The Book of Beloved (Pluto's Snitch 1)

by Carolyn Haines

  “Anything to delay.” Carlton spoke under his breath, but I heard him. I turned away and spoke to Reginald.

  “That makes perfect sense. You should explore the house and grounds. I’m very eager to see if you witness the same presences that Uncle Brett and I have seen.”

  “Tomorrow, when I’m rested, I’ll give it my best shot. As for now, I think I’d like to take a walk about the property. The aspic was delicious, Winona. As good as any I’ve had in Quebec, where the French consider it their invention.”

  Uncle Brett and Isabelle decided to accompany Reginald, and soon I was left alone. A nap called to me, too, but I had other things to do. Winona refused my help to clean up the dishes, but she had questions about our adventure.

  “How was the séance?” she asked.

  I’d come up with a plot and a title for my story, “The Unexpected Visitor.” Since I was stuck at a description of one of the characters, I welcomed Winona’s curiosity.

  “It was very exciting. Madam Petalungro communicated with several spirits. One from Caoin House distressed her so that she had to stop.”

  “Oh my.” Winona stilled. “Please, tell me if I’m interrupting you.”

  “Not at all, and I’m happy to spill the beans, but only if we can have a cup of tea.”

  “That would be the best plan, so I can get your uncle’s favorite pot roast in the oven while I listen.”

  Instead of the truth, I decided to try a fictional version—the nub of my idea for my first ghost story. When we had the steaming tea in front of us, I told her about our adventure at the séance, dramatizing the deep voice that had come from Madam and adding a few details, such as the fact that Eli haunted Caoin House to avenge the brutal death of his beautiful wife, Eva. As I spun the tale, I watched Winona’s reaction, mentally marking areas where my tale needed revision.

  “So what will happen to Mr. Eli now?”

  I was pleased that she was caught up in the story enough to care. “According to Madam, ghosts linger for a reason. To protect someone or something, to reveal something, or for revenge.”

  “I don’t believe in ghostly revenge.” Winona chopped an onion with such force a piece flew across the room.

  “Haven’t you ever felt anything here? I’d love to hear your stories so I can write about them.”

  Winona faced me. “My son used to tell me there were spirits here. Unhappy spirits. But he’s in Paris now. When he comes home, I’ll ask him to tell you some of his stories.” She gathered the carrots she’d washed and left to drain at the sink. “Now I have to finish preparing for dinner or your uncle will be serving raw beef with his cold potatoes and corn bread.”

  “If you think of any old stories, please tell me.”

  “Of course.” She paused in her chopping. “I’m glad you’re here, Miss Raissa. Your uncle is so much happier. He’s at ease in a way he hasn’t been for a long time.”

  “I love being here. I don’t want to be a burden or take advantage. I want to do my share.”

  “Oh, when he gets in the mood to throw a party, he’ll have you hopping, just like he does the rest of us. Even Miss Isabelle runs around with her tongue hanging out.”

  The thought of my uncle organizing and marshaling all of us to bring off a party made me smile, and I was delighted to see the wall of reserve Winona erected crack a little. She was talking to me as if we could be friends. “I heard Uncle Brett used to have the White Ball each year. Do you think he might again?” The White Ball was a winter extravaganza that marked the conclusion of the year and led into the Mardi Gras season, when all the secret societies held balls and parades. The secret organizations formed the echelons of Mobile’s power structure.

  “He might. I guess only time will tell.”

  I left her to the kitchen work and hurried upstairs. When I opened the door of my bedroom, the first thing I saw was a brand-new green typewriter sitting on an elegant little teak desk that had been placed beside the French doors. I rushed forward, squealing with pleasure at the wonderful green color, so much more fun than the traditional black I’d seen in offices. My fingertips slid over the keys. I’d taken secretarial courses along with my teaching instruction when Alex was first called overseas, mostly to occupy my mind, but also in the thought I’d take on a part-time job so we could save to buy our own house. I ended up working full-time as a teacher, but I could still type at a respectable speed.

