South of Salem (2)

by Janni Nell

  “One tree has odd markings. Too big to have been made by claws, but they’re definitely gouges. Three of them. Is that relevant?”

  “Mrs. Johnson,” I said carefully, “this may sound like a strange question but bear with me. Can you see any mist? It might be wreathing the trees or it might even look like a woman.”

  She laughed. A strained laugh, which was understandable, since she was standing near a dead body. “Are you trying to frighten me? There’s no mist. No woman. And there’s no mystery here either. Mr. Hampton fell off his horse. It’s a tragic accident, nothing more.”

  Another tragic accident? I don’t think so. Mr. Hampton had many faults, but poor horsemanship wasn’t one of them.

  “Anyway,” said Mrs. Johnson. “I wanted you to know before you saw it on CNN. The ambulance is on its way and the media won’t be far behind. The death of a prominent man like Mr. Hampton will always be news, especially when his son is the Sexiest Politician of the Decade.” There was another pause. “Will you please inform the family of his death?” After I had assured her I’d do that right away, we hung up.

  The family’s reactions were predictable. Mom was distressed, but not because of any affection for Mr. Hampton. It had more to do with the demise of another of Steven’s blood relatives.

  Steven was understandably devastated. He’d been the only son—the only child, in fact. The golden boy of both his parents. His mother was long gone and the loss of his father was a huge blow.

  SJ, as the youngest of the Hampton blood relatives, was resigned to the death of an octogenarian. He concentrated on supporting his father through the bereavement.

  Lily was simply worried about how all this stress would affect her baby.

  I spent the morning making tea and hanging up on journalists, who were eager for quotes from the Sexiest Politician of the Decade. Finally I took the landline off the hook. Luckily Mom left her cell phone on or we’d have missed the call from Mrs. Johnson, who requested that I meet her in the city. She chose a coffee shop, where we could lose ourselves amongst the lunchtime crowd.

  When I saw her, Mrs. Johnson was no longer dressed as the elegant housekeeper of Hampton House. In jeans and a knitted sweater she looked as casual as a soccer mom—well, soccer grandmother. Her smile was warm and relaxed, at odds with the ugly bruise on her temple. She told me to call her Barb.

  Then she said bluntly, “I lied to you.”

  Aha, I knew it. She had seen a mist in the wood. “Was it in the shape of a woman?”ight="0%">

  “Excuse me?”

  “The mist—was it in the shape of a woman?”

  “No, you misunderstand. I lied about Stevie’s sleepwalking.”

  Stevie, not Mr. Hampton. And this time she didn’t correct herself.

  “You’re a smart girl,” she went on. “You must’ve guessed I was his mistress. The rest of the family couldn’t see it. Didn’t want to, most likely. He was always such a respectable man, so devoted to his late wife. But he met me and he was lonely—no, let me continue to be truthful—he was horny. He didn’t want to use call girls because if that became public it might have an impact on his son’s political career. That’s why he hired me as his housekeeper—with benefits, as they say. So I know what I’m talking about when I tell you he began sleepwalking two or three months ago. If you go to the media with this, I’ll deny it.”

  “I don’t talk to the media.” Not a good idea in my line of work. Best to keep a low profile.

  “At first Stevie just sleepwalked around the house, sometimes into the garden if it was a warm night, but then he took to sleep-riding. At all hours of the night—dangerous for him and the horses. He gave me a few bad scares.” She paused to sip her latte before she went on. “I told you over the phone that on the morning he died he’d gone out riding as usual, but there was nothing usual about it. He’d been sleepwalking. I tried to stop him going to the stables but he pushed me aside and I fell. That’s how I got this.” She gestured to the bruise on her forehead. “He galloped out of those stables like he had a demon at his heels.

  “I wanted tell you the truth before. I’m not a liar by nature, but Mr. Hampton would have fired me and all my hard work would’ve been for nothing.”

  “So I guess you weren’t in love with him.”

