A tiny envelope, tucked into Penn’s collar, snagged Pippa’s attention. Almost with a frantic flurry, Pippa fumbled with the collar, snatching the envelope and staring down at its blankness. No name. No handwriting. Nothing. Pippa turned the missive over and tore open the flap, pulling a small card from inside. A pressed violet was glued to the front of it, and the card was so miniature that the violet was perfectly centered with maybe an inch to spare on either side. She lifted it to her nose. As usual, there was no scent. It was void of anything familiar, other than the randomness with which these sporadic communications came. That the Watchman had been able to approach Penn and find the dog trusting of him spoke volumes.
With a slight frown, Pippa opened the card and tipped it toward the electric lights that shined from the front windows onto the porch. Though the handwriting was small and difficult to read, she recognized it all the same.
“Pippa?”
She yelped, crumpling the card in her palm and tripping into the porch rail. Penn sniffed the air as Forrest approached from the shadows.
“Let me help you.” Forrest reached down and extended his hands to assist her from her awkward lean against the railing. Pippa hesitated, then reached out with her left hand to avoid revealing the card in her right.
His skin was smooth, but his grip strong. Forrest steadied her with his other hand around her forearm, and when she straightened, there were mere inches between them. He cleared his throat and stepped back. Pippa smoothed the front of her silk sheath, making pretense that it had somehow been soiled. Forrest’s proximity unnerved her, and she wasn’t certain whether she liked it or whether she didn’t.
“My apologies, Pippa. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Ever polite.
Pippa smiled. She also was always polite.
It was a relationship that reminded her of her paper dolls. Stiff but pretty. Fake but full of imaginary potential.
“Why did you leave the party?”
The door to the porch was open, the sounds of laughter and chatter drifting out behind Forrest’s tall frame. His deep eyes studied her, and the intensity in them caused Pippa to move her hand behind her back. The card poked into her skin as her fist wrapped tighter around it.
I was suffocating, she responded mentally.
“I desired some fresh air.” She answered with enough of a twist of the truth that it wouldn’t offend nor would it leave her feeling guilty, like a liar.
“Ahh.” Forrest gave her shoulder a light pat. “Don’t be too long. You’re a good egg, Pippa. The world shouldn’t be kept from your charm.”
With a grin that made Pippa’s insides melt just a bit, Forrest gave her temporary freedom and left her alone. A good egg. Yes. She was someone who lived a wealthy, enviable lifestyle—at least from the outside looking in.
Reassuring herself that she was once again alone—apart from Penn, who had stuck her nose between the porch rails and peered out over the yard—Pippa brought the card out to read it. These messages enhanced the tiny seeds of rebellious adventure that grew in her soul. She had something no one else knew. She had someone no one else knew.
The words, though small, jumped off the page with a brilliant flash of challenge. She snagged her bottom lip between her teeth.
Come.
Elephant Alley.
11 pm.
He wanted to meet. Face-to-face. Her. The Watchman. In the inky blackness of a moonless night.
Pippa folded the card and tucked it back into its envelope.
She shouldn’t dare.
But, dare she would. Just this once. For him.
Chapter Four
CHANDLER
The cops had been understanding. Maybe a little on edge, if she was being honest. Chandler got the sense they didn’t really want to be at the old depot. That any nighttime excursions near the town’s local haunted relic were preferred to be avoided.
Let them know if it happened again.
Do you want to file a report?
It wasn’t really trespassing when no trespasser was found, was it? But then there was Sasquatch Man, who had moved off to the side and talked in low tones to an officer. Chandler had wanted to say “no duh” to his earlier declaration that someone had been in the depot. But then it really wasn’t that simple. If the door had been padlocked, how had someone gotten inside to even have a light on? And, if the majority of the windows were cemented over, that meant the room Sasquatch had been investigating had to be the room where the light was seen. It was the only wing of the depot where windows were still intact. Yet no one had been inside. Still, he’d heard footsteps, or so he’d claimed.
