Walk of the Spirits

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  “Miranda, you were right!” With a conspiratorial whisper, Ashley tugged at her arm. “It’s amazing! You were right about all of it!”

  “Of course she was,” Etienne mumbled, giving Ashley a wink. He’d finally managed to slip away from Mrs. Wilmington’s lecture. Now, as a telephone rang and the woman hurried to answer it, Roo and Gage quickly followed him.

  “Miranda was right, y’all!” Ashley said again, but Miranda didn’t share the excitement.

  “Okay, so we have a name. But how will I figure out the rest?”

  “With time,” Etienne reminded her. “It was the same way for Jonas, yeah? He told me how frustrated he’d be, thinking he had something figured out, then having to do it all over again. But with time—and practice—he got more feelings about it, stronger feelings about it. With time, he just started trusting that he knew.”

  Before the discussion could go further, Mrs. Wilmington returned from her office. She directed them over to some framed documents on the wall, where they all proceeded to crowd in.

  “Here are the articles—reviews mostly, nothing really personal—and here’s the playbill. Ah yes, with this very tiny sketch of Mademoiselle DuVrey, which I’m sure is quite unflattering and does her absolutely no justice whatsoever. Plus, there are a few more photographs of the opera house. No interior shots, unfortunately.”

  “What about the fire?” Etienne asked. “You said the opera house burned during the war?”

  “Yes, but not from any battle. I don’t think anybody ever knew for certain what started that fire. Oh, there were speculations, of course—jealous actors, spurned lovers, disgruntled employees, drunken soldiers—all the way to a carelessly discarded cigar or an accidentally overturned lamp. Luckily, there wasn’t a performance that night, so no audience was present. But there were some rehearsals going on.”

  Miranda was only half listening. Intent on the playbill, she gazed at the crude sketch of Ellena Rose that appeared alongside the diva’s name. Fair skin. You had very fair skin . . .

  Puzzled, she tried to pull back but couldn’t. She realized the air had grown stuffy, and the conversation around her had become a low, indistinguishable hum. She couldn’t take her eyes off Ellena Rose’s face. Fair skin . . . red hair . . . green eyes—no. One blue and one green . . . entrancing and irresistible . . .

  “No performance?” Miranda snapped back to the present. Her own voice was speaking out loud, and she was completely coherent, fully aware that no time had passed at all. “So then no one was hurt?”

  For a brief second, Mrs. Wilmington seemed flustered. Then, with an apologetic laugh, she said, “My goodness, I’m getting ahead of myself. Yes, the opera house was closed to the public that night—but Mademoiselle DuVrey was in her dressing room.” As if on cue, the woman’s face went grief-stricken. “Poor thing. So young. Such a tragedy.”

  “She died?” Though the others glanced at one another in surprise, Ashley was close to tears.

  “Heartbreaking, isn’t it? A young woman like that, with everything to live for . . . the whole world at her feet . . . her whole life ahead—”

  “Her whole story dragged out,” Roo mumbled, before Gage could stop her.

  Mrs. Wilmington gravely proceeded. “Apparently, the fire spread very quickly; there was total confusion and panic. By the time someone went searching for Mademoiselle DuVrey, it was already too late. She was trapped in her dressing room that terrible night. She perished in the flames.”

  “Burned?” Roo’s dark-ringed stare was genuinely curious. “Or smoke inhalation?”

  Mrs. Wilmington shuddered. “Her body was recovered the next day.”

  “And everybody was sure it was just an accident?” Gage asked.

  “That’s what history tells us.”

  “But history’s not always right,” Etienne spoke up. “A lotta history gets changed just through telling about it, yeah?”

  After a brief hesitation, the woman’s voice grew hard. “Times change very little. Tragedies occur—in many ways. Some people are simply self-destructive. Some people have everything they could ever want, and everything to live for, and they still throw it all away.”

  An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Miranda suspected that Mrs. Wilmington was referring to Parker, and from the others’ strained expressions, they apparently thought so, too.

  “So how come people around here don’t know about the opera house?” Etienne smoothly changed the subject. “Me, I’ve lived here my whole life, and I never heard anybody talking about it.”

