Harley Henrickson knew of loneliness, and when the front doors closed behind Rebecca, she whispered, “Good night, Rebecca. All will be better tomorrow.”
30
“And Miles to Go Before I Sleep”
“I’ll see y’all tomorrow.”
Harley said goodbye to Tina and Grandma Ziegler, and closed the minivan door behind her.
Her tired legs trudged along the gravel driveway toward her snow-covered yellow cottage, slumped and glowing in the moonlight. The cottage had been a present from her late grandfather when she’d turned eighteen, after she had foregone her scholarship to Harvard and had remained in Notchey Creek to care for him. On its best days, the little yellow cottage, known as “The Buttercup” of 1920s home models, was a fixer-upper. On its worst days, it was a dump—but with character. Nonetheless, it was hers and she loved it.
She bypassed the cottage’s front porch, then its dark windows, her breaths reflecting in little clouds from the streetlights, her boots sinking and swishing along the pathway past the house and into the backyard.
There, like a warm beacon, Matilda’s tiny house sat aglow, the light of a television screen flickering behind curtained windows. The house resembled a miniature red barn, complete with white shutters, a tiny porch, and a weather vane perched to the roof.
The house had been a promise later fulfilled to Matilda after she had won the Prize Pig Contest that fall. The prize money had been well-spent, Harley thought, and in many ways, the house, though much smaller in scale, was nicer than her own.
Inside she found the pig splayed across her bed, sleeping to the sound of a flat-screen television. Gunfire boomed through a high-rise building in Los Angeles, followed by a series of explosions.
Thanks to Uncle Tater, Matilda had adopted a love for action films, and Clint Eastwood, Denzel Washington, and Bruce Willis movies ran in a constant loop when the pig was in residence. Somehow she found the movies comforting, and the background noise helped her sleep.
Tonight’s selection was Uncle Tater’s favorite holiday movie: Die Hard, starring Bruce Willis.
Harley removed her spare clothes from her bag, and changed back into her flannel shirt, overalls, and boots. She slumped into the futon beside Matilda’s bed, propping her boots up on the coffee table. Remote control in hand, she hoped to find something diverting to watch on television. Maybe the pig would not notice if she changed the channel. After all, her mind was troubled, and she was in need of something more peaceful to watch.
Harley changed the channel to PBS, smiling as an episode of Masterpiece Mystery appeared on the screen. Even better, it was a production of Agatha Christie’s Poirot’s Christmas.
Matilda sat up in her bed and gave Harley a look.
“Oh, come on, Matilda, please.”
The pig gave her another look.
“Oh, all right.”
She returned the channel to Die Hard.
A pacified Matilda lowered herself back to her bed, and within seconds, muffled snores rippled her nostrils.
In need of refreshment, any refreshment, Harley reached beside the futon, and took a bottle of water from Uncle Tater’s Styrofoam cooler. On the side of the cooler, in black magic marker, he had written: YETI: Redneck Edition. She popped the top on the water and swigged, sighing with pleasure after she swallowed.
Deciding it was time to head to her own house, Harley rose from the futon and looked at Matilda. “You mind coming and staying with me tonight?”
She was troubled by the evening’s events and did not want to be alone. Matilda was very much her own pig, and did not always comply with such wishes. But tonight, possibly sensing Harley’s pensiveness, Matilda decided to humor her.
Besides, her movie was almost over. The last thing Harley saw before turning off the television was the iconic scene of Hans Gruber falling from the high-rise office building to his death. It was one of Uncle Tater’s favorite scenes, and Hans Gruber was one of his favorite movie villains.
After turning off the lights and putting Matilda’s little house to sleep, she and the pig crossed the backyard to Harley’s cottage, which was dark and cold by comparison. In an effort to remedy this situation, Harley switched on the table lamps, casting a warm glow over the walls and the antique furniture, and she then lit a fire in the hearth.
When the fire was at a crackling pace, she collapsed into her wingback chair, and stretched out her legs.
It was her favorite place to sit, by the fire with a book in her lap. And it was Matilda’s favorite place too, at her feet, soaking in the warmth of the flames, the embers burning in hypnotic patterns.
She sighed with relief.
The night was almost over.
The only two things she needed now were something to drink and a book to help her fall asleep. She rose and made her way into the kitchen, Matilda following her. If Harley was to receive a treat, so was Matilda. From the pig’s standpoint, it was only fair.
She prepared a cup of hot buttered whiskey, and Matilda snacked with delight on one of Tina’s molasses cookies.
Steaming mug in hand, she wandered over to the bookcase, and removed Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women. Back in her chair, she opened the book and propped it on her lap, reading as she took intermittent sips of her drink.
“Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.
“It’s so dreadful to be poor!” sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress.
“I don’t think it’s fair for some girls to have lots of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all,” added little Amy, with an injured sniff.
“We’ve got father and mother, and each other, anyhow,” said Beth, contentedly, from her corner.
