Stepping into her front yard, Mrs. McGuire smiles, extends her hand and greets each of us. Wyatt places Nathaniel’s portable ramp over the two front steps and the four of us enter her humble abode. Outside, Jeff lies down for a late afternoon snooze in the dwindling sunlight.
Inside her domain, crocheted doilies and hand-knitted lap-blankets adorn every surface. If she were a character in a movie, I would cast her as the former president of a successful corporation. But her looks are deceiving. Even if she didn’t invent cozy, she’s bringing it back in a serious way. Her home is cluttered with knickknacks and crocheted covers for everything and she chats with us and fusses over us like we’re royalty.
Just like a little kid, I ask to use her bathroom, only because I want to see what it’s like. And it’s awesome. She has one of those rugs that covers the toilet lid and it’s a lovely shade of lavender. There’s a fluffy piece of carpet on the floor, also lavender. Lavender shades and drapes adorn the single window. A ruffled lavender shower curtain hangs over the tub and she has lavender-scented candles, potpourri, soap and room spray, too. I know because I smelled everything.
Best of all, she keeps an extra roll of toilet paper on the back of her toilet and it’s inside a decorative little doll. The hand-crocheted skirt of the doll’s lavender ball gown fits over the roll of toilet paper which helps the doll stand up. I wish I knew our hostess better, so I could ask her to make me one. I’d ask for day-glow orange to brighten up the upstairs bathroom. Meg and Jen would kill to have one of those dolls on their toilet paper.
When I come out of the bathroom and compliment her on the décor, our cheerful hostess offers us tea and I help her serve it in delicate china cups with saucers. Each cup has a different flower on it. Mine is lily-of-the-valley, which is a highly poisonous plant. I decide not to point this out. She uses regular tea bags from the supermarket and sugar. I put three teaspoons of it in my tea and a ton of milk. It tastes delicious, even if it isn’t as healthful as my mother’s brews.
We all sit down within reach of doily-covered side tables supplied with plenty of crocheted coasters for our tea cups. My personal table is a deep brown, polished mahogany piecrust-style table with a sunshine yellow lace doily and matching coaster on it. When I place my fragile china tea cup on its lacy coaster it looks like a photograph in an antiques magazine.
Both of my male companions seem overgrown and out of their element. Their large hands look comical lifting the dainty tea cups made of china so thin and delicate it’s translucent. I’m afraid Wyatt might break his, because his hands are huge and he’s not very coordinated, but he’s careful and Mrs. McGuire’s dainty china lives to see another tea party. Our hostess places a small plate of homemade snicker-doodle cookies on the coffee table and Wyatt and I finish them off in less than five minutes. Nathaniel only eats one and Mrs. McGuire doesn’t eat any.
Wyatt downs his tea in two gulps and looks around. I know he’s scouting for more cookies. Mrs. McGuire smiles at him, remarks on his appetite and brings another plate of warm cookies out from the kitchen. When she isn’t looking, I wink at Wyatt. He flashes a quick grin back and then takes a huge bite of a cookie. Nathaniel glowers at both of us and mouths the word, “Behave.”
Ever my mother’s daughter, I begin to throw around the charm and display my legendary manners. “Your flowers are beautiful. My mother would love your yard. I hope when she’s your age she’s still fit enough to garden the way you do.”
“My son helps me with the heavy lifting, but I manage to do all of the planting, watering, fertilizing and dead-heading. My husband, may he rest in peace, built me a little cold bed out back with some old windows and a few railroad ties, so I can gather seeds after the blossoms fade and raise my own seedlings every year.”
My mom has a small greenhouse attached to an ancient gardening shed my dad renovated for her out back. It has a gravel floor and an antique, soapstone sink, but I don’t want to top-dawg Mrs. McGuire. That would be rude, so I just compliment her on her stunning flower beds again.
