“Maybe she had an abortion.”
Grant shook his head again. “He would never have allowed it. Certainly wouldn't have driven her out of town for it.”
Ali sat back and looked up at the lonely, old house.
“I didn’t know him all that well, but I knew enough to know the look in his eye—to see he’d done something terrible,” Grant said. “I know he beat her and threw her over that railing, and one day I’m going to find a way to prove it.”
Grant didn't notice Ali studying him, but in the unguarded moments of thought that passed, she could see there was a connection here. He’d known Sarah personally, was probably a friend that cared for her deeply, and because of that, Ali couldn't accept his version of the story without further investigating it for herself. That would be irresponsible. Despite that, she knew this story, true or not, would make a great base plot for her own new novel. And that house would be the setting.
“Well, this guy might be a murderer, but he sure as hell knows how to take care of his house,” Ali said.
“Hm,” Grant grunted. “I suppose that means we can forgive him.”
“Wasn’t saying that,” Ali sung, rolling her eyes when he wasn’t looking. “I was just wondering how such an apparently cruel and mean man could care so much about his house.”
“Remind me to put ‘keeps a good house’ down on my resume next time I apply for a job, since that serves as such a good character reference.”
“Wow.” Ali tried not to laugh, but Grant was just so serious about this. “So, did you always hate Mad Harvey or was it only after he became a murderer?”
Grant looked back at Ali, tearing his thoughts away from the tower window. “It’s not just the murder that bothers me; it’s the fact that he’s still walking around a free man.”
“Well, no matter what version of the story is true, you’re right; it will make for a good ghost story.”
“Good.” He slid his chair forward and started the engine. “Then you can dedicate the book to me.”
“I may just be inclined to do that,” she said with a smile, pulling her safety belt across her lap.
“But, word to the wise,” Grant added, sweeping his index finger down the side of his nose. “No one talks about Sarah or Mad Harvey, so don’t ask around, okay? No one in this town ever really got over it.”
“Noted,” she said, ending the recording on her phone. As they drove away, Ali noticed the “For Rent” sign on the run-down carbon copy of Mad Harvey’s house next door, and quickly took down the number just in case she needed to move a little closer to the story.
Mad Harvey
A week went by without Ali’s muse showing up. She’d given him an idea and a setting, but he hadn't had the decency to offer her the spark that would set her story alight. So she decided to go get it for herself, and coffee would be the first ingredient in her little recipe for a story, hopefully followed by a new home.
For the sixth time this week, Mrs. Beaty was shaking her head when Ali walked into the cafe. “Sam again?” she guessed.
The portly old woman tossed both hands up, more annoyed than upset. “He’s in one of his moods.”
Ali had yet to meet the notorious Sam, but she was sure she’d like him. He sounded like quite a character. Perhaps he’d end up in her novel. “Where is he then? I still need a face to put to the name.”
“In his office making a call.” She flicked her hand toward the door on the other side of the cafe that said, “Staff Only.”
“Ironic. I’m here waiting on one,” Ali said, taking a seat at the nearest table.
“A call from Grant Pryce, by any chance?” Mrs. Beaty pried, as she usually did. But it was never the gossipy or nosey kind of prying. She seemed genuinely curious about people, and her meddling in their lives extended only so far as to serve them in some way.
“No. I haven’t seen him since our drive last week. I’m actually waiting on a call about this rental property I spotted. The caretaker’s supposed to show me through today.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Beaty wiled away at her jobs, looking up in between sentences. “And why might you be lookin’ to rent a place, luv?”
Thrusting her shoulders back and lifting her chin proudly, Ali released a radiant grin. “I’ve decided to write a ghost story.”
Mrs. Beaty stared at her blankly. “And, excuse my prying, but why do you need a rental for that?”
“Well, I don’t, I guess.” The grin melded with a playful pout. “I just happened upon a rental that looks perfect for a ghost setting.”
“So you won’t be leaving town after the fall then?”
“Mrs. Beaty,” said Ali pragmatically, taking the coffee as the old woman placed it on her table, “I’m not sure I can ever leave. After all, this town has the best coffee.”
Mrs. Beaty chortled, wiping her hands on her apron. “Aw, you do flatter an old bird, luv.”
The phone on the table started buzzing then and Ali excused herself to answer it, heading outside so as not to disturb the patrons. “Hello?”
“Miss Beaumont?” said a clipped, husky voice on the other end.
“This is she.”
“I’m calling about Mrs. Denver’s old place on Hamilton Road.”
“And it just so happens I’ve been expecting your call,” she said playfully.
“Yes, well, something’s come up and I can't show you around today. But,” he added, as the disappointment shot Ali’s smile right off her face, “if you're okay with it, one of the neighbors can meet you there at three and let you in.”
“That’s fine with me!”
“I’ll make the necessary arrangements then, and I’ll leave the tenant keys with the neighbor for if you decide to take the place. You can sign the papers on the counter, and I’ll drop by to get them off you tonight.”
“That’s incredibly trusting of you. What if I’m some dirty thief that wants to squat in the house and run a drug lab—and you’re just gonna get the papers off me later?”