  A stack of plain white paper had been left beside the machine, and I sat down in the straight-backed chair. I opened the French doors and looked out upon the oak grove for a long moment as I visualized the opening of my story. My fingers found the keys, and I began to type. “The Unexpected Visit.” It looked so official, so solid and real. Without another thought, I entered the world of my story and began to write.

  When a knock came at my bedroom door, I almost leaped from my chair. My heart pounded madly—I’d been in the middle of introducing my fictional ghost, the very handsome and seductive Captain Eli.

  “Raissa, are you okay?” Carlton asked.

  “You’ll laugh at me,” I said as I composed myself and opened the door. “I was writing a story, and you startled me.” I could feel the flush in my cheeks and neck.

  “Then you like the typewriter?”

  I looked from him to the Corona and finally grasped the situation. “You?”

  His grin erased time and care from his face. “Every self-respecting writer needs a typing machine. My secretary recommended the portable Corona, but if it doesn’t suit you, I—”

  “No! I love it. Thank you, Carlton.” I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him. It wasn’t simply the gift of the machine; it was his belief in me. “Thank you.”

  He kissed my cheek and stepped back. “I have to say, it never occurred to me that a writing machine could produce such an enthusiastic thank-you. The secretaries are never so thrilled when I purchase new office supplies.”

  I caught his hand and drew him toward my desk. “I’m debating whether I can accept such an expensive gift. I’d assumed it came from Uncle Brett.”

  “We conspired together, and before you think I’m lavishing gifts on you, keep in mind that I work for your uncle and I’ll simply charge him an arm and a leg on his next legal bill. In a way, he is gifting you with the machine.”

  “Now that’s a crooked mile. And the desk?”

  “Brett arranged to have that delivered while we were in New Orleans. You need a place to work, and while the library is wonderful, we both thought you might prefer a more private nook. The creative process and all.”

  I led him out to the balcony. “This is the most wonderful place. I can just imagine the ghost of Eva Whitehead down in the oak grove, waiting for her revenge.” That was the story I’d chosen to write.

  “Revenge? Against the soldiers who killed her?”

  I didn’t want to give away the surprise of my tale, so I merely smiled in what I hoped was a mysterious way. “You’ll have to wait until I finish writing.”

  He shook his head. “As your benefactor, I don’t even get a peek?”

  “Nope.”

  “Can I at least take a look at what you’ve written?” He reached for the typed pages beside the Corona.

  I snatched them away and held them behind my back. “Not until I finish. Then you’ll be the first to read my story.”

  He stepped closer, reaching behind me as if he meant to grab the pages. Instead, his hands supported my back. “I want to apologize for the way I behaved about Reginald. He’s a likable fellow. I made an ass of myself in New Orleans. I don’t care about his romantic life.”

  His apology caught me completely off guard. “Why did he upset you so much?”

  “I have feelings for you, Raissa. I shouldn’t, I’m aware of that, but it doesn’t stop me. Brett is one of my best friends, and you are his niece. I’ve heard stories about you for years. Brett adores you.” He swallowed. “I hadn’t realized how much Brett’s stories had influenced my thoughts ab
out you. Your obvious interest in Reginald struck a nerve.”

  “Reginald is my friend. As are you, Carlton. You’re getting the cart way ahead of the horse.”

  Carlton’s dimple came into play. “Jealousy is not a flattering trait.”

  “You were jealous, even knowing he’s gay?”

  “Emotions aren’t rational. I make my living from people who can’t separate emotion from fact. When I saw how taken you were with him, it just tapped into my . . .” His mouth quirked up on the left. “My jealousy.”

  “Even knowing it wasn’t romantic interest?”

  “Time is the only thing we have of value. If you’re more interested in spending time with Reginald than with me, it doesn’t really matter what you’re doing—does it?”

  His directness surprised me. Carlton bent words in a courtroom to serve his clients. This straight talk cautioned me that he was serious. “I see your point. I didn’t intend to make you uncomfortable.”

