“Sorry. But it is the same house—the way it was originally.”
Now it was Parker who groaned. “Oh, don’t tell me. The house contacted you. You talk to dead houses.”
“The thing is,” Etienne continued, unfazed, “I’ve worked plenty construction, and I’ve done plenty work on this house— I know good renovation when I see it.”
Roo cast Miranda a bland look. “Construction sites are popular in this town. A chance to see Etienne Boucher without his shirt on. Very hot.”
The others could hardly keep from laughing. As one more sad-faced visitor approached the house, they all tried to compose themselves.
What’s wrong with me? I shouldn’t be joking at a time like this. Miranda felt both guilt and defiance. What did Etienne say? About people laughing the hardest when they’re scared and don’t want to show it?
“Your grand-père’s things.” Focusing on Miranda, Etienne steered the conversation back again. “You’re gonna have to go through them, yeah? See what else you can find out?”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t just tell Aunt Teeta I want to go through his things.”
“You’re his granddaughter. Just say you want to know more about him. It’s true.”
“Just say it’s for our project,” Ashley said helpfully. “Which is also true.”
“If he documented anything about that photograph, it could really help us.”
“I didn’t see any files in his room,” Miranda added. “And I didn’t see any papers in there either.”
Etienne gave a distracted nod. “He didn’t keep things like that in his room. He kept them in the attic.”
“Well, if you know so much about them, why don’t you go through his things?”
“Look,” Gage broke in, “we can all go through his things. We can all help.”
“Oooo, I love attics.” Ashley gave a little squirm of anticipation. “Maybe your grandpa has some old trunks up there, do you think? Like attics in the movies? With clothes and old hats and those dressmaker dummies?”
Roo drew on her cigarette. “You’re looking for dummies? Don’t tempt me, Ash.”
“Well, as tempting as it is to continue this fascinating and stimulating discussion”—Parker grimaced—“I’ve got to get home.” Standing, he pulled Ashley up with him. “I guess we’ll see y’all later?”
As the others got to their feet, Ashley gave Miranda a tight hug. “We’re coming tonight. You know, to the wake.”
Miranda, once more, was touched. “Look, you guys, I appreciate it—really. But you don’t have to. It’s going to be so depressing.”
“We’re coming,” Roo said.
“Yeah, Roo likes depressing,” Parker insisted. “She’ll feel right at home.”
“Parker, that’s so rude,” Ashley scolded him. “This isn’t anything to joke about.”
“Right. Sorry.”
The last to leave, Gage paused on the top step to look back at her. “We’ll be there.”
An evening had never felt so endless.
As a steady stream of people—all friends of Aunt Teeta; the whole town, it seemed—came and went from the funeral home, Miranda was forced to stand and shake hands, endure countless introductions, and say “thank you” till she wanted to scream. She couldn’t concentrate on the wake or anything else around her. Clues kept flitting through her mind—unknown connections between a soldier and an opera singer, a watch chain, a fire, and Hayes House.
“Oh, Miranda, are you doing okay?”
Deep in thought, Miranda was startled by Ashley’s hug. She hadn’t noticed the group coming in, but now she saw them talking quietly to Aunt Teeta in one corner of the room. They all looked as strained as she felt. Especially Etienne.
Despite her own misery, Miranda’s heart went out to him. She still didn’t understand the closeness he and her grandfather had shared, but it was obvious Etienne was hurting. She watched his gaze shift slowly, reluctantly, toward the casket. His jaw was rigid, his features like stone.
“Is Etienne—” she began, but Ashley was already shaking her head.
“He’s taking it really hard, I think. But he doesn’t want anybody to know it.”
Before Miranda could respond, the others were there, all offering sympathetic hugs. When it was Etienne’s turn, his hug was tense and brief.
Feeling dangerously emotional, Miranda tried to lighten the mood. She scanned Parker, Gage, and Etienne with a critical eye.
“Look at you guys,” she said at last. “I didn’t even recognize you. Y’all clean up real good, as Aunt Teeta would say.”
