The Lockwood Legacy - Books 1-6: Plus Bonus Short Stories

by Juliette Harper

  Kate took the cup, cocking an eyebrow at her sister. “And good morning to you. Have you just been sitting here waiting for me?”

  “Yes, I have,” Jenny said. “Did you oversleep? It must be 8 o’clock already.”

  “Seven-thirty,” Kate said. “You do realize there’s a man down there climbing the walls worried about you.”

  “I do, and I’m sorry about that,” Jenny said, “but I needed to talk to you in private. Come inside the cave.”

  When they were both seated by the fire, Kate said, “If you wanted to talk to me, all you had to do was come up to the ranch house. What’s so important we had to be up here all by ourselves?”

  Jenny recounted her dream visit with their father, finishing the story by handing Kate the bloodstained sketch of Alice Browning. Kate put down her cup to examine the yellowed paper. “You think that’s her blood?” she asked, looking up at Jenny.

  “I do,” Jenny said. “I think this sketch was in the car with them the night of the wreck and Daddy kept it all these years. When he stayed up here, he even slept under a painting of the bridge. From what I can tell, it’s the only piece of art he ever created without Alice in the picture.”

  “Guess that makes sense,” Kate said. “That bridge is where he lost her.”

  “I think Daddy really came to me in that dream,” Jenny said hesitantly. “He wanted me to find that sketch. I think he wants us to know what happened that night. I think we need to know.”

  Kate studied her sister’s face. “Do you believe in ghosts?” she asked finally.

  “I’m not crazy,” Jenny said defensively.

  “I didn’t say you were,” Kate said. “I asked if you believe in ghosts.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I do,” Kate said quietly. “I’m up at all hours in that old ranch house by myself and well, sometimes I swear to you I hear Daddy’s footsteps in the hall.”

  “What?” Jenny said, her face registering shock. “You’ve never said a word. Why didn’t you tell me before now?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Kate grinned. “Maybe because you’d think I’m crazy.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Jenny laughed. “We’re a fine pair.”

  “It started after I got shot,” Kate said. “I figured it was just the pain pills making my mind play tricks on me. But I’ve heard the steps since then. I’ve never seen anything, I just hear his boots on the hardwood. They come to the door of the study and then they stop.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you?” Jenny asked curiously.

  “What in the hell could Daddy do to me as a ghost he didn’t do or say when he was alive and breathing?” Kate asked reasonably. “And besides, you know Granny thought she could talk to spirits. Maybe it’s a family trait.”

  “I don’t really remember her,” Jenny said. “I was too little when she died.”

  “Mama used to leave me at Granny’s house in town when she’d go in for study club,” Kate said. “That big ole two-story white house south of the courthouse.”

  “I know the one,” Jenny said. “I vaguely remember the staircase. We used to play on it.”

  “Granny always treated me like I was grown,” Kate said. “We used to sit out on that little rock patio of hers and play dominoes. She taught me to play 42.”

  “I never did get the hang of that game,” Jenny said absently.

  “Well, Granny said the women in her family had what she called ‘the sight.’”

  “Kate Lockwood, you are not sitting there telling me that on top of everything else we’ve learned about this damned screwed-up family of ours you think we’re psychic or something?” Jenny said. “I’m sorry, but you really are crazy.”

  “I just know I hear footsteps in an empty hallway, and you just sat here and told me you think Daddy came to you in a dream,” Kate said. “You can’t have it both ways, honey.”

  “Well, if he did come to me,” Jenny said, “and you have now seriously creeped me out, by the way, what do you think he wants me to do? How am I going to find out what happened that night? They’re all dead.”

  “Not all of them,” Kate said. “George Fisk isn’t dead.”

  When Pauline Fisk answered Jenny’s knock, her eyes widened at the sight of her guest before her face arranged itself in a serene smile.

  “Mrs. Fisk,” Jenny said, “I hope I’m not bothering you. Would it be possible for me to speak with Mr. Fisk?”

