“So I found them on the grounds by the front gate one Halloween,” she continued, “and I asked them what they were doing. The gate is open for trick-or-treating, but they’re not allowed to roam the grounds. The kids said to me, ‘We’re calling the ghost.’”
“Why ‘ghost’ and not ‘ghosts’?” Anna asked. “Wouldn’t there be more than one?”
“There was talk that Jean Birch’s death wasn’t an accident, but the legend of the Sparrow House ghost only started after Ellison died.” Cocking her head to the side, she paused, reconsidering. “But maybe it should be plural. First there was Ellison, but after Charlene died, people said she was the ghost.”
“You’re saying my mother’s a ghost.” Paxton scowled, casting his eyes over the table. “Where’s the bread? Someone pass it.”
“Paxton, don’t be ridiculous.”
“Easy for you. No one’s saying your mother haunts this house.”
“Anyway, I don’t believe she’s a ghost. Of course I don’t.”
“I thought you did. You always say there’s something wrong with this house.”
“I believe something is here. I don’t know what it is.” Nilla’s hand clutched at her pearl necklace. “But I don’t believe it’s your mother, for goodness’ sake. She was a kind, sweet woman.”
Anna took a last bite of chicken and pushed her plate to the side, forcefully enough, she hoped, that Liz would pick up on the signal and they could go back to work. If this dinner conversation was any measure of life in Sparrow House, the quicker they finished and went home, the better.
“I wondered if I might venture in and take care of a little work in the library tonight,” Lawrence said.
“I’m sorry,” Anna said, planting an apologetic expression on her face. Why couldn’t Lawrence just wait? She and Liz had three and a half more days to finish a job that under ordinary circumstances might require a couple weeks. He knew they were going to spend every waking moment in that library. “We’re going back to work after dinner.”
“Oh, come on, tonight? Can’t it wait until morning?”
Paxton shrugged. “Sorry, Lawrence, but their work is a priority. Just a few more days.”
“Priority,” Lawrence growled. “Yeah, right.”
Anna’s radar kicked in. Lawrence was being rude to the man whose family papers he was gathering—for posterity and professorial acclaim at DU—and so soon after his solicitous remark to Paxton about the deaths of his mother and grandmother being accidents. His obsession with the library wasn’t just about his precious set-aside books. He wanted something in that library, and he didn’t know where it was. If he knew, he’d have it already. It would be tucked away in his suitcase and he’d be relaxing at the dinner table, happily tipping back his chardonnay.
“Will you two need anything before I leave?” Bee asked. “I’ll be driving home after I clear the table.”
“We’re fine,” Liz said. “And thank you for that delicious dinner.”
Lawrence, his expression mournful, made a noisy show of standing up. “I’ll be down in the basement until about ten should anyone want me.”
Nilla and Paxton said their goodnights and left the dining room, but seconds later Nilla returned and hovered nervously behind Anna and Liz. “Let me know if you need anything at all,” she said, brushing an invisible hair from her cheek. “These floors are cold at night even in May, so you might want to wear slippers. We shut off the heat about this time and don’t turn it on again until the middle of September.”
“It makes for some chilly nights,” Bee said without looking up.
“I like chilly,” Anna said. “I sleep better.”
“Well, if you need more blankets, you’ll find some in your rooms,” Nilla said. “And Anna, I think the linen closet in your room has some. Take as many as you need.”
Anna was sure Nilla wanted to say more. She was priming the pump, saying all the commonplace things a host says to guests, hoping the important thing would rise in her throat and at last spill out. Nilla’s lips parted a sliver and she took a step to the side, and it occurred to Anna, suddenly and with certainty, that Nilla was fearful. About this house. It has to be about this house.
Anna needed to know what was frightening her, before she turned off the lights in her bedroom tonight and happily laid her head on her pillow. “Nilla, is something—”
“Well, good night,” Nilla said, cutting her off. The moment had passed. Whatever courage Nilla had gathered to speak escaped her now and she would say no more. She gave a small tip of her head and left the dining room.
