She spent a fitful second night in Jarrod’s bed, tossing and turning with horrible dreams.
*****
The next day was Monday. Marsha had Jarrod and Clarissa packed off to school and a breakfast of oatmeal with hot cinnamon apples ready when Georgia got up.
As they ate, Marsha harped on again about how logical it was to sell their Grandmother’s house right away, so they could split the money and move on.
Georgia let her sister rant as she ate. “How about a cup of your road tar?”
“The bank opens at nine. How about you hurry up, so we can get going?” Marsha said as she poured.
“Maybe we could keep the house and rent it out...make it an investment property.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. The roof has leaks. There are plumbing problems, and the wiring needs work. It’s an old house...”
“Yes, it is. I think it dates back to around 1900 or earlier. How can you let go of something like that? It’s been in our family forever.”
“It’s a pile of rotting wood. Did you look at the outside? The bricks are crumbling!”
Georgia thought about the fading green Victorian gingerbread trim. She heard once that every house in that period had its own unique style. The craftsmanship was unparalleled in modern times. “It can be fixed.”
“So you pay to fix it. What then? I don’t want to deal with maintaining it, and Steven doesn’t have the time.” Marsha’s eyes were on fire. “You live in New York...how would you keep it up and manage any tenants?”
Georgia didn’t answer. She didn’t know what the right answer was. But, letting go of the house seemed like the wrong idea.
They finished their breakfast and then loaded up in the family pickup. Marsha was sullen as she backed out of the long driveway. Their Grandmother’s death certificate sat on the truck’s console between them. Georgia kept her elbow far away from it, not wanting to even look at it.
As soon as they reached County Road, Marsha gunned the accelerator. They were only a block away from the bank when the red and blue lights flashed in the rearview mirror.
Marsha pounded the steering wheel. “Damnit!”
“I don’t know why you’re in such a hurry,” Georgia scolded.
“Oh...will you just shut-up!”
Georgia envisioned her hands encircling her sister’s throat and throttling her until she begged for forgiveness. The thought passed as Marsha pulled over. She knew their nerves were on edge. Grammie’s death was stressing them both out.
“Be sure to smile...” Marsha said as she jokingly batted her eyelashes at her sister and forced a plastic grin.
Georgia watched the impressive form of Deputy KarlBauer stride up from behind them. He wore a tan uniform with black boots and a creamy beige cowboy hat that covered most of his sandy brown hair. Even with the truck’s 3-inch lift, he stood tall at Marsha’s window as he leaned in and rested his muscular forearm on the window ledge.
“Morning, Hayden.”
“Morning, Karl,” Marsha said as she handed over her license and registration without any prompt.
Georgia bent forward and drank in his strong jaw and tanned face accented by a thin mustache. She wasn’t sure with the reflective glasses covering his eyes, but she judged him to be in his mid-forties.
“Is this the fourth time this year?” he asked.
“Is it really?” Marsha batted her eyelashes with renewed fervor.
“I clocked you doing forty-four in a thirty.”
She tossed back her blonde locks and ran her manicured nails down the side of her neck. Then, splayed them briefly across her collarbone and breasts. “Was I? I’m so sorry. I was talking to my sister and must not have been paying attention.”
Deputy Bauer lifted his head in Georgia’s direction. She tried to smile through the prickling blush that began to warm her face.
“The middle school is just up ahead. If you went much further at that speed, you’d be looking at a pretty hefty fine.”
“Oh please, Karl. I’m trying to watch my speed these days, really…”
He began writing on his tablet. “I can’t let it go this time. You obviously need more incentive to slow it down.”
“I’ll give you a thirty-six in a thirty, but this is the last time I’m going to give you any leeway.”
“Thank you. I promise I’ll try to be more careful.”
“By the way,” he said to both of them. “I’m sorry about your grandmother.”
“Thank you. My sister, Georgia, is out here for the funeral.”
“Your sister, hunh?” he said as he took off his glasses and peered over to the passenger side.
Georgia saw his eyes, a clear aquamarine like the water in a swimming pool or the sparkling lagoon of a Caribbean island.
“I don’t see the resemblance,” he said as he leaned in further and locked her gaze.
“She’s from New York,” Marsha replied.
Georgia glared at her and then bit down on her lower lip. “Yes...the polluted air in big cities tends to change people’s facial features a bit.”
“Sarcasm...I like that in a woman...gives her character.”
Georgia blushed as she shifted her position, tilting her knees to the left and wondering how she looked in her black slacks and rusty brown silk blouse.
“If I get a chance...I’ll stop by the funeral.” He tipped his hat in Georgia’s direction. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too, Deputy. I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
He smiled. “Just keep an eye on your sister. She’s got a lead foot.”
Georgia watched in the side mirror as he strode back to his patrol car. She didn’t dare to say a word as she saw Marsha’s white knuckles clenching the steering wheel. Steam poured out of her ears as they eased back onto the road and coasted into the bank parking lot, anxious to find out what secrets their grandmother’s safety deposit box might hold.
