes clashed and Tom shuddered to see the raw smile on Hayes’s face.
“Good morning, detectives,” Mrs. Chandler replied. “Please, do come in.”
Winward gave her a quick smile of recognition. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Well, gentlemen, I must say, I really hoped I’d never see the two of you again.”
“Considering the circumstances,” Winward replied, “I can understand why.”
Her shoulder’s squared as her smile grew tight. “I don’t mean to seem rude, but may I ask why you thought it necessary to pay me this visit?”
Hayes gave a slight bow and kept his eyes on the lady in front of him. “Actually, ma’am, it is Mr. Shear we want to see. We’re here on official business.”
“I suppose that means you’ve come to arrest him?”
Hayes cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, it will have to wait. Mr. Shear came here for my help and I intend to give it to him.”
“Mrs. Chandler, I don’t think you understand. Mr. Shear is being charged—”
“Detective Hayes,” s
he interrupted. “Mr. Shear is being railroaded. Anyone can see that.”
Hayes straightened his spine and cast Tom a baleful look. “I suppose that means Mr. Shear’s had time to tell his story,” he said.
“Yes, he has.”
“Did he include the part about the ghosts, nightmares and . . .” He was momentarily pensive. “Oh yes. Possessions?”
“Yes, he did.”
Hayes sighed and presented her with a look of bewilderment. “Excuse me, ma’am, and please correct me if I’m wrong, but you seem awfully content with the idea. You don’t actually believe all of this, do you?”
“I happen to be a firm believer in the paranormal, Detective. During my life, I have seen things that could not be denied or explained. I was forced to believe. Now, Detectives,” she said, gesturing toward Tom and Jonathan, “if you don’t mind, I would very much like to continue my conversation with these two gentlemen.”
“And I, for one, would like to hear this conversation,” Winward said.
“Mark,” Hayes began, “I don’t—”
“Detective Hayes, I’m right here,” Tom said. “I’m not going anywhere. A few more minutes isn’t going to matter.”
“Come on, Don. Let’s play along. It might be interesting. I might even have a few questions of my own,” Winward replied.
“In that case, Detectives,” Mrs. Chandler stated, “you might as well sit down.”
As Winward chose the embroidered Chippendale chair across from the sofa of the same vintage that Tom and Jonathan shared, Hayes eyed his partner thoughtfully and shrugged. Then he leveled his dark gaze on Tom and held it there. He did not sit down.
Satisfied, Mrs. Chandler returned her attention to Tom. “Now then, Mr. Shear, I believe you wanted to ask me about the house.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, resuming his seat. “I need to know its history. Anything you can tell me of its former owners, renters, or anyone else who might have a connection.”
“How far back do you need me to go?”
“Begin with the most recent. The abductions began last year so let’s start there. I believe the house was rented, but never occupied?”
Portrait of Rage (The Marcel Experience Book 1) Page 32