At the sound of voices in the entryway, Anna slid the yellow envelope under her laptop. It had drawn Bee’s attention, and Bee had tried to cover her reaction to it by looking away too quickly and focusing intently on something else—a sure sign that something about it bothered her. Paxton, Nilla, Bee, and even Mitch seemed to be hiding something. Maybe nothing of consequence, maybe they were reserved people with ordinary troubles, but they made Anna uneasy.
She braced herself for a knock at the door, but after a moment the voices faded. Again focusing her attention on the records Liz had found, she spotted a document with a floral border design and slipped it from the fanned-out pile. “I found Paxton and Nilla’s marriage license.”
“Good job.”
Anna typed “May 24, 2003,” the marriage date, into her software. If she was supposed to learn something profound by working like a genealogist, it had escaped her. She was compiling facts, and doing it quickly, thank goodness, but she hadn’t found anything Paxton hadn’t already written down for her, let alone something to explain the purpose of the yellow letters.
She looked at Jackson, who was at last sleeping on the library floor. She’d have to remember to bring his blanket down when she went upstairs for his dog food. She poured herself another cup of coffee and watched as Liz flipped through a set of five-by-seven prints.
“Anything interesting?”
“Not really,” Liz replied. She shuffled the photos together and gave them to Anna.
“No one levitating off a bed?” The first print was a color photo of seven smiling young people—taken decades ago, judging by the hair and clothing—sitting around a table. Their faces were bright, their eyes lit with excitement. “This was taken in the library,” Anna said, showing it to Liz.
“So it was. Look, there’s the Buddha.”
“I thought the Buddha was Paxton’s or Nilla’s, but it must have belonged to Paxton’s father or grandfather.” She turned the photo over. In blue ink someone had written “October 14, 1970—the New Movement Alliance,” followed by a series of seven initials.
“Are you online right now?” Anna asked. “Can you look up ‘Kurt Ellison’ and ‘1970’? I need to know the exact date he died.”
Liz typed, ran her finger along the keypad several times, then raised her head. “The police were called to this house at 3:00 a.m. on October 16. They say Ellison probably died just after midnight on the sixteenth.”
“Three hours.” Anna looked at the photo again. “I wonder if he’s one of these in the photo. Paxton said there were eight people at the conclave if you include his father. There are seven here, but someone had to take the photo.”
“Conclave,” Liz said with disdain as she angled her laptop toward Anna. “Here’s Ellison’s picture.” His shoulder-length hair, light colored in the black-and-white online photo, was parted down the middle, and he wore dark-framed glasses. Only one other person in the photo wore glasses, but his were round and wire rimmed, and he had shorter, curlier hair.
Anna flipped the five-by-seven in her hand. “The initials K.E. aren’t on the back. I’ll bet Ellison took this. He wasn’t part of the group, he was an outsider.”
A single knock at the door was followed by Nilla’s swift entry. “Dinner . . . ,” she began, her eyes shifting from Anna and Liz to the open laptop. Her lips curved into a smile that lingered an unnaturally long time. “In five minutes.” She peered at the laptop screen. “Is that a long-lost Birch relative?”
“No, he’s not a Birch.” At that moment Anna realized that Paxton hadn’t told his wife that her research into the Birch family tree was to include research into the Birch family haunting. Closed doors, yellow envelopes, strange Internet searches—Nilla and Bee had every reason to be as suspicious of Anna as she was of them. “That’s Kurt Ellison.”
Nilla’s back went ramrod straight. “I thought I recognized that face. He’s the man who died here.”
“Yes.”
“Did my husband ask you to look into this?”
“At the same time I look into the family tree, yes.”
Nilla relaxed, her posture drooping, reassured that Anna wasn’t looking into Ellison’s death on her own, that she wasn’t hoping to uncover a sordid Birch family past for some financial reward.
“This has to do with the house sale.”
“I believe so.”
“That’s real estate for you. They need a murder—better yet, a ghost. I’ve been telling Paxton for years that something’s wrong in Sparrow House, but he’s never listened. He’s ignored everything that goes on here. Until now, of course.” She smiled sweetly, but it was an afterthought smile, intended to soften her harsh words.
