Edge of the Shadow

by Yvonne Montgomery

  Andrea nodded and crossed quickly to the stairs. She trotted down the steps and tried not to worry at the fearful expression she'd seen on Belinda Smythe's face.

  Chapter 12

  Moonlight shone soft on wet cobblestones and rainwater running from the drainpipe rang like a tinny bell. Kerry jogged up the steps and through the outer entrance to the associate house, fumbling for the key in her pocket. Entering, she shut the door behind her and leaned against it, grateful to be alone.

  Dropping her key on the foyer table, Kerry saw that her hand was shaking. "Dammit," she whispered. They'd done it, they'd tried to contact Caldicott Wyntham's spirit, and no matter how cynical she thought herself to be, the experience had been unsettling.

  Aura Lee's yearning face filled her mind's eye. No message had come from Caldicott, but it was impossible to believe she'd stop looking for it.

  Kerry kicked off her shoes. Aura Lee was ripe for the power of suggestion, and the instability of the weather had goosed that along. For her the plastic's blowing loose when it had was a sign that Caldicott had been there with them, and nothing would change her mind about that. But what freaked out Kerry was how Strudel had gazed at something, and had howled at something. What had the dog sensed to prompt those uncanny sounds?

  Shivering, she rechecked the door. Locked–as if a lock would keep ghosts out. No, she wouldn't go down that road. She went into her study, relaxing at the familiar scent of books. The desk lamp cast a glow over Caldicott's journals. Protected in the deep file drawer were the candy box and diary they'd found in the attic.

  The desk chair creaked as Kerry slid into it. She glanced at her watch. Sleep wouldn't come soon. Lifting the brass lamp, she slid the key from under its base. The lock clicked, and the drawer slipped open, prompting a rush of anticipation. Pulling out the yellow index card she used as a bookmark, she opened the journal to the page where she'd left off.

  February 11, 1909

  Mama used to say what withers people's souls is what happens to them in life or what they learn from it. Something bad must have happened to Mrs. Selkirk. Last evening Mr. Thornton passed along a copy of Charles Dickens's Bleak House to me and said I might find it interesting.

  Mrs. Selkirk couldn't have gone stiffer if she'd drunk starch for breakfast. Today she told me to clean the spots on the parlor carpet. She gave me such a look when she said I had to mix up the cleaning fluid. Then she smirked when she told me what went in it. Shaving white soap wasn't so bad, but the aqua ammonia made me sneeze and the smell of the ether made me sick after a while.

  I must have rubbed more than an hour at those spots where Mr. T. tracked in axle grease from the tool shed. It's too cold to open the windows and didn't she love that! Do unto others, Mama and Papa said, but they didn't know Mrs. Selkirk.

  It was only one example of the housekeeper's spiteful attitude toward the girl. Jessamine wrote in her careful script of her struggle to respect Mrs. Selkirk, even though the woman clearly disliked her. Her son, Edward Selkirk, lived in the housekeeper's set of rooms and worked as a hired hand to pay for his keep. His insolence toward Jessamine was hidden well enough to make it difficult for her to complain. More than once she'd thought his mother encouraged him to treat her so.

  Kerry looked up from the page with a frown. How old was Mr. Thornton at this point? Jessamine always wrote as if he was ancient, but she was only seventeen when the diary began. Women had been at a premium in those days, especially young ones. And what about Mrs. Selkirk? Did she have her eye on Mr. Thornton?

  July 13, 1909

  I rode to the train station today with Mr. T. and his sister-in-law, Mrs. Wolcott. She lives in Omaha, and didn't stay but two weeks, thank the Lord. She came for the one-year memorial service for Mr. T's late wife. I swear she looked at me sideways, and acted like I was dirt under her feet. Mr. T. and his sister were very cool to each other at the end. I heard them raise their voices last night.

  When the train pulled out of the station, Mr. T. stuck his thumbs in his vest and winked at me! "What say we make this a little holiday?" His eyes twinkled like he was laughing inside. Next thing I knew, we were back at the house and he was unhitching the horse. He told me to pack a picnic lunch. "We'll walk up to the Chautauqua and see what's doing."

