Since I had to wait for that report, I focused on why Ian was murdered. Given the picture of Prudence and Raelynn, and Hope's mother's previous connection to Braxton, my original theory was suddenly expanding. Although Raelynn was African American, both she and Hope had a lighter skin color. Was it also possible that Raelynn was Prudence's half-sister? I knew extraordinarily little about the Garibaldi family and would need to research them after meeting with Bartleby. If I took that reasoning further, perhaps Ian O'Malley and Raelynn Trudeau had engaged in an affair before he left for Vietnam, and he was Hope's real father. Could Raelynn and Prudence have killed him to keep the child to themselves? Hope had clarified her father died before she was born, but maybe she'd made up the last name. Was it possible that Prudence had been living with Raelynn this whole time—the woman Hope had referred to as her auntie? Had they come back to Braxton to prevent the Memorial Library renovations and discovery of Ian's body? If Hiram had stolen the Garibaldi house from Prudence, that could be the wrong Hope's mother wanted to right. Technically, if Prudence had a sibling, he or she should've inherited the house, not Hiram Grey. Farfetched, but it seemed possible. I had to be innovative on this case. Nothing made any sense, but I knew I was getting closer to the distorted truth.
While Hope scanned the streets on the way back to her rental, I hoped Bartleby was prepared to share all his information with me. As we drove past my block, Hope screamed insistently. “There she is. Stop the car!” Hope clawed her way out of the passenger seat as I parked at the curb. When I reached them, Hope was feverishly shaking her mother like an insolent child.
“What are you going on about? I just went out for a walk.” Raelynn Lawson looked like an older version of her former self in the photograph as well as her daughter, Hope. A trim white suit and a lively floral hat complemented the attractive woman. Her skin was smooth and glossy, hiding her true age from me, and slightly dampened from the long walk she'd embarked on. While the early fall weather wasn't overly humid, the moon shined unswervingly on her. She had a slight limp and rubbed her thigh.
“Momma, you can't keep doing this. You rushed out on Auntie back in New Orleans and just about gave her a stroke. Now, you did the same thing to me.” Hope stepped back and permitted her mother a brief opportunity to breathe.
Raelynn's puzzled expression scanned me up and down. “Child, who's this young man?”
I introduced myself, noting the southern charm underlying the woman's confident and modulated voice. “Hope was worried, ma'am. I'm glad to see you're okay.”
“My daughter thinks just because I've got a small touch of forgetfulness that I can't find my way around the old neighborhood. I've been coming back and forth to Braxton for fifty years. This isn't the first time I returned to my old stomping grounds. In fact, there's a house down yonder,” she announced, effortlessly pointing toward my place, “on Dead End Lane. My memory ain't gone yet.”
“I live on Dead End Lane in a house that once belonged to Hiram and Prudence Grey.” I carefully watched Raelynn's expression and composure, keen to notice any reactions to my announcement.
Raelynn's eyes opened wider, but she remained stoic. “We should get going, child.” Raelynn clutched her daughter's arm and winced at me. “Thank you, Kellan, for assisting Hope when she was in need. I'll take it from here. The house we're staying at ain't too far, so we'll just be leaving now.”
Hope followed her mother down the street. “I'll talk to you at work tomorrow, Kellan.”
After they left, I couldn't help but wonder what Raelynn had been up to when she was walking around. What other home besides the former Garibaldi house that I now owned could've been where she'd visited? As I pulled up in front of the house, Connor called to apologize for his delay. “I'll be there in fifteen minutes to meet Bartleby. Got stuck later than I expected, interviewing Chip and Lloyd.”
I hung up with him and walked across the front path, curious where Bartleby had gone to. His car was in the driveway, but he wasn't inside it or waiting on the porch. When I reached the halfway point in the walkway, I noticed my front door swung wide open. Could Bartleby have gone inside? Nicky was the only other person with a key for the new lock. The wind chimes jingled as I crossed the threshold, causing the spider to flinch and scamper away. The new web was twice as large as the last.
