“Not exactly a séance. A portal to communicate.”
“A room upstairs?”
She nodded. “A special room I’ve constructed. A room that acts as a door to the spiritual world.”
A laugh bubbled through Marie’s lips. She covered her mouth with a hand.
“This isn’t a joke.” Chelsea crossed her arms over her chest. “And my aunt isn’t off her rocker, or whatever it is you’re thinking.”
“I wasn’t…” Marie’s cheeks heated. Fact was, she’d been thinking exactly that. She focused on the older woman. “I’m sorry. Please explain. I need to understand my father. I know you can help me do that.”
Sophie’s smile didn’t change, as if Marie’s disbelief didn’t bother or surprise her in the least. “Have you ever heard of a psychomanteum?”
“A what?”
“It’s based on a phenomenon we first see in Greek mythology. A psychomanteum or oracle of the dead.”
Marie had studied Homer as an undergraduate. “The pool of blood in Odysseus.”
Sophie’s face brightened with the glow of a teacher who had just broken through to a lagging student. “Exactly. Odysseus dug a pit and filled it with animal blood. Through the reflection in the blood, he could communicate with spirits.”
Marie suppressed a shiver. What kind of strange things had her father gotten involved in? “Your attic is filled with blood?”
Now it was Chelsea’s turn to cover a smile.
“Oh, heavens, no.” Sophie laughed. “You must really think I’m a nut.”
Marie’s cheeks burned. Her face must be glowing red. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I’m just trying to understand.”
Sophie laid a comforting hand on Marie’s arm. “Of course you are, sweetheart.”
“My aunt uses mirrors, not blood,” Chelsea explained. “Communicating through a psychomanteum really has quite a long tradition, and it crosses cultures. Africans, Siberians, Native Americans…they all used different forms, whether they were gazing into water or blood. There’s even a story about Abraham Lincoln seeing his future reflected in a mirror.”
Marie had heard of some of these traditions. It had never occurred to her that they were anything but superstition and myth. “And my father believed he could look into mirrors and contact my mother?”
Sophie’s smile widened. “He didn’t just believe it. He did it.”
“He did it? He contacted my mother?” Marie shook her head. This was impossible. Ridiculous. “What did my mother say?”
“She didn’t say anything. The psychomanteum experience isn’t like some séance you see in a movie, dear. A ghost doesn’t just appear and recite his or her life story. Not usually, anyway. It’s a bit more subtle than that.”
“How does it work?”
“It’s more like meditation, opening yourself to stimuli we don’t pick up normally.”
“So my father meditated by staring into a mirror, and he spoke with my mother?”
“He sensed your mother. He could feel she was there. He could feel her happiness that he’d met me.”
So that’s what this was about? Sophie was worried Marie wouldn’t approve of her relationship with her father and she thought some spiritual mumbo jumbo would help her cause? “I don’t know about any psycho-whatever, but I’m glad he met you. I really am. I was worried about him after I left for school. Worried he’d be lonely. And he was. For years.”
“That means a lot to me, honey.” Sophie’s expression shifted. “But your mother’s acceptance wasn’t all he experienced in the psychomanteum. There were other things. Not-so-pleasant things.”
“About my mother?” A shiver raced along Marie’s nerves. Weird. She didn’t believe any of this, yet Sophie’s comment and tone of voice left her cold.
“Aunt Sophie…” Chelsea’s voice held a warning ring.
Her aunt splayed her hands out in front of her. “She needs to know what Edwin experienced. She’s here to look into his murder.”
Marie’s chill turned to shock. “How did you know that? Did the police chief—”
“Police Chief Hammer?” Chelsea rolled her eyes. “All that man cares about is making his job as easy as possible. A murder might mean that he has to do some actual work.”
That certainly jibed with Marie’s assessment of the man. “Then how did you know why I’m here?”
Sophie leaned forward and placed her fingers on Marie’s arm. “You know your father. He wasn’t one to enjoy walking the shoreline.”
“Exactly.” At least Marie wasn’t the only one to recognize something very wrong with the police’s accident theory.
Sophie nodded her head, her gray bun bobbing. “Contacting your mother was a good experience. A peaceful experience. The unpleasantness didn’t have anything to do with your mother. It had something to do with Drake House.”
“Drake House?” Marie’s head spun. She held out her hands palms out, trying to physically push back all these bizarre claims and confusing twists of logic.
“Your father learned things in the psychomanteum. Things that upset him.”
“What?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. He said he didn’t want to endanger me, especially after all I went through with Chelsea and her fiancé, Michael.”
“Aunt Sophie…” Another warning from Chelsea.
Sophie gave Marie a conspiratorial look. “I’ll fill you in on that story sometime.” She glanced at Chelsea.
“When I’m not around to stop you?” Chelsea shook her head. “My experiences don’t have anything to do with your father, Marie. My aunt just likes telling stories.”
Sophie harrumphed at her niece, then returned her focus to Marie. “I wish I could tell you more about what your father experienced, sweetie. All I know is that it upset him greatly. And he said it led him to a dangerous secret.”
“A dangerous secret?” The secret that got him killed?
Chelsea nodded as if reading her thoughts. “Your father was murdered to keep him quiet about what he learned.”
“How do you know that?”
Chelsea shifted in her seat and glanced at her aunt.
Sophie smiled. “You mean are we basing that theory on fact or on some sort of vision in a mirror?”
“Well…yes.”
“I’m basing it on what he told me before he died. Edwin was scared for me. He was also scared for his own life.”
Sophie’s words wound into a hard ball in Marie’s chest. She couldn’t picture her father frightened. He’d always been so strong, so in control. The only times she’d known him to be truly worried was when her mother was sick…and after he’d witnessed the way she looked at Brandon the summer before she’d left for college.
“I can’t reach him in the psychomanteum. I’ve tried every day since he died, but it’s no good. Maybe he’s still trying to protect me. Or maybe I’m not the one he needs to communicate with.”
The older woman stared at Marie so hard, Marie couldn’t fight the urge to shift in her chair. She didn’t want to ask what Sophie was getting at. She had a feeling she didn’t want to know. “It’s getting late. I’d better get back.”
“He always talked about how he hadn’t seen you in so long, how he had so much he wanted to tell you, so much he needed to say….”
“Aunt Sophie, if she doesn’t want to—”
“If your father will communicate with anyone, it will be you, Marie. He loved you so.”
Marie shook her head. “I can’t possibly. I don’t even believe.”
“It won’t hurt to try.”
Marie grabbed the handles of her bag in one fist and thrust herself out of her chair. “I really have to go.” She picked up her coat from the sofa arm where Sophie had draped it.
“It’s not ghostly, Marie. Forget about all those movies you’ve seen. That was horror. This is real life.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean any disrespect, Sophie, really I don’t. Talking to ghosts might be your real life, but it’s
not mine.” She pulled on her coat and hurried out the front door and down the steps, nearly tripping over her own feet in her rush to get away.
THE MAIN FLOOR of Drake House was dark by the time Marie drove back through the gate, down the winding drive and parked in the empty servants’ lot next to the carriage house. Dinner having been served, the servants had no doubt returned to their own homes. She looked up at the light in the private eastern wing of the house. The master suite, among other rooms. Brandon was home. She couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing.
Thinking of her?
Pushing away that idea, she started through the east garden to the kitchen entrance. After recovering from her experience at Sophie’s and grabbing a dinner of crab cakes at one of the harbor restaurants, she’d debated skipping Drake House and heading straight for the bed-and-breakfast off Main Street where she’d reserved a room. In the end, she’d decided she wouldn’t be able to sleep, anyway, not after her conversation with Sophie and her niece. If she did slip into sleep, she’d spend the night hashing out their strange ideas in her dreams.
