Talitha

by Rachael Rawlings

  She went immediately to the table in the music room and shuffled through the papers, taking out the stack of letters.

  Cole went around the room, illuminating it with table lamps. His gestures were quick and steady, but she got the impression he was trying to keep himself busy, and that he was as anxious as she was.

  Carefully, she smoothed out the letters, easing the brittle pages until they lay flat. Next to them she placed the picture, face down.

  The writing was distinct and a match. The slants, the stroke, the uneven rounding of letters was the same.

  “The bastard,” Cole said softly, flatly. He stood, looking over her shoulder much as she had shadowed him in the attic above. “I should have known...”

  “How could you have known? How could anyone?”

  “But I knew something was wrong,” he said harshly. “I just had a feeling the two families had to be linked. There had to be something stirred up by my coming back here.” He wiped his face with his hand. “I still don’t understand. The house wasn’t his. It was Matthew’s. It was Michael who was seeing Beatrice. It’s his handwriting. Why did his brother end up buying it?”

  “Wait,” Claire held out her hand. “So, while Beatrice was still married to Henry, she was having an affair with Michael Edwards. Your great great grand something.” She paused to catch a breath. “And after she disappeared, and Henry was supposed to be living here as a hermit he was actually interred upstairs. So was the house was just left here? Maybe taken care of by just the staff? Then when Henry ‘died’,” she used a gesture to indicate the false death that had been reported, “Michael’s twin brother swoops in and buys the house.”

  Cole rubbed his eyes wearily. “I always wondered how he found this place. Matthew, I mean. They lived several hours away, in Ohio I think, and pulled up roots to move here. The book stated as much. But now it seems obvious. He had family here.”

  “His brother,” Claire said, flipping the picture to see the two handsome faces, so alike.

  “Michael must have influenced him, promised him the house at a great price. It had been years since the murder and the house had reverted back to the state.”

  “But why? Why move your family into a house where you know a body is boxed into the floor? Never mind the fact he was involved in the murder himself.”

  “But that’s the beauty of it. How better to insure the body is not found than to move your own family in? I’m sure he influenced how much construction was done.”

  “But Beatrice...”

  Cole picked up the picture, holding it closer to the light. “I don’t think Beatrice ever left the house either. You said you felt two spirits, fighting. Beatrice and Henry. Together forever. I don’t know how she died, suicide or murder or maybe just an accident, but I bet Michael here was involved. If we tore this place down I bet we’d find her.”

  Claire shivered, wrapping her slender arms around her middle in an unconscious gesture of protection.

  “You think he killed her,” she said flatly, her eyes sliding from the picture in his hand to his eyes, glittering with an icy intensity.

  “I don’t want to believe there was another murder, and I’d rather not have monster in the family, but yes, I think he did something with her. Maybe she panicked, wanted to go to the authorities, or maybe she just had a breakdown...”

  “No, you’re making her out to be a victim. She wasn’t. She murdered her husband and helped hide the body. I think she was a lot stronger then you give her credit for.”

  Cole looked puzzled. “You have a feeling about her.”

  “Yes. Maybe it’s just women’s intuition. But I’d bet a bundle she gave him a reason for wanting to be rid of her.”

  “You think she’s one of the ghosts.”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  Cole got up, pacing across the room to the window. “Okay, enough of this. I think we need a break. Let’s get some dinner. You’ll be leaving tomorrow, and we’ll have a nice long time to look up more facts, but this time away from the house.”

  “Facts about Beatrice?”

  “About Michael. We know what happened to his brother, but what happened to Michael?”

  “You don’t think he’s here too?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  They ate dinner in the brightly-lit kitchen, wolfing down peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and potato chips like first graders.

  Cole looked mournfully at the crusts left on his plate. “God, I miss Noel.”

  Claire grinned and gave him a companionable shove. “Look, I told you I didn’t cook. We should have ordered pizza.”

  Cole frowned. “No one delivers out here.”

  Claire laughed again. “At least we have ice cream for dessert. Noel bought some really good stuff before she left.”

  Weighted down with bowls full of bananas, ice cream, several toppings and whipped cream, they retired back to the music room. For those few golden minutes, they had avoided the subject of the house. They had talked of their childhoods, their favorite movies, their favorite food. It was fantastically good to think of something else besides the betrayal and sorrow that hung heavy in the atmosphere of Talitha.

  Cole pushed his empty bowl away and his face sobered as he looked again at the photo. With slow deliberate movements, he pulled out the book and opened it to the page with the portrait revealed. Then he rummaged through the stacks of photocopies and pulled out the newspaper clippings.

  “There’s something I feel like I’m missing,” he said softly, looking at the group of pictures. “Let me get the portraits together.”

  A moment later he returned with the stack of framed canvases and laid them out together with care. They looked at the faces, the stiff clothing, the backgrounds, searching for clues until Claire caught her breath.

  “It’s the ring,” she said excitedly. “I knew I had seen it before. Henry was wearing it in the newspaper photo, and here it is in the portrait.”

  Cole leaned over to look closely. “You mean Henry and Matthew wore the same ring?”