“Hello,” I called out, stepping into the foyer. An echo bounced off the walls and greeted me in a creepy, haunting tone. I'd need to buy artwork and furniture soon, to absorb the sound. “Anyone here?”
I worried when there was no response. Was I in for another incident with the vandal? After storing my phone and keys on the stairs, I dashed down the hallway toward the kitchen. Within seconds, I stopped short. The basement door was eerily unlocked, and frigid air drifted up the stairs.
Instinct took over. I ducked against the side wall, so that no one could see me. The last thing I needed was the intruder gaining an advantage. I quietly tiptoed around the corner and hid next to the door, flat against the wall, so I could hear any noises in the basement but couldn't be seen.
“I've called the police. They'll be here any minute. You better show yourself.” My heart raced, and my breathing labored. The last time I'd been in this position, Officer Flatman had waited with me for the killer in Paddington's Play House. Strange sounds distracted me from racing back to the foyer to contact Connor again. My body felt temporarily paralyzed, but I snapped from the hesitation.
Nicky had left several pieces of wood on the floor in front of the oven. We'd used them to cover the windows after the vandal had broken in—or broken out, based on what we'd seen on the video recording. I grabbed a two-by-four and prepared to swing it as I stepped into the doorway, heading down the stairs. “I've got a weapon. It's time to give up.”
I lingered, feeling foolish. No one waited by the steps to turn themselves in. The only light was from a dim bulb hanging on a string at the bottom of the stairwell. I planned to stall until Connor arrived, so we could handle the situation together. Two people would be better than a single person when defending oneself against an assailant. I backed a few steps away, prepared to shut the door and sit against it, ensuring no one could ascend the rickety stairs. Even though I knew the person had been accessing the house through the basement, it felt like the best solution under the circumstances.
Before I could move away from the door, a stifled moan traveled up the stairs like a haunted spirit's whine. I leaned an ear in its direction, distinctly hearing the word help and my name being whispered. Whoever called out could be tricking me. What if it were a ghost hoping to lure me down the stairs only to lock me down there forever? One of two things had happened. Either the vandal opened the basement door from the other side and injured himself—fake or real, I wasn't sure. Or Bartleby had already shown up and was currently hurt and trapped in the basement. When I wrestled with my conscience, doing the humane but risky thing won out.
I steadied myself against the adjacent wall, holding the two-by-four in one hand and the stair rail in the other. My skin prickled as if thousands of tiny insects crawled up and down my body. A drafty wind whistled through the stairwell as the steps creaked. As I edged closer to the bottom, the moaning sounded close by. The light wasn't bright enough to see far from the bottom of the steps. When I reached the last one, I had a choice to turn left or right. The cries came from the right. I extended the two-by-four further and jabbed into the dark, hoping to hit any assailant attempting to clobber me.
“Help me,” the voice murmured, his vowels extended and almost inaudible. “Took the Bible.”
I bent down in the voice's direction, allowing the light from the swinging bulb to reach the ground without me blocking its path. Bartleby lay on the floor with both eyes closed tightly, clutching his forehead. What had he meant by the word Bible? Was he referring to Father Elijah?
I rushed to him, ignoring my surroundings and the possibility that someone else lurked in the darkness. “What happened? Did you fall?”
I listened to Bartleby's chest, concerned over his labored breathing. “Who?”
“Your ghost. It was Prudence.” Bartleby's heartbeat waned until almost nonexistent.
I shook him repeatedly, but he never answered. Bartleby needed immediate attention. With no choice but to abandon the weakened man, I scaled the stairs two at a time, kicking something across the ground. I scrambled through the hallway to retrieve my cell phone, silently urging Connor to hurry. Seconds before the 9-1-1 operator answered, bizarre noises on the basement steps caught my attention. I hurried back toward the kitchen to stop whoever was in the house from escaping but arrived too late. The basement door was conspicuously shut and locked again. Bartleby screeched from the depths of the cellar. Was the vandal downstairs torturing him? How would the emergency workers access the man?
Then, a disturbing realization plagued my body with considerable force. If Prudence had died hours earlier in the hayride, who else but her killer could be hiding in my house?