“I guess we won’t be at a loss for blankets,” Liz joked. She too had picked up on Nilla’s discomfort and was trying to push it out of her mind.
Anna and Liz laid their utensils on their plates and along with Bee began clearing the table.
“No,” Bee said, waving them away. “You’re the guests.”
“Employees,” Anna corrected.
“And this is too much for one person,” Liz added. “Let us help.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Bee said firmly. She fixed a smile on her face and continued to clear the table.
Anna and Liz relented. Bee didn’t want help—or didn’t want to be seen receiving it—but either way, she meant business.
“I clear the table,” Bee said, moving from place setting to place setting, gathering the utensils in her hands. They clapped like chains when she dropped them to one of the plates. “I set the table, I give tours, I pay the bills, I answer correspondence.” She piled plate on plate and bowl in bowl, creating a precarious tower and never once looking up from the table. “I have a master’s degree in library science, but I clear the table.”
9
“It’s midnight,” Anna said, stretching her arms over her head. “Let’s go to bed.” She had made progress on the Birch family tree, but she hadn’t found anything the developer would consider proof of a haunted house, though the 1977 exorcism would be handy in that regard. Fresh eyes in the morning would help.
“I’m with you,” Liz said. “It’s been a long day.”
Anna peeked at Jackson, curled and fast asleep on his blanket after a late dinner and his favorite dog treats.
“I wonder about Bee,” Liz said, closing her laptop. “Have you noticed she runs hot and cold?”
“You mean kind one moment, angry the next? She seems frustrated. I don’t think she likes working here.”
“It can’t be easy running this house.”
“Or working with the Birches.”
“I’m getting some weird vibes there, as they said in the seventies.”
“It’s not just the Birches.” Anna leaned forward, crossing her arms on the table. “Lawrence gives me a bad feeling. Why does he keep trying to get in here?”
“I’ve noticed that. He’s petulant about his books too.”
“If he’s collecting material for the university, he has to go through the papers in the basement anyway, so why not just do that and wait until we’re out of the library?”
Liz undid her hair clip and raked her hair with her fingers. “Something else I’ve been wondering. What was Matthew Birch, the hippie conclave guy, doing at a luxury hotel like the Broadmoor?”
“Another puzzle.” Anna removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She couldn’t wait to hop into bed, pull the covers to her chin, and fall asleep to the patter of rain.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you . . .” Liz trailed off. Anna put on her glasses and gave them a push to the bridge of her nose. Liz was gnawing at her lips.
“Ask me what?”
“I noticed you’re not wearing your wedding ring.”
“Oh, that.” Anna stared down at her hand, at a loss for words.
“When did that happen?”
“Last week.” Anna shrugged, trying to keep the conversation light, skimming along the surface like an insect on a glassy lake. It was too late at night for weighty matters. It had been a difficult decision, taking off the ring
Sean had given her nine years ago, and there were times, she thought ruefully, that no one, not even Liz, understood how her life had changed forever that autumn day two and a half years ago. Ring or no ring, Gene or no Gene.
Though for Gene, for an unfolding sense of hope—a seedling straining toward the sun through clods of dirt—she had taken off the ring. No one but her understood the enormity of that act.
Liz stood. “Let’s go. I am not going up there alone.” She slung her purse over her shoulder and tucked her laptop under her arm.
Anna chuckled, grateful that Liz hadn’t pressed the matter of the ring. “Jackson,” she called softly. Her dog lifted his head, and on seeing Anna rise, he leapt from his blanket, ready to go.
“I wish I could wake up that easily,” Anna said to him as she grabbed his blanket and gathered her things. She slipped the photo of the conclave into her purse. “A little midnight research,” she said in response to Liz’s inquisitive look.
They headed up the staircase and turned left at the top, feeling as much as seeing their way through the darkness to their rooms.
“I left the flashlight in the library,” Anna whispered.
