At the base of a blooming pink peony she saw a shimmer of gold in the grass. When she bent to pick it up, she also spied a small gold disk several inches away, nearly hidden by the peony’s leaves. She straightened and examined the pieces in the palm of her hand. The smooth disk sprouted yellow glass petals surrounding a white pearl on its reverse side. “A broken clip earring,” she whispered.
Anna slipped the two pieces into her jeans pocket and began to make her way back to the house. From the corner of her eye she saw movement in the iris garden near the carriage house. Then stillness. She stopped and turned slowly toward the garden. There, hands in the pockets of his black rain jacket, was Mitch DeBoer, observing her—scrutinizing her—making no attempt to hide himself or his intentions. She waved, and after several seconds, he acknowledged her greeting with a nod of his head.
“Come on, Jackson.” She stepped around the muddy patches in the grass, past the side of the house and toward the front door. The earring had to be what Mitch had been looking for. Had he seen her pick up the pieces? Under normal circumstances she would have held them out in her hand and asked if he knew who had lost what appeared to be a decades-old clip earring. But these were not normal circumstances, and Mitch’s demeanor was troubling.
She wondered if he’d had a part in switching the artwork on the wall between her bedroom and Liz’s but decided that was unlikely. She’d only seen him in the house once, after Bee told him Devin had died. Lawrence, on the other hand, liked to snoop.
Commanding Jackson to stay outside the open front door, she crossed the entryway and called for Liz to bring the roll of paper towels from the library. “Jackson’s a mess,” she explained.
“I thought he might be,” Liz said, striding through the sitting room, roll in hand.
“Take a look at this,” Anna said, handing Liz the two pieces of earring in exchange for the roll. She returned to the front steps and started wiping down Jackson’s legs, Liz a step behind her.
“Huh.”
“Yeah?” Anna looked up.
Liz held the yellow glass to the gray skies. “This is old. The clip back broke, probably from overuse. Where’s it from?”
“The peony garden behind the house, where I saw that woman last night.” She checked the entryway to see if anyone was listening then doubled the towels and rubbed down Jackson’s wet, mud-flaked belly.
“That’s a pearl in the middle, but I think the rest is just glass. I’ve seen some vintage glass jewelry at flea markets. I’d say this is from the 1950s or even 1940s.”
Anna bunched the wet towels in her hands and studied the earring. “I didn’t think it was that old.”
“You were hoping for the 1970s?” Liz grinned and handed Anna the pieces.
“There would be a certain symmetry in that.”
Back inside, they headed into the library, where Anna dropped the wet paper towels into the wastebasket and slipped the earring into her pocket. Jackson, as clean as he could be under the circumstances, happily took his place on the blanket.
“The woman I saw last night was leaning over to smell the flowers,” Anna said, plopping down into her chair. “It was dark, so I couldn’t make out what she was doing when she touched her head. She must have felt her earring fall, and she couldn’t find it in the dark.”
“That means you didn’t see a ghost. Ghosts don’t wear earrings you can hold in your hand.”
“Then again, normal people don’t prowl gardens at night wearing 1950s jewelry. I think someone wants us to believe there’s a ghost in the garden.”
Liz gazed ahead, lost in thought. “No one at dinner wore those earrings. Or any retro jewelry, I’m sure of it.”
“But Mitch was looking for that earring, and that means he knows who was in the garden last night.” Anna looked again at the number-coded word on the back of Matthew Birch’s marriage certificate. Who had written it? And why? If Matthew Birch was a murderer, a dangerous man as Nilla had said, someone should have told the police about him, not played games with codes.
“Is it possible Nilla wrote this?” Anna asked, tapping the certificate with the cap end of her pen. “She could let people know she thought Matthew was a murderer without letting Paxton in on it.” Immediately she banished the thought. “No, that doesn’t make sense. She wouldn’t care. Matthew’s been dead for years. Why would anyone in this house care? And anyway, who’s Matthew supposed to have murdered?”
