by Dani Lamia
“Ah,” he answered when he got her gist. “No, I’m afraid he’s rather more intelligent than I am.”
Phoebe laughed. “It’s probably a ‘she’ then.”
Holgrave grinned handsomely and chuckled. “No doubt.”
Phoebe tuned in to a conversation between Glendarah and Hester.
“Rather thought it was a pack of them,” said Glendarah.
“Quite possibly,” said Hester. “Business was slow at the gallery today as a result. Until the animal or animals are captured or killed, residents will be wary. There’s a better chance that out-of-towners will not be aware of the killing and will come anyway. In any case, I’m afraid I’ve lost Mrs. Carp as a client.”
“Agreed,” said Glendarah. “Poor woman.”
There was a shared glance across the table between Hester and Glendarah after that statement, and Phoebe suspected Glendarah’s sentiment sounded a little insincere. Emboldened by her assimilation into the group, at least in appearance, Phoebe impulsively spoke out.
“I wonder then, Auntie Hester,” she started, “if it wouldn’t be a good idea to halt the readings and such.”
Hester’s face flushed. She put her head up and looked down her nose at her grandniece. “What in the world are you chattering about?”
Oh, shit. Phoebe met her great-aunt’s glower, careful to remove any attitude from her own demeanor. “I mean to say, maybe out of respect for her loss, it may look good for the community if you shut down the psychic readings part of your business.”
The dining room became silent as a morgue. If insects were present on the property anywhere, as they should have been, Phoebe was convinced she would have heard the chirping of crickets.
“My dear girl,” Hester addressed, letting her fork strike her plate with a resounding metal-on-china ring. “You simply do not understand what you are saying. I am a wiccan, as you should well know. That parlor is not mere folly. It is my livelihood. It supports this great house, the very same that I have granted you to stay in, for the time being, and I do not appreciate your audacious suggestion to shut it down would show respect.”
Phoebe stammered, aware that all others in the room had their eyes on her. “I didn’t mean that, exactly. I mean, uh, you have the gallery downtown, surely that—”
“That gallery is doing just well enough to sustain itself only!” Hester shouted. “Works of art do not fly from the shelves like soda pop, which is why we were able to acquire it from the Maule family to begin with. This house is sustained by the boarders that are kind enough to stay here and contribute to its support. That parlor is an essential source of additional income, not to mention a representation of the Pyncheon family legacy!”
“I’m sorry, Auntie Hester,” offered Phoebe, nearing tears. Still, she did not flinch from the old woman’s stare. “I meant no offense.”
Hester said nothing for a moment but was unmoved. Her angst was clear, and for just a moment, Phoebe thought Hester would tell her to pack her things and get out.
“I’m sure, dear Hester, that your grandniece did not suggest it as a permanent solution, nor intend the statement as a personal attack,” Glendarah said softly.
Phoebe swallowed hard, trying to push down the memories of her great-aunt’s treatment of her mother and the petty argument over personal effects that she had conceded to the woman. She had wanted to knock the old bat on her bony ass that day, and that feeling was recurring.
“It’s true, Auntie Hester,” Phoebe said levelly. “I was suggesting that it be a temporary measure.” She stopped there, not addressing Glendarah’s second point on purpose. As far as she was concerned, if Hester wanted to take it that personally, she had it coming.
“Very well,” Hester said finally.
At that, the guests resumed their dining, but it was a long moment before any conversation resumed. It was Hester herself that started it off.
“How are you feeling today, Mr. Onenspek?” she asked.
“Oh, very well, Ms. Pyncheon. Thank you,” he responded, sounding much more coherent than the previous evening, though to Phoebe, he still appeared under the influence of something. “Well enough to have begun a new work this morning,” he said with some pride. He cast his eyes over everyone at the table as he spoke.
“You’re quite prolific, Mr. Onenspek,” Holgrave commented. “I have to admit, I’m no expert in art, but I dare venture a guess that you’re producing a new work every couple of days. Considering their . . . intricate details, it’s quite astonishing.”