  “It’s not marked either,” Gage added, “like a lot of our other historic places are.”

  Mrs. Wilmington’s nod was understanding. “I think it’s mainly because the original building—or should I say, most of the original building—isn’t there anymore. Once it burned, it stayed in ruins till long after the war. We have no way of knowing how much of it was left, or what parts of it were recovered and reconstructed into the gallery. I suppose it’s unrealistic to hope that anything should last forever. But I fear one of these days, the Rose won’t even be a memory.”

  “That’s so sad.” Again Ashley fought back tears. “Poor Ellena Rose. Nobody should ever be forgotten like that.”

  “But she hasn’t been forgotten,” Miranda whispered.

  She realized Etienne was watching her, standing close, hearing every word. She looked up at him, her face solemn.

  “Nathan never forgot Ellena Rose. That’s why he’s still here.”

  “I’m sorry, Miranda.” Mrs. Wilmington smiled politely. “Were you asking a question?”

  “We should probably be going,” Etienne said.

  Ashley, however, couldn’t resist one last look at the photographs on the wall. “The opera house was such a beautiful building. Wouldn’t you just love to hear all the stories it could tell?”

  Parker’s mother seemed amused. “Not all of them respectable, I imagine.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Ashley?” Gage prompted, but Mrs. Wilmington was again in her element.

  “Leading ladies often entertained suitors in their dressing rooms. People were expected to be discreet and look the other way.”

  “I bet she entertained lots of men,” Ashley decided. “I bet she had lots of lovers.”

  Roo clenched her teeth. “Ash. Come on!”

  “No, wait a minute, this is so interesting. I want to hear it.”

  “Yes, no doubt many lovers,” Mrs. Wilmington picked right up. “Women like her would have been constantly—and ardently— pursued.”

  While their discussion continued, Miranda began edging toward the door. A strange restlessness had settled over her, as though the room were suddenly too small, as though some sense of urgency were trying to get her attention. Her thoughts spun, connected by the most fragile of threads—she needed to untangle them. Now. Now, before they faded and disappeared, like the Rose Opera House.

  Outside, the blazing heat was merciless. She leaned into the brick wall of the building and closed her eyes against the sun, too distracted to realize Etienne had followed her.

  “Hey, cher, you okay?”

  Startled, she took a second to hone in on his face. “It’s there, Etienne. Answers . . . reasons . . . everything’s there. Nathan, Miss Ellena, the message—all I have to do is put the pieces together and make them fit. I just don’t know how.”

  She could see her frustration reflected in his eyes. Or is that his own frustration? She couldn’t be sure, and when she looked again, it was gone.

  “I don’t know how,” she repeated irritably.

  “You don’t have to know that now. You don’t have to do that now.” Etienne’s gaze was steady, his voice calm. “You have the wake tonight and the funeral tomorrow. That’s enough to handle.”

  “I had another vision. In the museum. When I looked at that playbill.”

  “So that’s why you came out here.” His features softened.

  He lifted one hand toward her face, th
en drew back again as the front door burst open. Almost guiltily, Miranda stepped away to make room for the others on the sidewalk.

  “Well, I am just so happy y’all stopped by today,” Mrs. Wilmington gushed, though Ashley seemed to be the only one listening. “And be sure to let me know if there’s anything else I can help with. Anything at all.”

  Gage and Etienne were having their own conversation at the curb. Roo was yawning. Impatient to get home, Miranda started pacing back and forth, past the front window of the museum.

  “Oh my God.”

  It was only a glance, but it was enough to stop her. To freeze her there with both hands on the windowpane while the others curiously squeezed around.

  “What is it?” Gage was there first, trying to follow the direction of her shocked eyes. “What are you looking at?”

  “Him,” Miranda whispered.

  Her finger shook as she pointed to the photograph. An old, yellowed photograph of Rebel soldiers.