The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly,—
“We haven’t got father, and shall not have him for a long time.” She didn’t say “perhaps never,” but each silently added it, thinking of father far away, where the fighting was.
Harley raised her eyes from the page, watching the firelight as it flickered in a kaleidoscope of light and shadow across the walls. Her mind was distracted.
She kept returning to the evening’s events, unable to put all of the pieces together. Something unsettling was going on in Notchey Creek, and at the center of it all, she was sure, was the woman she had found in Briarwood Park that morning.
A complete stranger had come to town. A beautiful and mysterious stranger whose life had changed after she had found out something.
Harley’s mind fluttered with clues: the footprints in the snow, the strange noises at Briarcliffe, the unsettling sightings in the woods.
Another thought crossed her mind. The woman had to have been staying somewhere in Notchey Creek. And where did well-heeled travelers stay when visiting the region?
Muscadine Farms.
While tomorrow would be a busy day with the festival starting, she made plans to visit the resort, see if the woman had been staying there, and hopefully learn her identity. That would be a start.
Then there was Jennifer Williams. Why had she seemed so squirrelly when Harley had questioned her about the woman? Why had she been so eager to change the subject? She made a mental note to follow up with Jennifer at a more opportune time when Jennifer was less distracted and troubled. After all, she could not avoid her questions forever.
And what had Jennifer said? That the woman had seen something online, had had questions about it. But Jennifer and Samantha did not have an online store for Modern Vintage, did they?
Harley removed her laptop from her bag, opened the cover, and clicked on the web browser. She typed Modern Vintage Notchey Creek in the search engine box, and pressed enter.
She perused the list, clicking on each of the tabs, and scanning its respective page.
She had guessed correctly. There was no online store.
She tried again, this time searching for Jennifer Williams and Sama
ntha Jacobs together, then separately.
Nothing.
Maybe the woman had been mistaken. Modern Vintage was the wrong store, and Jennifer and Samantha were the wrong vendors.
Unless there was a marketplace no one knew about.
Harley found her body involuntarily sagging in the chair and worry lines creasing her forehead. Her mind continued to spin and muddle.
And Beau.
Where was Beau?
Why had he left so suddenly without telling anyone?
She closed the book as it lay on her lap, symbolically closing her mind to questions. She needed sleep. She needed to rest her soul.
A knock sounded on the door and she froze, staring in that direction. Who would be paying a visit at that hour?
31
Coming Off a Long Haul
“Who is it?” Harley asked, staring at the front door.
She stood from her chair and grabbed a poker from the hearth. Then, with careful steps, she approached the front door. When she drew back the curtain and peered through the window, she gave a sigh of relief and smiled.
Beau Arson stood on the front porch, his rugged features lightening in relief when he saw her. She unbolted the locks and opened the door, watching as he hoisted his tall frame through the entryway. The little cottage, the furniture, even the pig, seemed to shrink in his wake.
Beau was a natural blond like all of the Sutcliffes, but he kept his hair dyed dark as part of his public persona. Only occasionally did he revert back to his golden color. And there might be a handsome face beneath all of the hair and scruff, Harley knew, but it would take a team of barbers to excavate it.
If one were to see him on the street, one would never guess Beau Arson was a musical prodigy, a multi-instrumentalist, and a multi-millionaire. In his ripped jeans and motorcycle vest, he appeared more like a bouncer at a dive bar, or perhaps a drifter seated at a torn vinyl booth in a truck stop at three a.m., smoking cheap cigarettes and swilling down stale coffee.
He gazed down at Harley, in her glasses, overalls, and boots, and a slight smile formed on his bearded face.
She, in turn, greeted him as she always did, just as she had on that first day when they had been reunited, when she was still unaware of who he was.
“So, are you just coming off a long haul?” she asked.
The slight smile widened. “Are you?” he said with his whiskey-and-cigar voice.
“Yeah,” Harley said. “I guess you could say that.”
“Me too.”
Then she threw her arms around him, much like a child would, reaching up to embrace a treasured and much-missed parent.
His hand came to rest on the back of her head, the other along her lower back. “Hey, kiddo,” he said.
They pulled away from one another gently, and when their eyes met, he gave a weary smile. Below the tangle of dark waves falling across his forehead, his tired eyes creased at the corners.
Matilda rose from her place by the fire, and nuzzled the pocket of Beau’s jeans.
“’Tilda,” he said, caressing her silken ears.
His mind seemed to return to the purpose of his visit, and he asked, “You got a minute to talk? It’s important.”
She motioned to the sofa, and watched as he crossed the room and lowered his bulk into it, hoping the sofa would not flip upward like a seesaw.
He relaxed into the cushion, and extended his long legs across the rug.
Harley returned to her own chair, and the two sat in comfortable silence, watching the flames as they flickered in the hearth.
“I need your help,” he said at last.
She angled her body in the chair toward him, waiting for him to continue.
