I used to worry that I dreamed you to life,
then I’d wake with you beside me, and take your hand,
a pale starfish against the indigo sheets,
and press my lips to it,
tasting salt water, candy apples, freshly ripened plums.
If you are a dream, my love, then it is a dream
I want to live inside forever.
Katherine. Gary again, his voice just behind her now. She spun, thinking if she was quick enough she might catch a glimpse of him, but there was nothing. Not even a shadow.
There was an old photograph on the wall. She stepped closer and saw that it was a picture of the West Hall Inn, dated 1889 at the bottom, a large brick building with white shutters and an awning. It looked strangely familiar.
“This whole block was once the inn,” the bearded bookseller said when he noticed her looking at the picture. “Here, where the bookstore is, was the dining room and bar. The windows are all the originals”—he pointed to the front of the store—“though I’m afraid everything else has changed beyond recognition.” Katherine glanced from where he was pointing back to the photo, finding the same details there.
“If there’s anything I can help you with, just give a holler,” the man said.
“As a matter of fact, there is,” she said. She pulled her copy of Visitors from the Other Side out of her bag.
“Do you have anything else by her? Or about her?”
He shook his head. “Afraid that’s it. Though they say there are missing journal pages out there somewhere.” He had a little glimmer in his eye. “She’s kind of a local legend, and, like all good legends, you can’t believe half of what you hear.”
“So she lived here in West Hall?”
“She sure did.”
“Does she have family around still?”
He scratched his head, seeming slightly puzzled by the increasing intensity with which she spoke. She was wearing her good coat and boots, but her hands were covered in paint and, she realized now, she’d forgotten to brush her hair. If she wasn’t careful, word would spread fast through the small town of the madwoman who’d just moved in.
“No family. All the Harrisons and Sheas died off or moved away years ago.”
“So there are really no other books about her?”
He gave her a sympathetic shake of the head. “It’s surprising, I know. I mean, her story has all the makings of a blockbuster movie—heartbreak, mystery, the undead, gory murder—but the only folks who ever come around asking more are grad students, people who are into the occult, and the occasional oddball drawn to the case because of all the gruesome details.” He eyed her as if trying to decide which category she fell in.
“So what else can you tell me about her?” Sara asked.
“What exactly is it you’d like to know?” He had an odd expression, like he was asking her a trick question.
She thought a minute. What did she want to know? Why had she taken the trouble to come out in the cold to learn about a woman she’d never heard of until yesterday?
She had that feeling she got when she was doing her art and suddenly discovered the missing piece that ties everything together: a tingling in the back of her neck, a crazy buzzed-rush of a feeling that spread through her whole body. She didn’t understand the role that Sara Harrison Shea, the ring Gary had given her, or the book he had hidden would play, but she knew that this was important, and that she had to give herself over to it and see where it might lead.
“It says in the book there were lost pages, the ones she was working on just before her death. Were they ever found?”
He shook his head. “The truth is, they may not have existed. Sara’s niece, Amelia Larkin, contended there were diary pages missing, but she was never able to produce them. Supposedly, she tore Sara’s house apart looking for them.”
He took off his glasses and gave them a quick polish. “Of course, there are all sorts of rumors about those missing pages and what they contained. Some people claim they’ve seen the pages, that they were secretly auctioned off for over a million dollars back in the eighties.”
Katherine laughed. “Why on earth would anyone pay a million dollars for a few pages from a diary?”
The bookseller gave a sly smile. “You’ve read the book, haven’t you? All that about awakening sleepers? Some people think that Sara Harrison Shea left very specific instructions for bringing the dead back to life.”
“Wow.”
“I know. Crazy. But I guess people believe what they want to believe, isn’t that right? Anyway, if she did have this knowledge, it certainly didn’t do her any good. I guess maybe you can’t perform the magic on yourself.”
“So her husband murdered her?”
“Well, that’s debatable,” he said.
“Debatable?” Katherine asked, moving closer to the counter.
“There was never a trial. There was never even much of an investigation. All we’ve got are a few solid facts, the stories from the people who were around back then passed down to their descendants. There’s no paper trail—it’s all oral history. What we know is that Martin’s brother—the town physician, Lucius Shea—arrived for a scheduled visit that evening. Sara had not been well and had been under his care. When he arrived, he found the door wide open, but there was no sign of either Martin or Sara. He went around back and found them out in the field. Sara was …” He hesitated, looked down at the painted wooden floorboards.
Katherine gave him a questioning look.
“Go on,” she said. “I’m not squeamish.”
He took in a breath. “Her skin had been removed. Martin was beside her, covered in blood, holding a gun, babbling incoherently. Do you know what the last thing he said was? He told his brother it wasn’t he who had done this—that it was Gertie.”
Katherine felt her jaw drop, then snapped it closed. “The daughter? But she was dead, right?”
“Yes. Absolutely true. Unless”—he paused for dramatic effect—“unless you believe the rest of the story Sara tells in her diary, of bringing Gertie back to life.” He leaned forward, looking like an excited little boy telling a ghost story. He studied her, searching her face to see if she might possibly believe such a thing.