  “Look. They are exactly the same. This is the proof we’ve been looking for. How else would Matthew have gotten the ring unless it was taken from Henry, or Henry’s wife gave it to her lover?” She made a face. “And then he passed it on to his brother?”

  “Well, there are several other ways, like he might have found it in the house after he came here, but I admit it is pretty good evidence.” He looked rather disappointed as he said this, and she felt a sense of regret for proving her theory.

  “Just because you have one skeleton in your closet doesn’t mean you’re all a bad lot,” Claire said, gesturing with a spoon.

  “Skeletons, now that’s appropriate,” he responded smiling back. He cocked his head, a gentle smile easing his stern features. “You know, you’re one of the bravest people I know. Not many would stay in a house after seeing what you’ve seen here.”

  Claire sighed, swallowing uncomfortably at his praise. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen these things. I think I’ve been haunted all my life; I’ve just been trying hard to pretend it wasn’t real. There have been spirits in every house I’ve lived in, to tell the honest truth. Yours are just a little more,” she paused, “insistent.”

  “Noel hinted you were more sensitive. She cornered me in the library one day and gave me quite a lecture. I think she wanted me to understand you were more susceptible. Vulnerable.”

  Claire nodded. “I’m sorry Noel felt she had to speak to you like that, but she has a strong protective instinct, at least where I’m concerned. Like I told her, I don’t feel vulnerable, just available.” She found her cheeks heating at the double meaning. “It’s like I have a special spiritual cell phone, and mine is the only number they have.”

  She looked down to her bowl, now soupy with melted ice cream and chocolate. “It sounds odd, I know. I haven’t ever said much to anyone because the subject makes most people uncomfortable. Especially m
y family. Everyone has hesitated to believe me, except Noel and you.”

  He took the bowl from her hand. “Don’t worry, I’ve become a firm believer. How could I not? I’m the sole owner of the MOST haunted house in the United States.”

  While he was taking care of the dishes, she scanned the letters again. They certainly sounded amorous, but maybe extreme. Could he have planned her death? Could it have been an elaborate scheme from the very beginning, or had he been washed away in the tide of passions leading to this grim conclusion?

  Cole returned and stacked the letters and picture. “No more tonight,” he said firmly. “It’s getting late, so let’s just do something more relaxing.”

  “Play for me?” she asked hopefully.

  He nodded and sat down at the piano, his long fingers gracefully relaxed on the keys.

  “Any requests?”

  “Something cheerful,” she responded, sitting back in her chair.

  He played, piece after piece, his fingers deftly caressing the keys. Some songs were familiar; soft rock tunes and light jazz, interspersed with some aching love songs. She felt her eyes closing, listening to the music as it surrounded her, moved her. For a few moments she ignored the house, the history, and the spirits.

  As the music silenced, Claire opened her eyes and sat up straight. She smothered a yawn behind her fist as she looked at her watch.

  “It’s almost 11:00,” she noted, surprised.

  “Time for bed,” he agreed, rising from the bench and closing the lid over the piano keys. “You’ve got a drive tomorrow, so you need rest.”

  She nodded, feeling as though so much was left unsaid. Would he still be there when she returned from her break? Or would the house be abandoned, left alone to rot to the ground?

  Together they walked up the stairs, choosing still to go up the side set of stairs instead of the main grand staircase. At her door, he hesitated and watched as she opened the door and slipped inside.

  “Call if you need anything,” he said, and smiled quickly as he turned away. Slowly she closed her bedroom door, listening to the sharp click of the latch catching, echoed by a second one down the hall.

  She had hoped she would have a visitor that night. Aleta had been scarce over the last several days, and she worried the cold had sent her avian friend heading for warmer climes. The move to Talitha had brought several welcome things into her life. The bird was one of those strange blessings she would miss when she left. She had experience with other pets, other companions, but never one like this.

  As though the dove could sense her there, Claire heard a fluttering flapping sound and felt the air fan her cheek as the bird soared past her and into the room, seeming to pull in a breath of crisp air and the scent of the evergreens.

  “Leta!” Claire exclaimed, watching the bird in her graceful glide around the room until she came to rest on the desk. Claire turned back toward the night but froze. She couldn’t close the door, so she pulled it to just a little and then hurried to get her robe.

  The bird was at the desk, but instead of watching Claire, she seemed to be nibbling on some of Claire’s papers. Her sharp beak was making little notches out of the sheets, and Claire hurried to see what she had been working on. Several of the books there were Cole’s, and she didn’t want them destroyed.

  She bird made a low coo, and Claire bent to see what she had. But it was just one of the pages from the book, which with some tugging, was coming loose from the binding. Claire bit her tongue before she could scold the bird. There was nothing here at Talitha she would take for granted, not even the movements of a wild dove.

  She took the book from the desktop and gently opened it to the page that now stuck out from the rest. It was another of those awful black and white photos, but this one showed a line of people in work clothes, two men with tweed suits and boots, one holding the bridle of a giant black horse, and a woman, small and pale and…

  “Etta,” Claire said softly. “You found Etta,” she told the bird.