  Without hesitation, Pauline opened the screen. “Come in, Jenny,” she said. “My heavens, you do look like your mother. I thought so much of Irene. She was so . . . gracious . . . about it all.”

  Taken aback, Jenny said uncertainly, “I know how much trouble my family has caused yours. I apologize for intruding like this.”

  “You’re here about Alice, aren’t you, dear?” Pauline said, gesturing toward the sofa.

  Jenny sat down and said, “Yes, ma’am. Actually I am.”

  “George and Langston never got over her,” the old woman said, smoothing the fabric of her skirt, and then noticing the stunned look on Jenny’s face added, “It’s alright, dear. Alice Browning has been very much a part of our lives in this house. Did you know that George proposed to her the afternoon before she was killed and that she accepted?”

  “No, ma’am,” Jenny stammered. “I thought that she and Daddy . . . were . . . that they . . .”

  “Were madly in love,” Pauline finished. “They were. It’s all right, dear. It was a confusing situation to say the least. And then, of course, George was also in love with your mother. They were engaged to be married.”

  “Mrs. Fisk,” Jenny said, “if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re being awfully calm about all this.”

  A little ripple of laughter spilled out of Pauline Fisk’s throat, musical in its quality and even more unexpected than the woman’s causal account of the tangled love lives of George Fisk and Langston Lockwood. “My husband loves me,” she said, “and I am hardly white as snow. You know that I had an affair with your father.”

  Jenny nodded.

  “None of us could ever separate our lives from the consequences of what happened that night at the bridge,” Pauline said sadly. “There’s no sense in being coy about it now. George and Langston were drawn to Alice like moths to a flame, but it was the rest of us who flew too close to the fire and were burned.”

  “Did you know her?” Jenny asked. “Did you know Alice Browning?”

  “No,” Pauline said, “but I’ve been living with her all these years just the same.”

  “Do you know what happened the night of the wreck?”

  “I know what George has told me,” Pauline answered, “but you need to hear it from him. He’s in his wood shop. Just go out the kitchen door. It’s across the yard.” As Jenny stood up, Pauline added quietly, “Please ask your questions gently. He’s dying. Congestive heart failure. It will only be a few months now.”

  “I didn’t know,” Jenny said. “Would it be better if . . .”

  “No,” Pauline interrupted. “It would be better for him to talk to you about it. He’s been worried about you girls for years.”

  George Fisk sat at his workbench meticulously carving the lid of a box with a small knife. Jenny tapped lightly on the door of the shop so as not to startle him. When he turned toward her, she was shocked by how much he’d aged in the last year. She hadn’t seen the elderly lawyer since the day of his son’s funeral. Fisk was thin and pale, his breathing labored from even the slight exertion of his seated work. At the sight of her, however, his lined, gray face broke into a smile. “Jenny,” he said, “how are you?”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Fisk,” Jenny said. “May I come in?”

  “Oh, it’s a dusty mess in here,” George said, pushing himself up with effort. “Let’s go sit in the swing. The sun should be warm there by now.” He gallantly offered her his arm, but she wondered if the gesture was the expression of a courtly gentleman, or of an old man hiding his need for support.

 
They walked slowly over to the swing and Jenny held on to Fisk’s rail-thin arm until he was seated. Only then did she sit down beside him, smiling when Fisk gave a little kick with his foot and started them rocking. “I have always liked swings,” he said, returning her smile, “since I was a little boy.”

  “I like them, too,” Jenny admitted.

  “I suppose you’re here about Alice,” Fisk said, turning his eyes forward.

  “Mr. Fisk . . .”

  “George.”

  “George,” she continued, “would you consider telling me what happened that night? We’ve found out so many things since Daddy died that we just don’t understand.”

  “Did Langston continue to draw her?” Fisk asked curiously.

  “How did you know that?”

  “He was always sketching her,” Fisk said, “no matter what we were doing.”

  “Yes,” Jenny said. “He was still drawing her when he died.”

  “Your father was my best friend.” The old man’s voice broke on the words and he shook his head as if to clear his mind.

  “George, if this is upsetting you too much . . .”