“Unfortunately, Martin shot himself before anyone could ask any further questions.”
Katherine’s head was spinning. “What do you think?”
The man leaned back and laughed. “Me? I’m just a bookseller who has a fascination with local history. It’s probable that Martin killed his wife. But a lot of people who were around back then, and even people these days, they say different.”
“What do they say?”
“They think that there’s something out there, in the woods at the edge of town, something evil, something that can’t be explained. There have been a lot of stories over the years, folks who’ve gone missing, people who say they see strange lights or hear crying sounds, tales of a pale figure roaming the woods. When I was a boy, I thought I saw something myself one time: a face peering out at me from a crack between the rocks. But I moved closer and it was gone.” He made his eyes dramatically wide and gave a little chuckle. “Have I scared you yet?”
Katherine shook her head.
“Well, then, let me add another layer to the story. A lot of odd things happened in town shortly after Sara was murdered.”
“What kind of things?”
“Clarence Bemis, the closest neighbor to the Sheas, he had an entire herd of cattle killed—woke up one morning and found their throats slit. The largest steer, he’d been cut right open and had his heart removed. Then—Martin’s brother, Lucius?—he dumped a gallon of kerosene over himself early one Sunday morning, walked right to the center of Main Street, and lit a match.”
“I don’t understand what—”
“Folks said they saw a woman slip out the back door of his house just before he came out and lit himself on fire. The people who saw her swear it was Sara Harrison Shea.”
Katherine gave an involuntary shiver.
“A lot of deaths that year. Freak accidents and illnesses. Children falling under wagon wheels. A fire burned down the general store and killed the shopkeeper and his family. And people kept swearing they saw Sara. Or someone who looked just like her.” He smiled at her. “That’s West Hall history in a nutshell—a lot of ghost stories and legends, very few solid facts.”
Katherine was quiet a minute. She studied a display of large paperback books by the register. Then and Now: West Hall, Vermont, in Pictures.
“Is this a book on local history?” she asked, picking up a copy.
“It’s put together by the Historical Society, but it’s mostly just a collection of photos. You won’t find anything about Sara in there.”
“I’ll take it anyway,” she said, thinking it was only right to buy something after taking up so much of the man’s time. He rang her up and she paid.
“Thank you,” he told her, handing her a paper bag with the book inside.
“No, thank you. Really. You’ve helped a lot.”
“Anytime,” he said, going back to his computer.
She turned to leave, then stopped. “You don’t believe any of it, do you? The things Sara wrote about in her diary?”
He smiled, folded his hands together. “I think people see what they want to see. Sara’s story is pretty amazing—everything she went through. But think about it: if you’d lost someone you love, wouldn’t you give almost anything to have the chance to see them again?”
The bell on the door jingled as Katherine left the shop and headed for home, her coat done up, her thin scarf pulled so tight it was nearly strangling her.
“I’ve been hoping I’d see you again!”
Katherine jumped.
It was redheaded Lou Lou from the café next door; she had bounded out of its doors and stood blocking Katherine’s path in the sidewalk, her silver-and-turquoise jewelry glinting. “Then I just looked through the window and there you were! I remembered!” she said, wrapping her arms around herself. She’d come out without a coat.
“Remembered?”
“Where I’d seen the woman with the braid before. Like I said, I never forget a face. She’s the egg lady!”
“The … egg lady?” Katherine repeated.
“Yes. I don’t know her name, but she’s at the farmers’ market every week. Sells those blue and green eggs. Easter-egg chickens—that’s what she calls the hens that lay them. She sells other stuff, too, things she knits. Baby booties, socks, hats. I bought a scarf from her once. Tomorrow’s Saturday—you go to the farmers’ market and you’ll see her. You can’t miss her, really. She’s always wearing a sweater or shawl she’s knit in these bright, crazy color combinations. If you don’t see her, just ask—everyone knows the egg lady.”
Lou Lou slipped back into the café, leaving Katherine standing there, dumbstruck.
The egg lady. Gary met the egg lady. Although it wasn’t her true name, it was a way to identify her, and already this woman was taking shape in Katherine’s imagination. She turned and practically ran back down the sidewalk, feet slipping, as she raced home.
A doll. She’d make a doll of the woman, the egg lady in miniature—an older woman with gray hair in a braid, wearing a brightly colored hand-knit sweater. She’d crochet a tiny sweater with fine yarn. She had a box of yarn and crochet hooks somewhere.
The His Final Meal box was all starting to come together, and Katherine’s mind hummed, her fingers twitched. She unlocked the door to her apartment, dumped her purse and the paper bag from the bookstore on the coffee table, peeled off her coat and gloves, headed over to her worktable, and started to cut pieces of wire that would form the armature for the tiny papier-mâché doll. When she was finished with the egg lady, she’d make a little Gary doll and put them sitting across from one another at a table in Lou Lou’s.
And maybe, just maybe, if she got down in front of the box, put her ear to the open doorway, and listened, she’d know what they might have said that day—understand what had brought Gary to West Hall.
Ruthie
No one was home at William O’Rourke’s house. Ruthie scribbled a note saying she was looking for Thomas and Bridget and left Buzz’s cell-phone number at the bottom. She stuck it in the mailbox and climbed back into the truck.
None of them spoke as they followed the GPS directions to Candace’s house. They were in a new part of town now, one where the houses were bigger and spread out farther and farther apart. The roads had grander-sounding names: Old Stagecoach Road, Westminster Avenue. There were neighborhood-watch signs, signs reminding you to drive slowly and keep an eye out for children. Tasteful Christmas lights still decorated many of the houses, and there were cheerful snowmen in huge yards.
Candace O’Rourke lived in a large white colonial with black shutters.
“Nice place,” Buzz said as he pulled into the long driveway. Ruthie hopped out of the truck and rang the doorbell. It played a little song. The house was silent. She pushed the doorbell again.
Just as Ruthie was about to give up and go back to the truck, the heavy wooden door was opened by a frazzled-looking woman in pink-and-black exercise clothes. She had blond hair that was stylishly cut but flattened on one side. Ruthie decided she must have woken the woman up from an afternoon nap.
“Yes?” the woman said, blinking sleepily at Ruthie.
The entryway behind her was bright and open, with white walls and a terra-cotta-tiled floor. There was a neat row of silver coat-hooks on the left, with a bench below it.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but are you Candace O’Rourke?”
“Yes,” she said, looking wary.
“Uh, I know it’s probably a long shot, but I’m looking for some other O’Rourkes? Thomas and Bridget? They used to live out on Kendall Lane.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “And you are?” she asked, taking a step back.
“My name’s Ruthie. Ruthie Washburne.”
Candace stared at Ruthie a moment; then it was as if she suddenly woke up, her whole body coming to life. “Of course!” she said, smiling as if being reunited with a long-lost friend. “Of course you are. And I bet I know just why you’ve come.”
“Why I’ve come?” Ruthie said.
“Why don’t you tell me, dear? In your own words.”
Confused, Ruthie fumbled onward. “My parents, they were, um, they must have been friends of Thomas and Bridget. I found some old stuff of theirs with my parents’ things, and I thought …”
“Come inside,” the woman said. “Please.”
Ruthie stepped in, and the woman shut the door behind her. It was warm inside and smelled slightly musty.
She led Ruthie through the entryway and into a large, open living room with a leather sofa and two matching chairs. The Christmas tree in the corner, which went nearly up to the ceiling, was covered with glorious blue and silver ornaments. Ruthie had never seen such a beautiful Christmas tree. They’d always cut their own trees from the woods: scraggly evergreens decorated with a hodgepodge of homemade ornaments, strings of popcorn, and paper chains.
Candace O’Rourke took a seat on the huge leather couch and gestured for Ruthie to join her. Ruthie felt like she’d stepped into the middle of a glossy catalogue or house magazine: everything in this room was perfect. A kid lived here—the world’s luckiest and neatest kid. Fawn would flip if she could see all the toys: an old-fashioned rocking horse, a wooden kitchen set complete with real metal pots and pans, even a large wooden puppet theater set up in the corner. Everything seemed sleek and clean and organized. Unreal.
“Would you like a drink?” Candace asked. “Or something to eat?”
“No, thank you.”
“I’ve got cookies.”
“No, thanks.”
Candace stood up. “I’ll just go get us some cookies. Maybe some tea. Do you want tea?”
“No, really, I’m good. I don’t need anything.”
“I’ll be right
back, then.”
Ruthie sat perched on the edge of the couch, listening to Candace’s footsteps echo off down the hallway. She waited a minute, then stood up to look around. She went first to the Christmas tree and discovered, on closer inspection, that it was not so perfect after all. It had shed a lot of its needles, and was dry as a bone. Many of the ornaments were broken and had been put back together with tape and rubber bands. And the tree itself, Ruthie noticed now, was off kilter, leaning heavily to the left. The star that had been at the top was stuck in a branch below, like a bird fallen from its nest.
Seeing the tree up close gave Ruthie an uneasy feeling. Then she looked down at the toy kitchen and saw that there, in a tiny pot on the stove, was a real orange, shriveled and covered with mold.
She went over to the puppet theater and looked behind it to see a tangled pile of broken puppets: a king missing his crown, a headless frog, and a naked princess whose face had been colored with blue Magic Marker and who had a pencil jammed into her stomach like a yellow spear.
Ruthie turned and left the living room, heading back down the hall, away from the front door and toward where she guessed the kitchen must be. She heard the sound of cabinet doors being opened and closed. All along the walls of the hallway were picture hooks, but no pictures.
At last, she reached the kitchen, where Candace stood in front of a large gas range. The countertops were granite, the cabinets some dark wood polished to a shine. But something was wrong. There was nothing on the counters—no loaf of bread or bowl of fruit, no coffeemaker or toaster. The cabinets that Candace had left open were nearly empty—some crackers, a can of tuna, a box of Crystal Light.
“I know there are cookies here somewhere. Fig Newtons. They’re Luke’s favorite.”
“Luke?”
“My son,” she said, running a hand through her messy hair.
The Winter People Page 13