Chapter 22
That morning, loneliness made the Spirit even more obsessed with finding out more about the dark-haired woman that had visited the house.
Bored with his own company, he peered through the curtains in the spare room upstairs at the house next door and saw FredBirman sitting on the porch cleaning the barrel of a rifle.
The sight made his temper flare.
He touched the wound again on his chest. It had begun to ache. He reached inside his shirt and scratched it. Instead of an indentation, he found his fingers touching fully formed scar tissue. He smiled wide enough to cause pain in his cheeks. Il tempo guarisce tuttii mali. Time heals all wounds?
He remembered that when Virginia died, and when he killed the young paperboy, he had felt a surge of energy as the essence of their life had gone into him.
Would more death bring him even more life?
There had been great changes in his appearance since he first arrived back on earth. Though, he was still far from being completely mortal again, he felt that he was approaching passable, at least in dim light. Unfortunately, he could still see the ancient dirt under the thin ridges of his fingernails. It disgusted him. As many times as he tried to wash and scrape it out, he could not completely get rid of the everlasting filth underneath them.
It was another reminder of his previous lower-classed position. It was cazzatta...bloody nonsense...that he could not shed the affectations of his previous life. How was he to start anew with these hindrances?
It was one more reason to curse the name of WilliamCrawford, who could spend a fortune on the care of a single rose, but was too cheap to keep his gardener in a constant supply of gloves.
He longed to change out of his tired, bloody formal attire. But, what would he wear? He knew that he couldn’t walk into town in his outdated formal wear without drawing unwanted attention. Around Virginia, he hadn’t cared. But now, he wanted to put on a comfortable pair of trousers and his old wool cap.
Soon, he hoped that he would be strong enough to leave the property and explo
re Calathia to see how it had changed in the last hundred years. There was a whole new world out there to see, and he was fascinated by the innovations and inventions that had happened since his death.
Virginia had taught him about some of the strange new machines that had been invented. There was the television, the microwave, and fancy new telephones with push buttons and digital screens. The refrigerator and freezer kept things cold without blocks of ice. Apparently, all houses now had electricity, instead of a select few who could afford it. But, indoor plumbing was the most amazing invention to him. He relished being able to do his business without worrying about the weather, spiders, and snakes in the outhouse.
He also found it amazing that something in the makeup of his new protoplasmic being allowed him to control the energy of lights. He only had to think about a light turning off...and it sputtered into darkness without him ever touching the switch. That trick had allowed him to intimidate Virginia when it was needed.
Emotion seemed to increase his power. If he became angry, as he had often done when Virginia didn’t do as he asked, he found his face flushing and becoming engorged with blood. He could almost feel a pulse coursing through him—the product of a functioning healed heart lightly pounding in his chest.
But, negative emotion was a difficult thing to contain once that mental beast was unleashed. In his previous life, it had been difficult to control his rage. Out in the garden, if a thorn pricked his finger, he had sometimes gotten angry enough to yank the entire bush out by its roots. Of course, he had replanted it before Crawford discovered the infraction.
There had also been a few incidents with women. If they crossed him, his reaction was always intense, but never predictable. A couple of prostitutes on the east coast probably went to their graves with the scars that he had given them. But, he had never laid a hand on his beloved Margaret—at least not until the end.
As he watched FredBirman polish his gun, he dwelled again on how miserable he had become in the last few days from being stuck in this house. He left the upstairs room and went down to the library where he poured himself another glass of gin.
He took a sip then paused when he smelled a peculiar scent. It was sweet like lilacs. He remembered that Margaret used to wear lilac perfume. He whipped around to see if he had any company. But, when he turned he saw that the library and the kitchen were empty.
He gave it no more thought as he looked up at an old black and white framed photograph propped between the books on the shelf and gave a toast to his old employer. “Thank you, Crawford for welcoming me into your home. No more cleaning sewers or picking rags...no more pruning your damned roses! It will only be la dolce vita for me this time around.”
Then, he scoured the ceiling-high shelves for something interesting to read to pass the time until the beautiful woman visitor returned. He passed over the gardening tomes, farming manuals, old Westerns, and tattered romance novels.
After a few minutes, he settled on a large hard cover coffee table book entitled, Modern Art of the Metropolitan Museum.
As he flipped through the colored plates of artwork that spanned the last century, he smiled as he saw the eclectic menagerie of paintings and sculptures by contemporary artists. A self-educated, though poor man in his day, he reminded himself that no scrap of knowledge ever seemed to go to waste.
He leaned back in the chair and braced the book on his lap, intending to devour the book from cover to cover. This might come in handy some day...I’m sure of it.
Chapter 23
Opal had never been the nervous sort who chewed on her fingernails. But, as she looked down at their ragged edges and the traces of blood at their tips, she realized that she had recently acquired the habit.
Now that she had decided to delay any confrontation with the spirit until after Virginia’s funeral, she didn’t know what to do with her self in the meantime. Earlier this morning, she had canceled appointments with two clients, knowing that it would be impossible to concentrate on the cards or conversation.
