Forcing herself to move more quickly, she climbed the last of the stairs and opened her bedroom door, peeking to see if the bird had settle down. She could see the feathered shape had indeed cuddled down in the next of towels, and she tiptoed into the room to consider her options. She had packed already, arguing with herself about what to take, with the future looming and questions unanswered. However, she was hesitant to leave anything of sentimental value. She knew Cole would let them return to pick up their things even if his project was abandoned, but she didn’t like the idea of her belongings being left in an empty house.
Sighing, she looked around the room. She could live without the cheaply framed prints, the meager furnishings, and the comforter that had served her for five long years in college. She could even do without most of the clothes left hanging in the closet or stuffed into drawers. But her books were invaluable to her, and she had to restrain herself from unpacking clothing so she could fit a few books in her duffel bag.
Her eyes landed on her cell phone, and she sent a quick message to her mother, promising she would call when she knew better what her plans were.
A light knock on the door jarred her thoughts and she quickly walked to the door and swung it open. Cole stood outside, his hand still raised as though to knock again. And he looked good to Claire, with his unshaven jaw and clothes that were deliberately casual, faded jeans and a knit shirt, which was showing wear on the cuffs and at the elbows.
“I heard noises. I assumed you were awake,” he shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t want to wake you early. What with the weather...” he gestured vaguely to the French doors.
She nodded, mildly amused at his discomfort. From his expression, it appeared he felt responsible for the snow.
“I guess we’ll have to stay in today, but surely by tomorrow it will start to melt. I still have a week till Christmas,” she said calmly.
“That’s true. We’ll start digging out early tomorrow morning. I’ve called the plows. They’re due out later tomorrow afternoon. We can at least get into town...”
“Yeah, we’ll make it that far. The interstates should be cleared first, so once we get out on the main roads, it should be easy going.” She looked around the room, slightly embarrassed by the disarray. “I was taking the morning to neaten things up, but I got distracted.” She looked rather wistfully at the beautiful carved beds, the clever fairies gazing at her with tiny smiles. “It is a gorgeous room.”
He nodded and stepped further into the room, his eyes scanning the finishes. “It is that. Such a shame things couldn’t have gone better.” He let out a sigh. “But I am grateful to you and to Noel. You both have worked very hard. You’ve gone beyond what was asked of you. Frankly, I’m not sure exactly why you’re still here.”
She felt herself blush, pleased by his praise but more by his expression, his smile so warm, his eyes intense. The shrill of a phone sounded downstairs, breaking his gaze.
“I’d better get back to work,” he explained, “but come down anytime if you want a little company, or to use the library.”
Claire nodded her agreement and turned back to her room. She hadn’t pointed out the bird to Cole, and she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was her little secret, at least for now. She shook her head, deciding she could put off her tasks no longer. She shut the door and gathered her cleaning supplies, getting to work with grim determination. By noon the room was done, thoroughly cleaned with fresh linens and sparkling windows. She wiped up the bathroom and went back to the kitchen for a quick lunch.
The house was still quiet, like some dangerous beast sleeping. She knew Cole was working in the library; she could hear the faint rumble of his voice. But there was something preying on her mind, and she just couldn’t let it go. The painting. She knew she had been in the lower level, and she knew she had awakened with her hands smeared with paint. Her question remained the same. Why? What had she been doing?
The bird appeared to still be dozing, so she slipped into the hallway and listened again. Cole was still talking, his voice an even rhythm. So, she would go down. She didn’t want to say anything to anyone until she had a chance to see the damage. If she had destroyed the painting in her sleep, well, she would tell Charles at some point. But frankly, she didn’t even know if Cole was aware of the painting’s existence. And seeing it after it was ruined would do him no good.
On the other hand, if the painting was still recognizable, she would show him. He should see. Whatever was happening in the house, she was sure the painting was related to the rest. There were no coincidences. There were no construction workers that just happened to go down into the cellar and decide to paint their private masterpiece.
And that left? Who? The artist remained elusive. She refused to even entertain the thought that niggled at her mind, that she was the artist. No.
Claire found one of the powerful battery lanterns, and switched it on as she descended the stairs. The main room was still lit with the utilitarian fixtures. The little room was open, the door hanging wide. A block of light slid before her, swaying with her movements. But the lantern did a good job of lighting up the space, and she had to pause in amazement again.
The painting was finished. More layers had added dimension and depth. The woman’s features had become more defined. Her light hair, curls spiraling down her back, was highlighted with gold. It was without a doubt the most finely done painting in all of Talitha. It was the painting of a beautiful woman. It was a painting of Beatrice.
And the artist? Claire realized now that she was seeing the finished work the artist had been a man in love with Beatrice. The colors and shapes, the way the light hit her and lit her with dazzling beauty, all spelled out a desperate love. But the way the woman gazed out the window made Claire feel a wave of sorrow. She hadn’t loved him back.
Claire’s eyes followed the line of light to the floor where she could see footprints in the dirt floor. They were tangled and overstepped, layers of boot marks, scuffs, and distinctly, bare foot prints. Her breath caught. She knew whose footprints those were, the familiar arch of the size 8 foot made her breath hitch.