  “I liked him. Although many didn’t. He could be a difficult man, as you know. He wasn’t fair to you, and there’s no excuse for that, but he was fair in his dealings with me. We had an understanding. I’d warm his bed and supervise the staff at Hampton House—I was the housekeeper in more than name. In return, he gave me a generous allowance while he was alive and promised he’d take care of me after his death. We’ll have to wait for the reading of the will to see whether he honored that last promise.”

  Knowing Mr. Hampton, I suspected Barb was in for a big disappointment.

  She misinterpreted my expression. “Are you shocked? You shouldn’t be. I’m not the first gold-digger and I won’t be the last. But he knew that. I never deceived him.”

  Despite her self-confessed gold-digger status, I liked this new Mrs. Johnson better than the immaculate tight-lipped woman who’d run Hampton House.

  I bought her another coffee and we talked about her future plans. She dreamed of a house on the beach in Hawaii. And who could blame her. I found myself hoping Mr. Hampton’s will would make her dream come true.

  “I like you, Allegra,” she said. “In some ways you remind me of myself. You don’t hide frome tuth and you have a nose for gossip. So I’m going to tell you something else. Stevie claimed to have a very old diary—written centuries ago. Knowing how I love gossip, he used to tease me. Every year he promised to show it to me on my birthday, as a present, but he never did. So now I’ll never know what it contained—unless you read it and tell me. I’m counting on you to satisfy my curiosity.” She finished her coffee and dabbed at her lips with a paper napkin. “According to Stevie it contained a big family secret.”

  Barb couldn’t tell me who had written the diary—other than it was one of the earlier Hamptons—and she had no idea where it was hidden. Her best guess was that it was in Mr. Hampton’s safe deposit box, ready to be inherited by Steven.

  “If you get to read it,” she said, “promise you’ll tell me what it contains. Honestly, I deserve to know after all the blow jobs I—never mind.”

  We headed back to our cars. As I drove to Mayflower Avenue, I decided not to worry Mom by telling her about Mr. Hampton’s nocturnal activities—and I don’t mean the ones that involved Barb. Mom didn’t need to know that another Hampton had died while sleepwalking. By my count that made one hundred percent of Hamptons, including Donna and her father, who had sleepwalked before their deaths. You didn’t have to be a genius to figure out that Steven and SJ were next.

  When I got back to Mom’s, Lily was resting upstairs. Steven was in his usual place in front of the TV and SJ had gone to speak to someone about organizing the funeral, which would be huge. All of Mr. Hampton’s business associates were expected to turn up.

  Mom was in the living room with a half empty bottle of vodka. After declining a glass, I said, “Cheer up, you’ll inherit Hampton House now.” My attempt at levity backfired badly.

  Mom covered her face with her hands and wailed. “I don’t know how I’ll cope. It’s a horrible house.”

  “Don’t suppose there’s any chance of Steven selling?”

  “The head of the Hampton family has always lived there. The best I can hope for is that he’ll let me redecorate. But I’m not holding my breath.”

  “You’ll be very rich,” I said.

  “Being rich isn’t a path to happiness.”

  “Ya think?” I’d long suspected Steven’s money was part of the reason she’d married him. After being left destitute by my father’s disappearance, it must’ve been a relief to find someone who stood to inherit a fortune. “Naturally,” she went on, “it’s important to have enough money, but having too much causes more problems than it solv
es. For example, being forced to move into Hampton fricking House.” Gee, she was upset. Fricking was major swearing for her.

  She stood up and, taking the vodka with her, weaved toward the stairs. “I’m going to lie down. The phone’s still off the hook. Leave it that way. And don’t answer the door. It’ll just be the press. And make sure the drapes are drawn. Those long range cameras are a menace. I don’t want to see us on the evening news.”

  “Yes, Mom.” I made sure she got up the stairs okay and even tucked her into bed in a creepy reversal of the parent-child relationship. Doubly creepy because it was the middle of the day and I knew she’d finish the vodka before she slept.

  Despite my lack of things in common with Mom, I had always admired her for being the strongest member of our family. To see her fall apart was deeply unsettling. After quietly closing her door, I hurried back to my own room.

