A Signal Shown

by Yvonne Montgomery

  "I know. I know."

  They listened to each other breathe. She could almost feel his sigh against her cheek.

  Dink cleared his throat. "I promised to be supportive, and all that, didn't I?"

  Brenna smiled, even as she fought a wave of sadness. Yearning for him was mixed with a rueful triumph that his feelings were as intense as her own. "We both did. Who knew it'd be so hard, especially this soon?"

  "Yeah." Small noises of activity clicked in her ear. "It's getting late. I've bothered you enough for today. Guess I'd better get moving."

  "Going to work?" She flashed on the interior of the restaurant where he waited tables. Whitewashed walls and hanging light fixtures with geometric shades were softened with large leafy plants and artwork done by locals.

  "Yeah, subbing for Darcy. She's going out with Jude. Finally." The shy grad student had cast lingering glances at the darkly handsome barista in their neighborhood coffee shop for months. Community regulars had watched the halting dance of attraction between the two with great interest.

  "Fantastic! I didn't think he'd ever wake up enough to notice her."

  Dink snorted. "She practically ran over him a couple days ago, nearly clipped him when he crossed in front of her car. She freaked out so much he ended up trying to calm her down, 'stead of the other way around."

  "Good. It's about time." But she couldn't help but envy the two.

  "Yeah." Dink waited and sighed again. "Well, I gotta go."

  "Okay." Brenna's hand tightened on the phone, trying to hold on to him a little longer. "Love you."

  "Me, too."

  The sound disappeared. Brenna slid her phone back into her pocket. If she could touch Dink, hold him for a minute and get past her sense of growing isolation, maybe the bleak mood she'd had all morning would fade. "That damned dream," she whispered, and shivered at the memory. Her hand found the projector switch and turned it on. Back to work. She cranked up her music again and began.

  The next few signs weren't particularly memorable or even interesting: a hand-lettered offer of "FREE PUPPEEZ," then an ornate poster for a high school car wash. After several uninspiring samples, Brenna slumped deeper in her chair. What if most of the signs were ordinary, boring bits and pieces? What if she'd been so whacked out over Gran that she'd shot garbage? "Cut it out," she said aloud. She hadn't looked at the other reels yet. No hysteria until she'd checked out all the work.

  The next reel flashed from the projector. Pictures Brenna barely recalled taking, reflections of ideas captured over two years before. It was hard to remember what common thread she'd seen among the various images. She'd been a different person then, still clinging to the idea of creating art as a contrast to the commotion she lived with, inside and out. How many times had she run out of the apartment with the heavy camera case banging against one leg, desperate to escape the small rooms that were her grandmother's prison? After Gran's move to the assisted living facility, viewing the world through her camera lens became her chief goal. Looking at life head-on was too painful. Only death was waiting for Gran, each day more strewn with the remnants of her disappearing self.

  The screen filled with celestial brilliance: silver five-pointed stars floating on an indigo background in swirling, almost dizzying patterns.

  "Christ on a crutch," Brenna muttered. She'd never seen this sequence before. Leaning forward in her chair, she peered more closely as the frames clicked by. It was like a take-off on Van Gogh's "Starry Night." The stars undulated on the deep blue field.

  Brenna stared. Could this be something she'd stumbled across and shot without really registering it? An art installation captured at an exhibit, forgotten over time? Somebody else's piece of film somehow inserted into her reel?

  What kind of bullshit is this? Had she shot that film? Why can't I remember it? Fear skittered along that question like a rat threading through a junkyard.

  The complicated guitar solo coming through her earphones faded. What she heard instead was her grandmother's voice, hoarse and sure. "You're gonna be a star, chickie. The best director in Hollywood. You mark my words."

  The stars whirled and spun in the deep blue waves.

  Chapter 7

  As Kerry wandered into the Wisdom Court kitchen, she took pleasure in the glow of the copper skillets hanging over the butcher-block island in the center of the room. Noreen was seated at the table, reading the papers in front of her.

  The air was perfumed with the scent of coffee from the oversized urn bubbling on the counter. On the window sill behind it potted rosemary and sage basked in sunshine.