Chapter 12
Once the 9-1-1 operator assured me an emergency vehicle and the police were on their way, I disconnected the call. While trying to fathom who was stalking me, I couldn't help but focus on why Raelynn and Hope Lawson had been loitering a few blocks away. Had they broken in and attacked Bartleby? Was Hope's panicky story about her missing mother a diversion tactic to provide Raelynn with the opportunity to stop Bartleby from accessing something in the basement?
Officer Flatman arrived first. While he yanked unsuccessfully on the knob, I paced the kitchen floor, practically leaving rubber treads from the force of my soles. That's when the effervescent shimmer of something lying underneath one of the nearby cabinets caught my eye. We'd installed shelves on the corner opposite the entranceway, but the bottom had several inches of open space.
I plucked the skeleton key with the peculiar Garibaldi orb and pushed away Flatman, opening the door so we could attend to Bartleby. The emergency technicians stabilized the man and thought he had a good chance of surviving the accident. He'd become conscious again and had a strong heart rate and vital signs. They carefully collected him and soon left for the hospital in an ambulance.
Flatman checked the immediate vicinity to search for whoever had attacked the man. The swinging bulb offered only a faint shadow, and Flatman's flashlight only got him so far before he waited for back-up. “You would've had to break down the door if the key hadn't flown across the floor when the assailant slammed it shut. He or she might've taken it downstairs if they weren't in a rush.”
Once Connor arrived, we brought in a large spotlight that I connected to an extension cord in one of the kitchen outlets. Connor seized the gun from his holster and descended the stairs. As soon as we reached the bottom, Flatman and Connor took the lead. “Stay here, Kellan. Let us see what we've got before you go any further into the basement.”
I waited impatiently, holding and aiming the contraption, as they carefully navigated deeper into the basement to the spot where I'd noticed two separate pathways. “See anything?”
Connor yelled, “Not yet. You've got quite a labyrinth down here.”
Flatman tripped on something and cursed. “Hold up. Shine the light toward me more.”
“Better?” I saw a book lying on the floor among a cloud of red dust and several piles of wet, foul-smelling mud. It must've been what I'd kicked earlier. How many tunnels connected under my house? Bartleby had suggested there was more to this property than I'd seen. Why hadn't the foolish man waited for us to unlock the basement door? How he'd gotten through my front door also perplexed me. Could I trust Bartleby? Had his partner turned on him? Could he and Prudence have been cooking up this whole scheme together? The questions wouldn't stop pounding my brain.
Connor and Flatman shuffled back toward me. “It's just too dark. We need to get ahold of a map of your property, Kellan. Do you have anything that might help?”
The real estate agency had given me a drawing they'd found at the town assessor's office, but it only covered the grounds and the house, nothing about the tunnels below. My body stooped at the newest roadblock. “Bartleby might have something. Maybe when he recovers, he'll be able to help.”
“If he's not the culprit.” On our way to the steps, Connor retrieved the book from the ground.
We sped to the kitchen to explore it under more light. When I placed it on the counter and opened the cover, it nearly fell apart. “It's a Bible,” I exclaimed, recalling what Bartleby had said when I'd found him in the basement. “That's what he was trying to tell me.”
“Who does it belong to?” Flatman asked.
I flipped to the first sheet containing any handwritten additions. “It's the Garibaldi family Bible. Bartleby must've found it, then dropped it when the assailant attacked him.”
Connor flipped through a few pages. “It's faded and illegible. I can't read that fancy scroll without my eyes hurting.”
We decided to temporarily abandon the basement search. Whoever had attacked Bartleby was lost in the tunnels at that point. He or she must've discovered escape routes somewhere else on the property to get in and out at their discretion. The best use of our time was to find out what Bartleby knew, then determine how to best explore the labyrinth. Flatman planned to stay at the house to prevent anyone from entering or exiting the basement. He relocked the door and handed me the skeleton key. Connor dashed to the sheriff's office to discuss the situation with April and determine who else in the town government might have any original plans or drawings of the property.