Parker grinned. Gage and Etienne seemed vaguely embarrassed. Amused, Roo and Ashley deliberately looked the boys up and down.
Leaving Miranda to her family duties, the rest of them began drifting away, recognizing friends and neighbors in the crowd, making rounds to say hello. Miranda was relieved when Mom told her to get some air. The place was close and stuffy and reeked of lilies, and as she made her way through the many visitors, it suddenly dawned on her how haggard her mother looked.
She couldn’t help feeling a twinge of guilt. Mom, as usual, had had to take care of all the burdensome details—wake, funeral, burial, eulogy—and had already made lists of even more things that would need attention afterward. Papers and various legal documents, bank boxes, the will, and Grandpa’s possessions— the sheer thought of what Mom would have to deal with was staggering. Miranda made a firm mental note to help her out more and complain less.
Noting that everyone was engaged in conversation, she slipped out the front door. A few strangers lingered on the walkway, chatting quietly, but, to her surprise, she spotted Parker at the far end of the porch. He was alone, bent forward with his arms crossed on the railing, staring up at the sky.
“Parker, what are you doing out here all by yourself?”
He didn’t seem particularly surprised by the interruption— just turned his head to look at her. No cocky grin now, no smart-ass jokes. Just a pensive face and a nice smile.
“Hey,” he said.
Had he been drinking? Miranda thought she could smell a faint trace of liquor on his breath, but she didn’t see any evidence. Maybe he was hiding it—in his car or in a suit pocket.
Keeping a friendly tone, she tried again. “What happened? Did Ashley kick you out?”
“Actually”—his smile tightened—“I’m not very good at these things.”
“Me neither. You want to know something?”
“Sure.”
“I keep wondering if all these people are just here out of curiosity. Like this is a sideshow—step right up, come see crazy old Jonas Hayes.”
Parker shrugged. “Some of them, I guess. He is kind of a legend in this town.”
“I’m glad it’s a closed casket. I don’t want everyone staring at him.”
“People have always stared at him.”
Though it wasn’t said unkindly, Miranda frowned. “But maybe if people had really gotten to know him, they wouldn’t have thought he was crazy.”
“Maybe. But you’re talking about St. Yvette. Most people his age who lived here are dead now. A lot of people your mom’s age have either moved away from here or moved to here from someplace else. And with our generation, we hardly ever saw him at all. So most of what people know about Jonas Hayes is probably from stories they’ve heard.”
“But stories get changed through the years. So who knows what’s even true?”
“I guess it depends on the story,” Parker said quietly. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard any of them.”
“Not really.” Sure, Mom had shared that one episode with her, but ever since then Miranda had longed to know so much more. “I mean, it’s not like I’ve never asked my mom about it. But somehow it just never seems to be the right time.”
“You get that, too, huh? Always something better to do than sit down and talk with your kid. Oh, unless it’s to criticize, of course.�
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Miranda heard the bitterness in his tone. She thought of all the arguments she’d had with her own mother, and she sympathized.
“I feel that way sometimes,” she admitted.
But Parker had returned to their former topic. “I can tell you something about your grandfather. Well, something my mom remembers. I’ve heard her talk about it.”
“And it’s really true?”
“She says it is.” Sighing, he wheeled around and propped back on his elbows, stretching his legs out in front of him. “A little girl disappeared, and your grandfather told them where to find her.”
“That’s all? That’s not much of a story.”
“Okay. Did I mention that the little girl told him where to find her? And that she happened to be dead at the time?”
Miranda felt the hairs lift at the back of her neck. “Go on.”
“They searched for this kid for weeks. She was like, five or six years old. The whole town was out looking for her. And then Jonas Hayes walks into the police station one night and says he knows where she is.”
Just like the other time Mom told me about. Swallowing hard, Miranda leaned against the railing beside Parker. “And did he know?”
“He led them straight to her. They found her body stuffed inside an old tomb near the Falls.”
