Defending the Dead (Relatively Dead Mysteries Book 3)

by Sheila Connolly

  “Okay,” Ned said cautiously.

  She cocked her head at him. “Well, that wasn’t exactly a glowing endorsement. What is it you don’t like about it?”

  “The pattern looks kind of small and fussy, now that I see it here. It’s a big room.”

  Abby studied the roll. “I think you’re right. It looked better in the store. But I like the colors. Okay, now it’s your turn. Which one do you like?”

  Ned looked more and more uncomfortable. Almost at random he pointed to another one. “That?”

  “Why?” Abby demanded.

  “It looks, I don’t know, important. