Twelfth Night (A Wendover House Mystery Book 2)

by Jackson, Melanie

  Twelfth Night

  by

  Melanie Jackson

  Version 1.1 – January, 2012

  Published by Brian Jackson at KDP

  Copyright © 2012 by Melanie Jackson

  Discover other titles by Melanie Jackson at www.melaniejackson.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Chapter 1

  Washington Irving was talking as we neared the midnight hour. He was being a bit pedantic, but I tried to pay attention because I had asked him beforehand to speak, and he lectured about the glitches in the universe where daylight “facts” and “rules” didn’t apply. This was timely, and with the storm howling outside he had the perfect mise-en-scène for the subject. Any reasonable person would be interested.

  “The belief in ghosts, like the belief in witches—and even Old Nick himself—is waning, even in New England. But that doesn’t mean the ghosts are going anywhere, just that we don’t see them as often. There are many examples even in this state.…”

  If you only knew.

  I looked at the faces around my table and repressed a smile which would not have been appropriate in the middle of this homily about “true” ghost stories, even if I was pleased to finally have them all there.

  Expressions of my guests as Ben spoke of his ghosts ranged from the moderately pleasurable to benignly contemptuous, but their manner was universally calm and uneventful. No one was alarmed about the storm or the topic of conversation. Except me. But I had insider’s knowledge.

  This contentment would probably change. But for now we were telling slightly spooky ghost stories and enjoying it while we digested dinner.

  A self-described scribbler, Ben Livingston is the author of a dozen books of great violence and renown, and he had been collecting tales of ghost ships for a new work of smuggling-related stories. Usually I was as mesmerized by his tales as Coleridge’s ancient mariner, but Queen Victoria was snorting as she snored, nodding off in the rose water. Asleep, she was almost attractive. Awake, with her face scrunched up with disapproval, she looked a bit like last year’s potato left at the bottom of the bin. I was weighing the choices of attempting to wake her and probably calling attention to her embarrassing state, and just seeing what would happen if she slid all the way into a nap.

  My other guests, who remained awake, though understandably not entirely riveted after a six-course meal, included the two ends of island law, the arts, the fourth estate, and a Beauty. I was playing the heiress. I am perhaps a little long in the tooth for that role even though it has devolved upon me in real life and I was therefore entitled. While enjoying the fact that the role came with money, what I liked even more was that I at last belonged somewhere.

  Harris Ladd, seated to my right, was the family attorney and very dignified, one end of the law—an end of the process, discounting those who went on to jail after he defended them, but they would not be on Little Goose if that happened. Certainly no one had been convicted of anything since I arrived. Frankly, I doubt that there are any clients who have gone to jail ever. We have crime, of course, but it’s handled locally and without the courts. That’s what Bryson and Everett are for. Therefore I chose to see him as the terminus.

  Harris is always handsome and old-fashioned in his flannels and tweeds and always looks like an extra on Masterpiece Theater. For him an Edwardian dinner suit was not that far out of character. He is as relentlessly proper as he is polite, which makes him a good guest and attorney. Had he been wearing sixteenth-century garb, he would have been Thomas Moore. I had thought earlier that week that he would approve of the one-piece woolen bathing costume I had found in one of the attic’s many trunks that I was finally sorting out, and had made a mental note to show him later. Of course, anyone who went sunbathing in Maine needed more than a string bikini to keep warm and my ancestors, while highly superstitious, were not impractical.

  Less dignified, even in their rubbed frock-tail coats and top hats, were the Sands brothers. Bryson, to my left, was channeling Teddy Roosevelt in his presidential years, but could have done a young Henry VIII had the prince had caramel-colored hair. Bryson is generally amiable, casual in dress, and deceptively intelligent—a fact he does his best to hide since intelligence makes a lot of people nervous. Everett Sands, Edwardian cad—and perhaps Earl of Leicester—was the more athletic, short-tempered, and non-cerebral. I didn’t like him. Antipathy had reared up on its hind legs at our first meeting and I’d never gotten past it. Possibly because I hadn’t tried very hard.