Better to get to work on her father’s suite and keep her mind off both ghosts and Brandon Drake.
Marie followed the curvy path made of loose white shells. The night was dark, but she didn’t need light to see where she was going. Even after ten years, she knew Drake House the way she knew her own heart. Even though some details had changed, there was something about this house and its grounds she recognized deep inside. Something that would be with her forever. Like the tune her mother always hummed. Like the almost imperceptible twinkle in her father’s dry smile.
She swallowed into a tight throat. She missed him so much. Her father was so much a part of Drake House, she could still feel him, even outside on the grounds. The next few days, being in his rooms, sorting through his things, weren’t going to be easy. But at least she’d feel closer to him. Just being back on the estate made her feel closer.
The night was warm for December, yet pockets of cold, still air dotted the path, raising goose bumps on her skin. She rubbed her arms and quickened her pace. She probably could have parked in the lot near the grand entrance and cut through the inside of the house to the butler’s quarters. But somehow that felt presumptuous, as if she thought she belonged at Drake House or was some sort of honored guest. Here in Jenkins Cove, she was the butler’s daughter, pure and simple. In the past ten years, she had learned her place.
She circled the corner of the east wing and approached the back entrance. A light glowed from a set of windows off the kitchen. Her father’s quarters.
Her steps faltered.
The light dimmed and shifted. Not lamplight. More like a flashlight beam.
Was someone searching through her father’s rooms?
A flutter of nerves made her feel sick to her stomach. Who would gain from searching her father’s quarters? A murderer trying to cover his tracks?
The light flicked off. Darkness draped the house.
Marie pressed her lips into a hard line and covered her mouth with her hand. Whoever it was, the last thing she wanted was for the intruder to know he’d been spotted. She stepped off the path and slipped behind a holly bush. Reaching into her purse, she grasped the keys Shelley had given her, threading them between her fingers so they protruded like spikes from her fist.
The kitchen door closed with a click. Marie peered through spined leaves. A figure wearing a boxy rain slicker crossed the porch and descended the steps to the path. The hood covered the intruder’s face, and the size of the slicker made it impossible to discern the size or shape of the person beneath. The figure turned in her direction.
Marie pressed back behind the bush, hoping the night was dark enough, the evergreen bush thick enough to hide her. The rhythmic crunch of footsteps on oyster shells approached…slowed…stopped.
She drew in a breath and held it.
Suddenly darkness rushed at her. Hands grabbed her shoulders. A fist slammed into her jaw. Leaves clawed at her like frantic fingers.
A scream tore from her throat.
Chapter Four
Brandon relived it almost every night. Fighting his way into the blazing car. Choking on smoke and gasoline. Charlotte’s scream ringing in his ears. Helpless to save her.
He jolted up from the window seat, surprised he was in his room, no fire around him. No choking smoke. No Charlotte.
The scream came again.
Not Charlotte. Not a dream.
“Oh my God. Marie.”
He thrust to his feet. His leg faltered, folding under him, and he grabbed the window molding for balance. He snatched his cane. Willing the damn limb to function, he bolted for the door. Clutching the carved railing with his free hand, he thundered down the back stairs and sprang into the parlor. He moved through the dining room, half hopping, half galloping. He had to move faster.
He raced through the kitchen and burst out the door. The night was dark, no moon, no light. He couldn’t see a thing. Couldn’t hear a thing but the rasp of his own breath. He held the cane out in front of him like a weapon. “Marie? Who’s out here? Marie?”
A quiet groan emanated from a tall hedge of holly near the path leading into the east garden. “I’m here. I’m okay.”
Pressure bore down on his chest. Her voice sounded small, shaken. Not at all okay. He followed the sound. He couldn’t see her at first, but he could feel her. He could smell the scent of her shampoo. Something both spicy and sweet. Something that reminded him of a warm summer and good times. “Where are you?”
“Here.” Holly leaves rustled. She sat at the bush’s base, struggling to free herself from sharp leaves.
