The Book of Beloved (Pluto's Snitch 1)

by Carolyn Haines

  “Thank God you’re here!” I could have kissed him, so profound was my relief.

  “What is that?” His gaze had fallen on the jigger, and in the dim light it looked like a dead, rabid monkey.

  “Don’t touch it!” I brushed his hand away as he reached down.

  Reginald had brought a flashlight, a far smarter move than my lantern. He turned it on, and the circle of light illuminated the jigger, which was even more gruesome than I’d thought.

  “That’s a real monkey head,” Reginald said, fascinated in the way a small boy might be with something disgusting. He reached for it again.

  “Don’t touch it. The damn thing danced out from under that divan, and no one was manipulating it.” A hand and arm had been there, but not attached to the toy. There was no way I’d be able to explain this to Reginald, much less Uncle Brett.

  “Let’s get out of here.” I pressed him toward the door. The oppressive sensation that prevented me from moving was gone, but the attic was not a safe place. Not for me and not for Reginald. “Something bad is up here.”

  “Like a ghost?” Reginald wasn’t amused, but he was curious.

  “Like something bad. We’re leaving.” I grabbed the wrist that controlled the flashlight, and the beam bounced around the room. As the light passed across the alley between big pieces of furniture, I saw someone standing in the shadows.

  I cried out and fell against Reginald, who luckily caught me. “What is it?”

  “Someone is here.” I was almost panting with fear.

  “You’re too sensitive, Raissa,” Reginald said, stepping in front of me as if to protect me. “Something is here. I can sense it, but not like you. It’s vaguely disquieting to me. It must be awful to you.”

  Something flitted past in my peripheral vision. “Eli?” I stood slowly away from Reginald. Dread brushed along my skin, a sensation I’d never felt before from the soldier. “Eli, what’s wrong?”

  The area in the center of my forehead, the place Madam had called the third eye, felt as if a great pressure was being exerted against my skull. For the first time in my life, concerns for my health overrode every other thought. A terrible vise gripped my head. I had to get out of the attic and away from the pressure.

  “Raissa, what is it?” Reginald held my shoulders to keep me from falling as I put my hands to my head, pressing back against the internal pressure. Almost blinded by the pain, I stumbled toward the attic door and the stairway to the ballroom. The only thought I could hold on to was getting out of the attic before my head exploded.

  “Raissa!”

  The sharp command came from behind me, and it was a feminine voice. My control over my body was minimal. Someone else manipulated me, and Reginald was frozen in place beside me. I turned without conscious will. Shadows flitted about the attic, and the wind flapped the drop cloths. The scent of a heavy perfume, something lush with an undertone of sex, moved over me. The light, citrusy scent that had occupied the attic when I’d first entered was overwhelmed by this stronger, more powerful scent.

  “Who’s here?” Reginald asked. “There’s a woman up here. I’ve helped Madam with her wealthy female clients, and I know this musky perfume is expensive.”

  “Who are you?” I managed to ask.

  One flickering shadow moved closer to us. I could discern the vague outline of a feminine form that grew more and more solid as it approached.

  She was beautiful. A dark-haired woman in a white gown that trailed the floor. The gown was tied at her slender waist with a red sash that matched the red of her lips. Her skin was a pale ivory, flawless, and her dark hair fell in curls about her shoulders.

  “Eva.” I knew her. I knew her in my bones.

  “Give it back,” she said. Her voice was soft and melodious, filled with the manners and charm of a time long past, but there was also something beneath the request. A threat.

  “What do you see?” Reginald asked.

  I ignored him, concentrating on the spirit not ten feet from me. “We want to help you,” I said. “To help you find peace.”

  “Give it back.” The demand was clearer. The edges of her voice sounded frayed. Beneath the lilt, anger hid.

  She wanted the envelope, and that made me more determined than ever not to give it up. “Reginald, we have to go.”

  “Who’s with us?” he asked. “I know there’s a female entity here, but I can’t get more than that.” He was excited that he’d begun to pick up on spirits. I wanted only to escape.