“So . . . she really was—”
“Dead. Strangled. Just . . . you know . . . a little kid.” Parker’s voice lowered harshly. “The killer ended up being some relative— some cousin or something. The guy was so freaked out that they found the body, he confessed in a note and then shot himself.”
Miranda hesitated, yet she had to ask. “But before they found the note, did the police ever think my grandpa did it?”
“Hmmm . . . let’s see.” Parker began counting on his fingers. “First, he’d been caretaker at the Falls for years. Second, the tomb where they found the girl’s body was way back in those woods, really hard to get to. Third, the Falls had already been searched, but nobody found anything. And fourth, he told the cops that the girl—the dead girl—had asked him to come and get her.” Turning slightly, Parker seemed amused. “Hell, no. No suspicions there.”
For a split second the night seemed to recede around her, stars spinning out in all directions. Miranda met Parker’s stare full on.
“Parker, he wasn’t crazy.”
“Excuse me? Did you happen to notice him scaring the crap out of us the other day?”
“He wasn’t,” she insisted. “And he really could communicate with spirits.”
“Hey, I don’t know, okay?” Distractedly, Parker ran one hand down the front of his jacket. For the first time Miranda noticed the slight bulge from an inside pocket. A flask? She stared at the jacket. Then she stared at Parker. Noting her scrutiny, he gave a wan smile.
“Yes. To answer your question, yes, I have. But just a little.”
“Parker—”
“Don’t start. I get enough of that from Ashley.”
“Only because she cares about you. She doesn’t want to see you hurt yourself.”
The bitterness reached out from his voice . . . spread across his face. The smile disappeared. “Maybe I want to hurt myself.”
“But why? You have . . . you have so much—”
“What? Potential? All that wonderful, perfect potential I’m expected to fulfill?”
Miranda softened. “I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to say you have so much. That’s just it. You have everything.”
“Maybe I don’t want everything. Maybe I want something else besides everything.”
“Then what is it, Parker? What is it you really want?”
Silence fell between them. As Parker gazed out into the night, Miranda noticed the tension in his shoulders, the tightening of his jaw.
“Etienne told me how your grandfather loved you,” Parker murmured. “Jonas Hayes, the lunatic—how he loved you so much and felt like he knew you, even though he’d never met you before now.”
Miranda couldn’t speak. She watched Parker’s expression go darker.
“Weird, huh. Everybody thinks my mom and dad are perfect. But you know what? They don’t even know me. I’ve lived with them my whole life, and they’ve never known me.”
He looked at her then, and for one brief second there was such sadness in his eyes. A glimpse of truth that was raw and aching and vulnerable. “You’re a nice girl, Miranda. I’m glad your grandfather loved you so much.”
As though suddenly self-conscious, he drew back from her. The bare emotions vanished; the old carefree facade took their place. When Ashley walked out on the porch, Parker gave a loud, shrill whistle that echoed clear across the parking lot.
“Parker Wilmington!” Ashley hissed. Trying to ignore the offended stares of onlookers, she marched over and planted her feet angrily in front of him. “What on earth has gotten into you? I am so sorry, Miranda.”
Parker grinned. He lunged for Ashley, grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her close. “I’m leaving. You staying or going?”
“Go,” Miranda insisted. “This thing’s almost over. There’s no reason for you guys to hang around.”
Ashley didn’t seem convinced. “Are you sure? The others are leaving, too, but I can stay. I can always walk home—”
“No walking home,” Parker ordered.
“I can always get a ride later with Etienne—”
“No riding with Etienne!” Parker’s hands went up in despair. “Dammit, I’ll be competing with that guy for the rest of my life!”
“And Gage, don’t forget,” Ashley teased.
“And Gage.” Wrapping her in a hug, Parker steered Ashley toward the steps. “I’ll be competing with Etienne and Gage for the rest of my life!”
Ashley gave Miranda a see-what-I-put-up-with sigh. Hiding her concern, Miranda watched the two of them get into Parker’s car and drive away.