  “Jealous. You can say it. The more I’m around you, the more I see qualities I admire. You’re smart and willing to work for a dream. So many of the women I meet in Mobile want to be flappers or clamor for the vote and to be equal, but they’re only talk. You actually do what’s necessary to be an equal partner. You’re curious and open to the world around you, whether it’s ghosts or gays or aunts with a hurting child. I admired your kindness to the young boy at the séance.”

  “Thank you, Carlton.” I needed time to digest his revelations.

  “I don’t expect you to return my feelings. Not so close upon the heels of your recent losses. My timing is wrong, and I’m generally an expert at timing. It’s just that you’re such an extraordinary woman, I wanted you to know my feelings before other men lined up to claim you.”

  I had to laugh. “I hardly think there’s a worry.”

  “You have no idea how men follow you with their gaze. Walking around Jackson Square, every man you passed took a second look. It’s the way you carry yourself, the expression of openness on your face. Your extraordinary beauty.”

  Heat flushed my cheeks, and at last Carlton turned away with a chuckle. “I’ve embarrassed you. Enough of my proclamations. Let’s make a bargain. I won’t press you or tire you with constant attention, but you have to make time for me, on occasion.”

  “That’s not a chore, Carlton. I enjoy your company.” And I did. Did I have romantic feelings for him? I couldn’t say. I was attracted, but that was a far cry from the more serious emotion of caring. My feelings had been whiplashed by death. I felt numb, but that was normal and would eventually wear off. Then I would know my true feelings for Carlton.

  “Let’s go down to dinner. Brett sent me to retrieve you, and here I’ve kept you much longer than I intended.” He offered his arm, and together we descended the stairs.

  “Thank you for the typewriter.” I intended to speak to Uncle Brett and be sure it was appropriate to keep the machine, though it would take a team of mules to pull it away from me now.

  “I expect to see your name in print in the very near future. That will give me the utmost satisfaction.”

  “You’re a rare man, Carlton McKay.” I’d never known a male who honestly supported a woman’s desire to have a career. Not a job, but a career. I accepted his arm as he led me from my room and to the stairs.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Dinner was a merry affair, and Carlton and Isabelle left shortly thereafter. Uncle Brett retired to the library to read, and I went outside with Reginald for a smoke. I’d been dying to grill the handsome medium about the spirits at Caoin House. With his help, I hoped to discover the reason Eli and Eva haunted my uncle’s home. And, possibly, what had happened to Robert. The button torn from a shirtfront was still in my dresser drawer.

  If there had been some altercation on the roof of Caoin House, it was with a mortal, not a ghost. Ghosts might frighten someone over the edge of a roof, but they could not wrest a button from cotton fabric.

  At least my understanding of ghosts was that they had limited corporeal powers. Banging a few shutters, tinkling glass, a blast of energy bumping open a door. This was the limit.

  Two things challenged my beliefs. The push Isabelle had received, which nearly killed her, and Robert’s death. I refused to let Robert’s death go. I could find no one unaccounted for at the time of his fall. Carlton and Uncle Brett had helped me establish alibis for all the partygoers.

  Reginald and I sat on the curving stairs that led to the front porch, and he lit my cigarette for me. I didn’t smoke often, so I had to work at barely inhaling or otherwise I’d have a coughing fit—not the image of sophistication I wanted to convey.

  “Your uncle is eager to hold the séance.” Reginald looked worried.

  “He’s a bit too eager. Just tell him you need time to explore the spirits here. That’s not unreasonable.” It amused me that Uncle Brett was so excited. I knew his concerns about Eva’s ghost, but Reginald needed to be grounded. “I’ve read that mediums work best in familiar terrain.”

  “How about a little history of the house? I’d hoped to talk to you earlier, but Carlton kept me busy.”

  “I know. Carlton’s . . . peculiar sometimes.” An owl who-who-hooted in the oak trees as I told Reginald what I knew of the house. How it had been built for Eva Whitehead by the elegant and chivalrous Eli Whitehead. How she’d died at the hands of deserters at the very end of the Civil War while her husband fought in Tennessee for the lost cause of the South, and how her daughter had been left with Eva’s decomposing body.