  As though in response to the statement, the bird seemed to nod its sleek head, and then take flight, the familiar flutter of its wings sounding close as it flew by Claire and then to the door, out into the cold night.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Morning brightened the windows, the light glaring harsh and white between the curtains. The shaft of light played over the swept floor and widened to bathe the fireplace opposite. Claire sat up and ran a slow hand through her tangled hair. She turned to look sleepily at the clock next to her bed, seconds passing before the numbers registered: 10:14.

  “Oh, good Lord, I’m late,” she breathed, stumbling to her feet. She stepped over the pile of dirty clothes she had shed the night before and rummaged through her drawers to find something to wear. Most of her wardrobe was packed, so the options were limited. She pulled out a pair of jeans, too tight across the seat, and an old sweatshirt, adding undergarments to the pile before heading for the door. As she crossed the room, the sun struck her with its blinking brilliance, causing her to squint. Slowly she approached the French doors, pulling the heavy drapes back with a quick jerk.

  Her gasp of surprise was followed quickly by a muttered curse. The world outside was a winter fairyland; the trees heavy with piled snow. The railing on the small balcony was topped with the stuff; blown snow gathered in a sparkling slope and pressed against the glass at the base of the window. When she leaned a little further, she could see the fountain, the horses drowning with snow reaching their straining necks.

  Slowly she dropped her clothes and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling deflated. She didn’t need the radio to tell her she was stranded. It had to be a freak of nature to cause snow this unexpectedly deep, deep enough to bury her alive in this tomb of a house. How quickly her plans had changed. It was as though the world had decided to conspire against her ever leaving the house.

  Slowly she stood again, picking up her belongings, her mind churning over the problem. Surely not all was lost. December snows were usually short lived, unlike their January counterparts. She would be on her way by tomorrow. There was no reason to believe anything would happen to prevent that. And the house had been quiet, hadn’t it?

  She added a short prayer and hurried into the bathroom, taking a long hot shower before emerging in a fragrant cloud of steam. She took her time drying her hair and adding a little makeup to give her cheeks and eyes some color. She pulled her crucifix from beneath her shirt and left it hanging prominently against the soft material, as though daring any evil to invade her hard-won serenity.

  Once back in her room, she reordered her belongings as though she thought she might need to pack them at a moment’s notice, wishful thinking she knew, and neatened the bed. A soft shuffle and clicking sound drew her attention to the balcony doors. Out in the snow, a shade darker than the eye straining white, was the feathered shape of her dove.

  “Oh, no,” she breathed, and hurried to open the latch. The bird flew in with a breath of frigid air and a puff of icy snowflakes that landed on the wood floor and melted into invisible puddles. She closed the door on the weather this time and bent close to the little bird. She was fluffed up, but appeared healthy enough for her night out. Claire bent down and put out her hand, pleased when the bird perched on her fingers. Her little clawed feet were very cold against Claire’s skin.

  “Now what are you doing out in this weather?” she asked, “you could have stayed in here last night.” But the events of last night could have easily been a dream.

  Claire walked the bird over to her desk. Slowly she scanned the surface, and felt a surge of relief when she found the paper that had been pulled from the book, still with marks from Leta’s sharp beak.

  Taking it and the book and other papers and dropping them onto her made been, she pulled open the desk drawer where she kept the seed container. She pried off the plastic lid and smiled as the bird hopped to the desktop. With amusement, she watched the bird gobble up a few of the larger seeds, dropping the hulls carel
essly on the desk top. After a moment, Claire realized the bird probably had not had any water since the weathered had gotten so frigid. She cracked the door open and seeing no one in the hallway, slipped out, closing the door behind her and hurrying to the bathroom. She grabbed up a little paper cup and filled it with water. Back at her door, she hesitated in the silent hallway. No sounds from below hinted that anyone else was stirring. She eased the door open, and seeing that the bird was still eating at the desk, she ducked into the room and closed the panel behind her.

  After a moment, she laid out the last of the bird supplies. She had placed a towel on the desk with the seeds, the water cup, and a little nest of hand towels for the bird to snuggle in if she were so inclined. She didn’t know what else she could do for her just now, and she was eager to see what Cole might be doing. She paused and closed the curtains securely over the harsh light from the French doors.

  “I’ll be back,” she reassured her temporary roommate, and closed the door after her.

  When she descended the stairs, she felt better, a whole day yawning before her with nothing to do, but pleased she had been able to care for the dove. Seeing it in the light of day gave her faith she wasn’t really losing her mind. She might be painting in her sleep, but she hadn’t made up her night visitor.

  The kitchen was warm and smelled of freshly brewed coffee. The pot sat half full, a bag of bakery goods lying out on the counter. Claire dug in with appetite although the pastries were a little stale, and read yesterday’s paper as she finished her breakfast.

  She cleaned up after herself, taking extra time to wipe the countertops and sweep the kitchen floor. When she was finished she went back up toward her room, walking slowly and listening for Cole as she went. The house was silent except for the low buzz of the radio from the library. She wondered if he was working or just sitting in there, enjoying the quiet.