“I have these three wonderful ladies to thank for that,” Onenspek beamed. “With Ms. Pyncheon’s drive and support and the inspiration I receive from Ms. Alameda and Ms. D’Amitri, I feel like I can accomplish anything.”
Holgrave raised his wine glass. “To your continued success, then,” he toasted. The others followed suit and took a sip.
“Thank you all,” Onenspek said with honest gratitude and drank his wine.
Phoebe peeked at Holgrave from the corner of her eye, making sure she kept a smile on her lips in case she was noticed. She wondered if he was sincere in his well wishes. He noticed her glance and smiled at her.
She thought fast and spoke. “So, Mr. Holgrave, I didn’t see you around today.”
“We did seem to miss each other completely,” he said. “I was out for a hike, taking photographs.”
“Oh? Did you get any pictures of anything special?”
“Always,” he answered with a grin. He said nothing more and continued with his meal.
Phoebe decided not to press him in the presence of the others, but she promised herself that she would follow up with him later. With so many pictures taken of the House of the Seven Gables, Holgrave must have some motivation for it.
The meal went on for a painfully long time from Phoebe’s perspective. Watching Dzolali lean in for whispers and giggles with Ned Onenspek was torture, made all the more maddening by the occasional winks Dzolali gave her. Had the dining table been less vast, Phoebe would have tapped Dzolali’s legs with her toes.
What is her deal with him, anyway? Phoebe pondered. After a while, she determined that the oddball artist, as nice of a man as he seemed to be despite his drug addiction, would not get in her way when it came to Dzolali.
“Is that séance still on for tonight, Hester?” Glendarah asked as everyone neared the end of their meals.
“I’ve received no information to the contrary,” Hester answered. She sipped more of her red wine and cast her eyes on her grandniece. “Phoebe.”
Phoebe blinked and turned to Hester. “Yes?”
“You must sit in tonight,” Hester insisted.
In the process of taking a drink from her glass, Phoebe’s eyes shifted to Dzolali, who looked back at her blankly. No help there. “Say what now?”
“You will join us in the parlor tonight for the séance,” Hester augmented.
“I will?”
“Certainly. I can think of no better way for you to gain appreciation for the wiccan way of life and this house than to have you join us.”
“Uhhh . . .” Phoebe stalled, looking into Dzolali’s copper eyes. She wanted nothing to do with such a ridiculous event. As Phoebe stared, Dzolali gave a nearly imperceptible nod. “Sure,” Phoebe finally said, and she downed the remaining wine.
“Excellent,” Hester concluded. “You will, of course, remain dressed as you are.”
“No problem,” Phoebe said. She had discovered that she liked her new look very much, especially since Dzolali had created it.
“May I have your permission to attend as well?” Holgrave spoke up.
Surprised, Phoebe looked at him. Her expression must have bordered on shock, for when he noticed it, he grinned and shrugged.
Hester met this request with a surprise that was more pleasant. “Why, Mr. Holgrave, I thought the skeptic in you w
as more prevalent. You are, of course, most welcome to join us.” She turned to the artist. “Mr. Onenspek, perhaps you can find your way clear to give yourself the night off and join the party?”
The dreamy look in Ned’s eyes had returned. Onenspek snapped out of it when Hester addressed him. He cleared his throat and sat up abruptly. “Certainly.”
Phoebe shot a look at Dzolali, who was wearing that sultry grin on her face again as she gazed at Ned. The green monster of jealousy grumbled in Phoebe’s heart but was sated when Dzolali turned to meet her eyes once again.
“Excellent,” declared Hester. “We begin at midnight, but please arrive a few minutes prior.”
11
Evening Interlude
With the meal finished and the guests dispersed to the rest of the house to carry on with their evening, Phoebe took great care in clearing the dishes from the table. The last thing she wished to do was to soil the exquisite gift she wore. She decided she would wash the dishes after the farce in the parlor was concluded, but she went downstairs to let Alva know her plan.