Anna heard Liz mutter and looked across the table. Eyes wide, her friend was staring at a single sheet of buff-colored paper in her hands. “This is enlightening,” Liz whispered. “Shut the door.”
Anna closed the library door, returned to her seat, and stuck out her hand. “What is it?”
Wordlessly, Liz gave Anna the paper. It was a letter from a Father Andrew Kole, the priest who had been sent to Sparrow House in answer to Matthew’s request.
25 February 1977
Dear Mr. Birch:
After my visit of 23 February, I concur there are some strange occurrences within your house. Among these I have observed: the movement of small objects from one place to another; a painting that relocated from one place to another in the first floor lounge; the sound of dripping water when all water in the house was said to be off.
Your wife’s insistence that you are at particular risk is a matter for some concern. She has noted growing changes in your behavior, and that is not to be taken lightly.
It may be well to disassociate yourself from alcohol, illicit drugs, tobacco, and spiritually harmful activities such as the reading of spiritualist books (such books which I observed). I strongly suggest you and your family, your child Paxton especially, visit a physician to rule out physical ailments. You may wish as well to seek assistance from a mental health expert.
I did not observe the scratching sounds from the rooms on the uppermost floor which your wife spoke about. I did not hear any voices which were not attributable to you, your wife, or your son.
In my opinion this matter deserves further investigation, though not by the Archdiocese, and that will be explicit in my report. Although natural causes may well be the source, you have a young child in the house who is very troubled by some activity or activities within it, and this requires your immediate attention.
Your wife may desire to have a priest formally bless your house. This can be done by contacting St. Joseph’s.
Copy to The Most Reverend John Vesey, Archbishop of Denver; Fr. William Stafford, St. Joseph’s Parish, Elk Park
Anna laid the letter on the table, her eyes drawn to the window as thunder began to roll in the distance. “The first thing this tells me,” she said, turning back to Liz, “is that an exorcism was not performed in this house.”
“Despite family lore,” Liz said.
“The second thing this tells me is that Charlene Birch was more concerned about Matthew than about the house.”
“That isn’t what Paxton wants to hear from us,” said Liz, reaching for the letter. “Though the priest didn’t rule out a supernatural cause for what was going on.”
“He’s disturbed by something, but his focus is on Matthew.”
“But then he ends the letter by suggesting a blessing on the house.”
“For Charlene’s sake?”
“A painting that moved.” Liz bit her lower lip.
“Sounds familiar.”
“But Matthew Birch is dead,” Liz said. She was vehement, trying to convince herself of her own words. “We have his certified death certificate. I refuse to believe there’s a half-mummified old man in the attic, coming down at night to relive the old days by moving paintings around.”
“Well, someone in this house moved that painting.” At the sound of rain pelting the window, Anna stood to look at the sill. Like Bee, she was becoming obsessed with it. It was dry—for now. She walked to the far side of the library, fingering a button on her cardigan as she perused a row of books on one shelf. They weren’t record books or ledgers of any kind, but pub
lished books.
Her eyes darted from one title to the other. Isis Unveiled by H.P. Blavatsky, Dawn of a New Age by Maureen Cyrus, People from the Other World by Henry Steel Olcott. No wonder a priest had warned about Matthew Birch’s reading habits.
She took Blavatsky’s book from the shelf, held it to the dim light slanting through the window, and began to thumb through its pages.
“What’s that?” Liz asked.
“A book by Helena Blavatsky, the spiritualist.” The book had been bound, or rebound, in a mahogany-colored leather. On the first page of the contents, the words “I recognize neither Jehovah nor any other celestial aristocrat” were handwritten in black ink, and the inscription was signed “H.P. via Charles Warren Birch to my son, Matthew.”
Anna replaced the book on the shelf and took down Cyrus’s book, skimming the front pages until she found another handwritten note. On the last page of the extensive contents, under the words “Universal love, universal justice,” were the words “M. Cyrus via Charles Warren Birch to my son, Matthew.” She positioned Cyrus’s book across the tops of the others and grabbed another volume, turning its pages until she found yet another note.
“Listen,” she said, turning to Liz. “‘Self-love and light, unity of action and purpose, but above all, justice. June 4, 1954.’ Matthew’s father gave him all these new age books. This one on his twelfth birthday.” She shook her head sadly. “He was only twelve years old.”
What sort of man gave books like this to a child? she wondered. Who was Charles Warren Birch? Bee, the house historian, had her doubts about his wife Jean’s death being an accidental drug and alcohol overdose. Did the rot that infested Sparrow House begin with him?
She put the book back in its place and wandered to the window. “I can’t believe it’s still raining,” she said. “Paxton was right, we’re going to set a record.”
“Why would someone try to scare us by moving a painting?” Liz said. “We’re here to do a job.”
“Maybe it’s not us they’re trying to scare,” Anna said, looking in the direction of the greenhouse and trying unsuccessfully to see its frame.
“Any idea who’s doing what to whom?”
“No idea. Though I’ve noticed nothing in this house changes much.”
“What do we do about this?”
Anna turned to see Liz gesturing toward the priest’s letter.
“I’ve been thinking about that.” She leaned against the chest and rested her hand on the Buddha figure’s bald red head. “What the developer wants to call a failed exorcism was no exorcism at all. That puts the house sale in jeopardy unless we can find something else quick.”
“Paxton’s not going to like that letter.”
“But we have to be honest about it. We can’t pretend we didn’t find it.”
“What about this?” Liz asked, holding Matthew Birch’s death certificate and pointing a finger at the mandala on the back. “Why would someone draw this doodle on it?”
“It’s a mandala. A Buddhist and Hindu art form.”
“That figures in this house. I thought it was just a hippie doodle.”
“What made you think of hippies?” Anna gave the Buddha’s head a pat and returned to her seat.
“Yellow and orange, sixties’ hippie colors. Mellow yellow and all that.”
Anna froze in place, gaping at Liz. “You’re right.” She rummaged in her purse for the yellow notes, slapped them to the table, then dug for the conclave photo and held it to the window’s light. “Why didn’t I see it before? An orange top. Yellow and orange, yellow and orange, over and over again.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ll explain tonight. In my bedroom, not in the library.”
13
Anna hit the top of the stairs and swung left, pointing the flashlight down the hallway. Jackson trotted ahead of her and waited at the door to the Forsythia Room, looking back at Anna and Liz as they slowly made their way down the hall, Liz noting with satisfaction that the door to the attic stairs was closed.
Near her bedroom, Anna lifted the flashlight so that its beam illuminated the frame at the end of the hall. The picture hadn’t changed. There he was—the fat man bending over, head straining for his knees.
Her laptop under one arm and a hand on the doorknob to the Larkspur Room, Liz regarded Anna with an apologetic expression on her face. “Would you mind if I write my website post in your room?”
“Definitely not.” Working in the library, as the clock closed in on 1:00 a.m., Anna had wondered how she was going to deal with a night alone in her room, especially after all she’d learned during the day. It was impossible to shake from her thoughts the letter from the priest to Matthew Birch. The word exorcism alone terrified her.
Earlier she had called Gene from the sitting room, longing to hear his sensible, reassuring voice. His no-nonsense view of the world was the perfect counterpoint to her overactive imagination. She called at eleven o’clock, first at his house in Loveland and then, when she couldn’t reach him, at Buckhorn’s.
She told him he sounded tired and that it was no wonder. An hour before midnight and he was still working—what couldn’t wait until the morning? In reply, he asked her how her research was coming along, pointing out, without saying so, that she was still working. It stung. It wasn’t like him—or wasn’t like the Gene of last winter and early spring. Just a few short weeks ago he took her seriously, even when they disagreed. But lately, especially when she brought up the long hours he worked, he let her know that her questions were like elbow jabs to his chest and not appreciated.
Anna threw her purse to the bed, set her laptop and a bag of leftover sandwiches on the nightstand, and spread Jackson’s blanket over the end of the bed. He leapt to it, pawed at it until the folds and puffs were just right, circled once, then dropped.