  Rose was pulling cups out of the cupboard and setting them on a flowered tray. Strudel sat at her feet, keen brown eyes tracking her every move. Morsels had been known to drop to the floor and the dachshund would keep vigil until all food preparation was done.

  "What's up?" Kerry asked. She bent to pet Strudel. "You sounded a little grim on the phone."

  Rose took the lid off the owl-shaped cookie jar and began transferring its contents into a napkin-lined basket. "I need to run a couple of things by everyone, and I thought refreshments might grease the wheels."

  "When don't they?" Kerry filched a cookie. "Mmm. Chocolate chip." She propped herself against the counter and chewed with enjoyment. Her gaze was drawn back to Rose, pale in a black sweater and yoga pants. "Would this have anything to do with Max Steadman?"

  Rose stepped over Strudel on her way to the refrigerator. "Wait. All will be revealed."

  Kerry moved to the table and pulled out a chair.

  "When the messenger appears, make him welcome, listen with a clear mind and steady heart, and remain attuned to the likelihood of danger," Noreen uttered. "Gladys Parmetter Winston, eighteen seventy-nine to nineteen thirty-three."

  "Sounds a little paranoid." Kerry flicked crumbs off her denim shirt. "Disappointed by life, I suppose."

  "Or by male messengers." Noreen shot her a cynical glance. "Gladys never married. Apparently no man measured up."

  "Or got it up?" Kerry grinned at Noreen's pursed mouth. "Maybe she was lucky. In those days, unwedded was more likely to be bliss than hooking up with a man who believed in his divine right to rule the roost. Don't you think?"

  "To be sure," countered Noreen, "so long as the woman in question had family money behind her." Impatiently she pushed her bangs off her forehead. "Remember the tyranny of economics, my dear. Without the protection of family, or of a man, few woman had the resources to keep themselves."

  At a faint knock at the back door, Rose called, "Come in!"

  Noreen pushed the sleeves of her crimson sweater to her elbows and fixed Kerry with a severe look. "Nowadays people smile at the endless matchmaking in Jane Austen's works, but it was no joke to the women of the time. If they didn't marry, even badly, they could go hungry."

  Brenna heard the last of Noreen's words as she came through the backdoor. "Really?" She pushed back her hood but left her sweatshirt on, chilled by the breeze in the courtyard. She rubbed her hands together to warm them. "You mean starve?"

  Noreen waved her into a chair. "It was a hard time for everyone, with such a gap between the lower and upper classes, and not much of a middle class at all. It was highly unusual for women to work for pay in those days, although there is the impoverished governess so beloved of fiction. Marriage was the only profession women had." She glimpsed Kerry's fleeting expression, and added, "All right, so the oldest profession was another."

  "Coffee?" Rose asked. She set the tray of cups onto the table.

  "I'd love it. That wind's getting cold." Brenna sniffed at the rich scents in the air and enjoyed the mixture of colors and textures. The room was right out of an old Selznick movie, she thought, marking the way the sunshine haloed Rose's silver-blonde curls. "I've been shivering all day."

  Rose looked concerned. "Did you turn up the thermostat? I'm sure the furnaces have been lit."

  "Yeah, I'm just not used to the chill." People had been wearing shorts and flip-flops when she
'd left L.A.

  Behind Brenna the back door opened again, letting in another gust of cold air. Andrea Bellamy came into the kitchen followed by a tall man in jeans and a thick sweater. He had amused brown eyes in a tanned, fortyish face. Andrea's cheeks were rosy and her eyes alight with happiness.

  The man helped Andrea remove her denim jacket, his hands resting for a moment on her shoulders. Then his glance went beyond her to the women at the table. "Hi."

  "Hey, Neal." Kerry's smirk was playful. "What've you two been up to?"

  Neal raised one brow. "The pursuit of happiness."

  "How constitutional of you," murmured Noreen, and Neal grinned at her wickedly.

  "Neal." Andrea narrowed her eyes at him, but her lips curved in a smile. "I ran out of primer. Neal offered to take me to the art supply."

  Neal nodded at Brenna. "I don't believe we've met."