For a moment he sat in deep thought, his gaze still fixed to the fire. “I’m not myself.”
And though she thought she knew what worried him, she still did not know why he had left Briarcliffe that morning, where he had gone.
“Where were you today?” she asked. Her tone was one of worry, not censure. “Where’d you go?”
He hesitated, deflecting his gaze to the rips in his torn jeans. At last he raised his head, and when his dark-blue eyes met hers, he said, “There’s a young star … up-and-coming—probably the next big thing … and I’ve been trying to get him signed to the new label. Anyway,” he said in a tired voice, “he was only going to be in town for the one day, so I went there, tried to convince him, did convince him. But then I wasn’t able to get back on time and …”
“I understand,” she said.
She examined him for a moment, then said, “But there’s something else, isn’t there? Something’s troubling you.”
He lowered his gaze to his large, rough hands as they rested on his ripped jeans. “It’s the house. Something’s not right with the house.”
She leaned toward him. “What do you mean something’s not right?”
“Strange noises—all through the night. Marcus says it’s just the wind. Boonie, too. But it’s not the wind. Then, it just gets so cold all of a sudden.” His body seemed to shiver at the thought of it. “And then sometimes I think I see lights … and—and other things, stuff I can’t explain—in the woods.”
Harley’s mind returned to the woman she had found in the park. She leaned in closer, and in a gentle voice, she asked, “Other things? Like what kind of other things?”
He paused for a long moment, and at last said, “A woman, Harley. I’ve been seeing a woman.” He looked over at her, and she sensed the gravity of what he was telling her, the implications of what it meant for him.
A ghost.
“Beau,” she said gently, “I, um, found—and this is going to sound crazy—but I found a woman’s body in the park this morning. And then when I went to call Jed, she disappeared.”
Beau turned to her with a start. “What’d she look like?”
“Um, she had dark hair, green eyes, very beautiful.”
He deflected his gaze back to his lap, a troubled expression on his face.
“Do you think it could be the same person?” Harley asked.
“I don’t know.” His voice was at a near whisper.
“And then,” Harley said, “I found some footprints in the snow this morning—in the park. They looked like they were from bare feet, and they went all the way back to Briarcliffe.”
His features sank, the skin beneath his beard turning pale. “It was me.”
So, Jed had been right after all.
“I saw her …” He paused and swallowed. “The woman. Outside the window. And I don’t know, I … I mean, I didn’t even know if I was dreaming or what … and—and the next thing I knew, I was in the park and …”
“And?”
“Nothing. Nothing was there.”
She’d just disappeared. Just like the woman’s body.
“I need your help,” he said.
“But how can I help? What can I do?”
“You’ve helped me before. I think you can help me again.”
“But how?”
“Come. Stay at Briarcliffe. Just for the night. See what you can make of it. See if there’s something really going on there, or if I’m just going crazy.”
“But I don’t know if—”
“Please.”
“Of course,” she said. “Of course, I’ll do it for you.”
32
“Here Loveless Birds Now Flock as Winter Friends”
“You can stay here tonight.”
Harley and Beau stood in an expanse of dark hallway, moonlight and shadow seeping through rows of endless windows and falling in ribbons on the floor.
“But it’s so quiet.”
“This is my private wing.”
Keys jingled as Beau unlocked the door.
“Where’s your room?” Harley asked.
“Next door.”
The door creaked open, exposing a dark, cavernous space. The specters of a four-poster bed, a desk, and a wardrobe appeared before two large windows on the oppos
ite wall.
They entered, and Beau switched on a table lamp, washing the room in warm light.
“You need anything,” he asked, “before I take off?”
“I don’t guess so,” Harley muttered. An uneasiness had crawled over her, causing her to shiver.
“Come get me, okay?” he said in earnest. “If anything happens. Remember, I’m just next door.”
“Okay.”
But she did not want him to leave. There was something about the room, the east wing, that frightened her. She had an uneasy feeling in her stomach, a dependable one, and it spoke of trouble.
With reluctance, she said good night to Beau and watched as he left the bedroom, pulling the door to a close behind him.
Before her sat a four-poster bed, neatly made, and she wondered how, given the circumstances, she would ever be able to bask in the luxurious comforter or relish the plump down pillows on her cheeks. There she was, in the most opulent bedroom of her existence, yet she knew she would not enjoy one moment in it.
She placed her overnight bag on the dressing table and searched inside for her pajamas. In her rush to pack, she had grabbed the first pair she found, and now she stared at a one-piece contraption Aunt Wilma had given her for her birthday the year prior.
Fuzzy and brown from chest to toe, the pajama suit resembled a bear costume, with a large beige circle in its center that read: Rub My Tummy. I’m So Yummy.
Well, hopefully she would not see anyone, she thought, and the bear pajamas were comfortable and warm. And for practical purposes, they were even equipped with footies and a back hatch for bathroom breaks.
The Ghosts of Notchey Creek Page 10