“Did you bring the photo?” Liz asked, settling next to Jackson and turning on her laptop.
Anna dragged her purse across the bedspread, opened the zipper, and withdrew the conclave photo, handing it to Liz.
“Now tell me about orange and yellow.” Running her finger over the keypad, Liz navigated to her website. “And can you hand me a sandwich?”
“Note the orange top Alice is wearing,” Anna said, foraging in the bag.
Jackson lifted his nose. All day long he’d begged, with sad eyes and, once, an even sadder whine, for some of the chicken salad, but not knowing how his stomach would react to exotic ingredients like horseradish—or how Bee would react if Jackson’s stomach did flip-flops—Anna hadn’t wanted to tempt fate.
“You had a big dinner, boy,” she told him. “Liz, chicken or egg salad?”
“Egg, please.” She held out her hand. “I was just relieved we didn’t have dinner with the Ghoul Family again.”
“Alice’s orange top,” Anna continued as she passed Liz a curry-scented egg salad sandwich, “the mandala, the pig man with the orange bottle for a body, the walls of this room, the yellow letters, the orange claws on the bear.”
“What bear?”
“On the mantel in the downstairs sitting room. The point is, yellow and orange are everywhere—all over this house, in the letters sent to me, and in Alice Ryder’s top. It can’t be a coincidence.”
Liz took a bite of sandwich then froze, her eyes glued to her laptop, her hands drawing into fists.
Anna circled around the bed and peered over Liz’s shoulder. In a preview box on the home page of the Elk Park Herald’s website was a thumbnail photo of Liz next to the headline “Exploiting Death to Boost Readership?”
“Chew, Liz.” Anna fished a napkin out of the bag and handed it to Liz. “You’ve got egg salad all over your hand.”
Liz wiped her hand then clicked on the thumbnail. She furiously chewed at her bite of sandwich as she read the short article, grunting twice—loudly enough the second time that Jackson jerked his head and Anna gave him a reassuring scratch. “Look at the last line. The editor calls on me—he ca
lls on me,” she said with exasperation, “to leave Sparrow House.”
“How can he write something like that?” Anna said, sitting next to Liz. “All you did is report what the police said about Devin’s death.”
“Because Devin worked here.” Liz’s voice cracked. “And now I’m here, writing articles about this haunted house.” She stood abruptly. She dabbed at her eyes, which were beginning to fill with tears.
“Oh, Liz, I’m so sorry.” Her heart ached for her friend. She’d spent countless hours building ElkNews.com, and now, with one editorial, the Elk Park Herald threatened all she’d worked for. “You can’t let him do this. You have to fight back.”
“I intend to.” Liz blinked and brushed a tear from her cheek with the sleeve of her pale green top. There would be no more tears tonight, Anna knew, as she watched her friend’s expression become serious, determined. Liz could fight like a grizzly when she or someone she loved had been wronged. “Can you deal with tracking down Alice Ryder for now? I have another real-time, direct-from-the-house post to write. With an added note to the editor of the Herald.”
A rap at the door startled them both, and Jackson, sensing their anxiety, growled. Anna reached for the doorknob while Liz, still dabbing away her tears, stepped out of sight to the other side of the door.
As she slowly opened the door, Anna found Lawrence peeking at her through the ever-widening crack. Her first thought, as she saw his grinning face, was that she was glad she hadn’t changed into her robe. Her second thought was that the man, like many college professors she’d known, didn’t have a courtesy switch. Or if he did, it remained continually in the off position.
“I saw your light on,” Lawrence said. “I assume you’re retiring for the night and you won’t have a problem with me making use of the library for an hour or two.”
Anna stared. If he saw her light on and figured she was done with the library for the night, why didn’t he just go? Bothering her with this, knocking on her door late at night—he obviously wanted her to know he’d be in the library. But why? “That’s fine,” she managed.
Anna Denning Mystery Series Box Set: Books 1–3 Page 37