  Kerry followed his gaze. "Oh, sorry. This is our new associate, Brenna Payne. Brenna, meet Neal Cameron, one of the WC board members, and a tolerable guy to have around."

  "Hi." Mmmm, she thought in appreciation. She'd seen more than her share of good-looking men in L.A., where being handsome was a job requirement, but this guy could give them some competition. Expressive eyes, lean build. All his own hair. She'd know a weave in a heartbeat. There were plenty of those to see in L.A. as well.

  "Nice to meet you." Neal snagged a chair for Andrea, and held it for her before sitting down beside her. He glanced around the table. "So, why the powwow? And where's Aura Lee? I'm jonesing for her brownies!"

  "Dentist appointment," Noreen answered. "She left a batch of chocolate chip cookies. But we ate every single one of them."

  Neal's eyes closed at the blow. "A meeting with no refreshments? That sucks."

  "You're too easy." Rose brought out the basket heaped with cookies and set it on the table. "You know the unspoken rule around here: no gatherings without munchies." She headed back for more provisions, shaking her head at Kerry's offer of help.

  "Unspoken rule—right. You've restored my faith." He reached for a cookie. "So, the first question remains. What's going on?"

  Rose brought back a carafe of coffee on another tray along with cream and a range of sweeteners. Noreen offered to serve, and began the coffee ballet of pouring and stirring.

  Taking her own cup, Rose glanced around the table. "A couple of things. The first is Maxwell Steadman, the man I called you about yesterday, Neal. He's a genealogist from England here on a project commissioned by Caldicott before her death," she told the others. "The WC board has approved his working here until he's finished with it. I wanted to give you a heads-up that he'll be around for a while."

  "Is he cute?" Andrea dunked a cookie into her coffee, and bore the dripping morsel to her mouth before it could drop off.

  "Hey!" Neal shot her a wounded look.

  She grinned as she chewed. "Artistic curiosity."

  Kerry's spoon clinked against the edge of her cup as she stirred. "He's a conceited jerk," she growled. "I, for one, hope he finds what he's looking for in a hurry so he can go back where he came from."

  Ouch, thought Brenna. I wonder if the guy was trying to make a good impression?

  "Instant enmity foretells either a mad passion or endless tiny barbs culminating in death."

  "What?" Kerry glared at Noreen for a moment, then dissolved into giggles. "Who the hell came up with that one?"

  "Me." She smiled modestly as the others laughed.

  "I knew it." Kerry contemplated her with admiration. "How many others have you made up? Come on, give."

  Noreen merely stirred her coffee.

  Rose watched the by-play with a smile but her eyes were shadowed with worry. "The other thing is a little more complicated." She cradled her cup in both hands. "Even strange."

  "Excellent," said Noreen. "We're in need of something unusual to get us through the autumn blahs. Proceed."

  "Glad to oblige. It involves my fountains—I make table fountains," Rose added for Brenna's benefit. "They're dishes filled with different stones, glass jewels, small figures—basically miniature landscapes." She moved her hands to suggest the placement of the pieces. "The rocks cover a tiny pump that sends water over the stones, producing the sound of a stream." She took a breath, let it out. "Several times lately, I've come back to nearly-finished fountains and found them taken apart, the rocks removed and set in circles around the containers."

  "You'd put them together and they were taken apart again," Noreen said. It was a statement rather than a question.

  Rose nodded. "As a rule I lock my workroom door and I've never found the door unlocked when I've arrived to work."

  "Why do you lock it?" Neal looked at her with interest.

  "It's not a question of distrust." She picked up her coffee cup and Brenna saw the tremor in her hand. "I think I need a workspace that's just mine, where I can make what I want without anybody watching me. And I need that time alone." Her smile was wry. "There's always so much going on here."

  "You can say that again." Kerry reached for another cookie. "So what do you think this is about?"

  Rose hesitated.

  "Didn't you mention something like this before?" Noreen sent the carafe around. Andrea slid the sugar bowl and cream pitcher toward Neal.

  Rose nodded. "During the summer, when Andrea was spirit-painting. One day I found a fountain container emptied, with the rocks in a circle around it."