The cops seemed to know the Sasquatch Man. He shook hands and strode away long before they’d finished with Chandler. In the end, the police helped her re-chain and padlock the door and then they’d offered to drop her off at her rented cottage. She hadn’t declined. She’d been exhausted. She missed her son. And, God help her, if Lottie hadn’t texted to make sure everything was all right, further setting Chandler on edge. She didn’t need the realtor peering over her shoulder. The purchase was complete.
Walk away, Lottie, walk away.
Chandler prayed that last night was the end of it. That Lottie would cease hunting ghosts on the property. That the picturesque town she’d imagined really did exist. A safe home. For her and Peter, her son. Where she could prove herself, maintain her independence, and yet relax a little in the anonymity of a small town. Just a little. Enough, perhaps, to breathe. She’d traveled quite a bit with Peter the last few years. Cities mostly. Big projects. Successful ones. One would think Chandler had more than proven her capability, but here, in Bluff River? She hoped to hide her biggest weakness.
Walking at a steady pace along the river walk, Chandler scanned the area, collecting a picture of the historic side of Bluff River. She’d traded in last night’s babysitter for a replacement today. Something else Chandler would need to figure out—and fast. Peter couldn’t be tossed between caregivers. He was just a kid. He needed consistency and guidance, routine, and well, he needed his mom. More than anything. Just like Chandler needed Peter.
The river cut between the banks, the sidewalk paralleling the railroad tracks on the other side. Tracks that wove between run-down buildings with faded yellow, blue, and green paint. Once vibrant but now dulled with age and weather. In the distance, the distinct triangular circus flag of red blew at the pinnacle of the Big Top. A tent erected for the summer months on the historic circus grounds. A memorial of sorts. A museum that lived in the shadows of the unused buildings and depot, trying to keep alive yesteryear, its vivacious entertainment, its exotic aura, and its tumbling success. The calliope’s reedy tremor floated across the riffles of the river, a present-day echo of the past.
It was early September, and Chandler was growing warm underneath the cable-knit sweater she wore. It was oversized and yet skimmed her generous curves on her average-height body. And, it was black. Chandler often wore black. It was her safe color. It preserved and bolstered her confidence and, of all days, she needed it today.
She nodded at a few passersby—tourists who probably hadn’t realized the museum’s Big Top performance was closed for the season, the animals having been sent to the warm climate of Florida to wait out the impending winter.
The peal of her phone jerked Chandler out of her thoughts. She dug into her pocket, “The Phantom of the Opera” theme song lending its unwelcome eeriness to the late morning. Chandler leapt out of the way of a couple of college students speeding along the walk on their bikes, wishing, not for the last time, she could be back at the cottage with Peter, building their own little precious world of imagination. Just the two of them. Pretending all was right with the world—with their world. But she couldn’t afford another hitch.
“Hello?” Chandler eased off the sidewalk and onto an iron bench bolted to the concrete. It was shiny green with a bronze memorial plaque to some otherwise unremembered community member.
“Hey
, Champ.”
Chandler closed her eyes and willed her heart to stop beating so fast. Her breathing was too short. Quick little breaths she needed to control. Chandler drew in a deep breath.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
And blew it out through her nose.
One, two, three, four—
“You there or did you evaporate?”
“No, I didn’t evaporate, Jackson.” Chandler winced. She’d fallen for her co-worker’s patronizing bait within three seconds. She knew better. But every nerve was on fire. Guarded. He could twist her thoughts into a garbled mess if she wasn’t careful, and she’d end up not even knowing what she really thought or felt. “What do you want?”
Best to stick to straight points. No chitchat or attempts at kindness.
She could hear in his voice his smile filled with tolerance for her. “The report from this morning. What did you find? What do you think?”