  Fisk caught hold of her hand. “I loved your father from the time we were just boys,” he said. “Langston was everything I wanted to be; smart, passionate, fearless. A real cowboy. Strong as an ox. And so much fun! I can still hear his laugh.”

  “His laugh?” Jenny said, trying to keep the incredulity out of her tone.

  Turning toward her, Fisk said, “I know you didn’t ever see that side of him, and I’m so sorry. When we were young, Langston laughed all the time. You see, Jenny, we all died that night at the bridge, it’s just that Langston and I became the walking dead.”

  “What happened?”

  The old man swallowed. “Alice was . . . she was going to have my . . . baby. We were only together the one time, but she was pregnant and I asked her to marry me. She said yes. On the way to the dance, we told Langston. He lost his mind, lashed out at me. He was in the back seat. When he hit me, I swerved. There was ice on the road and we slammed into the end of the bridge. The impact was on Alice’s side of the car. There was blood everywhere . . . I . . .”

  Jenny squeezed his hand. “Why did my Daddy take the blame?”

  Fisk turned toward her again. “I’ll never forget that. We were standing there shivering in the cold, covered in blood. The sirens were coming across the bridge and Langston turned to me and said, ‘Say I was driving.’ He knew I could lose my scholarship if any charges were pressed. He was my best friend. I betrayed him with the girl he loved and he still stood there that night and put himself on the line for me.”

  “But, George, he dedicated his whole life to torturing you!” Jenny protested. “How was he ever your friend?”

  “That was only after the pain changed him,” Fisk said. “I never stopped loving your father, Jenny. I tried to the very end to make peace with him, no matter what he did. Your father was a good man deep in his heart, Jenny. He was. I knew him all my life. I’m so sorry what I did to him.”

  “What you did to him?” Jenny exclaimed. “He ruined your life!”

  “We ruined each other’s lives,” George said, his breath coming in ragged wisps. “And we killed Alice.”

  “Was she killed instantly?” Jenny asked softly.

  “I tell myself she was,” Fisk said, his voice rough with grief. “There was no ambulance in town back in those days. No hospital. They put her in the back of a police car and rushed her to Doc Kitterell’s office. Somebody went to get her parents; they were chaperones at the dance. God, how her mother looked daggers through Langston and me when she came into the office. Next thing I know, Harold Insall was there and they were telling us Alice was dead. I never saw her again. Not even at the funeral.”

  “It was closed casket?” Jenny asked, frowning.

  “Yes,” he said. “They never told us why.”

  59

  When Jenny left the Fisk house, she drove as far as the city park, pulling up under the spreading branches of a pecan tree with a view of the river and the bridge where Alice Browning died. Cutting the engine, Jenny leaned back in her seat and thought about her conversation with George Fisk. She found the man’s loyalty to her father after everything that transpired since that December night in 1958 almost unfathomable.

  It didn’t surprise her to learn that her father’s anger caused the accident, at least in part, but the revelation that Alice chose George over him added a new layer to the story. Langston’s fantasy life with Alice glossed over both her death and her rejection of him. How many times did he play out that scene in his mind? That alone would have been enough to torture any man, but the bloody wreck in the aftermath of that outburst of anger must have been a living hell for Langston Lockwood.

  What George told her all made sense, except for the fact that neither he nor Langston ever saw Alice again after the Sheriff carried her in his arms into the back of Dr. Kitterell’s office. George told Jenny that Harold Insall came from the funeral home to take the body away. He came in through the front of the doctor’s office, but exited through the rear. Jenny wasn’t sure why that bothered her, but it did.

  As much as she hated the idea of dealing with the oily little undertaker, maybe he could explain the extent of Alice’s injuries and put Jenny’s questions to rest. She started the engine and drove up Main Street to the Simmons & Insall Mortuary, which sat alone on a corner near the center of town, an immaculate brick building in a well-manicured expanse of green lawn.