She pulled a raw finger from her mouth and smacked herself on the hand.
Then, she tossed her uneaten cereal into the sink and remembered someone’s famous quote. “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” Obviously, whoever said that had never seen a spirit staring at him through a window with glowing red eyes.
Later in the morning, she went outside and raked up some leaves that had fallen prematurely from the trees lining the sidewalk, swept her porch, and pulled some weeds. The busywork did little to calm her mind.
She went back inside and plopped down on the couch. As her hand reached for the remote, she paused and then dropped it as if it were too hot to touch. She was afraid to turn on the television—too frightened of the possibility of hearing that someone else had been found dead at the Blake house.
Virginia’s funeral was still almost twenty-four hours away. That was a lot of hours left for worrying and shredding what was left of her fingernails.
She thought again about visiting her Aunt Grace, but the drive was too long, and she didn’t want to have to drive back to Calathia after dark. It wouldn’t be a good idea to stay out late on a road trip when tomorrow might be the most challenging day of her life.
Then, a new idea popped into her head. What would happen if she phoned the Blake house? If someone was there visiting, maybe she could find out from them what was going on in the house and if the spirit was causing any trouble.
But, she shuddered as she thought about the possibility of the spirit himself answering the phone. Would he speak to her in a throaty voice, telling her to stay away and leave him alone? Would he scream blasphemies and curses at her, shattering her eardrums over the receiver?
The more she thought about it, the more the idea that he could harm her over the phone seemed preposterous. There must be a physical component to his power. If he could kill with his mind, she figured that she’d already be dead.
She felt helpless to do anything else right now, so she decided to try it.
Her feet shuffled to the kitchen in slow, reluctant steps. When she reached for the phone, her fingers clenched as if she was about to pick up a repulsive bug. Then, she found Virginia’s number in her client book. She sat down before she pressed the first number, and paused before hitting the last digit.
“We’re sorry. This line has been disconnected. Please…”
She tossed the phone onto the floor, before realizing that she had just heard a recording and not a demonic voice.
No phone line. She was almost relieved, because it meant that she could delay any conversation with the spirit for another day.
But then, she realized what else the lack of a phone line meant. The house was isolated, surrounded by empty fields and the river behind with just one neighbor to the west. If she went to the house by herself, she’d be cut off from any help.
At the funeral tomorrow, she was going to have to corner anyone she could and find out what was going on in that house before she went there. Maybe, she could find Karl and cajole him. Though, her pathetic pleading hadn’t done much to convince him before.
The funeral. How was she going to hold herself together without bawling through the whole thing?
To pass time, she searched her closet for something formal enough to wear. After rummaging through the tunics and skirts, she chose a purple dress—a shade of blackberry so dark—that it might pass for black. She imagined that she should be wearing white instead, something pure and spiritual to face the spirit after Virginia was lowered into the ground. But, it dawned on her that in some cultures, white was the color of death and mourning. It didn’t matter what color she wore. She was going to need more than a pretty dress to deal with the next day’s challenge.
After laying out her clothes for the next day, she felt the need to do another purification ritual. She took a container of salt out of her kitchen cupboard and sprinkled a circle around the perimeter of her house. Then, she burned a wand of sage, walking around each
room to let the sanctimonious scent fill the air.
She paused by her front door as she realized that she was behaving as if her own home was possessed. Was she afraid that the spirit might visit her again in her dreams—or worse—attack her in her own home?
She realized that she had no idea what he was capable of and wished that she had a dog or a cat to alert her if any uninvited guest appeared.
More rest seemed to be the only answer to her anxiety. She curled up into a ball on her bed and decided to try to take a nap.
He can’t kill me in a dream. Even if he tries, I’ll know it’s not real and I’ll will myself awake.
But, as she drifted off and her thoughts grew fuzzy, she wasn’t so sure.
She took deep breaths and inhaled the pungent scent of the sage smoke that still lingered in the air, wondering how Virginia had died. Had she run screaming out of the house with him on her heels? Had her heart simply exploded from fright or had he zapped her with some ray of ethereal evil?
She slept the rest of the day, waking every few hours to get a drink of water or use the bathroom. Then, she returned to her bed, determined to sleep some more and build her strength for the next day’s battle. Opal the dragonslayer, charging in on a white horse...
Chapter 24
Georgia stood behind Marsha as she smacked the death certificate and a small round key down onto the bank’s counter.
Moments later, they sat down in plush leather chairs in front of a solid tank-like mahogany desk. Marsha squirmed and tapped her heel on the marble floor.
“You look more anxious than a three-year-old on Christmas morning. Do you really think there’s going to be anything of value in her box? I wouldn’t be surprised if Grammie gave most of her valuables away to the county animal shelter.”
“We’ll just have to see. The old bat might have tucked something away that we don’t know about.”
A minute later, Marsha surprised her by letting her take the box and open it. As she fumbled with the lock, she thought how much the little metal cylinder reminded her of a coffin pulled from a burial vault. Whatever was inside, it was a piece of Grammie just the same.
The Gardener Page 10