Jackson knew she didn’t have time to draw up a detailed project plan. That would have been irrational. But, of course, he’d want her initial assessment. Quick and skilled, Jackson would expect her to already have a mental manila folder of specs, tests that needed to be run, a generalized estimate of square footage of the depot, and a projection of the town of Bluff River itself. Tourism specs, demographics interested in historic sites, and even the potential for the town’s cooperation in the project. It was what Jackson would have already done. It was what had already been included in her proposal before they’d ever purchased the property. Yet he’d want to see if she could repeat it, if she had a handle on her latest project. Since her last one had needed—no, required—Jackson’s assistance to offset a few of her miscalculations. Chandler never miscalculated, but now? Her mind, her memory . . . some days were as foggy as those days in Jack the Ripper’s London.
Worse, Jackson’s genius was impressive, his skill set off the charts. And he knew it. He’d been hired as her uncle’s project coordinator, but he wanted more. He wanted to be Uncle Neal’s right hand. A position Chandler had tenuously held for the past seven years. Since graduating from college. Since being pegged for brilliance of her own. Since becoming a single mother and inheriting the unending supply of capability question marks that came along with that title. Apparently, to succeed, she not only needed to be a man but also needed to have a man. Otherwise her career expertise would always be under a microscope. And as she’d overheard a lady in church mutter behind her hand, “A single mother raising a little boy? He won’t even know how to grow up to be a proper man or father without a masculine influence as his authority.”
“It’s nice.” Even Chandler stuck out her tongue at her belated and elementary answer.
“Nice?” A short laugh was followed by a sniff. “Okay, Chandler. Gonna need more than nice.”
“I know. I just got here Thursday, it’s only been two days, and—” She stopped herself. She didn’t owe Jackson an explanation, and if she used the reasoning of getting Peter settled in a stable environment before she launched into work, Jackson would simply be jotting that fact down in his little black book of Chandler Inadequacies. She didn’t have proof of said book, but it existed regardless. She knew it did. Either in his brain, on a spreadsheet, or typed into the notes app on his phone.
Chandler blinked rapidly, fighting back the unexpected tears of frustration and exhaustion. “I’m working with Neal on this project.” She infused firmness into her voice. “I’ll discuss any adjustments to what was originally proposed with Neal.”
A sparrow hopped along the sidewalk in front of her. It tapped at something in a crack, then jerked its head to look at her before flapping its wings in a fluttering escape from her observation.
“A project I’ll be a part of managing.” Jackson had a point.
“And we’ll include you as we always do.” She hated sounding bossy. Or—well, there was another word that a few co-workers said Jackson called her. But she hadn’t a choice really. She had to hold her ground. Chandler sought to divert him from the technical details, something less impacting. “We may have had a trespasser last night. I might need you to look into a security system for the place.”
Silence.
Chandler slung her leg over her knee and bounced her foot. “We didn’t actually find anyone, so I don’t want to act irrationally, but precautions make sense. I filed a report with the police. They said they’ll have an officer drive by occasionally—”
“Tell me the property wasn’t vandalized.” Jackson’s tone was low.
“No, and I’m fine, thank you,” Chandler quipped back.
“You know as well as I do, if we’re going to flip this property, we need to move as fast as possible. Any vandalism will just cost more money, not to mention the last thing we need is some criminal act to turn the place into a crime scene and tie it up for eons.”
“We’re discussing a potential trespassing, Jackson, not a murder scene. And, I don’t see why you keep saying ‘if we flip’ the property. I proposed that we restore it, and Uncle Neal signed off.” Images of ghosts and murdered circus prostitutes drifted through Chandler’s mind. She pushed the vision away.
“If we flip it,” Jackson repeated. “Stats can change as you really dig into the project, Champ, and you know that.”
Reason number 598 for not having Jackson as Uncle Neal’s right hand and for fighting to maintain her position. He was a bulldoze-rebuild-and-sell type of guy. He could see the prospects with historical sites, but restoration was far more laborious and often more of an investment at the outset, requiring a long-term vision. It needed quality research, a quest for authentic materials to restore it properly, a specific clientele, and even documentation and certifications with state affiliations to make it a legitimate historic landmark and thus increase its value.