  He was standing in the very back row, crowded in among many others, but proudly holding the reins of two magnificent horses. His gray uniform hung too loose on his thin frame; his face was just visible beneath the lowered brim of his cap. And though the quality of the photograph was poor—much of it faded to near obscurity—Miranda would have recognized him anywhere.

  The Gray Soldier. Nathan.

  He was strikingly handsome—nothing like the grim, haunted specter of her visions. And yet the eyes were the same—she could see that now—and the pale hair was the same, and the lips, relaxed in an easy smile, were definitely the same lips that had spoken to her.

  “Him,” she murmured again.

  Her pointed finger was still trembling. Gage’s fingers closed around it and coaxed it down.

  So young, so determined, all those soldiers. So strong and full of life. No thoughts of fear there, no hesitation; no thoughts of dying or losing the war. So certain of a quick return to homes and loved ones and the world they’d always known.

  Eyes misting, Miranda focused on that one familiar face. He looks happy. Then, easing her hand from Gage, she touched the windowpane once more.

  “Mrs. Wilmington, who is this?”

  Readjusting her glasses, the woman peered over Miranda’s shoulder. “Who? This man here?”

  “Yes, him.”

  “Goodness, I have no idea. Some poor Rebel soldier, obviously.”

  “Do you know where this was taken?”

  “Hmmm . . . well . . . it might have been one of these old houses on the Brickway. Or close to here, at any rate. So many of them look alike, you know. And unfortunately, some were torn down before we could save them.”

  But Miranda was scarcely listening. She caught her breath and struggled to choke out the words.

  “That’s our house. Hayes House.”

  “You’re kidding.” Gage glanced from her to the photograph. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. I mean . . . I’m pretty sure—”

  “I don’t think so, Miranda.” Ashley sounded sorry for disagreeing. “That doesn’t even look like your house.”

  Noting Etienne’s pensive stare, Roo gave him a shrug.

  “That’s Hayes House,” Miranda said firmly.

  True, it wasn’t the exact Hayes House of today. A different color, different windows, a slightly different shape. It looked smaller, and stood at the end of a dirt road, the roofs of several outbuildings barely visible in back. There was no wall behind it bordering a park, not as many trees, no landscaped gardens. But she knew it was Hayes House just the same.

  “How can you tell?” Gage asked her.

  I feel it. I know.

  “This picture is from your grandfather’s collection,” Mrs. Wilmington offered helpfully. “He kept excellent records—he documented everything. The photograph should be fairly easy to trace.”

  Though Roo arched a look at Miranda, none of them spoke. Only Mrs. Wilmington, who commented again on the picture.

  “I especially love the officers’ uniforms, don’t you? So sophisticated, so noble. And this one officer here . . .”

  Miranda hadn’t paid any attention to the man in front. Tall and distinguished, but with his hat tilted rakishly, he had dark hair, a dark goatee, and a long dark mustache, impeccably trimmed.

  “This was Travis Raleigh Fontaine,” Mrs. Wilmington finished. “He was a very well-known, high-ranking Confederate officer. Quite the ladies’ man of his day. But you can tell that just by looking at him.”

  Trying to be inconspicuous, Miranda gestured to Etienne. Her restlessness was getting worse, tiny pins and needles all over her body, but there was something about this photograph— something important! —something else she couldn’t quite figure out . . .

  “Notice his sash.” Mrs. Wilmington was clearly enamored. “The cut of his clothes, the shine on his boots. And, of course, a true southern gentleman was never fully dressed without his pocket watch.”

  Rolling her eyes, Roo tugged on the back of Gage’s shirt. “Save me,” she muttered. “I can’t take any more.”

  Gage batted her hand away. Roo tugged more determinedly on his back pocket.

  “You can actually see the chain here.” Parker’s mother tapped the window, demanding their attention. “Even in black and white, that chain seems to glitter. Solid gold, you know.”

  Leaning forward, Ashley strained to see. “It really does glitter! Oh, I think men with pocket watches were so handsome.”

