by Laney Monday
3
“Moira? She’s a ghost? A spirit?”
“Only for the last hundred years or so. Everyone wants to visit the Haunted Mansion of Bonney Bay. Nobody really wants to know Moira, you know?”
“I’d like to know. Know her, I mean.”
“Yes, she told me you would.”
I swallowed hard. “Oh.” What else could I say to that?
Harvey gestured at our feet. “These floors are genuine walnut.”
“Beautiful.” And they were. Someone had swept them clean. Not a speck of dust marred the dark surface, though the finish was a bit dull and scuffed.
He nodded, so confident, I think he even stuck his slightly red nose up a bit.
Though it was clean, compared to the exterior of the house, the inside looked more than a bit neglected. Peeling wallpaper here, missing wainscoting there. The foyer opened up into a sitting room, furnished with couches from the eighties. Not the eighteen eighties, but the other eighties. The loud floral pattern eighties. A newer flat screen TV stood on a mismatched table, looking too sleek for the rest of the furnishings, and, well, everything else about the house.
“In Moira’s day, this was the reception room. The dining room is to the right. And to my left, the grand ballroom.” His arm swept in a gesture that certainly conveyed grandness.
“I’d love to see it,” I couldn’t help saying.
The room was empty. I’m sure that added to the impression of vastness. But the grand ballroom truly was grand. I could easily picture it filled with perfectly coiffed ladies and gentlemen, dressed to the hilt.
“So, do you have any family—living—around here?” You know, instead of lurking. Devoid of earthly bodies. I figured, with Harvey, I’d better specify.
“Derek. He wants to fix this place up. Restore it to its former glory, he says.”
“That sounds good.”
“Good? No! No, no, no!” I saw the outrage on his face soften as he registered the look on mine. “I’m sorry. I guess it would be good, but he’s doing it all wrong. Take the outside of the house. The paint.” He shook his head.
I was about to open my mouth and express my shock that someone wanted to change that absolutely perfect color. Good thing I didn’t, because he said darkly, “Green! Moira hates green. It’s supposed to be blue. She tells me that just about every day. Derek is the one who got it certified as a historic landmark. To protect it, he said. Ha! Now he wants to bring all kinds of people in here, stirring things up. Well, the girls don’t like the idea of a bunch of strangers coming through their house, and they can protect it just fine themselves. The last thing we need in here is the kind of know-it-all historians who told Derek the house should be green, stirring up all kinds of things. Things best left buried.”
“Um, did you say, ‘buried?’”
“Come this way. Upstairs. You’ve got to see the stairs,” he rambled, as though he hadn’t heard me.
I comforted myself with the thought that nothing would be “buried” upstairs. I hoped whoever lived here wasn’t up there taking a nap in their underwear or something.
I followed him across the ballroom and up a sweeping staircase clearly designed for the grand entrance of someone very important. I imagined the guests quieting, standing in rapt attention as they watched some beautiful young Belle glide down the steps and into their midst. It felt odd to walk up those stairs after Harvey, in flip-flops and jeans and a Judo US polo shirt. These stairs were made for silk slippers and polished leather shoes; the sense was unmitigated by the creak that sounded every step or two. I paused halfway up and looked down on the ballroom. That’s when I noticed the chandelier. It must be an incredible sight when it was turned on. Was it electric? Had it always been? I wondered how people had lit chandeliers before electricity. Maybe there was an oil lamp in the center. I didn’t remember those kinds of details being covered in History class. Or maybe I just wasn’t paying enough attention.
A long, slow creak. Not from the stairs. From somewhere else in the house. Harvey froze. His eyes were enormous, about to pop through his lenses. Now that we’d reached a landing, the ballroom was out of sight.
“He’s here! Julia, hide! He’s here!”
“Who—” downstairs, a door slammed violently. I think my heart stopped beating for a second.
Harvey threw open a door on the landing, revealing a dark, cobwebby closet. He gave me a shove. “You can’t let him see you. Quick. Get inside.”
Okay, now. Hold on. I was all for making friends with this nice, crazy old man and his ghosts—well, maybe not Moira—but no way was I letting anyone lock me in a closet.
