Claire frowned thoughtfully, trying not to appear too worried. "There was a light in the window at the top of the turret. I'm sure someone was there; the light moved. "
Noel looked doubtful. "Claire, there's no one here, I swear. It was probably a reflection you saw on the window. The moon or something."
Claire thought about protesting. She had seen the movement; the way the light had been doused. It wasn’t a reflection. But it would do no good to protest, so she nodded her agreement, "Probably." But she knew it wasn't. Just like the wineglass and the writing on the mirror. Something or someone was there. It wasn’t in her head, please God let it not be her imagination. But she knew one thing. She wasn't about to go up those narrow stairs tonight. She'd wait until daylight and take someone with her to brave the dust and cobwebs.
The next several days were more of the same. Hard, sweaty work and mind-numbing classes. On days like that, Claire wondered what had ever given her the idea she wanted to get her master's in education. She wasn't even sure she liked teaching that much, what with the huge classes and poor salary. But she knew she needed to finish what she had started, so she sat through the classes and completed her exams and papers on time.
Charles had arrived and assigned them to very specific jobs, depending on the day. One day it was cleaning the kitchen and functioning bathrooms, the next day they cleaned up after the painters who left a tremendous mess of tarps and plastic, sticky brushes, and paint pans. Neither girl had the opportunity to do any extra exploration, nor had they set foot in the right wing or some of the upper floors. And by the time darkness had settled over the house on Friday, Claire had no desire to go looking for evidence of someone in the attic.
Chapter Six
Claire stopped in front of the craft aisle and fingered the brightly colored yarn. She had always enjoyed using her hands, doing crafts or writing little stories. She had always claimed it was just a hobby although she had to admit to a desire to eventually write a children's book. It was a secret longing she had never been able to satisfy but planned to do after graduation. It wasn't a practical goal, and she had directed her life toward the practical, never the fanciful. She just wished she could do the illustrations that went with a picture book. Her lack of artistic talent grated. Now that she had moved into a much larger room, she wondered if she could set up her computer on the desk and again indulge in her hobby and try a little writing. Or perhaps some photography. The house would make a spectacular model for pictures.
“Claire, are you ready?”
Noel’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts. “Sure,” she replied, and stepped away from the shelves of beads and colored pencils.
She reluctantly left the store empty-handed, and they stopped for a quick meal on the way back to the house. They were taking the back way to get to the home. Shelbyville Road was a crowded commercial drive with not just one but two malls and dozens of other shops. As it snaked out of town, the road became a little less crowded, going from miles of shopping to neighborhoods and sloping fields. Even when they turned off the road, Claire continued to feel encouraged, and her mood didn’t change as they pulled up the drive. With the sun glaring unmercifully, the house looked oversized but peaceful. Claire couldn't understand her feelings of unease at times, the persistent feeling she was being watched, analyzed even. It was as though the house had a life of its own, a presence that was indefinable but very strong. She shook her head abruptly, trying to dismiss her doubts and retrieve her good feelings.
They quickly put away their scant purchases, mostly toiletries and basic groceries, eager to start what they considered a long overdue tour of the house. Dressed in torn jeans and tee shirts, the two girls started on the first floor. They passed through the now familiar entryway and went through the doorway to the right. Noel had been in this room before, but had said it was very disappointing. It was obviously a formal parlor, a small square room with low ceilings and a huge fireplace which dominated the far wall. The antique wall coverings were silky but gray with age. The furniture was either covered with sheets or had been sent out for repairs. One particularly large piece sat nestled in the corner. When Noel swept the sheet off, she saw an ancient piano, its keys so old they had yellowed and some were missing, leaving the piano looking like a smile with broken dentures.
Claire tentatively touched a key and listened to a soft note, surprisingly sweet considering the source. She wished briefly she had taken advantage of her parents’ offer of piano lessons. There was little choice in entertainment in the house beyond the second-hand television in the living area and the multitudes of books in the library. Perhaps she would ask John if he played.
Slowly she crossed the room to pull gently on the heavy curtains. The windows were still cloudy with grime, and the original curtains expelled a cloud of dust with the smallest movement. The room had once boasted soft pastel greens and pinks, but now was yellowed with age. The floor was wooden like the adjoining rooms, an intricate pattern under the stain, with a large rug covering the majority of the surface, running almost to the walls. The color was impossible to discern because of the filth that had accumulated over time.
Claire approached the fireplace dubiously, surprised at the sheer size.
"That thing is big enough to roast a bull on a spit," Noel said dryly. "I can't say I like this room, too cotton candy girlish."
"I'd say it's a safe assumption to say the lady of the house decorated in here."
"And she must have been cold blooded," Noel added, gesturing to the fireplace. "That was made to generate serious heat."
Claire agreed with a nod and left through the far door, oddly uncomfortable in the room. The parlor appeared tiny in comparison to the chamber next door. The ballroom was part of the new wing; the windows considerably larger, and the rays of the sun cast a brilliant golden color on the marble floor.