The man laughed once, more of a scoff really, as if daring her to be. “If you were, you wouldn't stand much of a chance against old Mrs. Denver. She may be in a retirement home now, but she can swing a mean walking cane.”
Ali laughed loudly.
“Besides, that old house has been vacant for ten years,” he continued. “I’m sure a drug lord would be more neighborly than bugs and rats.”
“Right. Okay then.” Ali laughed again. “I look forward to seeing the house.”
* * *
“Well, hello again, petal,” said a friendly voice from behind.
Ali turned to find the woman from the picnic auction—the stout Lucille Ball look-a-like—on the road behind her. “Hello!”
“You must be Ali,” she said, offering her hand, her bright yellow pants and white cardigan making her look like a 1950s real estate agent. “I’m Diane. Friends call me Di.”
“Lovely to meet you again, Di.”
Di beamed, the use of her nickname making her day. “Well then, let’s go take a look through this old house.”
“Lead the way,” Ali said, way too eager to see what was inside. From the front garden, it looked almost inch-for-inch a replica of Mad Harvey’s haunted house, which would make it easier to write the ghost story based on it.
“The house is actually a Queen Anne style—often confused as Victorian—built in 1880 by the Denvers; stayed in the family ever since,” Di said. “It’s got a rubble stone foundation and all its original fixtures, with a few modern adjustments like hot water and electricity, you’ll be happy to know.”
“Very happy.” Ali smiled, giving a careful appraisal of the portico as they stood beneath it. The floor creaked and groaned at their weight, as if its old bones just couldn’t stand it, while the unkempt gardens and strangling ivy around the turned wood posts had Ali wondering just how “busy” the caretaker usually was. More concerning, though, was the giant tree out front, so tall and wide it looked as if it had been standing there
since long before humans arrived in this little town and couldn't possibly last another year. “So the caretaker’s obviously too busy to do much caretaking,” Ali remarked.
“Oh, not at all.” Di waved a hand, pushing the creaky front door open. “Mrs. Denver doesn’t want him troubling himself with it too much. After all, soon as she kicks the bucket, her family will sweep in and overtake the place. She doesn’t want it looking too pretty for the money-hungry grave robbers.”
Ali followed Di inside and took off her coat, wishing immediately that she’d left it on. A gentle breeze tore through the foyer like more of a hurricane and whistled all the way down the hall toward a room on the right, just past the stairs, but Ali’s attention was taken to the room on the left—which Di called the parlor. As was the style in the day this house was built, furniture cluttered almost every corner, and a large fireplace sat overlooking it all, its back to the foyer. The time-hop was complete with Tiffany lamps that had to be worth a fortune and curvy old armchairs with intricate trims and floral finishes. Even the wallpaper had that wet look to it, with darker patches here and there that might even be mold. It was dark, cold, cluttered, and instantly charmed Ali.
“This house was actually built by the same man that built the Harvey place next door,” Di said, “but Mrs. Denver kept it the way she inherited it and never updated the fireplace, so it’s the old-fashioned wood-burning kind, not the push-button.”
“Just the way I like it,” Ali said, scanning the hearth for a stack of wood. There was none, which meant she’d have to go out and get it herself. Lucky she wasn’t raised in the city, even if she had ended up there after her father died.
“Through here is the dining room.” Di led Ali to a room off the parlor, where a layer of dust powdered the smooth finish of a large wooden table. Past there, a farmhouse kitchen, still lost in time, sat grimly waiting for the glory days. Without the modern countertops around the sink, its simple cabinet of plates and cups, and the ancient iron stove set into a nook, made Ali gulp. She wasn’t a terrible cook, but she was certain this house would make a terrible cook of her. She had no idea how to use anything in this room, and if there was anything that might deter her from renting this old house, the kitchen would be it.
“Don't let the age scare you,” Di said, laying the keys on the solid wood island in the middle of the space. “Stove was replaced in 1930, so it should still work.”
Ali was certain one could see the horrified expression on her face from China.
“You should see the darling kitchen in the Harvey place next door,” Di said with a wistful grin. “Had the pleasure of using the stove there myself—”
“So you’ve been in that house?”
“Sure have. Lovely house. As nice inside as it is out. Come on”—she left the kitchen through a narrow door on the right—“I’ll show you the mud room and laundry.”
“What’s a mud room?”
“It’s the room off the back porch where you take off your shoes after walking up there.” Di flipped her chin at the glass door and Ali’s eyes widened. Out there, under a dying day, the forest backdrop looked like chunks of autumn-colored candy floss just waiting to be explored. A thin stream cut through the lush grass, which seemed to go on forever from the back steps all the way to the tree line, with a little brown footbridge giving pedestrians access to the trail on the other side.
“Wow.”
“Wow is right. That there is the reason I bought my house—just next door.” She crossed her arm over her body to point.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Going on twenty-five years now,” Di said proudly. Which meant she was here when Sarah Harvey died. “Come on, you haven't seen the best part yet.”
“Which is?”