She was the painter. Sleepwalking, sleep crying, sleep painting, her mind absorbed by the ghost of a man who had loved his wife and then been betrayed in the very worst way. Henry.
Claire spent the rest of the day in library, shuffling through old books in the bookcase in hopes of finding something that would be of interest. To her amusement, she found two rather gristly books, compilations of ghost stories that depicted graphic scenes of murder and revenge. All the stories were stated to be true and all located in the general area of Kentucky, Indiana, and Tennessee.
When Cole discovered her reading material, he chuckled, picking one up from her lap.
“Dad must have bought these. It was right down his alley. He loved to read about other haunted houses.” He sat opposite her, absently prodding the fire with the poker. A shower of golden sparks drifted up the chimney, lighting his face with their glow. “I guess he really did feel something. Or know something. Nothing else explains his interest. Now that I think about it, he questioned Grandma about the house a lot.” He paused, his eyes drifting to the phone. “You know, maybe Grandma has some information we could use.” He pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through the contacts list.
“Are you going to call her now?” Claire asked.
“Not going anywhere, are we?” he asked, smiling wryly.
While he sat to make his phone call, Claire waited, feeling slightly awkward. She didn’t want to eavesdrop, but she would feel foolish stepping out.
“Hi, Grandma, it’s me.” He paused, sitting at his desk, his eyes focused on the blotter in front of him. “Yes, I’m still at hell hole motel.” This time, the pause lasted longer and Claire let her eyes wonder to his intent face as he doodled on the calendar in front of him, his graceful hands sketching lines and curves between the squares. “Yes, I’m hoping to be in by the twenty-third, but we got several inches of snowfal
l last night. Eight I think.”
Claire’s attention wandered and she returned to the book, idly paging through the chapters. Surely if this house were contained in the book, his father would have told Cole. She found herself enthralled momentarily by a tragic story of young lovers when her attention was drawn back to Cole’s conversation.
“Well, I don’t know about ghosts, but we have seen some odd things. What I wondered was if you knew anything more about the first owners, or our family, the ones who moved in right after.”
This time the silence lasted much longer and Claire could see him writing notes instead of doodling.
“Did you know he was a twin?” Cole interrupted. After a moment he nodded, his grandmother needing little encouragement to continue her talk.
“Have you ever heard of a maid? Maybe Etta?”
Claire sat still, thinking of the picture upstairs in her room. She would have to tell him about finding it, but how to explain her firm belief it was Etta? She shook her head briskly and listened as he spoke with his grandmother, watching his face change from curious to serious. Once or twice he looked honestly surprised at what he was being told, and Claire wished she had thought to ask him to use the speakerphone. Toward the end of the conversation his expression warmed, and they discussed more personal topics. Claire turned tactfully away but heard the affection in his farewell. When he hung up he leaned back in his chair, the notes in front of him.
“Well, we should have called her a long time ago. She knew more than any book.” He got up and walked closer to the fireplace. He paused for a moment to throw another log on the fire.
“What did she say? Did she know about the twins?”
“Apparently. She said she knew the house was bought by the family after standing empty for some time. She knew there were twins, but she didn’t know much about their relationship. But the most interesting thing was Etta. Seems that she was hired on at the house and was the lady’s maid for Matthew’s wife.”
“What?”
“I don’t know if it was blackmail or just ignorance, but she moved into the house with the family shortly after they bought it from the state and cared for Margaret, Matthew’s wife.”
“The portrait in your room. I guess that was Margaret.”
“I suppose,” He agreed, “it would make sense if he had a portrait done of himself, he would have one done for her as well.”
“Here’s the real question. Why and how did Etta end up back in the house? If she knew about the murder, it seems like she would have stayed clear, as far from the house as she could.”
“I think Michael must have given her some kind of incentive.”
“I’m sure,” Claire agreed, “but I don’t think Etta was blackmailing anyone. She knew something had happened to Beatrice, maybe she just stayed on to find out what.”
“And she never did.”
“No, I don’t think she did. At least not in life. And now she’s trying to help us.”
“But you haven’t seen her for some time now.”
“No,” Claire smiled, “I think she gave up trying to dress me properly.” Again, Claire thought about the photo in her room.
The clock on the shelf slowly struck 7:00, the rich tone sounding far too loud for such a small clock.
“Okay, let’s call it a day on the investigation,” Cole said rising. “What else do you know how to cook? I can make a mean instant pudding.”
Dinner preparation was a haphazard event, but more fun than Claire had experienced in weeks. Cole was inept with anything involving the stove, but made a fine salad and insisted on marinating and tenderizing the steaks. While the potatoes cooked, Cole went down in the wine cellar to pick a bottle of good red wine.
They spent the dinner carefully avoiding the subject of the house and instead spoke of their families and interests. Claire sipped wine, listening as he discussed his love of old films.
“So, you’ve watched some of them repeatedly?”
He smiled self-consciously. “I have a mini theater in almost all of my residences. I know I spend too much time watching them, but it’s my way to unwind.”
Claire was surprised by the phrase ‘all my residences’ but didn’t comment. She knew he was wealthy, traveled frequently, and watching him over the last months had revealed a sharp intelligence and fair leadership. His confidence in business was unshakable, but she had seen it falter here, in this unknown arena.