“Um, wait just a—”
Another bang from downstairs. Footsteps. Harvey dove into the closet himself. “Fine,” he said. “You’re on your own, then.” He shook his head sadly and clicked the closet door shut.
Another, bigger door on the landing stood open to a hallway. Now it sounded like the noises were coming from that direction. Noises distinctly like footsteps. I gulped. Great. I took a deep breath and fought to control my racing heart. There were no ghosts in this house. I did not believe in ghosts. I was going to do the logical thing and investigate. I left Harvey in the closet and slowly worked my way along the hallway, listening for more footsteps. I followed the sound to another set of stairs. These must be the ones I’d glimpsed from the living room downstairs when we first came in. I made my way down one flight of stairs and stopped on the landing. A small window was pushed partway open, letting the spring breeze in. The house fell quiet. I couldn’t hear a sound, apart from the faint murmur of the waves and the breeze outside.
As I headed down the last flight of stairs, I thought about calling out to whoever was down there, announcing myself. But what if it was really an intruder of some sort? You know, the earthly kind. With flesh and bones and—
A gun pointed right at me. I froze. I had the strangest feeling of déjà vu. Perhaps because I had been in this position just over a week ago. That time, I’d nearly been killed. Not exactly a moment I cared to relive.
My hands shot up in the air faster than you’d believe. The long, dark barrel was fixed on me. The silhouette of what seemed to be a man darkened the archway at the bottom of the stairs. I couldn’t really blame him. If this was his house, I was an intruder. He had every right to try to defend his property.
“Don’t shoot!” I said. “Harvey invited me in here. He lives here … I think.” I forced a shaky smile and tried to look innocent and harmless. I wished I could make out his expression. See if my words had any affect on him. But he and his weapon were a dark shadow. I held my breath and waited for his response.
4
“Who are you?”
“My name is Brenna Battle. I—”
“You’re the one who was on the news. The one who was accused of killing that reporter.”
Actually, technically it was my sister who’d been accused of murder. Though I’d been accused of other things. Funny how he saw me as the one who’d been accused of murder, and not as the one who’d ended up solving that crime! I mean, come on, it’s not like I ever really wanted to be a hero, but it sure would beat playing the role of small-town villain over and over again.
“What are you doing here?” he said.
I held one of my hands out to greet him, and kept the other up in surrender. “It’s nice to meet the owner of this beautiful historic home, Mr. … ?”
“Thompson. Derek Thompson.”
He didn’t take me up on my hand-shake offer. I let both of my hands drop to my sides. Mr. Derek Thompson took a step closer. I thrust my hands back up over my head. And then Mr. Thompson lowered his umbrella. Yes, it was an umbrella that had me smiling and hand-shaking—or trying to, anyway—for my life.
I could see him quite clearly now that he’d stepped into the beam of sunlight shining through a small window of rippled, antique glass. He was in his mid-thirties, with bright blue eyes that reminded me of Harvey’s, only much smaller, witho
ut the magnification of those old glasses. I found myself wondering if he wore contact lenses. His dark, wavy hair was neatly parted and combed back. He wore a pin-striped gray shirt tucked into black slacks. But the top button was undone and his steel-gray tie loosened, as though this were the end of a very stressful day. Maybe I should give Derek and his umbrella and his accusations a break. I’m sure coming home to relax, and instead running into me, was a less than pleasant surprise.
“Are you related to Harvey?” I asked.
“Uncle Harvey?”
“Yes. He’s just up the ballroom stairs … um, in the closet on the landing. We just met outside. I was admiring the house and he invited me in. Normally I wouldn’t, but he seemed a little lost.”
Derek groaned. “He’s hiding in the closet again? I’m so sorry.”
Upstairs, a door banged open, and footsteps thundered down the hall, then the stairs. Harvey jumped in front of Derek. “You leave her alone! Moira’s warned you. This is it, Derek!”