Anna threw an arm over the back of her chair and looked Nilla in the eye. “What does go on here?”
Nilla’s expression changed several times, as though gentle waves of water were washing over her brows, her lips, and the lines around her mouth, subtly rearranging them with each wave. “It’s hard to explain,” she said. “This house and its . . . and now poor Devin . . .”
As Nilla struggled for words, it occurred to Anna that the lady of Sparrow House didn’t really want to explain. Was her reluctance due to embarrassment? Or did she prefer her guests—soon to be overnight guests—to remain blissfully ignorant? And how did Devin’s death fit in?
With one shoo of her hand and a look that said “Never mind me,” Nilla ended the conversation. “We’re going to be late for dinner. We don’t want to make Bee wait, believe me.”
Commanding Jackson to stay in the library, Anna rose to follow Nilla, taking the conclave photo with her.
8
Paxton Birch raised his wine glass. “A toast to our guests. Welcome to Sparrow House.”
“Yes, welcome,” Nilla echoed. Bee and Lawrence murmured their assent and tipped their glasses upward before taking a sip of wine.
“Thank you,” Anna replied. “This looks delicious.” Bowls of fingerling potatoes, tiny green beans, and baby carrots were at the center of the table in the formal dining room, and at Paxton’s end was a platter of thickly sliced chicken breast dressed in an herbal sauce. “Bee, how did you manage? It’s wonderful.”
Bee seemed surprised at the compliment, Anna thought, and she smiled appreciatively.
“We pass the platters and bowls in this house,” Paxton said, taking hold of the chicken platter. “No standing on ceremony here.”
“Wine?” Nilla asked, searching the table. She’d changed her hair, Anna noticed, pinning it back into a bun, and she’d put on a single strand of pearls.
Bee groaned. “I forgot the rolls.” She tossed her napkin to the table and set off for the kitchen, returning a minute later with a basket heaped with brown rolls still steaming from the oven.
“Bee,” Paxton said, taking the potatoes from Lawrence, “I thought Mitch was going to join us.”
“He’s upset about Devin,” Bee said. She began to transfer green beans from the bowl to her plate, a task that allowed her to avoid Paxton’s eyes.
“I understand,” Nilla said quietly. “He knew Devin better than any of us.”
“It’s not just that.” Eyes still on her plate, Bee held the bowl in her outstretched hand until Lawrence took it from her. “Nilla, you said the police thought Devin might have died of a drug overdose.”
“Yes, I heard that too,” Paxton said, carefully buttering a roll.
“Does that make sense to you?” Bee asked.
“What do you mean?” Paxton said before taking a bite.
“Oh, that reminds me.” Nilla dramatically thrust out her hand, causing everyone to cease their plate loading and bowl passing and focus on her. “Anna, the Elk Park Police are coming here tomorrow. A Detective Schaeffer wants to talk to you.”
“Why?” Anna asked. She felt the photo on her lap start to slip and held it fast.
“Probably because you were here when we found Devin,” Paxton said. He smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure he just wants to ask you what
you saw.”
“Why would Elk Park have anything to do with it?” Lawrence asked. “We’re not in their jurisdiction.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Liz said.
“Of course it matters.”
“No, I mean Devin died in Elk Park. Jurisdiction.”
Lawrence’s eyes narrowed as he shot Liz a surly look.
Anna cringed inwardly. Detective Schaeffer. He’d entered her life more than two years ago as the officer tasked with informing her of Sean’s death on Highway 34, then he became a friend last December after Anna discovered the body of one of her clients. Now there was another body. He’d think bodies followed her wherever she showed up for work.
“Did you tell him my name?” Anna asked. She immediately regretted the question.
“Well, yes,” Nilla said, puzzled. “We had to tell him who was in the house at the time.”
“Of course.” Anna drove her fork into a potato and pressed downward, splitting it open. She glanced quickly at Bee, who was shoveling green beans into her mouth at a rate that guaranteed she wouldn’t be able to speak should someone ask her again about Devin. The subject was closed.
The rust-colored walls of the dining room and the dark green tablecloth swallowed the light thrown by the electric chandelier above the table. Through the window behind Bee and Lawrence, the grounds of Sparrow House appeared and disappeared in rapid succession with the flicker of distant lightning strikes.
“How are you two ladies coming with your research?” Paxton asked. He looked at Lawrence and wiggled a finger at the wine bottle. Lawrence dutifully passed it.
“Not too bad considering we just started,” Liz said. “But we’ve got a long way to go.”
“Especially with your extra work,” Nilla said. “The Kurt Ellison matter.” She held her fork motionless and looked directly at Paxton.
A small smile emerged then vanished on Lawrence’s face.
“Ah, that.” Paxton finished his wine, tossing back his head and upending his glass, then poured more from the bottle. “I didn’t think you needed the worry. I know how you feel about the subject.” He looked at Nilla with genuine warmth and concern. “If it looks like Ellison was murdered, that’s better for us. That’s what Ryant wants. I’m trying to get us out of this house quickly and at a fair price.”
Nilla relented, prodding her chicken with the fork and nodding her head gently.
“About our work,” Anna said. This was as good a time as any, she thought. She needed information and she wanted to see how the others would react. “I found this photo. Have you seen it before?” She handed it to Paxton.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Paxton said, pushing his bangs from his forehead. He grinned, and again Anna noticed how small his teeth were. Spaced properly, yes, but short, as if something had stunted their full growth.
At the opposite end of the table, Nilla arched her neck, straining to see the photo. “Who is it?”
“My dad and his friends from that meeting in 1970. My dad’s in one of his old, torn t-shirts, like he is in almost every old photo of him. Could you pass this to Nilla?” He gave it back to Anna and she sent it down the table.
“There are initials on the back,” Anna said. “Do you think you could remember any of their names?”
“I don’t think so,” Paxton said, “but I’ll bet their names are somewhere in the library.”
Nilla tapped the photo. “Aside from your father, we know one other person in this photo. Remember? He was the only one of your father’s friends who ever came back to this house. Eric Browne. He’s sitting on the floor here.” She held the photo so Paxton could see it and pointed at the man in wire-rimmed glasses.
“Let me see.” Paxton held out his hand and the photo went from Nilla to Bee to Lawrence. Paxton studied it, his brow furrowing in his effort to recall the man’s face.
“He was living in Albuquerque, remember?” Nilla continued. “About five years ago.”
“Yes,” Paxton said slowly. A shadow of recognition passed over his face. “He’s dead now, isn’t he? He was the oldest of the group.”
Lawrence cleared his throat. “May I have the white wine?”
Bee took the bottle by the neck and gave it to Lawrence. “It’s almost empty. I’ll be right back.” As she stood she pushed the chair out from the table with her calves, causing the chair’s legs to catch on the oriental rug. She grabbed hold of the chair back to keep it from tipping.
“He died of a heart attack two years ago,” Nilla said, following Bee with her eyes.
“None of the others ever visited?” Anna asked.
“Not according to my dad,” Paxton said. “They went their separate ways after 1970, never saw each other again. Some of them left Colorado. Nilla and I never met any of them, except for Eric.”
“Maybe that’s part of the reason the rumors started,” said Bee, handing Lawrence a newly opened bottle of white wine then taking her seat.
Lawrence inspected the bottle’s neck and frowned when he noticed the metal ring from the twist-off cap.
“What’s the connection?” Paxton asked.
“People said they were afraid to come back,” Bee replied.
“What did people say exactly?” Anna asked. It had always seemed to her that one death in 1970 was a very small carrot from which sprang such a large stew. There had to be more to the story of Sparrow House. Maybe Jazmin had been right—at least about the rumors of more suspicious deaths in the house.
Bee propped her elbows on the table and laced her fingers. She opened her mouth to speak but Paxton cut her off.
“My mom died in this house,” he said. “She fell down the third-floor stairs two days before my seventh birthday.”
“That’s terrible,” Liz said.
