“Yes, Miss Shepherd? You were saying?”
“Bill was fine,” I said quickly, too quickly to fool Willis, Sr. I could hear his sigh even through the static.
“Would I be correct in assuming that my son has done something objectionable, Miss Shepherd?”
“Well…” I toyed with the phone cord. “Does trying to convince me that the cottage is haunted count as objectionable?”
“Pardon me, Miss Shepherd. Did I hear you correctly? Did you say haunted?”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“Where my son is concerned, I no longer know what to believe. I really am going to have to speak with the boy.”
“I don’t think he meant any harm by it,” I blurted, wishing I’d kept my big mouth shut. I didn’t like the agitation I heard in Willis, Sr.’s voice.
“Nonetheless, this has gone far enough. He can have no excuse for such unprofessional conduct. If he cannot be trusted to carry out Miss Westwood’s wishes, I shall order him home and appoint a suitable substitute. I am beginning to regret my failure to accompany you myself.”
“You mustn’t do that.” Now I was thoroughly alarmed.
“I am Miss Westwood’s executor, Miss Shepherd. It is my responsibility to—”
“It was just a joke,” I insisted, “a silly practical joke. It didn’t even scare me. Not for a second.”
“You are quite sure?”
“Do I strike you as someone who believes in ghosts?”
“No____”
“Then please don’t give it another thought. I’ll talk to Bill myself.”
“Very well. But if he continues to—”
“I’ll let you know, Mr. Willis.”
“I shall count on you to do so.” There was a moment of silence on the line and when Willis, Sr., spoke again, his voice had regained its customary calm. “Now, Miss Shepherd, if I might turn to a more pleasant subject before I go?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I would simply like to express my heartfelt gratitude for your most thoughtful gift. I attempted to contact you in London, but you were out much of the time, and I did not like to convey my thanks through Miss Kingsley. I am most grateful. I have seldom seen such a fine example of cartographic art and I have never seen such a splendidly appropriate frame. My dear, it quite took my breath away.” His warm words sent a rush of pleasure through me. I twirled the phone cord around my finger and turned a slow pirouette, like a little girl being lauded for a flawless piano recital.
And stopped.
Because there, looking up at me from the arm of one of the tall leather chairs near the fire, was Reginald.
Not my Reginald. My Reginald was upstairs in the master bedroom, in the wardrobe, in the shoebox, in pieces, and this Reginald was here, in the study, in the chair, sitting up as pretty as you please, with every stitch intact, two button eyes gleaming, and both ears on straight, as powder-pink as the day he’d been born.
Except for the purple stain near his hand-stitched whiskers.
“I have to go,” I said abruptly.
“Pardon me, Miss Shepherd?”
“I really have to go,” I said. “Right now. I’ll call you back in a little while.”
“Is there anything wrong?”
“I’ll call you back,” I repeated. I dropped the phone on the cradle, tore out of the study, pounded up the stairs, flung open the wardrobe, grabbed the shoebox, and flipped the lid onto the floor.
The shoebox was empty.
* * *
There was no way Bill could have known about Reginald. Not even Meg knew about Reginald. Having a stuffed bunny as a confidant isn’t something a thirty-year-old woman readily admits to.
But someone had known about him. Someone who needed to get my attention.
I put the shoebox back into the wardrobe and gently closed the door. I descended the staircase in slow motion, stopped at the doorway of the study, and peeked in. The fire was snapping, the rain was drumming, a book of some sort was lying on the ottoman, and Reginald was sitting beside it. He had moved.
“Reg?” I called softly. “Is that you?”
His eyes glittered in the flickering firelight. I walked over to pick him up. With a trembling finger, I traced his whiskers and touched the purple stain on his snout, then cradled him in one arm and bent to pick up the book. It was bound in smooth blue leather, with a blank cover and spine; a journal, perhaps.
Slowly, I sat down with it in the chair and, even more slowly, I fanned through the pages. All were blank except for the first one, on which a single sentence had been written.
Welcome to the cottage, Lori.
Before I had time to digest that, another formed below it as I watched.
I’m so glad you are here, my dear.
I’m not sure how long I stopped breathing, but it was long enough to make my next breath absolutely essential.
“Dimity?” I whispered. “Is that you?”
Yes, of course it is, my dear. And let me say what a joy it is to make your acquaintance after all these years.
I clapped a hand over my mouth to suppress a quavering giggle. “It’s nice to meet you, too.” I cleared my throat. “Uh, Dimity?”
Yes, Lori?
“Do you suppose you could tell me what’s going on here? I mean, I know what’s going on here, but what’s going on here, if you catch my drift. I mean… what I mean is… I don’t even know what I mean.”
Perhaps you could be more specific?
“More specific. Right. Um…” My mind raced through the events of the night before. “Did you do the lock and the lights and the lilacs and the… the fire? Did you light the fire in here this morning?”
Why, yes, my dear. As Derek indicated, I wished to celebrate your arrival. You really should trust what he says about the cottage, Lori. He and Emma know it better than anyone. And you must stop blaming young Bill. I assure you, he had nothing to do with my arrangements.