By nine-thirty, the dreaded ordeal was over. As Miranda watched the final visitors leave, her mother and Aunt Teeta went off with the funeral director to discuss last-minute details for tomorrow’s service. A welcome silence descended around her, along with a crushing wave of exhaustion. She felt numb and totally drained. And standing there in that sudden quiet of the viewing room, she realized that she and her grandfather were alone together for the last time.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Grandpa. We were supposed to get to know each other and be happy. You and Mom were supposed to make up. And you were supposed to live for years and years and years, and always be there when we needed you . . .
Bitter tears blinded her. Grief and regrets tore at her heart, the ache almost unbearable. She hadn’t expected to feel so much— not this depth of emotion, certainly not this depth of pain— but even more than that, not this fierce and burning anger. You weren’t supposed to do this, Grandpa—you weren’t supposed to leave me.
With no distractions now, she let herself focus on the casket. It rested there at the front of the room, covered by a spray of roses, flanked by plants and flower arrangements, serene and dignified beneath carefully dimmed lights. Nothing had really changed in here, Miranda reminded herself, nothing except the subdued chatter and crowds of people, yet the room was different somehow. Definitely and somberly different. This was death. This silence was death . . . these shadows were death. And this aloneness—this coffin abandoned when everyone else went home tonight—this terrible aloneness was also death.
Miranda thought of her father.
And she thought of the Gray Soldier.
That haunted, hopeless face of his; that desperate, endless wandering.
Because he’s searching for something, for someone . . .
Because he’s alone.
All at once the awareness was too much for her. All at once she wanted to go to her grandfather, to see him, hold his hand, hear his voice. Tell me what to do, Grandpa. If this had to happen to me, why couldn’t you have stayed here to tell me what to do!
She started to
ward the casket when something stopped her. Some slight noise just outside the door, a footfall so soft, she wasn’t certain if she’d actually heard it or only sensed it. Panic stabbed through her—fears of restless phantoms—and, though she told herself she was being irrational, she ducked down behind a chair and held her breath.
The footsteps entered . . . paused . . . and passed her by. Summoning all her courage, she forced herself to look out around the chair.
Etienne.
He was standing alone beside the casket. Just standing there with his arms at his sides and his head bowed. The tension that had gripped him earlier was gone; now his shoulders sagged, and his whole body seemed tired. As Miranda watched from her hidden place, her heart cried.
“Jonas,” he whispered. Again, a sound so soft, Miranda wondered if he’d even spoken aloud. “I had to come one more time, yeah? Say good-bye . . . say thank you . . .”
Etienne’s voice broke. Stepping slowly forward, he slid his hands across the top of the casket and rested his face against the polished wood. The words he murmured were hushed and foreign and filled with pain. His body shook with silent tears.
“Our secret,” he choked then, drawing a deep, unsteady breath. “You saved me, Jonas. I’ll keep our pact, I swear. I’ll never tell . . . I’ll never forget.”
A muffled sob escaped him. And then, everything went completely still, as though the aftermath of his sorrow had spread a gentle calm throughout the room. Overcome by what she’d just witnessed, Miranda could scarcely keep her own emotions under control. She sank lower out of sight, and when she looked again, Etienne was gone.
Oh, Etienne . . . I’m so sorry . . .
More determinedly this time, she walked to the casket. She straightened the roses on top, and ran her fingertips lightly over the lid. She could feel wet streaks there from Etienne’s tears, but after a brief hesitation, she left them where they were.
What is it, Grandpa? The pact you and Etienne made? The secret you two kept? And what did you save him from? For it was clear to her now that whatever connection her grandfather and Etienne shared went far deeper and was far more important than she’d imagined.
Closing her eyes, Miranda conjured up her grandfather’s face, the kindly face from her cherished photograph. I need you, Grandpa. I’ve always needed you. Only now I need you more than ever, and it’s too late.
Walk of the Spirits Page 16