I drove to the hospital to check on Bartleby, deciding to explore the Bible after I had a better health status on the man. When I arrived at the emergency room, an attendant informed me they couldn't release any information on him because I wasn't family. I explained how he'd been found in my house, and we were friends—no use explaining our lack of a tangible connection—yet the duty nurse refused to help me. Luckily, someone I knew exited a room in the closest hallway.
“Brad, I need a favor.” I'd met him earlier that spring when he was attending to the Paddingtons. Brad was a nurse who'd treated Eustacia's sister in a rehabilitation facility. After the woman died, he'd taken short-term jobs before accepting an offer at Wharton County General Hospital as an Emergency Room nurse. Brad had occasionally joined Connor and me on our workouts. He'd also become a friend who I'd have dinner and drinks with twice a month.
“Kellan. Everything okay? Is Emma hurt?” Brad, a fit guy in his mid-twenties, had spiked mahogany brown hair that he'd shaved close to the skin on both sides of his head.
I filled him in on the situation. He knew I'd conversed with Bartleby about my house, and he promised to get an update on the former mayor. I sat in the waiting area while he searched for answers. I checked on Emma and Ulan, who were both fine, and called Nana D to tell her what had happened.
“I remember hearing stories about tunnels that had been built during the Civil War to help slaves escape from their owners. I didn't think there were any in Braxton. The Underground Railroad was further west of here, closer to the Ohio border.”
“That makes sense. They originally built the house in the 1860s, so it could be possible. I've got to get those plans from Hiram or the town. Someone must still have them.” I looked up and saw Brad waving at me to join him. “Gotta go. Will update you later.”
I stepped into the hallway and followed Brad into Bartleby's room. “Thank you so much.”
“He's alert. I asked if he wanted to see you, and he said yes. His family isn't close by. You'll be the only visitor for now.” Brad told me I could only stay for ten minutes and not to upset Bartleby. He waited near the door to give us privacy but also to monitor the machines and rest of the ward.
“How're you feeling?” I stood at the side of the bed, careful to avoid the tubes and wires or get too close to any of the beeping devices that were keeping Bartleby stable. I passionately hated hospitals.
“
I've had better days. My head feels like there's a circus performing inside it.” Bartleby blinked a few times, then pulled himself higher on the bed into a more comfortable position.
I kept my tone light, letting him lead the conversation, as I hoped not to upset him. “We never captured the assailant. But we saw all the tunnels. I promise, we'll find out whoever did this to you.”
“I know the identity of your supposed ghost. She must've been confused when I'd gone into her domain,” he alleged, taking deep breaths between his words. “It's Prudence Garibaldi.”
“So, you believe she's been alive this whole time?” I wasn't sure I could trust Bartleby anymore. If he'd been attacked within the last two hours, it was impossible. Prudence died in the hayride incident.
Bartleby fidgeted. “She's real, I'm certain. I'd been hoping you had some paranormal activity going on, but it's just been her trying to stop you from renovating her home.”
“How did you get into my house? That's a new lock on the front door.”
“I convinced the locksmith to make me an extra copy when Nicky wasn't paying attention.” Bartleby clarified that a friend who owed him a favor managed the hardware store.
I never should've trusted the man. Bartleby had been playing me for a fool the whole time. “You should've waited for me. The damage could've been a lot worse.”
He ignored my reprimand. “I took the Garibaldi Bible from Hiram's place when I found the key in his study. I lost it at your house, but I have something important to share with you.”
I told Bartleby that we'd recovered the Bible, and it was in my satchel in the car. “I'm curious about what you discovered. There are a bunch of tunnels under the house.”
Bartleby explained what he'd found in his research. Prudence Garibaldi had an older sister named Constance. She was born shortly before Prudence yet had suffered from a serious psychosis. While it was common in the Garibaldi family, Constance's troubles had been far more severe than the rest of her relatives. “The parents committed Constance to an institution when she was three years old. Prudence had just been born, and they worried what Constance would do to her new sister.”
Haunted House Ghost: Death At The Fall Festival (Braxton Campus Mysteries Book 5) Page 18