Whoa. I wasn’t quite sure if I should put myself between them, or if that would be an incredibly stupid move. Derek still had the umbrella. “Hey!” I said. Then I tried to channel Blythe’s soothing voice—the one she used to talk me down when I got all fired up. “I’m okay, Harvey. Everything’s fine.”
But Harvey wasn’t fine. His eyes bored into Derek with murderous rage. Derek just rolled his and smirked. I felt my own anger rise up to join Harvey’s. Yes, there was something seriously wrong with Harvey, but was it really necessary to mock him? Right in front of him?
“I enjoyed getting to know you, Harvey, and the house, too,” I said. Then I told Derek, “Since you’re here, I guess I’ll get going. Let you take care of things.” Get back to knocking on doors, trying to drum up business. Not that I’d really gotten started. I looked at Derek hopefully. “You don’t have any kids, do you?”
He raised his eyebrows at me, and I knew he’d read my look and my question totally the wrong way. My cheeks got hot. Right. I’m not that desperate, buster! I wanted to say. “I teach judo for kids. I was just going around the neighborhood, seeing if anyone was interested. It’s a new business, you know.”
Derek’s eyes glazed over. It was clear my not-quite-sales-pitch sounded even worse to him than the come-on he’d first imagined. He shook his head with a slowness that said it should’ve been obvious he didn’t have any kids, or if he did, they wouldn’t be interested in judo, at least not with me.
“Right. Well, nice to meet you anyway.” I reached into my back pocket for one of the cards Blythe had designed and had printed through an online company. They’d just arrived yesterday. “Harvey, here’s my card. Not for judo, just in case you want to talk about the house some more one of these days. Or if you need anything. You can call me.”
Harvey’s eyes actually lit up. “Thank you. I will. Moira really appreciates it.”
“You’re welcome.” I headed out the front door and into the sunshine.
I couldn’t get down those grand steps and back onto the sidewalk fast enough. I glanced up at the beautifully painted exterior. It didn’t match the odd, sad situation within at all. Maybe Harvey was right. Maybe the cheerful green was completely the wrong color. Or maybe I was being too hard on Derek. If he’d been dealing with Harvey for years, well, I guess that could really wear on you. Was it really so terrible for Derek to want to fix things up? To brighten up the gloomy old house? I wondered if any period in Reiner House’s past had matched the light tone Derek was trying to “restore.” I pictured the interior redone, lightened up. Whatever its past, I hoped some real light would be in the house’s future. Or at least Harvey’s and Derek’s.
“Miss Battle.”
I spun around. Derek trotted down the steps after me. He crossed his arms and gave me a stern look, oddly fatherly considering he wasn’t that much older than me.
“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t encourage my uncle’s fantasies.”
Fantasies! As if anything I did or said would stop them! The man clearly had more than a problem confusing fantasy and reality. Didn’t this idiot know that? Was anyone really looking out for Harvey? I thought of the Coke bottle glasses and wondered when Harvey had last seen a doctor. Had anyone bothered to seek a diagnosis for his confusion? Maybe there was medication that could help him.
“You think it would be better to tell him he’s nuts? That there’s no such thing as spirits haunting old houses? What good would that do?” Okay, so I was just a tad riled up about Harvey. “He wouldn’t even believe it. He thinks they’re his friends. That they need him.”
“Maybe he’d be more interested in making real friends if he weren’t so absorbed in these fantasies. We can’t all just humor him and try to be his friend. What kind of friend lets someone believe in such nonsense, anyway?”
For goodness sake, I’d just met the man! We were hardly friends. Obviously Derek had a serious chip on his shoulder about it. “Look,” I said with careful, forced calm, “he wouldn’t stop believing that stuff no matter who told him it was nonsense! He ‘knows’ it’s true. He’d just dismiss you or me or anyone else.”
Derek just glared at me for a moment.
I glared right back. “How do you know they’re fantasies, anyway?” I said.
“Great. And here I thought you were just being nice. You’re one of those hooey-wooey nut jobs too?” He spun his finger in a circle around the side of his head in the universal sign for crazy. “Ghost hunters, ghost busters.” He shook his head sharply. “I’ve had enough of them. This house is perfectly capable of standing on its real history alone. All I want to do is turn it into a nice bed and breakfast, and stop catering to all the crazies. How can I do that with a crazy guy living here?”