Then we shoot the breeze about how she always crocheted and tatted her own lace before the arthritis in her hands started to make the process too painful. I would never wish any kind of pain on anyone, but it’s probably just as well she stopped making the doilies and blankets, seeing as how she ran out of surfaces to put them on about two decades ago and now she has to double up, stack and layer everything. We had to move stuff aside before we could sit down in the chairs in her living room. Glancing at Wyatt I daintily place a delicate, pale yellow, hand-knitted blanket across my knees, smile at our hostess and announce, “I feel a little chill.”
She smiles back and comments that the color of the blanket suits me. “Pastels always look so pretty against dark skin. What nationality are you, dear?”
“My mother’s family came over from England some time during the 17th century, but on my father’s side we’re part Native North American.”
“Lovely, that’s where your coloring comes from, just lovely.”
“Thank you, Mrs. McGuire.”
“Why, you’re welcome, my dear.”
We aren’t seated around a table, which is a good thing, because Wyatt would probably kick me under it. He and Nathaniel are both taking turns giving me the evil eyeball, which is supposed to be a signal to stop slinging around the bull and get down to business. Mrs. McGuire seems like she would be happy to go on discussing flowers, crocheting and my lovely skin tone all afternoon into the evening, though, so I steer the conversation toward the past.
“Were these flower beds here when you moved into your home as a young bride?”
“Oh no. First of all, I wasn’t a young bride. I was a widow with a teenage son. Mr. McGuire married me and bought this house for his ready-made family. He helped me with the flower beds and the cold frame. We used to love to do yard work together.”
Nathaniel weighs in. “It must’ve been a lot of work, though. Your yard’s impressive. Every inch seems to be artfully landscaped. Did you have time for a career?” Maybe this question will lead our hostess toward talking about her job as a nurse.
“Oh, yes. I was a nurse. Two incomes are better than one and Mr. McGuire was happy to have the extra money from mine; he would’ve done anything for me. Back in the seventies it wasn’t as common as it is now for a woman to have a career and a family, but I managed both.”
Here it comes. She’s going to talk about her job at the hospital. Even if she doesn’t, we can coax her in that direction now without being too obvious.
Maybe she won’t need any more prompting.
“When I was a bride for the first time, back in 1952, I chose to go to college and study nursing, instead of starting a family right away. Even when my son was born in 1965, I kept working. My first husband, Mr. Donahue, may he rest in peace, supported my decision one hundred percent. Like many truly good souls, he died young. Your school report is about Eastfield in the fifties, right?”
Wyatt continues to lead the conversation toward Mrs. McGuire’s job as a nurse. “Yes, Eastfield in the fifties and sixties. Annabelle’s particularly interested in women and their careers during that time frame.”
I hope she’ll start talking about Wild Wood.
“I can certainly help you with that. Like I said, not many girls chose the college path and certainly not many married women. I worked over at the Wild Wood Psychiatric Hospital for many years, until they closed down in1986.”
Bingo.
I encourage her to stay on this topic. “Wow, Wild Wood. That must’ve been interesting.”
“Yes. And I was very fortunate to have that job because I found myself a widow and a single mother, when my son turned twelve.”
Bingo again!
We’re finally on the right track. She brought up Wild Wood without too much prompting from us. Jackson and Oliver made us promise we’d just let her talk and not ask too many leading questions about Daniel and his mysterious roommate. I think they were afraid that Wyatt and I wou
ld arouse her suspicions and therefore, they sent Nathaniel along as a watchdog to make sure we followed the rules. He shoots me a meaningful look and clears his throat. Then he asks the next question.
“That must’ve been a demanding job. My mother’s a single mom and a nurse and her life hasn’t been easy. How did you manage?”
“Fortunately, a year after my first husband died, I met Mr. McGuire at a pot luck supper hosted by a mutual friend. He fell in love with my baked ham in raisin sauce and then I guess with me, too.”
I think of a subtle way to nudge her back toward the topic of Wild Wood. “As a working mom, you must’ve been exhausted. Don’t nurses have to work the nightshift sometimes?”
“I always worked the day shift, mostly patient care. Then I’d be home before dinner so we could eat together as a family.”
I’m dying to ask her if she ever got emotionally attached to any of her patients, but I can’t think of a way to casually transition into that area, so I dive right in. “Did you ever feel a special connection to a particular patient?”