  Harris’s nose wrinkled as he leaned Everett’s way. I had noticed earlier that Everett’s coat smelled slightly of mildew, a suit that had reached the end of its life and probably wouldn’t be returned to the attic when this party was over. From a few spaces around the table the odor wasn’t especially noticeable, which was good because it reminded me a bit of the family mausoleum which I had explored last October when I went to visit my great-grandfather. Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.

  Only not always. Sometimes something went wrong.

  Both brothers were scofflaws when it came to the matter of illegal whisky importation, which was ironic given that they were policemen. However, their roles on both sides of the legal line were inherited and the best of luck to anyone in escaping familial destiny here in the islands. There is a history of gentleman smugglers in the area; it’s the local way of life. My own ancestors were anything but innocent in this matter, but I made allowances in their case. There are a limited number of careers that one can pursue when largely confined to an island by a curse and a fearful population that won’t let you leave. But I think that Everett and Bryson did it as much for fun and profit as for tradition.

  Beside Everett was his sometimes girlfriend, the nurse, Mary Cory aka the napping Victoria. Mary is not overburdened with personality but she is a devoted caretaker to my aging neighbor and from one of the old families, so for the sake of island harmony she gets invited to parties even if I find her tedious. I knew firsthand how hard and boring the job of caretaker could be. My parents’ refusal to grow up and then their premature deaths had run over any plans I had for a childhood of my own. I cut her some slack.

  Next to Mary was my friend, Jack, a former photographer at my old newspaper until the bright lights and better salaries of Chicago had lured him away. He was also a former love interest and perhaps a future one also. His usually messy hair was slicked back. I think he was trying to be Oscar Wilde but he hadn’t the light wit to carry it off. Divorce had blunted his sense of humor and Jack can be a little intense when his emotions are aroused. Given a white wig and the right cause he could well play Cotton Mather. I wondered what kind of ghost story he would tell. His choice would be revealing.

  Next to Jack was an old friend from college, a former roommate who had invested early on in her secondary female sexual assets and ended up as a lingerie model, now mostly retired. She went by the professional name of Brandy. Just Brandy. Her real name was Barbara Newsome. Twice divorced, and at least once augmented, I had the feeling that she was preparing for the hunt of the next future alimony-supplier with a little cosmetic “refreshment” and that was really why she was visiting New York at the end of the month. I hoped it wouldn’t be Jack who took her fancy once her face was lifted. He had only just escaped from the marita
l version of the Amityville Horror, and I wasn’t sure that he was experienced enough or healed enough to handle anyone like Brandy.

  Anyway I had seen him first. Brandy should have more manners.

  And there was one more visitor with us that night, one we couldn’t see but whom I definitely felt pressing at the glass. The wind—her wind, I was sure—fretted at the doors and windows. In the odd moments of silence I could hear the buffeting of its icy hands. It carried enough debris to make the blows sound like someone knocking at the old wood and scratching at the ancient glass with sharp fingernails. The cat had made himself scarce the moment it began blowing. Storms here are rarely just about weather and the cat knew it.

  These were my guests. I marveled that they were actually there, eating, drinking, and making merry on this Twelfth Night, without a single cross word or argument. It can be fun to bounce different personalities off one another, but this is a riskier strategy when you had people like Everett—and Jack—who didn’t feel any obligation to do their social duty and be good guests. Still, Everett needed to be there. And Jack was there, so we would have to manage if their baser impulses came to the fore. Anyway, men seem more able to trade amicable, though completely sincere, insults, and take no lasting offense.