  Mrs. Selkirk was upset when I told her his plan. I was so wound up I didn't even know what I put in the basket, just snatched up what I could. When we opened it, we found biscuits and butter and a mess of peas in the same kind of bowl as the chicken I left in the icebox! It didn't matter to Mr. T. He was dressed in his Sunday best, smelling of bay rum, but he looked at those peas and commenced to shelling and eating them right out of the pod!

  Before that, we listened to a man from Chicago, Dr. Philip Tweedham. His speech was about spirituality in daily life. It was better than a sermon, very uplifting.

  Jessamine's writing became so small that Kerry groped for the magnifying glass in the desk drawer. The next entry told of a milestone, and Jessamine was wary of discovery.

  July 15, 1909

  Today I met Kelvin Haslett, who accompanies Dr. Tweedham on his speaking tour. He is from Philadelphia and his parents are both dead. He has the most speaking eyes. He looked at me when we were introduced, and I felt so strange. Like I could fall right into his eyes, which are deep and brown as coffee. He is refined looking and polite.

  Kerry smiled. Jessamine sounded smitten. A yawn overtook her and she rubbed at her eyes, and then glanced at her watch. It was after midnight. She usually stayed up later, but the séance had drained the energy out of her. She thought of Elizabeth carrying Strudel down the stairs and of the disappointed droop to Aura Lee's mouth as she'd said good night. Life was messy enough without trying to contact the people who'd left it.

  Kerry slid the diary into its drawer and locked it, and replaced the key under the lamp base. She yawned again and turned out the light. What had it been like to live in the old house ninety-some years ago? Boulder must have looked very different.

  She tripped on one of the book boxes and muttered a curse. Thoughts of the past scattered like confetti, and she yawned again as she climbed the stairs to the bedroom.

  * * *

  Andrea lay in bed, tired to the bone, yet her mind was picking over moments in the day. Flailing in the attic darkness for the string from the light. The feel of Neal's arms around her. Strudel's desolate howling. The moment when she looked at Neal and he wasn't Neal. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply to calm herself.

  Soon she slept, shifting under the light covers as images flickered behind her eyes.

  She was climbing up a grassy hillside scattered with wildflowers. Behind her was a landscape that took her breath away. The meadow flowed like a green skirt down the mountainside toward the town. Cattle grazed and redwing blackbirds trilled to a background chorus of sparrows. Ahead of her the Flatirons reached toward the robin's-egg blue sky. Soon she was walking among dense pines standing guard at the base of a trail zigzagging toward looming sandstone boulders.

  She moved easily over the rocky talus, skimming up turns in the path with no effort. The high collar of her bodice grazed her jaw and the edge of her long skirt brushed the tops of the boots crossing from stone to stone up the trail. When she ventured into the open area hemmed in by jagged walls, she glimpsed movement and turned toward it. His familiar shape separated from the shade cast by sandstone formations.

  Without speaking he came toward her, almost a shadow himself in the black suit he wore. The shimmer in his almond-shaped eyes brought color to her cheeks. He stopped in front of her and took her hand. When he pressed his mouth against her wrist, it took effort to draw breath.

  Happiness flooded through her and tears spilled onto her cheeks. When he saw them, he brought her hand to the side of his face. What is it? he asked silently.

  Wonder at the love in his face rose in her. Mute, she could only look into his eyes.

  His lips curved. I love you more. Cupping her face in his hands, he bent t
o press his lips against hers. She closed her eyes to savor the sensation.

  Her arms drew him closer. He enfolded her against him. Come with me, love. He tugged at her hand and she followed him up the trail.

  The sky darkened and the wind began to rise. Her skin prickled as uneasiness replaced the enchantment she'd felt in his embrace. This isn't right, she thought, looking around in puzzlement. The path was gone, replaced with rocks of every size. He'd gone ahead of her and she could barely see him.

  Something's wrong, she called silently. But he kept moving away from her. Wait for me!

  She struggled over one pitted boulder, only to find a bigger one on the other side. The wind wailed, pushing to force her back down the mountain. Dark clouds threatened and she had to strain to see through the dust. She caught sight of him as he crested a hill. His black hair was blowing in the wind. Then he was gone. She was alone.