  “We have to get out of here.” I grabbed his hand and dashed for the doorway, pulling Reginald hard behind me. He was almost deadweight until we reached the door, and then he seemed to snap out of the trance that held him.

  I pushed him through the door, slammed it, and forced him down the stairs into the ballroom.

  “That was . . . intense,” he said, looking back longingly as if he wished to return to the attic. “The perfume . . . who was she?”

  “Eva Whitehead.” I had no doubt. I pulled the envelope from the pocket of my skirt, realizing that I’d also put the baby brush there.

  “What’s that?”

  I turned the brush over and traced the elegant scroll of letters. “Baby Whitehead” was etched in the silver. So it was Elise’s brush.

  “This is a terrific find, Raissa,” Reginald said. “I can make it appear at the séance. “What’s in the envelope?”

  In response, I slowly slid the picture out and stopped.

  A young man dressed as a pirate stared out of the picture with a stoic expression. He wore the trademark pirate head scarf, a short jacket or fearnought. Nude from his waist to his boots, his erect penis was of remarkable proportions. I gasped and almost dropped the picture as I stumbled. The one thing I hadn’t anticipated finding in the trunk was pornography.

  “My good Lord,” Reginald said. He was well and truly shocked.

  Curiosity drove me to look further. The envelope contained a note. I slipped it free and opened it.

  “Caleb is unable to visit Friday evening, but I am sending Carlos in his stead. I believe you’ll find his attributes equal to Caleb. This is, of course, my gift to you. Your opinion will be of great value to the other ladies.”

  The note was unsigned. The potential repercussions dove at me like angry mockingbirds. If this was what I assumed, and if other Mobile society women were involved, the scandal might rock the foundation of polite society. It might also account for the past deaths of Eva Whitehead and for the current burglaries of Caoin House. An 1860s male prostitution ring linked to Mobile society would account for many things.

  My first thought was to rush downstairs and wake Uncle Brett, but I resisted. The entity’s powerful demand to give the picture back still had me upset. The spirits in Caoin House had taken issue with my possession of the image. I knew very well this scandal would impact the lives of some very powerful people in Mobile and cast a shadow over genteel society.

  “This could cause a lot of trouble,” Reginald said, echoing my thoughts.

  “I know.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  I slid the picture back in the envelope and returned it to my pocket. “For the moment, nothing. Let’s get through this séance before we do anything else.”

  Reginald nodded and took my elbow to escort me back to my bedroom. Dawn wasn’t far away. Perhaps I could catch an hour or two of sleep, because I knew I would need my strength to get through Friday and the séance.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The day passed in a blur of activity, which allowed me to sidestep my fatigue and anxiety. I chopped onions with Winona, harvested and prepared the fresh herbs she needed for the light dinner menu she was preparing, arranged flowers for the front entrance and the guest bedrooms, and helped set up the table and chairs in the ballroom. On this last chore, Reginald had given me explicit instructions on where and how.

  Once lunch was done, I borrowed the car and went to the local newspaper under the guise of looking u
p material for my ghost stories. My uncle’s name gave me access to the newspaper morgue, where clippings of past stories were organized into topics. I focused on searching out records of a child’s death at Caoin House only to discover that several families who’d owned the house had suffered tragic losses. One young boy in 1892 had disappeared into the swamp to the south of the house. The body was never found. Another was accidentally shot hunting in 1898. And just before Uncle Brett bought the house, a ten-year-old boy fell from the roof and broke his neck. Three families, three accidental deaths of children. Male children. The unhappy news added another level of dread to the night’s proceedings.

  Sitting in the dusty filing room, I was consumed with guilt. I hadn’t come clean to my uncle about the photograph of the half-naked pirate I’d found among Elise’s things. Caleb had been mentioned in the note. I had to wonder if it was the same Caleb buried in the Whitehead cemetery. Who was he? Uncle Brett might know, but Reginald had extracted a promise that I wouldn’t reveal the photograph until after the séance. He was right that the scandal would be too much for Uncle Brett to keep to himself. My uncle didn’t have a malicious bone in his body, but the half-naked pirate, standing proud, was not something he would be able to keep quiet about. I had no choice but to honor my word to Reginald, but I felt deceptive, which made me uncomfortable.