  “Distinguished, without a doubt. A pocket watch and chain were as unique as the man who owned them. Take watch chains, for example. There were various lengths depending on where the watch was to be worn. In a vest pocket, perhaps. Or in the pocket of one’s trousers. There were even shorter chains, which attached the watch to a small ornament called a fob—and which in turn anchored the watch to a side pocket. But no matter its length, a chain assured that the watch was easy to handle and didn’t get lost.”

  Something . . . Miranda rubbed at her temples. Something . . . what is it? It’s there . . . answers . . . if only—

  “Were all chains fancy like this one?” Ashley asked.

  Mrs. Wilmington was delighted to elaborate. “Oh no, they could be made of many different materials.”

  Etienne’s body tensed. Miranda felt the quick catch of his muscles . . . the slide of his hands up her back . . . as he slowly gripped her shoulders. And she knew the realization had struck both of them at the exact same time.

  “They could be gold-filled or platinum,” Mrs. Wilmington rattled on. “Or expensive leather, or studded with precious stones. But some were much plainer—a ribbon, or a common strap. Even string. Oh, and some women even wove them out of their hair.”

  The silence was sudden and stifling. Five bodies held together by an undercurrent of shock.

  Mrs. Wilmington was clueless about the response she’d just caused. She tapped again on the window glass.

  “Yes, indeed,” she said, “that was the truest devotion. To have a watch chain woven from your sweetheart’s hair.”

  19

  "LET’S SEE THAT THING AGAIN,” Gage said, reaching toward Etienne. Obligingly, Etienne handed him the braid.

  The six of them were on the veranda of Hayes House, drinking lemonade. Ashley had called Parker on his cell phone, and he’d met them there within minutes. Now he and Ashley shared the porch swing, while Gage and Etienne slouched in wicker chairs. Roo sat cross-legged on the floor, pressing a frosty glass to one cheek. And Miranda sat beside Roo, leaning back against the wall, with her eyes wearily shut.

  “People are still bringing food,” Ashley whispered while more visitors came up the walk. “I feel like we shouldn’t be here.”

  “I want you here,” Miranda assured her. “Just let them step around us.”

  They all grew quiet as more people walked past, as solemn looks and sympathetic smiles and comforting words were offered. Without bothering to open her eyes, Miranda nodded and mumbled politely in response to each comment.
She’d probably hear about it later from Mom. About how rude people thought that niece of Aunt Teeta’s was. Right now she couldn’t care less.

  “It sure looks like human hair.” Gage marveled, turning it over in his palm. “It sure feels like human hair. Sort of.”

  “It’s old. And who the hell knows where it’s been all these years.” Etienne took a long swallow of his drink. The front of his T-shirt was damp with sweat, and he’d carelessly shoved his hair back from his forehead.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection.” Seriously put out with herself, Miranda groaned. “I saw some watch chains in my grandpa’s room. I just didn’t know what they were.”

  Gage handed the braid back to Etienne. “Well, whoever’s hair this was must have been a redhead.”

  “Ellena Rose,” Miranda said. “She was a redhead.”

  There was a brief pause as everyone traded glances. Then Ashley scooted to the edge of the swing.

  “Miranda, how do you know that?”

  “I just . . . the playbill.”

  Parker gave a derisive snort.

  “Wow. It wasn’t even a photo of Ellena Rose.” Roo set down her lemonade and lit up a cigarette. “So you got her hair color from just a black-and-white sketch?”

  “Yes. She had red hair and different colored eyes—one green and one blue.”

  “Maybe she was wearing contacts,” Ashley suggested. Five stares aimed in her direction. Her smile began to fade. “She was a celebrity. Celebrities wear contacts to match their clothes.”

  “You know, Ash,” Roo stated, “even after all these years, your keen powers of perception continue to amaze me.”

  Etienne gamely switched the subject. “That picture of the soldiers? Miranda’s right. I’m sure that’s Hayes House in the background.”

  Without a word, everyone looked warily toward the front door, as if half expecting the house to come alive.

  “Why didn’t you say something before?” Miranda glared at him.

  “’Cause I needed to think about it. And”—he hesitated, almost sheepish—“I didn’t want you freaking out any more than you were already.”

  “I’m more freaked out that you didn’t say anything.”