“Now I wish we’d asked for two. Shouldn’t they at least have a light on that staircase? Isn’t that code?”
“Tomorrow I’ll tell them they’re breaking the law.” Anna’s eyes, adjusting to the dark, noticed a break in the unrelenting green of the walls to her right. She halted, tugging at Liz’s sleeve, and peered at the sliver of beige. A wall. Someone had opened the door to the attic steps, the steps that were off-limits, according to Bee, and she could see the beige wall beyond it.
“What is it?” Liz asked in a small voice.
“Isn’t this door supposed to be closed?”
“Bee said so.”
“It looks like there’s a light on somewhere above the stairs, but—”
“Don’t touch it.”
The sudden earnestness in Liz’s voice highlighted the absurdity of their situation. Anna bit back a grin. Two grown women afraid of an opened door. “Come on, Liz, I’m tired.”
In the Forsythia Room, Anna spread Jackson’s blanket across the bottom of the bed and patted it. Jackson sprang to the bed, circled twice, and dropped sleepily to the blanket.
She decided to worry about stray dog hairs later. She hadn’t brought Jackson’s own bed with him, and he needed a soft place to sleep tonight. And the truth was, she needed Jackson close. His presence settled her thoughts and brought her back down to earth. Already a doorway, cracked open a harmless inch, had sent her imagination reeling. She gave Jackson a kiss on the top of his head then pulled her pajamas out of her suitcase.
As she started to close the drapes on the south window, she saw movement in the peony garden. She made for the light switch on the wall, flicked it off, and returned to the window, pulling the drapes close to her face. A figure in dark clothing was moving slowly through the garden, walking its perimeter, now and then bending toward the flowers. In the dim moonlight Anna couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.
The figure bowed toward a peony, extending a hand in delicate delight, head dipping low. A woman. Those were the mannerisms of a woman. But who would be out there after midnight? The rain was light, but it was still raining, and it was chilly, probably no warmer than forty degrees.
The woman straightened, raised a hand to her head, then looked, with the suddenness of an animal spied by a predator, at Anna’s window. Anna froze in place, her hands motionless on the drapes. In an instant, the figure turned her face from the window and walked swiftly out of the garden.
Anna relaxed, scolding herself for her foolishness. She had every right to look out her bedroom window, and every right to wonder why someone was prowling the garden late at night. She yanked on the drapes, closing them, shut the drapes on the eastern window, then listened for the sound of the front door opening or for a creak from the aged planks of the hallway floor.
She heard nothing. But her bedroom was far from the front door, she reasoned, and if the woman in the garden—was it Bee? Nilla?—returned quietly to the house and slept in a first-floor bedroom, as she knew Nilla did, she wouldn’t hear her. If it had been Bee in the garden, she could have hopped into her car, started it, and headed down the driveway without anyone at the back of the house hearing a thing.
She glanced at Jackson, still sleeping and snoring softly on his blanket, and went back to the task of getting ready for bed. Once in her pajamas and robe, she retrieved the conclave photo and a pen from her purse and sat cross-legged on the bed, her laptop before her. The names of those in the photo were probably in the library somewhere, as Paxton had said, but why sift through stacks of records to find them when a search engine, the photo, and the initials on the back of the photo were all she needed?
Four of the people in the photo were either sitting on chairs or standing behind the other three, who sat on the floor hugging their knees. It was both a snapshot and a more formal portrait meant to memorialize an important event. Paxton had identified Matthew Birch as the man in the torn t-shirt, and she now knew the other man on the floor was Eric Browne. There were only two women in the photo. Eight people at the conclave that would change the world, and only two of them women.
She’d start with the first woman, Anna decided, the one sitting in the back at the far left in the photo. Somewhat overweight, she had a plump face, a rounded chin, and a nose that was round and full at the end—bulbous was the only word for it. Dressed entirely in black, she had dark brown hair and voluminous bangs that almost covered her eyes. She held a cigarette in her right hand, pinching it the European way, and smirked rather than smiled at the camera. “CAR” were her initials.