“Well, thank you, Dimity, it was… lovely.” I was reluctant to voice the other suspicion that had occurred to me. It was rather deflating, but it was also staring me in the face. “I should have known it’d take supernatural intervention to turn me into a good cook.”
NO! I had nothing to do with the omelette!
“You mean it?” I asked. “You’re not say—er, writing that just to make me feel better?”
I am telling you the truth. I did lend a hand with the crumpets, but that was only to build your confidence. You may take full credit for the omelette. You might try the oatmeal cookies next. I do so love the scent of cinnamon.
“Me, too,” I said, with a nostalgic smile.
I had become so caught up in the give and take of our “conversation” that I had temporarily forgotten what was actually taking place. In fact, I had pretty much lost touch with reality altogether. When a log fell on the fire, I jumped, then looked slowly around the room, realizing the picture I would present to anyone peering in through the windows. I was sitting in an isolated cottage, the wind was howling, the rain was roaring, and I was communicating with the dead. I tightened my grip on Reginald and glanced nervously back at the journal as a new sentence took shape.
/ know how strange this must seem.
“Now that you mention it, this is a little… no, this is a lot strange. I mean, you did say something in your letter about not coming back from the grave. And what about all those long chats with my mother?” I paused, almost afraid to ask the next question. “Dimity—how is she?”
I haven’t seen Beth yet.
“You haven’t? Why not? I mean, you’re both in… the same place, aren’t you?”
Not precisely. She’s gone ahead.
“Oh. Well, she… went first, I guess. But you’ll catch up with her, won’t you?”
I hope so. A sigh breezed through the room. You see, Lori, things are a bit muddled.
A bit muddled? Was that what they meant by British understatement? My suspension of disbelief was about to snap.
>
It’s my own fault, of course.
“What is?”
Oh, everything. I’ve known all along that I would never be forgiven.
“Forgiven for what?”
I simply don’t deserve forgiveness. And this isn’t such a terrible way to spend eternity, is it? I could think of much worse
The handwriting stopped.
“Hello?” I said. “Are you still there? Can you hear me?”
Nothing more. I stared at the page until my head swam, then looked up, round-eyed, to see Bill standing over me.
14
“Don’t let me interrupt.” As his eyes traveled slowly around the room, he held out the manuscript of Lori’s Stories. “I finished reading it this morning, up in my room, and thought I’d return it before… Lori? Lori, what is it? What’s the matter?” He put the manuscript on the desk, then knelt before me. “You look like you’ve seen a—”
“Don’t,” I said. “Please, Bill, no jokes.”
“But I’m not—” His eyes widened. “You mean, you actually have seen—”
“Not seen, exactly.”
“Oh, my….” Bill sat back on his heels. “Dimity?”
I gave a barely perceptible nod.
“So the Harrises were telling the truth.” He pulled the ottoman over and sat on it, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “I thought they might be. When you first stepped into the cottage, I… I don’t know how to explain it, but I sensed something. That’s why I let you go on ahead without me. I felt like an intruder.” He shook his head. “Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
“No,” I said. I let the journal fall shut in my lap. “I felt it, too. But I—I thought it was the central heating.”
“That’s what comes of being such a practical sort of person,” said Bill. He brushed away a tear that had rolled down my cheek. “Tell me about it?”
Struggling to keep my voice level, I introduced him to Reginald. “I’ve had him since I was a kid, Bill, since I was really little, you know? I’d recognize him anywhere. But last year a burglar left him in pieces all over my apartment. I brought him to England in a shoebox and now—” I gulped for air.
“Now he’s fully recovered.” Bill took out his handkerchief and wiped away a few more tears that had managed to escape. “The burglar didn’t hurt you, did he? Oh, now, Lori, come on, don’t cry like that. There’s no need to be frightened.”
“I’m not f-frightened,” I said, taking Bill’s handkerchief and burying my face in it. “For Pete’s sake, Bill, it’s not as though headless horsemen are galloping through the living room. How could I be afraid of Dimity? I’m—I’m ashamed of myself. Here you are, being so nice to me after I behaved like such a jerk last night. I didn’t even give you a chance to explain.”
“I don’t think I could have explained,” said Bill. “And even if I had, there was no reason for you to believe me.”
I caught my breath and blinked at him through my tears.
“Well, I might have tried rigging the cottage,” he said. “In fact, I kind of wish I had. It might have been fun. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have been your prime suspect.”
“Because you promised,” I said bluntly, twisting his handkerchief into a knot. “When we were at Meg’s. You promised that you wouldn’t… step over the line again.”
“You have a point. And yes, it would have been nice if you’d remembered it sooner. Consider yourself castigated. But I refuse to stalk out of here in a huff, because if I do I won’t get to hear what else happened this morning to convince you of my innocence. So let’s skip over the recriminations and the apologies and go straight to the good stuff.” Bill leaned closer and whispered, “Did she… manifest herself to you?”
“She wrote to me,” I said with a sniff and a quavery laugh. I held up the journal. “A new form of correspondence. All the pages but one were blank when I opened it. Now look at it.” I showed him the first page. “It’s her handwriting, Bill. I’m sure of it.”