So, Harvey was just in the way, huh? “Of course I don’t believe your uncle is talking to ghosts,” I said. “What I mean is, it seems to me he’s got something more going on. Alzheimer’s, dementia, something. He can’t help that!”
“You don’t know my uncle. He’s always been this way. Crazy as a loon! It’s just that the courts have finally taken action. For some reason, now that he’s reached a certain age, they’re suddenly willing to believe he needs a guardian. If they’d just listened to me years ago … ”
“So, you’re his guardian?”
Derek straighten up with self-importance. “Yes, his guardian, and more importantly, the house’s guardian.”
Okay, so it was possible I was wrong about the alzheimer’s, but, Harvey, less important than a building?
Derek smiled grimly. “After all, how long will Harvey really be around? And if this house is taken care of properly, it will still be here for hundreds of years.” The smile broadened as he gestured at the house, an adoring look in his eye.
I could just about feel my hair trying to stand on end. Derek was freaking me out even more than Harvey’s ghosts. “But … it’s a house.” I ground out the words.
“It’s a national treasure!”
That was a bit of a reach, but I kept my mouth shut and threw Derek a disgusted look over my shoulder. I couldn’t get away from Derek fast enough. What a creep. If he was the only one looking out for Harvey’s welfare, I hated to think what could happen to the old man. One thing was for sure. When I was done finding new customers, I was going to find out more about Harvey and Derek and this old mansion.
5
A couple of houses down, and a bunch of deep breaths later, I spotted a promising-looking 1920s bungalow with fat, square porch columns and a pair of rollerblades left on the steps. I picked up the rollerblades and set them neatly by the front door, next to a pair of green rain boots with dragon mouths on the toes.
I got out a flyer, knocked on the door, and got my practiced-for-the-media smile ready. I was going to knock their socks off. They were going to come running to sign up for judo.
All I had to do was get someone to answer the door. I’d knocked firmly, and I thought I heard voices inside, but there was no sound to indicate they were c
oming. Come on, answer the door, please.
I’d left Blythe back at the dojo an hour ago, and I had yet to even speak to a potential customer. I looked for a doorbell, and didn’t find one. Should I knock again? No, if it were me, that would really tick me off. When I ignore a knock on the door, I do it for a reason, you know?
Time to move on. I turned my back on the door and accepted defeat. Just then, my phone blared the awful ring tone Blythe had programmed into it. No doubt she was checking up on me. After my brushes with death the week before last, I couldn’t really blame her. I moved to answer it right away. But Blythe’s name and smiling picture didn’t appear on my screen. Instead it was a number I didn’t recognize. A customer! Someone who’d seen the flyers we’d left at the Bonney Bay’s Grocery store, the Cherry Bowl, or the post we’d made on the Bonney Bay social media pages.
I dove into customer service mode with a passion that nearly equaled the zeal with which I devoured a meal after making weight during my days as a competitor. “Hello, Brenna Battle speaking. How can I help you?”
A pause. Heavy breathing. Great. Just a weirdo. “Hello?” I repeated, my enthusiasm wilting.
Just when I was about to hang up, a muffled voice on the line said, “Ahh, it’s Harvey.”
“Harvey?” I’d just left his house, what, three minutes ago?
“I’m sorry, well, you said I could call. It’s Derek. He’s not breathing.”
“Harvey, I can barely hear you. It sounded like you said Derek’s not breathing?”
“I told him. Who can control Moira? Not me. I tried, I tell you!” Now Harvey was shouting. Shouting absolutely useless information.
“Harvey! Is Derek not breathing?”
“No, I don’t think so. You have to come help me.”
No? What did that mean? That Harvey wasn’t not breathing, or no, he wasn’t breathing? There was no telling how long it would take to get a straight answer out of Harvey. Guaranteed, if there really was a life-threatening emergency, it would be too long for Derek. “Harvey, hang up and call 9-1-1. I’m coming. I’ll be right there.”