  Reginald lit another cigarette from the butt of the one he held. “Many old homes are steeped in tragedy, but Caoin House seems to have had a double serving of it.”

  “Yes. That’s true.”

  “I heard you, too, have lost people close to you.”

  “A husband, my parents, most recently a new friend. I’d hoped to talk to one of them at the séance.”

  “The entity that came to Madam was a very strong presence. Do you know who it is?”

  “Uncle Brett sees a woman. We believe it’s Eva. I’ve seen a soldier on the grounds. I presume it’s her husband, Eli.”

  “Carlton mentioned that I should be careful here, but it seems more to the point that you should use caution. Ghosts that try to connect emotionally with the living can be . . . tricky.”

  “Tricky?” He’d obviously wanted to use another word.

  “There are barriers that shouldn’t be crossed, Raissa. If you feel this spirit’s yearning for you, that’s a danger zone outside my expertise. Perhaps we should cancel the séance and I should return to New Orleans.”

  “No!” I still hoped to connect with Alex or Robert or both. A word with my mother and father would also be greatly appreciated. It had occurred to me that if I could see the ghosts of Caoin House, and Uncle Brett could, too, perhaps my mother had the same ability. She might be able to help me—plus, it was something I wanted to know. “We really have to have the séance.”

  “Raissa, I’m an apprentice.”

  “But you see the spirits. We can at least try. If it gets too scary, we’ll simply stop.”

  “What if I’m overpowered? The entity that came through in New Orleans was very strong. Madam was thrown for a loop.” He lit another cigarette. “I don’t like this. There are spirits that have their own agenda.”

  I proposed another scenario. “What if the spirits here want to help us learn the truth about the past? Maybe Robert will tell what really happened on the roof.”

  “Either way, it could be dangerous.”

  “Is it honestly risky for you to do this? Will you be in danger?”

  He considered. “Madam was exhausted when he came through her. She told me she had to struggle not to lose herself. Even she was afraid of his power. When I took her upstairs to her room, she asked me to follow through for her, but she also said she was worried about you and the others. She had a sense that something bad was going to happen.”

  I sat up straighte
r so I could think better. My mother had often told me that a straight spine allowed the brain to function. “You should tell this to my uncle. He’ll understand that you don’t want to continue with plans for the séance.” The warning of the tarot reader in Jackson Square lingered with me. She’d cautioned me that the loss of another I loved could happen. I didn’t want Uncle Brett endangered by my curiosity.

  Reginald sighed. “If I’m going to be a coward, I shouldn’t have come in the first place. No, we should go through with this.”

  “What are the real dangers?”

  “There have been cases of permanent possession. Where the medium was unable to reclaim his or her body.”

  “That’s serious. You could become possessed.” The owl hooted only twenty feet from where we sat. The sound, up close, was far more ominous.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glint of moonlight on something shiny. The soldier stepped out from behind the trunk of the nearest tree. An air of melancholy clung to him, and he beckoned to me. In the moonlight he was pale, his dark hair curling slightly on his brow. He beckoned again, and, although his lips didn’t move, I heard him calling my name.

  “Raissa, come to me.”

  My ribs seemed to squeeze down on my lungs, imprisoning them in a corset of bone so that I couldn’t get a deep breath. Even sitting with Reginald, the ghost compelled me to him.

  “Raissa!” Reginald grasped my shoulders and shook me. “Is he here?”

  “There, beside the first oak.”

  He turned and stared.

  “Can you see him?”

  Reginald faced me again. “No, I don’t see anything.”

  I looked beyond Reginald. In the dancing oak shadows, Eli beckoned me, and I rose and started down the steps. When I got to the bottom, I felt someone grab me.

  “Wake up!” Reginald’s hand met my cheek with a sharp crack.

  I let out a startled yelp and whirled on him. “Who do you think—”

  He was looking past me at something near the trees. “What do you see? What’s out there?”

  “It’s him. Eli. The Confederate ghost. Can’t you see him?”