When Phoebe entered the kitchen, she found that Alva had departed early. Carefully, she unloaded the dumbwaiter, and cleared what she dared from the plates, setting them on the counter to be washed.
Holgrave entered, this time loudly enough to not startle Phoebe. “Surely, you’re not going to wash all that in that lovely dress.”
“Surely not,” she answered, mocking his English accent playfully.
“Care to go for a walk before the festivities?” he asked.
Phoebe laughed. “Festivities? Good one. I could use some air. Let’s go.”
They stepped through the screen door and were greeted by the noisy, winged sentinel. This time, Phoebe stopped and watched it for a moment. The bird eyed her calmly though steadily.
“Why in the world does Hester keep that poor thing?” Phoebe asked.
“I take it that she was not a pet person when you were a child,” Holgrave supposed.
“She wasn’t.” Phoebe crossed her arms and stepped down to the dirt path with Mr. Holgrave remaining at her side. The air was cool but not cold. There didn’t seem to be a cloud above, and the stars shone as clear as a photograph. The moon was full and cast everything in a silver glow. Even the emerald green of her dress shone metallically. “Beautiful night.”
“It is,” Holgrave agreed. “A perfect night for contacting the dead, wouldn’t you say?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Phoebe said, smiling.
Holgrave began sauntering eastward, taking them past the green and red neon light of the ‘Psychic’ sign in the parlor window. She watched him thoughtfully as he crossed his hands behind his back. The stiff breeze sent his ponytail wagging and his suit jacket fluttering.
“Alec,” she addressed, and he turned to her. “I was doing laundry today, and I couldn’t help but be nosy.”
“Ah. So you had a look through my latest batch of negatives,” he stated.
“I did.”
The pair took several slow steps before Holgrave prompted, “And?”
“And I couldn’t help but notice that you seem to be in love with this old house.”
“It certainly is unique, don’t you think? Worthy of photographing, I’d say.”
Phoebe shrugged. “I guess.”
“Does my apparent obsession with the House of the Seven Gables worry you?” he asked and gave a small laugh.
“Worry? No.” She shook her head and stopped walking to look at him curiously. He stopped at her prompting and waited for her next words. “But I do have to say I’m curious as to why.”
Holgrave’s eyes turned toward the house, now many yards behind them. “It’s got character,” he said.
Phoebe regarded the old Victorian along with him. She had to admit, at that moment, the place held a romantic appeal. Much of its dilapidation was hidden by the night, and the silver moonlight showcased the gray stone exterior. The windows glowed in yellow light, and the only thing that ruined the view was the neon sign.
“Have you printed any of those photos?” she asked.
Holgrave kicked a small stone from the road and looked to his feet. “I have indeed.”
She had expected him to elaborate, but in what way, she didn’t know. He turned his face skyward and she found herself focusing on his profile. Like the house beyond them, his face was graced with the moonlight.
“So, are you planning on keeping them to yourself?” she asked.
Holgrave looked at her briefly and took a step toward the house. “If you’d care to see them, follow me.”
Follow she did. They went to the third floor without anyone seeing them, though, as they passed the master bedroom, Phoebe slowed, listening. The door was shut, but the lights within spilled out into the hall through the narrow gap at its bottom. There was some conversation within the room, but Phoebe didn’t put effort into eavesdropping. They passed Onenspek’s bedroom, also closed but with no trace of light. The next room, however, showed that he was in. All was quiet in his studio as they stepped through the light cast from under his door.
Phoebe followed Holgrave to his attic suite. Once inside, he bid her sit where she wished. She chose the chair near the south-facing window.
“Well, forgive me for flaunting technology in such a home,” said Holgrave as he pulled a tablet from his camera bag and activated it. “I’ve downloaded some pictures from my digital cameras onto this so that one can view them in greater detail.”