  * * *

  From the studio doorway Rose and Aura Lee watched as Andrea slashed at an oversized canvas with her brush. In the short time they'd been there, she'd made war on it.

  The paintbrush as a sword, Rose thought. A chill crawled down her spine. "How long has she been doing this?"

  Aura Lee shook her head, arms hugging each other as if she were cold. "Strudel woke me up maybe twenty minutes ago." Her voice trembled. "I guess she heard something. Oh, Rose," she whispered. "What can be happening to her?"

  Andrea slapped the brush into one of the pigments on her palette. She turned the brush gracefully and thrust it at the canvas in a stabbing motion. Her eyes were wide open, but Rose couldn't tell where her gaze fell.

  Rose turned away and held her hands to her face. What in the hell was going on at Wisdom Court? First at the séance, now this morning. She rubbed at her eyes and lowered her hands. "Has she said anything?"

  Aura Lee shook her head. "I think she's asleep."

  Surprised, Rose turned back. Aura Lee's eyes, naked without shadow on each lid, were red with fatigue. "Asleep? You mean now? Her eyes are open."

  "I know, but look at her. She's like a robot, or a puppet." Aura Lee shuddered. "She looks empty."

  "Oh, don't say that." Rose looked back at Andrea. "How could she be doing this while she's asleep?"

  "I don't know." Aura Lee's voice wobbled. "Why hasn't she heard what we're saying?"

  "There's one way to find out." Rose stepped into the studio, intent on challenging Andrea.

  Aura Lee grabbed her arm. "No, no. You mustn't. Everything I've ever read says you shouldn't wake up a sleepwalker."

  "She's not sleepwalking. She's sleep-painting." At a sharp little cry from Andrea, Rose gasped.

  Andrea's arm moved unceasingly. Tears trailed down her cheeks.

  Rose started toward her. "I'll try not to frighten her," she assured Aura Lee. "We can't just leave her like this. We have to make sure she's all right."

  Aura Lee nodded, but doubtfully. They walked across the tile floor to Andrea, who continued her work. As they approached her, they glimpsed the canvas. When Rose was close enough to see the whole painting, she stopped. Aura Lee, eyes trained on the images there, walked into her but Rose didn't feel the impact.

  On the top half of the canvas a wild mountainside towered toward stormy skies. Rose could almost feel the turbulence of the air and the power of earth so forged by water and wind. On a trail along the landscape were rough outlines of a figure looking up the steep hill, one arm up as if to protect himself.

  Andrea ground the brush into rusty paint on the palette, then slapped color onto the picture where more rocks took shape. Observing her vacant face, Rose realized Aura Lee was probably right about her being asleep. Her eyes were open and tears spilled onto her cheeks, but she was expressionless.

  She struggled over the rocks, calling silently for him, receiving no response. Where are you? Why have you left me behind? She fell to her knees in despair. He would never return.

  "No!" Andrea jerked awake at the sound of her own voice. Her heart thundered in her chest. A dream, she told herself, struggling for calm. It was a dream. She lifted her hand to her head, and realized that she held something. She stared in bewilderment at the tightly grasped paintbrush.

  "Andrea, you're all right," Rose said. "You're in your studio. You've been painting."

  Andrea looked past her pointing finger at the large canvas. The tumultuous landscape seemed to explode from the canvas. Shocked, she inhaled sharply and took a step back from the easel. "I painted that?"

  Rose nodded. She watched her anxiously.

  Andrea turned back to the painting, swallowing against nausea. Her gaze moved over it as she registered the power in the brushstrokes.

  When Rose's hand touched her arm, Andrea turned abruptly toward her. The concern in the older woman's eyes was mirrored on Aura Lee's face.

  Andrea shook her head. Her hair tumbled about her cheeks. "I don't believe this." She stepped toward the door.

  "But—" began Aura Lee.

  Andrea didn't stop. "I don't know what's going on. I can't deal with it."

  Chapter 13

  Wisdom Court was quiet in the mid-morning sun as Andrea walked across the cobblestones toward the associate house where Dolores lived. Inside the small portfolio case was her sketchpad and the drawing of the sundial Kerry had so resented. She marched up the stairs and into the lobby, and before she could talk herself out of it, she rang the bell labeled Rivera.