“Does that mean it wasn’t ghostwritten?” he murmured. He studied the page, then said, with great reluctance, “I know you don’t want to hear this, Lori, but I have to confess that I—”
“You can’t see it?” I took the journal from him. The sentences were still there, plain as day. I fought down a sudden surge of panic.
Bill took hold of my shoulders. “Calm down, Lori, and think about this. She’s writing to you, not to me. I doubt if anyone else can see what you’re seeing.”
“But—”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t believe you,” Bill stated firmly. “That doesn’t make it less real. It doesn’t make it less anything, except, well… less visible. Who knows? Maybe it’s some sort of security system. A private line, open only to you. That would make sense, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose….”
“Well, all right, then.” Bill released his grip on my shoulders, took the journal from my hands, and opened it. “Please, Lori. Calmly and clearly and in the correct order, tell me what Dimity—” He glanced down at the journal and his eyes remained on the page, moving from left to right, as a ruddy glow rose from his neck to his hairline. He blinked suddenly, then snapped the book shut.
“What?” I said eagerly. “What did she write?”
“Nothing important,” he said.
“Then why are you blushing?”
“You couldn’t see it?” he asked.
“Private line,” I replied.
“She was…” He averted his eyes. “She was complimenting me on my appearance.”
I looked at him doubtfully.
“She was,” he insisted. “She said that my teeth are nice and straight, as she always knew they would be.”
“And what else?”
He looked away again and said, with studied nonchalance, “And that she was right in telling Father not to worry about my thumb-sucking.”
“You were still sucking your thumb at twelve?”
“No,” said Bill, “I started sucking my thumb at twelve. It’s a common reaction to bereavement.”
“Oh.” The room grew very still. Bill watched the fire and I watched his profile until he turned in my direction.
“I don’t anymore, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“What I was wondering,” I said softly, “was why I didn’t try it. A little thumb-sucking might have helped.”
“It helped me.”
“And your teeth are very straight,” I added.
“Thank you.”
“Bill,” I said, “you know about Reginald, and I know about your thumb. I think that makes us even.”
Some of the starch went out of his spine. “It’s a start.” Tapping the journal, he returned to the subject at hand. “She thinks of everything, doesn’t she? It’s a strange effect, though—how the words… appear. What did she say to you?”
I read through Dimity’s half of the dialogue and supplied my side of it as best I could remember. When I finished, he let out a low whistle.
“Deep waters,” he said.
“It’s a metaphysical swamp, if you ask me. I don’t even want to think about what her return address might be.”
“What was all that about forgiveness?” Bill asked. “Forgiveness for what?”
“I don’t know. That’s when you came in.”
“Why don’t you try asking her again?”
“You mean just… ask?” With a self-conscious glance at Bill, I opened the journal once more. “Uh, hello?” I said. “Dimity? Are you there?” I touched Bill’s arm as a new sentence appeared on the page.
Yes, of course, my dear.
“Good,” I said, “because I want to ask you about what you said before, about needing to be—”
Do you like the cottage?
“Like it? I love it, Dimity. Derek did a fantastic job.”
There are few craftsmen as gifted as Derek. I was fortunate to find him. Have you see the back garden yet?
“Only from the deck.”
>
Oh, but it’s no good gazing down on a garden. You must stroll through it in order to see it properly.
“I’ll do that,” I promised, “as soon as it stops pouring. But, to get back to what I was saying before, could you explain what you meant when you said—”
It’s nothing for you to concern yourself with, Lori.
“But I am concerned, Dimity. I mean, it’s great to have a chance to talk with you like this, but—”
There’s nothing you can do, you see. I want you to enjoy your time here. I want you to read the correspondence.
“I will, Dimity, as soon as—”
You must read the letters. Read them carefully. But please, take the time to make a batch of cookies for young Bill. You could find no better way to make amends. Oh, dear, it seems I must go now. Once more, Lori, I welcome you with all my heart.
I tried a few more questions, but when nothing else appeared, I closed the journal and leaned on the arm of the chair, lost in thought.
“She’s stonewalling,” I murmured. “She’s what?”
“She’s shutting me out, just like she shut out my mother.”
“What has this got to do with your mother?”
I handed the journal to Bill and got to my feet. “You stay right here,” I said. “I have something to show you.”
* * *
“…So Dimity bottled something up all these years and now it’s blocking her way to heaven?” Bill took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “The things they don’t teach you in law school…”
He was sitting at the desk in the study, with the manuscript, the topographic map, the letters from Dimity and my mother, the tattered old photograph, and the journal arrayed before him. Reginald sat beside the journal, watching the proceedings with an air of benign detachment, while I paced the room, filled with nervous energy. I stopped at the desk and pointed to the photograph.
“And it must have happened here, in this clearing. The photograph reminded Dimity of it and that’s why she keeled over. That’s my working hypothesis, anyway. There’s this, too.” I pulled the locket from the neck of my sweater and showed it to Bill. “I found it upstairs this morning, in a box marked with the letter W—for Westwood. It’s empty. See? No pictures. Where are they, Bill?”
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