  At least I hoped this was so. This wasn’t a typical kind of party, you see, and I was not giving it for any of the usual reasons, as everyone would discover if Banquo actually joined us. Certainly they would wonder if we had eaten on the insane root that takes the reason prisoner. Frankly, it would almost be nice to have some company in this because I had been questioning my grip on reality for weeks. Once something supernatural comes through your door, it often leaves it ajar. When imagination slips free of the old, supposedly rational disciplines of logic, it can take you to some very odd places. At that point I couldn’t have cut my way through the thicket of my new and strange beliefs if you I a machete.

  Jack, perhaps sensing my growing perturbation, shoved the decanter my way but I ignored it. Alcohol wouldn’t help with what I needed to do. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to persuade everyone to what I believed if I sounded tipsy and incoherent. I partook of Great-grandpa Kelvin’s crazy theories and beliefs, drank from his cup of madness, and now believed. Some of the others would probably need more persuasion.

  Though I had felt ready to make the big revelation, now that the night had arrived, I wondered if I should actually relate to these guests my own ghostly encounter when it was my turn to tell a tale. My ghost was, one could argue, the Sands brothers’ business at least as much as my own, but she wasn’t bothering them with nightly performances, so the task of giving her peace devolved to me. Her story needed telling, the books on ghost hunting all agreed on this point, but was I doing this in too sensational a manner?

  Or did I have the wrong end of the stick? Was that why she had sent a storm? I thought telling her story was what she wanted me to do, though she had never said this in so many words, so it was only a guess—but a good one, I believed. But by then I wasn’t working on a conscious level—or only a conscious level—and though my gut said this was the best thing to do, my brain didn’t necessarily agree.

  Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? But there is something about living on this island that opens the mind to voices and thoughts I never used to hear. You start to believe in Fate and arranged rendezvous. Still, in a world that accepts quantum physics and string theory, people tend to reject the idea of ghosts in their own house or even the one next door.

  Or maybe they don’t. I have to admit I am a little hazy on what string theory is all about.

  And I was the last Wendover of Little Goose Island. That meant something in these parts. It carried both obligations and certain powers. There were a lot of locals who would believe me absolutely if I spoke of ghosts haunting the island—and did I want that? I had an affinity for this new life, my new role as unofficial protectress of the islands. Trust was forming with the other islanders, in part because I was so normal—unlike my great-grandfather who had been eccentric—and because I was so willing to live at Wendover House without coercion. Talk of me seeing ghosts wouldn’t make them happy.

  And I found this mattered to me more than I had thought. I was here because I had grown tired of my old existence, heavy with the labor of keeping my grandmother’s dream alive and light on friendships, because I had no time for anyone. Here I had made friends, was accepted because of the family name and because I was making an effort to fit in. Would that change if I began to bring up the old unpleasantness? Did I want to rock the boat?

  Harris would certainly believe my story. Mary and the Sands brothers too. Probably. But what of Jack and Ben and Brandy? It is one thing to be thought a bit unconventional and another to be seen as insane by the last two friends I had on the outside and my one intellectually inclined neighbor. The thought of Jack’s pity especially made me squirm.

  What to do? Could I go back to being idle and pretend I didn’t know my ghost was there? I didn’t think that she would let me. I couldn’t hear her voice with my ears, but her misery was always at the back of my mind and though it waxed and waned with the daylight hours, the grieving never ceased. I would sometimes sit quietly, inviting her to talk to me, but she didn’t talk. Maybe couldn’t talk. So I was left making empathetic guesses and trying to push the worst of her pain away so I could function. The nonstop emotional isometrics as we battled for my mood were exhausting. Something had to be done. Hopefully I had hit on the right thing. We would know soon.

  “Having nowhere else to go, the apprentice accepted sleeping in the basement where at least there was no snow to freeze him.” Ben’s tone was portentous. Fair enough. Basements are creepy places. I was none too fond of my own. It needed to be cleaned out but I hadn’t been able to find the will to do it. Every time I considered making the effort, inertia pulled me back. There was just so much stuff down there and I had other distractions luring me away.