  Armed with a notepad half-filled with facts, I returned to Caoin House by four. The small break had given me renewed energy. I kept reminding myself we had only to get through the night.

  Isabelle arrived not five minutes behind me, pulling into the front drive with a happy toot of her horn. Since Travis was busy in the cemetery—on the off chance our séance resulted in a tour—I helped carry Isabelle’s bags to her room. While I tried not to probe into Uncle Brett’s romantic life, I was amused to notice that she continued the subterfuge of staying in her own room in the south wing where Brett had his quarters. I couldn’t help but wonder if the guest-room cover was for me or Winona. Propriety was still alive and well at Caoin House.

  Uncle had gone to the docks with the ship captain for the last-minute preparation of our boat ride early Saturday morning. He was determined to herd us out of the house and to the Bayou Sara dock at daybreak so we could enjoy the awakening of the natural world. Eighty years ago, the variety and beauty of the bird population in the delta area had attracted painters, John James Audubon among them. Isabelle had collected dozens of the exquisite works and decorated her room at Caoin House with the delicate and detailed pictures of the beautiful winged residents of the area.

  Isabelle noticed my interest. “I love the Audubons.” She opened her suitcase. “Before I claimed this room as my own, it was filled with paintings of dead people on every wall. It had a disturbing feel.”

  “Family portraits?”

  “I can only assume the subjects were former residents. I know Brett reveres all things Caoin House and the past, but I found it too depressing, and when I asked him to remove the artwork and the wallpaper, he had painters here the next day. I much prefer the light walls and the birds for company.”

  “Were the portraits of the Whitehead family?”

  Isabelle shrugged. “Not Eva, that’s for sure. The best portrait was of a young boy, and there were no male Whitehead heirs, so obviously not a member of that family.” Her brow furrowed lightly. “It was a troubling painting. I got it into my head that something tragic happened to the child, and I simply couldn’t have it in the room. You know how an idea can plant itself and the roots dig in. I couldn’t look at the boy without thinking of the tragic ways he might have died.”

  The image of that dirty, twisted, childlike arm darting out from beneath the drop cloths made me rub my skin as if I felt a chill. I knew exactly what Isabelle described, and in talking with Reginald, I’d come to see this, too, as a type of awareness to spirits. Isabelle wasn’t a medium, but she was a sensitive. Based on my afternoon studies at the newspaper, I suspected the young boy had died a tragic death. I didn’t want to spill the beans about the three young boys who’d died here at Caoin House, in case Reginald needed to use it for his routine, so I said nothing. The art of flimflam, when it came to a deceptive medium, involved a lot of research and expert delivery of all visions and facts. Reginald and I both would have to act convincingly.

  “Perhaps it was someone close to the family,” I suggested, hoping she would divulge more.

  “Maybe. But I’m glad the portrait is gone. The room is so much cheerier.” She went to the windows that opened like doors and stepped out onto a small porch that ran down the south wing. “I love this house, but there are times I’ve been uncomfortable here. I have reservations about this séance.”

  “Me, too.” I joined her at the wooden balustrade. In the distance I could hear the sweet trill of birds that preferred the more aquatic regions of the swamps not too distant from the house. One child had drowned there. When I gazed into the green distance, I half expected to see him, but the vista was uninhabited by human or haint.

  “I love the drone of insects at dusk, as long as they’re outside the window screen.” A soft breeze lifted Isabelle’s hair and made her look much younger than her forty years. “They’re very soothing, the night sounds. But sometimes I’ve heard things that weren’t part of the natural world.”

  “I know. Caoin House is haunted. But maybe after tonight, the spirits will be at rest.” I hoped I wouldn’t be punished for my lies.

  “What if we stir up something that’s better left at rest?” she asked.