The walls were painted, something light that reflected the sun, with gilded edging on the inlaid panels. The room was bare of furniture except for a few carved chairs with deep red cushions faded in places by the sun. The deterioration here was much less, and Claire had to admit with the huge chandeliers replaced, and some serious cleaning and painting, the room would be majestic.
A flash of light made her turn to see herself reflected, five then ten times, as she stepped away from the back wall and nearer to the windows. Mirrors in gold frames lined the interior wall, making the room look twice its size. All were freshly polished and no chips or cracks showed on the slick surfaces. She stopped to study her own reflection, her angular face shown plainly in the bright light. She looked like a hag, she thought grimly. Her hair pulled severely back from her face, a gray shadow of dust under her sharp cheekbone, and her oldest clothing hanging loosely from her slender frame.
Noel, in contrast, grinned and danced in delight, watching her reflection twist and spin. "Oh, I'd love to have a party here!" she exclaimed.
"Or a wedding reception. Wouldn't it be lovely?" Claire said, her mind blanking out her own reflection and replacing it with the image of a bride, her expression verging on dreamy.
Noel made a face. "You're such a romantic. Imagine, hot lights, loud music, and some jamming moves."
Claire ignored her and looked down the long room. For a moment her vision blurred, and she could see them. Women in loose sheaths with feathered hats glittering as they spun in smooth moves with handsome partners guiding their steps. Claire could almost smell the rich perfume of bouquets of flowers and womanly scents. The music would be sweet, the strains of a string quartet or the livelier beats of a piano.
Claire sighed and looked back toward the mirror. From the corner of her eye she saw a figure, gowned in a long dark blue dress moving swiftly through the far door. She had the impression of dark hair, piled high, and smooth pale skin. Claire spun around, eyes skimming the windows behind her, but no one was there.
Claire knew there would be no sign of her. No sound of a closing door or light footsteps on the wooden floors. There w
ould be no footprints or even the lingering scent of her perfume. Much like the visions, those sick visions of before, when the figures left, they could rarely be found again.
Because they’re not real. They never have been, and they never were. She rubbed her eyes gently, feeling a light headache coming on. Why did it have to start again now? She was so close to finishing school. And she finally had a job that would provide her enough money to save for a real home, somewhere she could settle down once she had found a teaching position.
She gave her forehead a last stroke and turned to Noel who was still looking in the mirrors. She was grateful her friend hadn’t noticed her little lapse. "Let's move on. We've got a lot more exploring to do and the light is giving me a headache." She hoped her voice didn’t sound too strained.
After stopping in the kitchen for an aspirin and a soft drink, the girls next ventured into the library on the opposite side of the foyer directly across from the parlor. The apparently untouched volumes that lined three walls from floor to ceiling delighted Claire. Many tomes were locked behind glass fronted cabinets; some with pages still bound and unread. Someone had taken more care in preservation here, for the books had escaped most of the mold and mildew. There had also been some visitors because footprints were plain upon the dusty carpet and a layer of dust had been removed from some of the furniture. A large desk dominated the room, but it also held several cushioned chairs, newly recovered, and the fireplace was full of ashes. The room had been inhabited recently, but the renovation had not been completed.
The next room, as they moved into the newer wing, was long and narrow with bare walls stripped of the wallpaper and unconcealed windows with newly polished glass. The only hint of its past use were the sheeted instruments pushed up against the wall. The one thing that had been left uncovered was a sizable table, plain and utilitarian, that stood by the windows, flanked by two equally functional chairs. As Noel peeked under sheets, Claire walked over to the largest piece. It was a second piano, much newer and in much better condition.
"A baby grand!" Noel exclaimed.
"It sure doesn't belong here," Claire replied, running her hands on the cool, glossy surface.
"I wonder where it came from."
Claire pulled the sheet back in place. "They must have brought it here recently. I wonder if it was bought specifically for this place, for all the rich visitors to use, or if it is Mr. Edwards', and he had it moved here."
"If that's true, he must plan on spending some time here. Funny that we haven't seen or heard from him."
"Well, John said he hadn't seen him much either. I got the impression John considers him pretty remote, not very involved in the project just yet."
Noel ran her fingers down the sheet thoughtfully. "Maybe he was wrong. If I wasn't interested in a place, I sure wouldn't move a valuable piece like this one into the house until I knew all the construction was finished."
Claire had to agree, and took one last glance at the room. It held none of the unpleasant sensations the rooms in the older part of the building evoked.
"I think I like this room. It has potential."
Noel shrugged and went through the next door, following the simple layout of the house. As soon as the door was cracked, a hot, sticky breath of air leaked through, carrying with it the smell of rich soil.
"A greenhouse! Look at this!" Noel walked in first, pulling the door wide. One wall of clear glass let in a glare of pure sunlight while the opposite wall was lined with heavy shelves full of gardening supplies. Basking in the rays of the sun were trays upon trays of delicate seedlings, their pale yellow-green shoots just peeking out of the rich black soil. In front of them were several large pots with huge tropical plants and lining the floor were more pots with rose bushes and ornamental trees being nursed back to life.
The steady spray of water in pipes filled the room with sound so that Claire had to speak loudly in order to be heard.