Nathaniel shoots me a look that could kill, but my clumsy conversation pays off. She starts to talk about Daniel.
“I did become very close to one of my patients. His name was Daniel. He couldn’t speak, but we both enjoyed our quiet time together. I used to read to him when I wasn’t too busy with my other duties. He seemed to like The Hardy Boys series, but also some more advanced literature. I remember reading him Oliver Twist, the whole thing, chapter by chapter, and he sat silently, hanging on every word. My own son didn’t care for reading, or listening to stories when he was little, but my favorite patient loved books. Too bad the poor, sweet little boy couldn’t talk, or learn to read himself. Unfortunately, they moved him to a different wing in the hospital and we didn’t see each other after that.”
“Why did they move him?”
“I’m not exactly sure. In addition to his mutism, he was an epileptic. Maybe the seizures had something to do with the move. I didn’t ask. The hospital was overcrowded and I had so many other duties. We were understaffed, so I didn’t pursue the matter. Shortly after he moved to a new room, the hospital closed.”
“Did they move him because of overcrowding? Did he suffer because of the poor conditions?”
“I told you. I don’t know. Why are you asking so many questions about the hospital? That’s not the topic of your report.”
We’re getting too close to the answers we need. I try to be patient, but the big bucketful of self-control I walked in with is leaking. My goal’s in sight. “Do you know anything more about why the hospital closed?”
“They lost most of their state funding due to an investigation.”
“What kind of an investigation?”
“I thought you were interested in talking about the fifties and sixties. The hospital closed in 1986. Aren’t we getting off track? What about your school project?”
“I think the most interesting ideas surface when you’re digressing. Don’t you?” I can tell that she’s getting annoyed because I’m rattling her cage with all of my off-topic questions. I’m afraid to look over at Nathaniel.
I keep hoping she’ll get going on the subject of why the hospital closed; then we can make some progress. In 1986, she was interested in the investigation, interested enough to write that note and hide it in the files. But she seems unwilling to discuss it now.
“The hospital closed a long time ago and I don’t see how the investigation fits in with your research topic.” She puts down her teacup and it clinks against the saucer.
“I’m just curious about your career as a nurse. When the hospital closed, did you find another job at a different hospital?”
“No, I was sixty years old when the hospital closed and I retired. My husband had developed heart disease, so I stayed home and nursed him. Only a few months later he died and then I had his life insurance settlement. I could live off of that and my retirement money. I’d been working as a nurse for over thirty years by then. It was time.”
Then Nathaniel speaks up and redirects the interview back to neighborhood life in 1950’s Eastfield, and I pretend to take notes. When I try to ask more questions about Daniel and the hospital, Nathaniel interrupts me and asks me to go check on Jeff, who’s still out in the yard. I walk to the front door and call out his name. Jeff gets up and lopes over to me, but refuses to enter the house.
Mrs. McGuire comes to the door, to see what I’m up to. As she reaches down to pat Jeff, a low rumble vibrates in his throat. He backs up, turns and trots over to his place on the grass to lie down again.
Jeff doesn’t like her. I look back into the living room to see if Nathaniel noticed Jeff’s growl.
He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head at me, as if to say, don’t bring her attention to it. I don’t want to piss him off, so I keep my mouth shut. But I can’t help wondering why Jeff doesn’t like sweet, elderly Mrs. McGuire who’s willing to chat on and on forever about every topic known to mankind except the closing of The Wild Wood Psychiatric Hospital.
By the time we rise to leave, I’m frustrated and disappointed. I help her collect the tea cups and carry them to the sink. She declines my offer to help her wash them. Politely, we say our goodbyes and I thank her. Nathaniel and Wyatt go out to their cars, but I linger at the door.
“You know, my dad has a friend who used to work at the hospital. I wonder if you knew him. His name is Mike. I can’t remember his last name, but I’m pretty sure he worked there right around the time the hospital closed. Do you remember anyone named Mike?”
“Mike, that’s a common name. I don’t remember anyone named Mike off the top of my head, but my memory isn’t what it used to be.”