  Jenny parked on the side and noticed the same ebony hearse that carried Langston Lockwood to his grave under the canopy at the rear of the building. She followed the walk up to the wide porch, instantly wrinkling her nose as she stepped through the door. The unmistakable smell of “funeral home” assaulted her; that strange, lingering blend of casket spray roses, lacquered ferns, and sickly sweet lilies.

  The mortuary’s interior was exactly as she remembered; a study in somber, out-of-date paneling, vaguely religious art, and deep pile carpet. Organ music played softly over hidden speakers, and through the folding panel doors, she saw an open casket with the profile of a woman just visible over the edge.

  As if on cue, Harold Insall stepped silently out of his office. “Jennifer,” he said, looking perplexed. “Did you know Mrs. Saucedo?”

  “Hi, Harold,” Jenny said, her voice falling to meet his own hushed, sepulchral tone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize there was someone here.”

  “You didn’t notice the lights?” Harold said, frowning even more deeply. “Surely you know the lights indicate we have a body on view.”

  Jenny bit back a sarcastic reply to his reprimand for her perceived breach of etiquette. She wanted to tell him she knew damn well what funeral home lights meant, but since it was 2 o’clock in the afternoon, she hadn’t stopped to notice the damn things were on. Instead she murmured, “I’ve been away a long time.”

  The demure response seemed to placate the undertaker who said, “What may I do for you, Jennifer?”

  “Harold,” she said, putting on her most concerned face, “maybe we could talk in your office so we don’t disturb anyone paying their respects?”

  Insall glanced into the viewing room as if remembering the proprieties of his position. “Of course,” he said. “I have a motion detection system to alert me when someone comes in. Silent of course.”

  “Of course,” Jenny said, fighting not to roll her eyes.

  She followed Harold into his office, taking the chair in front of his desk as he closed the door. “Now,” he said, “this is better. Are you perhaps here to make pre-arrangements?”

  “Pre-arrangements for what?” she asked.

  “Why your passing, of course, my dear.”

  “Harold, I’m 34 years old.”

  “We are never too young to prepare for the end,” he assured her. “We have some lovely, comprehensive packages.”

  “Uh, thanks, but no thanks. I’m not here for pre-arran
gements,” Jenny said. “I was wondering if you might recall the services that were held for Alice Browning in 1958?”

  Although Jenny wouldn’t have thought it possible for the mortician to look any waxier than he did normally, she watched with interest as all the blood drained from Insall’s face. “I do recall that service, yes,” he said carefully. “What is it that you would like to know?”

  “Mr. Fisk told me the service was closed casket,” Jenny said. “Do you remember the nature of Alice’s injuries?”

  Insall made a politely pained face that told her she had once again violated the undertaker’s code of conduct. “It is our policy not to discuss the physical condition of the departed entrusted to our care,” he said formally. “To do so would be disrespectful. Our job is to prepare the dead for view in as natural and life-like manner as possible.”

  Right, because lying in box caked in make-up is natural, Jenny thought to herself. “I understand completely, Harold,” she said as patiently as she could manage. “But the service was 58 years ago. My intent isn’t to pry. Miss Browning’s death devastated my father. I’m trying to understand what it is that he might have seen the night of the wreck that haunted him for so many years.”

  “Ah,” Insall said. “I had heard that your father did not . . . recover well . . . from Miss Browning’s death.”

  Well, that was the new contender for understatement of the century. Time to ratchet this up a little. Jenny arranged her features in aggrieved tones with just a hint of a tremor in her voice. “I’m just trying to understand why he . . . why he . . . did what he did to himself.” She hoped she wouldn’t be struck by lightning for playing the suicide card.

  The feigned unsteadiness apparently appealed to Harold’s unctuous need to offer comfort. He hesitated slightly and then dropped his voice as if he feared he’d be drummed out of the mortician’s union for disclosing the information. “I was only an apprentice at the time. Mr. Simmons prepared Miss Browning, but I was led to believe there was significant damage to the right half of her features. Normally we would simply apply make-up and turn the head to the side for viewing, but Mrs. Browning did not want people to remember her daughter that way.”