"We have a gardener and a musician. Do you think all of this is for the house or do you think it just belongs to Mr. Edwards?"
"I don't know, but he spent some money in here. I'll bet he had to replace every pane of glass at least. I wonder if he has any fresh herbs in here."
"I don't see any, but I wouldn't know parsley if it came up and bit me. Let's get out of here, the heat's making me melt." Claire turned back toward the door.
As they sat together at the table, Claire looked carefully at the meal set before her. Noel had gone to great trouble, slicing and baking for the rest of the afternoon. The kitchen and dining room smelled strongly of garlic and Italian spices, bubbling pots of pasta and deep red sauces splattering a variety of colors on the once pristine appliances. The clean-up was going to be a pain, but the food was wonderful, Claire had to admit.
"You promise you didn't put any mystery plants from the greenhouse in here?"
Noel laughed and dropped her fork in her empty plate. "Yes, I swear. That doesn't mean I may not eventually grow some of my own herbs, but I'm not going to use things that aren't mine."
"Just checking." Claire leaned back in her chair, her hands resting lightly on her full belly. "Okay, let's see what we learned today."
"This place is huge and a long way from finished. I'm so glad we don't have to clean the whole thing. Can you imagine?"
Claire laughed at her friend, feeling comfortable after a long day. "And what about our mystery employer? He's rich, he plays or appreciates music..."
"Or just likes shiny furniture. And he hopes his guests like music."
"Whatever. He has an interest in botany or at least amateur gardening..."
"Or he's hired a gardener who we haven't met yet. Or maybe it’s meant for Eddie! You can't assume just because he equipped the place like that that he automatically is working in there himself."
Claire looked sheepish. "I guess seeing all those plants made me jealous. It gave me the urge to start digging myself, so I projected those feelings on him."
"I didn't know you liked to garden."
"I don't all the time. I just like to plant things and see how they turn out. I'm not crazy about the pulling weeds or watering every day."
Noel grinned. "Well, that's more than I would want to do."
"And what else have we discovered?"
"I don't know. I wonder if he's related to the lady whose portrait is in my room."
"This place is full or portraits,” Noel said grimly. "And some of them are pretty ghoulish looking. I hope he isn't taking after those guys in the third-floor hall. Way too serious for me."
Claire grinned. She had grown accustomed to the portrait in her room casting a watchful eye on her movements. Much easier to have a painted observer than some of the spiritual ones she had feared in the past. Imagined, she amended to herself.
The door was thrown open and John pushed through, his hands full of fast food containers. He looked surprised to see them and seemed faintly embarrassed. "I can't cook," he said shortly, and dropped the bags on the table.
Noel laughed teasingly at his discomfort and pushed an empty plate in front of him. "Eat some of ours. We'll never eat all of this. I love to cook, but I always make too much."
John looked back dolefully at his bagged meal and took it into the kitchen where he dropped it unceremoniously into the trashcan.
"Can’t refuse, thanks."
He loaded up his plate in the kitchen and returned to the dining room, plate and drink in hand. He sat quickly, stuffing food into his mouth with the enthusiasm of a very hungry man. As he spoke, he talked between mouthfuls. "We got some news today. The big man is coming in next week or so. Going to finally grace us with his presence."
"Mr. Edwards?" Claire asked.
"None other. Wants to check on our progress, I'm sure. But I think he'll appreciate it. He hasn't been here for over a month, and we've gotten a lot done." His voice trailed off as he considered the room. "Well, at least the kitchen is done, and it turned out perfect."
"You eat while we clean
up," Claire said briskly. "If Mr. Edwards is coming, I want everything to look perfect." She paused, looking at the layers of dust and dirt on the floor. "Well, at least it can look decent."
The evening left them feeling tired, but Claire still felt uneasy since the morning's events and sat up in bed, a book in her lap. She had borrowed a new romance novel from Amy but was having difficulty sympathizing with the heroine who seemed determined to make every man aboard the pirate ship angry. Claire thought darkly that the idiot might as well walk the plank now and get it over with.
Claire glanced up and her eyes seemed to settle on the mirror. The glass reflected the room with each tiny detail, but no messages had been forth coming, and the glass had remained blank for the day. But now the eyes of the portrait seemed to be watching her. Just like she had felt all day. Someone watching and measuring, judging and warning. She wondered briefly if the figure in the ballroom had anything to do with the lady in the portrait. Her mind may well have recorded the appearance of the woman in the painting and projected it on the mirror, a shift of light, a shadow from a window, and like magic, she was seeing a fleeing shape. She had a great imagination. Not that it was a good quality to have all the time, and just now, she wished she wasn’t quite as creative.
Claire got up, frustrated and confused. She walked determinedly to the painting, muttering to herself.
"If you’re just going to watch me then I'll find something else to do with you." She grasped the portrait by the ornate frame and lifted it down. It was heavy, far heavier than it looked, and she struggled to set it down gently with a frown on her smooth brow as she turned the painted face to the wall and brushed off her hands. In the portrait’s place, she hung her cheaply framed poster and stepped back. She had dust on her shirt and a splinter in her thumb but at least she would sleep with some privacy.
Talitha Page 7