  When Dad first disappeared, Mom had threatened to destroy everything that belonged to him, including all the old non-digital photographs. She hadn’t acted on her threats right away but I’d taken her seriously enough to hide an album under the floorboards in my closet. When I’d left home, I’d taken it with me. Mom still didn’t know. She wouldn’t understand my attachment to those photos of Dad cuddling baby-me in his strong arms, or whirling toddler-me in a circle, my spread-eagled legs soaring into space. Pictures year after year until I was fifteen.

  In our last photo together, Dad’s arm was draped around my shoulders. Both of us smiled at the camera. His suitcase sat in the background. The picture had been taken right before he went to the airport for a flight to Australia. Did he know he had left a hole in my heart that no one else could fill?

  I tried to fill it by keeping one of his photos in my wallet. I took it out. He was sitting on the lawn at the back of the tiny house he and Mom had bought when they married. His mousey brown hair flopped untidily around his shoulders, giving him the look of a hippie who was time-locked in the seventies. His eyes were as bright and blue as his tie-dyed shirt. A five-year-old me was on his lap, giggling as he tickled my tummy. I don’t remember the day that photo was taken but I remember the smell of his sweat—in a good way. Go figure.

  I heard the sound of a bottle falling to the floor and figured Mom must’ve passed out. If Dad was here he’d know what to do about her sudden drinking. (Dumb thought. If Dad was here she’d never have married Steven.) Despite her dislike of Dad’s constant trips away from home, she’d really loved him. Her grief at his disappearance had been as genuine as mine. She’d raged against the job that took him away, saying he cared more for his work than his family. Maybe that was true. It certainly explained her anger.

  She’d gathered all his possessions from the basement and made a bonfire. I’d been quick enough to save his collection of Barry Manilow records—big black ones that were older than me—and hid them under the bed in my room. But Lily saw me. She was on Mom’s side, as usual, and though I begged her not to say anything, she blabbed.

  Mom dug the records out from under the bed, and while I screamed and clawed at the cardboard covers, my efforts did no good. Those old black records went up in a cloud of smelly plastic smoke. Afterwards, Lily whispered, “Payback for the orange juice.”

  A tear trickled down my cheek and dropped on the photo of my father and me. Casper had told me Dad was still alive, but if that was true why hadn’t he contacted us? Did he have a new identity in Australia? Maybe he had a whole new family too.

  When I heard someone whistling “Copacabana,” I said, “Dad?”

  “No it’s me,” said Casper. “You told me to whistle before I appeared. Did I give you enough warning?”

  “Yep, thanks.” I wiped away my tears, hoping Casper wouldn’t notice. “Hey,” I said, shoving Dad’s photo under my pillow, “I’ve just met with Mrs. Johnson and she told me there’s an old Hampton diary that contains a family secret. Don’t suppose you know where it’s hidden? It might help with the case.”

  He shook his head, “Sorry.”

  “You don’t know or you won’t tell me?”

  “That’s not fair,” he said, pretending to be affronted. “I’m an angel. I don’t lie.”

  “So if you knew where it was, would you tell me?”

  “Of course not. The Powers-That-Be would consider that helping. But I wouldn’t lie. I’d admit that I couldn’t tell you.”

  “That’s a great comfort.” I drew my knees up to my chin and took a closer look at Casper. He appeared kind of cramped as he often did indoors, but his tux looked right at home in Mom’s elegant décor. Sky-blue ribbons were looped around one of his hands. Dangling from the ribbons was something that looked like a chunk of fluffy white cloud. “What is that?” I asked.

  “My Angel Awards goodie bag. Wanna see what’s inside?”

  “I’d rather see the Hampton diary. Don’t suppose you know where it is?” When Casper started to protest that he couldn’t tell me, I said, “Okay, okay. Show me the contents of your goodie bag.” But when I tried to peek inside, he held it out of reach.

  “Don’t be impatient.” He sat on the end of my bed and dug into the bag. Enjoying keeping me in suspense, he rummaged around for a while before withdrawing a square white box with a sketch of little wings on top. When I reached for it, he said, “There’s a piece of angel cake inside. Be careful.”

  “Why? Does it bite?”

  “Of course not.” Casper sighed but he stopped short of rolling his eyes. “Real angel cake is so light that unless it’s held down it will float away. Once it escapes it’s quite hard to catch.”