As he reached for her hand, his heart felt as if it would burst from his chest. “Can you get up?”
“I think so…yes.”
She grasped his fingers, and he pulled her to her feet. “What happened?”
She focused on him, round caramel-colored eyes in a pale face. “Someone was sneaking around in the house. An intruder. He saw me.”
“He attacked you?”
She lifted her fingers to her jaw. “He hit me…I think.”
Brandon tried to discern the discoloration of a bruise, but it was too dark.
“I saw a light in my father’s quarters. When I heard the kitchen door close, I hid.”
“In a holly bush?” He could see something dark on her cheek, feel something slightly sticky on the hand he clutched in his, probably blood. No doubt the sharp edges of the leaves had scratched her up pretty good.
“I hid behind the bush, not inside the bush. When he hit me, I fell.”
“Let’s get you inside.” Still gripping her hand, he led her toward the open kitchen door.
“What are you going to do?”
“Call the police.”
“What are you going to tell them? I didn’t see his face. I don’t even know if it was a him.”
“I’ll take care of it.” He hurried Marie up the steps and into the house. Closing the door, he locked it behind them. He didn’t know what the police could do, but he wanted them there. If nothing else, they could check out the grounds and make sure the bastard who attacked Marie was gone.
He turned to look at her. In the light of the kitchen, he could see the pink shadow of a bruise bloom along her jaw. The holly had scratched one cheek as it had her hands. Beads of blood dotted the slashes. Snags and runs spoiled her black tights. “You’re hurt.”
“You should have seen the other guy.” She tried for a smile, but it turned into a flinch of pain.
“Let me see.” He brushed her hair back from her cheek with his fingertips. Her skin was soft. Her hair smelled like…cinnamon. That’s what it was. Like the cinnamon gum she’d chewed as a teen. He took a deep breath. In the back of his mind he recognized the clatter of his cane falling to the floor.
“Does it look bad?”
He forced himself to focus on her injuries. “Not too bad. I’ll get some ice for that bruise. And there’s a fi
rst aid kit here somewhere. I’ll get those scrapes cleaned.”
“I can do it.”
He met her eyes and swallowed into a dry throat. What was he thinking? He was having a hard enough time touching her skin and smelling her hair without doing or saying something he’d regret. Playing nurse-maid would send him over the edge. “Of course. I’ll find the kit for you.”
Her lips trembled. “I can get it. My father always kept it in the same place.”
“Yes, all right.” Come to think of it, he had no idea where Edwin kept the first aid supplies. He had even less of an idea what he thought he was doing hovering over Marie. He needed to step away from her, to focus on something other than the way her hair smelled and the warmth of her body and the tremble in her lips. But right this minute, she was all he could see.
He bent down and picked up his cane. Pulling in a measured breath, he stepped to the burglar alarm and punched in the activation code.
“Do you usually have the alarm on at night?”
He nodded, but didn’t allow himself to look at her. He’d only be back to hovering if he did, noticing things he couldn’t let himself notice. “I told Shelley to leave it off for you.”
“So Shelley knew it was off. Who else?”
“Isabella. Maybe Josef. Anyone who knew you were planning to come back tonight, I guess. I doubt any of them would be looking to break in. They’re in and out of here all day.”
“The man you were talking to when I was here earlier? Did he know the alarm would be off?”
“Doug Heller? Maybe. Yeah, he was probably still here when I talked to Shelley.” Something was going on. Something Marie didn’t want to tell him. Despite his better judgment, he turned around and eyed her. “What are you getting at, Marie?”
“Do you think it’s just a coincidence someone broke in the one night the alarm was off?”
“Good point. I’ll mention it to the police. But I can’t see the staff involved in some kind of break-in. Or Heller, for that matter.”
She shrugged a shoulder, the gesture a little too stiff. She was working on some sort of theory about the break-in. A theory she obviously didn’t want to share with him.
Christmas Awakening Page 3