“The bedroom.” They walked back to the foyer, past another room so overstuffed with old furniture that Ali gathered it was a storage area, or had been since the owner retired to a nursing home. There were boxes half opened and sorted through, and an old organ in the corner, cobwebs claiming the keys.
Up the flimsy wooden stairs, Ali was shown the first bedroom, with a bay window overlooking the front of the house. It had a lot of charm, an old wooden bed with knobs and a quilted cover, but it was dusty and smelled wet. Di assured her that would fade when the house had been opened up for a while. Apparently, it was typical of these old houses.
The room beside it, which Ali could see through the shared fireplace, was much larger and had clearly been Mrs. Denver's room. Di assumed Ali would make that one her own, but from the moment she stepped in it felt like it belonged to someone else. The rocking chair in the corner sat facing the big brass bed, as though some old woman still occupied it to read stories as she put the grandbabies to sleep, which gave Ali the creeps.
There was one bathroom across from the bedrooms, and two other rooms on the left side of the second floor, but they were just storage rooms now, she was told.
“And now, the room everyone wants to see,” Di said excitedly, taking Ali back downstairs to the foyer. “The turret, or tower, if you like.”
Just off to the left of the front door, there was a small archway leading into the round tower. Ali looked up but all she could see was darkness and a broken spiral staircase. There was no door, although she could see there might have been once, so the air that was blasting through an obviously open window up there just waltzed on into the house like it owned the place.
“Stairwell’s been out of commission for twenty years now,” Di said, “so you can’t go up there these days, but Mrs. Denver never used it as anything more than a sewing room anyways, so there’s not much up there to be found.”
Ali backed out of the icy room, disappointed and even more eager now to get a look at the place next door.
Di stopped in the middle of the foyer and sighed, smiling. “You really do get a sense of who she was when you stand in here, don’t ya, petal?”
“Of who?”
“Mrs. Denver,” she said, still taking in the room like she just couldn't believe she was standing here. “Her family were founders of this town, you know.”
“I didn’t know that,” Ali said.
Di sighed again. “I just love these old houses—especially when they've been untouched for this long.”
Ali did too—especially from a novelist’s perspective—but she was concerned that its natural state might be somewhat of a danger to the living. Especially that stove.
Then again, even without the neighboring murder house, this sort of setting would spindle all kinds of stories, and Ali wasn’t sure she would ever want to leave once she got used to the cold, the damp, and that musty smell. She pictured a Christmas tree in the corner by the fire, and imagined a giant turkey for one roasting in the old oven. She could see herself living here, even if the sensible adult in her right now was terrified. “How long is the lease?” Ali asked.
“Month-to-month,” Di said, “but you can stay as long as you like. Mrs. Denver’ll be around for the next twenty years at least, and her family won’t take possession of the house until she passes.”
“Lovely,” Ali said with a nod. “Then, I think I’ll take it.”
“Really?” Di’s face beamed. “Wonderful to have you then, neighbor. I’ll show you the papers to sign and give you all the dates to mark on your calendar.”
“Dates?”
“Oh, this is a busy street, petal,” she said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Lots of events and parties.”
“Oh?” Ali cringed, wishing she’d known that before she agreed to stay.
“First one you have to know about is Halloween.” Di started walking. “We have a big street party, and everyone comes…” Di prattled on about bake sales and other upcoming gatherings as she led Ali to where everything was set up in the kitchen, a pen present and ready for the signing.
Ali fought with herself not to get overwhelmed by just how community-oriented this town was, but none of those events fitted terribly well into
a reclusive writer’s day.
“Now, there’s a list of instructions here on how to use the stove and what to do if the lights go out—”
“If they go out?” Ali paused with her pen to the page.
“It’s an old house. Old wiring. Oh, and the hot water system likes to play games with people. If you can’t get the panel open to fire it back up again, just pop over next door. The caretaker lives right there.”
Ali didn't see where Di pointed, but a flood of dread just made her arms heavier. “Which next door?”
“Right there,” Di announced, smile lopping when she saw the look on Ali’s face.
“Harvey! He’s the caretaker?”
“Mr. Harvey’s a nice man, once you get past that hard exterior—”
“But…”
“Aw, now, given the look on your face I’d guess you’d had a run-in with him,” she said, clearly amused. “He’s a softy at heart, really. Just takes time to grow on you.”
“I actually haven't met him, but I heard…” Ali felt the blood leave her face. “Someone said he was mean and…”
“And?”
She leaned in to whisper, as if this old house might tell its twin what she said. “And that he murdered his wife.”
Di’s face dropped and just as Ali thought she might spill the secrets to her over a hushed conversation, Di startled her instead by cackling loudly. “Schoolyard talk, that is. Old Mad Harvey, isn't that what they call him?”
“Um…”
“Don't listen to it, petal. It’s only rumors. That man never gave anyone on this street a reason to believe he’d hurt that girl—”
“But—”
“No buts,” Di insisted. “Give the poor man a chance before you write him off completely.”
“Okay.” Her chest caved as she sighed. Di was right. It wasn't journalistically responsible of her to make assumptions based on one person’s account. “So he’s not dangerous then?”
Dead and Gone Page 4