  “I’ve handled tougher paranormal problems than fugitive cake. Can I taste?”

  “Well, okay, but we’ll have to time this right or the cake will get away. You open the lid and I’ll catch it when it pops out.”

  “Are you sure you’re fast enough?” I teased.

  “Just open the lid.”

  I did. But the cake didn’t float out of the box as I’d expected. It zoomed. Casper dived for it but the cake shot through his hands and knocked against the ceiling, sprinkling crumbs.

  “Quick, catch it,” I said, “before it breaks up.”

  Casper sprang at it but the cake dodged his outstretched hand. I darted around him, managing to touch the cake with my finger before it zipped out of reach. I started to giggle like a kid. Casper laughed too.

  “Stop that cake,” I said. We jumped for it, crashed together and fell onto my bed. I rolled off the narrow mattress and thumped onto the floor. Flat on my back. I scanned the ceiling. “Where is it?”

  “In here.” Casper’s big hands formed a pocket that trapped the remains of the cake. He held them to my lips. “Taste.”

  I sat up, slithered my tongue between his fingers and scooped out some cake. Oh my! Sweet, soft, buttery, smooth. And that was just Casper’s skin. The cake was pretty good too.

  “More?” asked Casper.

  I gobbled down another mouthful and another. “Yum. Aren’t you going to have some?”

  “Maybe just a crumb.” Which, by that time, was all that was left. He licked the few white crumbs off his fingers.

  “Any more food in the goodie bag?” I tried to see inside.

  “No peeking,” He pulled it away from me. “Let’s see…what should I show you next? This? Or perhaps this?”

  “If you keep teasing me I’ll have to punch you.”

  “Wouldn’t want that,” he said, and pulled out a slender glass atomizer with a big H on the side.

  “Perfume or aftershave?”

  “Neither and both.” He sprayed some on my wrist. It smelled clean and fresh, like mountain air, bubbling streams and blossoms in springtime. And fresh snow, and the ocean at sunset.

  “Nice,” I murmured. “What’s it called?”

  “Heaven.”

  “Oh right.” Duh.

  Casper dug in the bag again and pulled out one of those musical greetings cards. On the front was a cartoon of a chubby angel with an oversized halo. It
read: Congratulations on your Nomination for an Angel Award. When he flipped the card open, it played “Stairway to Heaven.”

  “Interesting,” I murmured but I don’t think Casper heard me. He had already gone back to rummaging in the fluffy bag.

  He pulled out two tickets to the Cloud 9 production of Hamlet with William Shakespeare in the title role, Queen Elizabeth I as Gertrude and Marilyn Monroe as Ophelia.

  I was wondering how I could attend that production without actually dying first, when Casper pulled the last item from the bag—a silver chain attached to a pendant in the shape of a teardrop. The clear glass was warm to the touch and glowed softly.

  “What’s inside the glass?”

  “Moonlight.”

  “I didn’t know you could bottle it.”

  He shrugged. “They can do all sorts of neat things in Heaven.”

  Mom chose that moment to knock on my door. “Are you alright, Allegra?” The words were slurred. “I heard crazy laughing.”

  “Hang on,” I called. “I’ll just turn down the radio.”

  Casper scooped his goodies back into the bag and disappeared as I hurried to let Mom in. She swayed a little and held onto the jamb to steady herself. When she glanced around suspiciously, I felt fourteen again. “What’s that?” she asked pointing at the pendant I was still holding.

  “Well it’s…” I was struggling to come up with an explanation for the glowing pendant when Mom noticed the crumbs of angel cake that had been squashed into the rug.

  “You’re twenty-five years old, Allegra, it’s time you learned to keep your room tidy.”

  Avoiding the temptation to remind her it was no longer my room, I said meekly, “I’ll clean up,” and shoved the pendant out of sight in the pocket of my jeans.

  After I’d put Mom back to bed and finished vacuuming the rug, I took out the pendant and fastened it around my neck. The moonlight made my skin glow. A soothing warmth spread across my chest, which felt just like a hug from an angel.