  I could have told her something was already stirred. Something distinctly unpleasant. But there was no point predisposing her to a bad evening. If Reginald’s and my plan was effective, we’d entertain Uncle’s guests and have an enjoyable drink afterward. Reginald’s reputation would remain intact, and he could return to New Orleans and whatever path he chose to pursue from there. He could make a good living holding sessions for those desperate to make contact with dead loved ones—and he could bring them peace and release at the same time.

  “If you’re settled in comfortably, I’ll check with Winona. Dinner is at seven, and the séance will begin at nine.”

  “We’re not waiting until midnight?” she asked with a smile.

  “Not since Uncle will have us up at five in the morning. Reginald said the spirits aren’t aware of time. They only appear more frequently at night because our barriers are down. We’re more inclined to see them when darkness rules than when they appear in the daytime and we humans are caught up in the hurly-burly of everyday life.”

  “Reginald is quite the authority, isn’t he?” Isabelle was amused. “And, yes, Brett is determined we see dawn in the delta. Sleepy alligators and all.”

  “And why not? It’ll be extraordinary.” I gave her a light hug. “The other guests are due to arrive, so I should greet them. See you at dinner.”

  On the way to the front of the house, I met Reginald, who filled me in on his afternoon activities while I told him of the three dead boys I’d discovered in my newspaper digging. I gave him the list of their names and ages to use as he needed.

  To my dismay, Reginald had retrieved the monkey jigger from the attic. His trip had been swift and to the point, but he said he didn’t see or feel anything out of the ordinary. He’d placed the jigger at the top of one of the columns with a thread running to the back of my chair so that when I shifted my weight in the chair, the jigger would fall to the floor. This would be strategically staged for the most dramatic effect. When the jigger fell, I was to rush, pick it up, snap the thread, and toss it on the table to shock all in attendance. Then I was to say I’d been directed to do so by an angry spirit, presumably Eva. Reginald would then communicate with the spirit, determine that she wanted to be reunited with her daughter, Elise, who had not been buried in the cemetery, as far as I could tell from researching the plots and burial records.

  Reginald would “communicate” with Eva and Elise, arranging their reunion in the spirit world, which no
one could prove or disprove. This would supposedly put an end to the haunting of Caoin House. When we’d first conceived the idea, I’d been more enthusiastic. After my encounter with the female entity in the attic last night, I wasn’t sure this was a productive path. I consoled myself with the notion that Reginald would ultimately bring peace to my uncle. The part that troubled me was the idea that Eva wasn’t so easily placated. More disturbing than that was the other entity in the attic. The child. I couldn’t get the dirty gray arm out of my head. The jigger belonged to that child. And I had a terrible feeling he, or she, might come calling to claim it.

  A knock at the front door alerted me that more guests had arrived. A reluctant Pretta and an eager Hubert stood on the porch with overnight bags. I showed them to the guest rooms Winona had indicated, all on the same wing and floor as my room. A sense of anticipation hung in the air, and I felt the thrill of stage fright as I mentally rehearsed my role. Reginald and I might not resolve the haunting of Caoin House, but we would put on a damn good show. The more I worked with Reginald, the more I liked him and respected his intelligence.

  And he was very good at weaseling information from people, particularly women. His matinee good looks put women at ease, and his attention to them often made them talkative. Winona, who was a paragon of housekeeper virtues, had fallen victim to Reginald’s charms and told him which bedroom Elise Whitehead had once used, the room she’d grown up in.

  Pretending to be put out, I said, “I’ve asked her several times to tell me about Elise, but she refuses. You could charm your way into Cleopatra’s inner circle.”

  His eyebrows jumped up and down. “It’s a talent.”

  “It’s a crime,” I said. Reginald’s powers of “persuasion” should have been classified illegal. “Where is the bedroom?”

  “Second floor, north wing of the house,” Reginald told me. “I’ll entertain the guests if you can look for anything of Elise’s. You have a better excuse for being in the bedroom than I can come up with. Remember, I can get information from objects, but a picture would be the most helpful.”