Her memory is amazing, but the amiable chatterbox has disappeared and a closemouthed, unfriendly old woman has taken her place. As soon as I step outside she closes the door so fast she almost whacks me on the ass with it. I definitely won’t be invited back, which is a shame, because there’s a lot more I want to know about the closing of Wild Wood and an employee named Mike. Mrs. Mary McGuire, however, isn’t willing to supply me with any more information.
I traipse back to Wyatt’s car, thinking about today’s botched interview. But perhaps the fact that I failed to uncover any further information about our ghostly patient is valuable information in itself. What’s she hiding? Why doesn’t Jeff like her? And, who’s Mike? I think she knows him but doesn’t want to talk about it for some mysterious reason.
Nathaniel has already driven away by the time I finish talking to our hostess. Wyatt’s standing outside the Land Rover, waiting to open the door for me. “I’m guessing we won’t be invited back anytime soon; thanks to you. Nice job pissing off the old lady.”
I bless him with my most dazzling smile. “Why, thank you for that lovely compliment, Wyatt.”
“Get in the car, Nancy Drew.”
Chapter 25
Mom’s Ability to Sense Evil Is Put to the Test
Just a few hours after our visit to the retired nurse’s fairytale cottage, I decide it’s time for bed and head upstairs early; before ten o’clock. Because it’s pretty warm outside and because I’m a fresh air freak anyway, I open my bedroom window halfway, to let in the night breeze. Standing there, enjoying the quiet, I stare out over the moonlit landscape for a few minutes, and breathe in the cool, clean darkness. It’s a good night for snuggling up under the quilt.
The cold that awakens me around midnight isn’t from outside, though. He covers me in winter and startles me awake and alert in the same instant. Immediately, I recognize the iciness that follows Anthony everywhere.
“Wake up, Annabelle!” His frozen breath raises the hackles on my neck. Then he’s gone.
I hear an unfamiliar noise outside and concentrate on the rattling sound.
What the hell is that? Is a squirrel climbing up the downspout that hangs from the rain gutter outside my window?
I creep out of bed. Instinctively, staying a few steps bac
k from the window, I peer out over the rooftop of the screened-in porch my grandfather built fifty years ago, long before he and Grandma retired and moved to Florida.
Many times, I’ve climbed out of my bedroom window, onto that gently sloping roof, to read, or talk on my cell phone, or sometimes just to lie on my back and gaze at the clouds. But tonight it seems like a dangerous and creepy place. I look out, across the moonlit roof tiles, to where the gutter ends in the downspout. The damn thing’s shaking and thudding, as if a full grown man’s shinnying up it. No sooner does this petrifying thought enter my brain, than the top of his dark head appears, right at the edge of the porch roof.
Immediately, I find my voice and scream. Then pivot and run. All hell’s breaking loose right outside my bedroom door. Dad’s speeding down the stairs with a rifle under his arm and I chase after him.
My mother yells, “Annabelle, get back here!”
But I ignore her.
Dad shouts, “Susannah, call the police. Johnny’s on duty tonight. Hurry!”
Mom races back into their bedroom to grab her phone.
My feet ripple down the stairs, skipping steps, in an effort to keep up with my madman of a father. He can sure move fast for an old guy. And since when does he own a gun? I’m only a few feet behind him, so I see him plunge out the back door into the darkness and I follow.
As a sharp crack slices through the silence of the night air, I feel a sudden burn on my left shoulder. Like it’s been stung by a wasp the size of a great horned owl. I try to suck in some air but can’t catch my breath. Staggering backwards, I almost fall over. In the gloom, I watch my father’s black silhouette raise the rifle to its shoulder. Then Dad cocks the gun and fires. He does it again and again before he finally runs into the woods to get off a closer shot and I lose sight of him in the dark.
The stranger in the woods shoots again. It’s a smaller sound than Dad’s rifle, so he must be firing a pistol of some sort.
“Dad!” I scream. Forgetting about the pain in my shoulder, I fly barefoot across our backyard and into the forest.
Enter If You Dare Page 19