Phoebe watched him tap the screen and swipe through the pictures in the device’s memory folders. He settled on one and handed the tablet to her.
She took the tablet in her hands, mindful to not touch the screen, lest the picture change or disappear. It was a nicely framed shot of the house, taken from some distance south of Gable Way. From the shadows and the orange sunlight, Phoebe deduced that it was taken shortly before twilight. The lights were on in almost all the windows, as was the vulgar ‘Psychic’ sign.
“Nice,” she commented.
“I took that picture more than a week ago,” Holgrave said. “Then, as I tend to do, I stood in the very same place and switched cameras. I had black-and-white film in the thirty-five millimeter that evening.” With that, he slid an eight-by-ten print out of a manila envelope and handed it to her.
At first glance, it was a spot-on copy of the one on the tablet, though bereft of color and grainy in comparison, giving the glossy paper version a softer look. This, Phoebe knew from her experience in the newspaper business, was characteristic of film photography. She held the print and the tablet side-by-side and scrutinized them.
“Very nice,” she said.
“Notice anything?” he asked, obviously hinting at some difference that he had full knowledge about.
Phoebe took her time to answer, looking at the two pictures, comparing features of the house one by one. Other than the lack of color in the photograph, she was at a loss. She looked up at him and shook her head.
Holgrave moved to the left side of the chair and crouched close to her. “Look at the raven in the cage.”
Phoebe did so. “Oh, so he moved while you took the shot. Is your film a what’s that called? A slow exposure?”
Holgrave shook his head. “No, I was using an eight hundred film.”
“I take it that’s fast,” she said, teasing with his own turn of phrase.
“Relatively,” he confirmed.
Phoebe brought the print closer and looked again. The raven differed between the pictures. On the tablet, the bird could be seen in his or her cage on the porch, lit by a ray of sunlight spilling onto the porch from the west. The bird’s right eye reflected green, the other, still in shadow, was almost imperceptible. It was apparently quite aware of Holgrave’s presence and was staring straight into the camera. If it was capable of smiling, Phoebe was sure it would have.
In the black-and-white print, however, the bird had taken on a blurred shape, as if it had brought its wing across its body, its feathers draping like a cape. The eye in the sun was white but smeared, catlike in shape.
“So, he moved,” Phoebe concluded.
“I give you my word that he did not,” Holgrave said with conviction. “He never moved, the entire time I was standing there. It took a mere few seconds to take the digital picture, switch to the film camera, focus, and take this shot.”
“Oh, but Alec—”
“I promise you,” he affirmed.
Phoebe pursed her lips, curling her mouth to one side in an expression of doubt. From the day she’d met him, she felt that Alec Holgrave was continually holding something back from her. Now, she couldn’t tell if he was putting her on or not.
Her expression must have annoyed Holgrave, for his face lost all trace of humor. He took the print and the tablet from her hands. He returned the photo to the envelope and swiped through the picture folder on the device hastily.
“Here,” he said, returning the device to her grasp. “Look at that.”
This next picture of the house had been taken from the east, with Holgrave apparently standing next to the old carriage house, the wall of which could be seen at the left border of the picture. The southeast turret was at the left of the shot, with the entire eastern side framed. Lights were on in the third floor of the turret, Glendarah’s bedroom and the attic suite.
“Do you know what room that is, the one there,” Holgrave pointed to the picture.
“Yes,” she answered, thinking him silly. “It’s this window here.” She pointed to her right.
“At the moment I captured that picture, it was late afternoon,” Holgrave explained. “The sun is kept from shining into the lens by the trees beyond the house.”
“Which explains why the light is on.”
“But I wasn’t in there,” he said, exasperated. “I had been out since late morning, taking pictures. I didn’t leave the lights on.”
“So, Hester was in there changing the sheets or something,” Phoebe explained. Holgrave was starting to make her nervous. He was reaching for some point, as yet unfathomable to her.