“She was pregnant at the time, with a brother, as it happened. Which is why,” he added, looking from Liz to Anna, “I don’t have any siblings. And why Sparrow House became mine, lock, stock, and barrel, after my dad died.”
The Birches and their dinner guests fell silent. The only sounds were the soft clinks of silverware on plates and Lawrence repeatedly clearing phlegm from his throat. Breaking the silence, Anna said, “I don’t see how that would fuel talk of a haunted house.”
Nilla laid down her fork. “Because word was that Paxton’s mother was murdered.”
Paxton scowled. “Everyone knows it was an accident. Everyone.” His voice was gruff, his easygoing demeanor gone. For the first time since Anna had met him, he was angry.
“I know, dear, I’m just telling Anna how the rumors started.”
“They started before then,” Bee broke in, speaking in what must have been her tour guide voice. “Jean Birch, Paxton’s grandmother, died of a drug and alcohol overdose in 1965.” She speared the last bit of potato on her plate. “She took prescription drugs, but she didn’t drink alcohol.”
“Women don’t fare well in this house,” Nilla said. She looked from face to face, waiting, it seemed to Anna, for a challenge. When one didn’t come, she took a long sip of wine, letting the remains of her glass trickle slowly into her mouth.
Lawrence cleared his throat again. “Neither death was declared a murder, if I’m not mistaken. They were ruled accidents by the authorities, and there are no facts to the contrary.”
“Thank you, Lawrence,” Paxton said. He wiped his mouth with a rough swipe of his napkin and dropped the napkin on the half-eaten vegetables on his plate.
Paxton’s anger was puzzling. After all, Anna thought, she’d been employed, at least in part, to bring suspicion on an accidental death in 1970. Then again, the deaths of Paxton’s mother and grandmother hit closer to home than the death of a stranger. Maybe Paxton couldn’t stand to view them with the same scrutiny he wanted brought to bear on Kurt Ellison’s death.
Nilla wasn’t finished yet. She lifted her chin and spoke in a flat, businesslike voice. “There wasn’t much talk after Jean Birch died, but then Kurt Ellison died. That’s when it really started. T
hen after Charlene, Paxton’s mother”—she acknowledged Paxton with a tilt of her head—“died in 1981, talk went wild. I was just a little girl at the time, but I remember it.”
Anna shot a look at Paxton. The frown lines between his brows had disappeared. He had resigned himself to the recitation of the tale.
“I was in Chicago. I never heard anything about it,” Lawrence said.
Nilla, dumbfounded, glared at him. “Chicago? You wouldn’t have heard, would you?” She directed her gaze at Anna and Liz. “You see, I used to visit this house when I was a kid. Paxton’s family and mine knew each other.”
Paxton looked over at Nilla, an affectionate smile, full of memories and pleasant secrets, crossing his face. “Our families met at the Broadmoor Hotel in Colorado Springs,” he said.
“What a place,” Nilla said, lifting her head and staring across the dining room, a faraway look in her eyes.
“The food.”
“The drives into the mountains.”
“The best summers of my life were spent there.”
“And mine.” She lowered her chin into her hand and looked down the table at Paxton.
“Oh, boy,” Bee said. She laughed, and as Anna, Liz, and the others joined in, the mood at the table lifted.
“Anyway,” Nilla continued, “children started trick-or-treating here in 1970, but they did it even more after Charlene died. Paxton’s father used to find them on the grounds, calling to the ghost, didn’t he?”
“My dad said he used to phone the police,” Paxton said. “He’s the last person in the world you’d think would call the police on kids, but he did. That’s how angry he was sometimes.”
“Nilla,” Liz began, nudging a green bean across her plate, “you said ‘calling to the ghost.’ What do you mean?”
“It was a ritual the children performed. You know how kids will look into a mirror and say something three times to call up the bogeyman? It was like that.”
A thunderclap sounded, the loudest of the evening, and as Nilla looked from Anna to Liz, a slow smile spread across her face. A stormy night, good food, and a ghost story. Nilla was enjoying this.
Anna Denning Mystery Series Box Set: Books 1–3 Page 32