  The room was so silent they could hear a train whistle in the distance.

  Brenna felt a shiver move down her back. She cleared her throat. "Sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Of course not." Rose straightened in her chair. "I guess I'd better fill you in." She recounted the events of Andrea's first week at Wisdom Court, how she'd begun to sketch and paint, while in a trance, images of a man she'd never before seen.

  Brenna automatically watched the others as she listened to Rose. Though they obviously knew the story, their reactions were mixed. Andrea captured Neal's hand in her own, and he clasped her fingers, slanting her an odd smile.

  Kerry's cheeks reddened as Rose explained her skepticism about the possible causes of Andrea's dilemma. Only Noreen appeared detached, almost insulated from the emotions experienced by the others. She's the analytical one, thought Brenna, more used to observing than participating in situations. But how could she have seen what Rose was talking about and not have a strong emotional reaction?

  Rose's air of discomfort grew as she described their efforts to determine the source of Andrea's apparent connection with people who had lived in the Wisdom Court house generations before. She ended with their failed séance.

  "Besides everything else, Aura Lee was convinced that Caldicott was trying to send her messages," Rose added. "Not that she could ever decipher anything, but she still believes those communications are being sent."

  Brenna was aware of a deep excitement. What an amazing movie the story would make. It had everything—a mystery, star-crossed lovers, revenge, a séance, and great possibilities for action scenes.

  "It was a very difficult time," Noreen was saying. "Though undeniably interesting."

  Brenna took a deep breath, knowing she had to chill. She could hardly start raving about making a film based on what she'd just heard. "So, if I understand what you're saying, you believe you were dealing with a haunting?"

  Kerry groaned. "Jeez, I hate that word! It makes my skin crawl every time I hear it."

  "What would you prefer?" Noreen asked pointedly. "Visitation? Ghostly gathering? Spirit convention? Remember, you saw a couple of strange things yourself."

  "Not that I don't sympathize with how you feel," Neal said to Kerry, "but you were here. You remember what it was like."

  "I remember." Kerry waved a hand toward Andrea. "I still wish you'd cop to temporary insanity. Then I wouldn't have to be so damned open-minded about it."

  "You? Open-minded?" Noreen's voice was dust-dry.

  "Sticks and st
ones," Kerry shot back.

  "Enough!" Rose looked as surprised as the others at her outburst. She turned toward Brenna. "Yes, we tend to think of it as a haunting. And it stopped when we figured it out. But now this business with the fountains has me spooked." She glanced around the table, clearly troubled. "What if it's starting up again?"

  Andrea shook her head. "Rose, don't even think about such a thing." Neal put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, but it didn't appear to help. "I don't think I could stand to go through it again," she whispered.

  The back door flew open and slammed against the wall. Cold air filled the kitchen.

  "Jesus!" Kerry jumped to her feet and ran to close it.

  "We probably didn't shut it all the way," Neal murmured, tightening his hold on Andrea.

  "Right," she said. Her face was ashen.

  Brenna watched, wanting to ask her about her experience, wondering if she'd actually felt the presence of another entity. But now was not the time. Andrea looked ready to run out of the room. That, or faint dead away.

  "If we learned anything from what you went through, Andrea," said Rose, "it's that we have to talk to each other about this stuff." She looked around the table. "We couldn't help Andrea till we started comparing notes. That's why I'm telling you now about the fountains. If someone—something—is here trying to communicate with us, we have to face it together."

  Chapter 8

  Red organza drapes smothered the light at the windows, giving a cavernous feel to the bedroom. Candles on the dresser and headboard, on the nightstand and bookshelf, provided the only illumination. The reflected flames danced in the oval mirror above the bureau, burnishing the gilded frame.

  Aura Lee sat at a writing table encircled by a line of sea salt on the carpeted floor. She wore a dull gold robe, and her brassy curls were held in an upsweep by two onyx combs. Gold shadow had been applied to her eyelids, and every one of her fingers bore a ring. In front of her, along the rear edge of the desk, were three pottery dishes, each heaped with a different herb. At the end of this row was an empty crystal wineglass. As she struck a match, holding it successively to each of the dishes, she whispered,