Jackson was annoyed. Chandler could hear him tapping a pen against his desk. He cleared his throat. “Listen, I gotta run. I’m meeting with Neal in a few minutes to look over a potential property in Cincinnati.”
“Keep me in the loop.” Chandler grimaced. She hated it when Uncle Neal embarked on another potential buy without consulting her. She was cautious and savvy. She’d look at the angles he couldn’t see with his natural optimism. But then so would Jackson.
“Sure, Champ, I’ll keep you in the loop.”
Jackson hung up.
Chandler engaged in her breathing exercise again. How could it only be eleven in the morning and she already felt exhausted? Her mind felt thick, the morning’s adrenaline wearing off and leaving her shaky. She knew why. It wasn’t a conundrum anymore, not since her last medical appointment a few weeks ago. It was a huge reason why Chandler had escaped Detroit to do an on-site proposal under the argument that a circus train depot might be a potential pot of gold, if they handled the project with kid gloves.
She wasn’t dying. No. But her body was rebelling, and there was no going back to the days when she was without a health concern. No going back to the days when her joints didn’t throb, or her mind didn’t lapse, or she didn’t feel like a weighted rock of fatigue had settled on her head. She had a career to think about, to maintain, but more than that, she had a little boy.
Tears sprang to her eyes, and Chandler bit the inside of her lip to hold them back. She had her Buddy Boy, her little man. With his ginormous brown eyes that were just like hers. His surfer-blond shaggy hair with a million tints of gold and brown woven through the waves. He was her mischievous cohort, the little boy who took her to their own personal Neverland every day, where they flew on their imaginations, and where he would never grow up. He was her own Peter Pan, and she his Wendy.
No, she wasn’t dying, but if she lost him, if they took her son, it would be worse than dying. She couldn’t lose him. She couldn’t lose her son at the hands of family who already thought she’d be lucky to succeed saddled with her biggest mistake in college. A big F on her scorecard of life. People had a way of trying to help, of looking out for another’s best interest
s, when in reality they caused a slow bleed in the very one they hoped to rescue.
Well, Chandler wasn’t looking to be rescued by anyone. She would rescue herself, and in doing so she’d rescue her relationship with her little boy. No autoimmune disease would steal that from her, would disable or maim her enough to take from her the title of caregiver and sole provider.
If that happened, it would be its own sort of violent death.
Chapter Five
PIPPA
He was here. She could sense him, even though she couldn’t see him. A dark hollow in the darkness, illuminated only by the pale light of her black-and-chrome flashlight. Pippa’s hand wrapped around the Eveready light, thankful that it wouldn’t dim as quickly as the one her father still used from his college days, the light having to be flashed off after a bit in order to be used again. Her shoes crunched on the pebbles that lined the walkway between structures, her dress sticking to her stockings. She quivered, inside and out, anticipation warring with caution.
“Hello?” Pippa whispered.
She touched the side of her wool cloche, the gesture a nervous one. The dinner party at home had dissipated, her parents retiring to bed. Pippa had changed from her evening dress into a practical cotton one. Dark and unassuming. She had locked Penn in her bedroom, trying to ignore the pathetic whines that vibrated in the dog’s throat. She would be wise to bring Penn along with her, yet she wasn’t keen on the idea of what might happen if Penn took a disliking to the Watchman—or worse, awakened her parents. Nothing could disrupt this meeting. It mustn’t. Pippa was intent on keeping in order what she could, even as she eyed the alley that stretched between the elephant house and the ring barn. What appeared so welcoming during daytime visits was now eerily silent, shrouded in a black translucence that promised the presence of wandering spirits, of riffraff, and of—
The Haunting at Bonaventure Circus Page 3