It didn’t take long for Anna to discover that the woman’s name was Catherine Anita Russo, born February 28, 1943, in Sterling, Colorado. She even found another photograph of her on a website devoted to homegrown terrorists from the 1960s and 1970s. But the site provided little information, aside from a sentence or two about her association with Matthew Birch, her birth date, and her death date. She had died five years ago of a drug overdose in a Paris flat.
“It seems like a lot of people in the Birch circle die of drug overdoses,” Anna said aloud. “Never do drugs, Jackson.”
Moments before he had been fast asleep, but now, his eyes wide and his ears erect, he was looking at the ceiling behind her. Her head snapped around and she quickly scanned the ceiling. Nothing. There was nothing there, she was sure of it. Maybe Jackson wasn’t seeing something, maybe he was hearing something. The patter of mice? Squirrels or raccoons?
She ran her eyes along the bedroom ceiling, hunting for handprints like the ones she’d seen in the library, and felt a sense of relief when she found none. It was all swirls and vortices, whirlwind designs, as in the library, but no one had pushed their hands into the wet plaster, marking it forever.
Her eyes lowered to the painting above her headboard. It was simple, almost primitive. A single, large tree with bright red leaves, growing sideways far more than skyward, in a field of yellowish green grass. Blighted grass.
At a sudden scraping sound from above, Anna jerked her head up. Jackson gave a low growl, his eyes on Anna, waiting for a cue from her. She needed to reassure him, and in order to do that, she had to calm down. There was another scraping sound—like chair legs drawn across floorboards—and Anna smiled at Jackson, deliberately holding his attention. “It’s all right,” she said, giving his neck a scratch.
As far as she knew, there were only two rooms on the third floor, and they’d been declared no-go territory. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone up there. Only Paxton and Nilla could enter those rooms, but they were asleep on the first floor. Another sound, more muffled, like something heavy skidding over the floor, jolted her.
From the corner of her eye she saw the knob on her bedroom door turn. Her breath caught in her throat. Jackson followed her line of sight, his head tilting to the side as the door slowly opened.
“Anna,” Liz said in a hushed tone. She stuck her head around the door. “Good, you’re up.”
“Liz,” Anna whispered fiercely. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.” Liz gently shut the door behind her, tiptoed to the bed, and dropped, laptop in hand, next to Jackson. “I didn’t want Lawrence to hear me knock.” She pointed at the ceiling. “Do you hear that noise?”
“It’s hard to miss. I thought the rooms up there were supposed to be empty.”
“I wish I could find a blueprint of the house on the Web,” Liz said, opening her laptop. “What are you doing?”
“I was looking for the names of the people in this.” She held up the photo and tapped a finger just above Catherine Russo’s head. “I found her.”
Liz keyed in ElkNews.com, pulled up a draft post, and started typing.
Anna leaned closer to Liz’s screen. “Are you? Seriously?”
Liz looked up, her face beaming. “It’s perfect. A real-time, blow-by-blow account of ghostly noises at Sparrow House. It’s news and entertainment.”
“You’re crazy. You know that, don’t you?”
“No, I’m ambitious.” Liz stopped typing. Her smile faded, replaced slowly by an expression of determination mixed with sorrow. “I have to be or I’ll lose this website and all my work will have been for nothing. I can’t let that happen. I can’t go back to the way things were.”
“I know.” Anna understood. After all, she was in Sparrow House for a similar reason. There were bills to be paid. The inexorable march of bills ruled her life. Yes, she understood. “Can I help?”
A sound of a different sort—higher pitched, quieter—now came from the floor above. “Yeah. How would you describe that?”
“Like glass. Like someone’s walking over crushed glass.”
Liz typed.
Anna slid off the bed and began pacing the room, stopping when a new sound reached her ears.
“Liz . . .”
“Huh?”
Anna Denning Mystery Series Box Set: Books 1–3 Page 33