  Not that I was really getting much done elsewhere. The autumn had been spent sitting around doing almost nothing except apologizing to my great-grandfather’s cat, Kelvin, for abandoning him to Ben’s care while I went back to Minnesota and packed up my belongings and wrapped up business matters. It took a while to mop up all my unexpected emotions at selling the paper, and saying my final goodbyes to her friends.

  The unusual lethargy that followed me back to Maine was a form of shock, I think. Getting moved to the island and disposing of my grandmother’s newspaper had taken more effort than I had expected, even with the help of Harris Ladd—who very much wanted me on the island for his own whacky reasons and would move mountains to get me there by New Year’s. He had even arranged for Mr. Benson, the electrician, to bring power to the house. Wiring a new home is not difficult, but Wendover House is far from new and Harris was worried about destroying this architectural marvel. And maybe exposing the smugglers who were using my sea cave to store their Canadian whisky. Still, he had gone against his better judgment and done this for me and I was grateful.

  My thoughts were dragged back to the table as Victoria snorted to wakefulness and forced her head erect. Her eyes were bleary. Perhaps I should make coffee. We had all had a lot to drink. Though I liked people to be mellow and receptive, I wanted everyone capable of forward thought and momentum when I told my story. We had some problem solving to do.

  Brandy leaned forward and began to fan herself, calling attention to the very low neckline of her gown. She stared raptly at Benjamin and my neighbor was enjoying the attention. That was fine. Ben was a sort of celebrity-writer and used to admiration from the public. He cut a fine figure since Nature had not visited the worst of the middle age indignities on him. And he had both money and charm. He could take care of himself—if he wanted to avoid Brandy’s wiles. He might avoid them since she wanted marriage and he said he didn’t. I had told Ben once that I wanted a relationship with someone who really knew me. His response had been to shake his head and say, “That only works if you have no flaws.
It’s better to get involved with someone who still has illusions about you.” Brandy couldn’t have many illusions left when it came to men, but she was great at pretending.

  Behind Brandy was a window that looked out into the garden. I had not drawn the curtains or pulled the shutters. There were greenery and candles in the window but it was not a festive prospect beyond the glass. If I went to it, what would I see? What would the others see? Just the wind that had tried to tear the rain away—and failed, as it so often did on this island whose weather defied meteorological explanation? Would we see more—things more frightening than storm clouds? Could I end up with five more houseguests at least until dawn?

  That wouldn’t be convenient, though Jack was good about helping and I would not find myself alone with the dirty dishes and laundry, and the need to make breakfast for eight out of the party’s grisly remains.

  “What is it?” Harris whispered, leaning forward to speak in my ear. His eyes were fixed on the dark glass.

  “I thought I saw Kelvin,” I lied. And then, when I saw Harris looked shocked, I clarified. “The cat—not my great-grandfather.”

  “Of course.”

  But there was no of course about it. Harris Ladd, legalist and rationalist in all other ways, believes in curses and ghosts and I think he always half expects a visit from the astral plane when he comes to the island. Probably he thought my great-grandfather had come back to haunt him for installing electricity in his house. Of course, hearing it was the cat might not reassure Harris either since Kelvin had “taken a spite” to him, and there is a local tale about witches transforming themselves into cats and tormenting people.

  In the beginning I had sneered at such ideas—and still I take everything I hear and read with a big grain of salt—but little by little I was coming to think that maybe there was more in heaven and earth than I had previously dreamed. Take Wendover House and Little Goose Island. From the first day, the house felt not just lived-in but actually alive, an antique but one which wished to be used. It was too pleasant to think of it as haunted, at least not in any traditional way. In fact it was the opposite. It felt enchanted. Not so large as a fairytale castle, and not made of so many rooms that it had a south parlor or a west wing, but spacious and able to accommodate any size of gathering that I might want. And though old, it had adapted well to modern conventions and needs. I have a living room, a bathroom, a porch. The rooms easily lent themselves to changing fashion. Furniture moved about easily, though I had felt little need to change anything.