“I noticed you looked a little ill when you first arrived,” Claire blurted out, words following her mind’s wanderings.
Surprised at the change of subject, he took a slow sip before responding. “I was in an accident at home. A rather serious one, and my heart stopped for a few seconds. It made me slow down, look a little more closely at my priorities.”
“An accident,” she said softly, “and it reminded you of your dad.”
“Yes,” he swirled the wine in his glass and looked thoughtfully at the red liquid. “I realized everything I’ve started, I’ve finished. Except the house. I inherited it and left it, avoided it and the memories.” He paused, swirling the light golden wine in his glass. “He died December 22.”
“Oh Cole,” she breathed, “no wonder.”
He looked up at her and shrugged. “It’s been a long time. It’s not as fresh...”
“But it’s strong. You may be more affected than you thought. Have you ever wondered why no major manifestations occurred until you got here? You’re part of the family; you resemble him so much you could have been his twin, and you’re grieving. It’s no wonder they were stirred back up. They feel you. And they feel me.”
He looked skeptical, but she could see the doubt in his eyes lifting. Slowly he drained his cup and set it aside.
“We’re getting bogged down again. I thought we were going to try to think of something more cheerful.”
She silently agreed and helped him clean up. “So, what are you doing for Christmas?”
“Going to see Grandma in Chicago. I haven’t seen her for almost a month, and I promised I’d go up there.”
“She sounds like she’s important to you.”
“She’s all I’ve got,” he said softly, frankly.
He played for her again on the piano that night, the music deliberately light and fluid. She felt herself sliding, falling. She knew she loved him, the fresh heady feeling that made the entire world seem different, lighter. But she also knew there were incredible things going on, things out of their control that made the relationship impossible. Not to mention the fact no words had passed between them that gave a clue to his feelings.
When the music ended, she jerked her head up, feeling her cheeks and neck burn.
“Falling asleep?” he asked softly.
“A little, I guess. I should head up, get some real sleep before trying to dig out of here tomorrow.”
He smiled, holding the door open for her. “I’ll lock up and come up later. Are you sure you’re okay by yourself?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” she said, hurrying up the stairs. She could hear the soft strains of a Christmas melody floating up behind her. She closed her door softly against the sound and raised chilled hands to her warm cheeks.
“Stupid, stupid. I wish I could be a little less obvious. Talk about wearing your heart on your sleeve. I’ll dig out of here if I have to use my bare hands before I embarrass myself further,” she muttered to herself, and then grinned when she saw Leta had woke and was perched on the footboard of her bed. At least she wouldn’t be spending the rest of the night alone.
Chapter Twenty
The room was hot, stifling. The window was open, the curtains lying lifeless without a breath of breeze. A trickle of sweat slid down her back, tracing over her ribs to soak into the heavy fabric of her gown. A slamming of the door had her jerking upright. Oh, God, someone was coming! She stumbled to her feet, pushing the heavy covers free so she could move quickly.
A cold sweat had beaded on her upper lip and at her hairline. She p
aused at the doorway, her cold fingers clinging to the frame, leaving wet prints as she passed.
She turned down the hall, toward the stairs. Door after door, closed and locked as she tried the knobs. SOMEONE HELP. PLEASE HELP. Her sweat slicked fingers slid on the knobs, her face frozen with sweat and tears. She panted through her open mouth, her heart pounding so hard it throbbed in her throat.
NO. NO, HE CAN’T BE BACK. I KNOW HE’S NOT HERE, BUT I FEEL IT. THE FINGERS, HARD AND FLESHLESS. OH GOD, THE SMELL!
She could feel it now, the sharp tugging at her gown. She could hear the hiss of breath, his mouth open in a soundless scream, lips pulled back to reveal ravaged teeth.
I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY. OH GOD, I NEVER MEANT...
But the words never came, and she felt her mouth open as the fingers finally touched flesh, and he was there, grabbing and ripping...
Further down the hallway she saw another figure, the beloved face, a mask of terror and despair.
MICHAEL, MICHAEL HELP ME!
But the figure turned away, and she felt the pull of death take her, down and down.
“Claire! Christ, Claire wake up. No, don’t fight. It’s me, it’s me.”
She felt herself emerge, draw a ragged breath and realized the ringing in her ears was caused by the sound of her voice.
Hands soothed her, smoothed her back and drew her close until her head sunk against the hard warm chest. Her breath hiccupped in ragged breaths, her face soaked with tears. Her gown was damp, the cool air causing her skin to pucker and shudders to overtake her slender frame.
“Okay, okay. You’re going to be fine. You’re not alone. It’s just me. Easy,” his words were murmured, rumbling deep in his chest as his arms tightened. With one fluid movement, he eased an arm beneath her knees and swung her up until he settled in the chair, resting her comfortably in his lap. He pulled the blanket tighter and wrapped it around her back and shoulders, tucking it under her legs.
Warm, finally, she thought vaguely. Her sobs died to shuddering breaths. Her face was pressed against his bare neck, her tears drying slowly against his skin.
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