  Dolores didn't answer the first chime. Andrea imagined her at a critical point in her work and almost turned away but anxiety made her press the button again.

  When the door opened, her gaze flew over stained work clothing and Dolores's clay-streaked hands. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I need to talk to you."

  Taking stock of Andrea, the artist's brown eyes warmed with concern. "You look terrible, jita." She waved her into the apartment, motioning toward the living room. As Andrea sat on the leather sofa, Dolores asked, "Can I get you some coffee or something?"

  "No, thanks. I just want ask you something."

  Dolores perched on a chair. "What is it?"

  "The day I arrived, at dinner that night you talked about a feeling you get sometimes when you're working. A sense of connection with something outside yourself."

  Dolores nodded cautiously. "Yeah. What about it?"

  "I got the impression that you meant more than what Kerry called the 'flow'. You compared it to church."

  Dolores relaxed. "When the work goes really well, that can happen. All of a sudden you're more, like you've plugged into something way bigger. Why?"

  Andrea hesitated and then took the plunge. "Have you ever sculpted something you hadn't thought of?"

  "You mean something that hits me all at once? Something out of the blue? Sure."

  "No, I mean you're working on a project and what you mean it to be doesn't happen. You create a figure you didn't think of. Or you find yourself in your studio and you've made something that wasn't even in your mind."

  Wariness crept over Dolores's features as she listened. "You mentioned this the other day. It's happened to you."

  Oh, shit. She doesn't know what I'm talking about. Andrea felt a trickle of sweat at the back of her neck.

  Dolores leaned forward in the chair. "I've had strange experiences while I was working, jita. It can get intense. That's why we're considered out-there, you know?" Her smile included Andrea.

  Andrea didn't smile back. At that moment she'd have traded everything making her an artist to stand on solid, unimaginative ground. "That's what I'm afraid of."

  Dolores frowned. "Afraid?"

  "Of being out-there. Of insanity." Andrea closed her eyes at the shock in Dolores's face. "Weird things have been happening since I got here."

  "Hold it a minute." Dolores jumped from the chair and hurried out of the room. She came back with a glass that she handed to Andrea. "Kick this back."

  Andrea took a gulp and tequila warmed her all the way into her chest.

  Dolores sat down. "Bette
r?"

  Andrea nodded.

  "Tell me what's going on."

  Andrea shivered reflexively. "I've been sketching a man I've never seen while I'm asleep or in a daze, or God knows what. And that sundial I drew the other night, the one that upset Kerry so much? No memory of doing that. And this morning Rose and Aura Lee found me painting in my sleep."

  Dolores reached for the wooden box on the coffee table. From it she took out a cigarette and a matchbook, and lit up.

  "Don't tell anybody I smoke, okay? In Boulder you're better off robbing banks than letting people see you smoke."

  "I promise." Andrea leaned back into the sofa cushions. Dolores blew smoke out on a sigh. "You're a forensic artist, right? Couldn't you have sketched that face from a description and just not remembered it?"

  Andrea closed her eyes, summoning the details of the first sketch. Her eyes shot open and she grabbed the portfolio. "For God's sake. I brought the damned things to show you." She spread the case across the coffee table. "Here's the first one."

  Dolores examined the drawing of the young man with almond-shaped eyes and dark hair in a widow's peak.

  "I've made hundreds of sketches over the years, and I have a visual memory, but this guy—I know I'd feel something if I'd drawn him before."

  Dolores lifted the first sketch to look at the second. "Same man, all right." She looked under it and found the sundial drawing. "What does this have to do with the others?"

  "I don't know. I don't remember drawing it, either."

  Dolores put them back into the portfolio and settled into the chair, wrapping her arms around her legs. With her chin resting on her knees, she frowned in concentration. Cigarette smoke cast a gossamer shadow across one cheek. "You said something about a painting?"

  "It's mostly a landscape, but the roughed-in outline of a figure is there. I feel it's the same man, and I think he's in danger."

  Dolores ground out her cigarette. "I've heard of people drawing pictures of the dead—psychic painting or something. What you're doing sounds different. I mean, nobody's giving you details or anything. What's spooky is not knowing you're drawing."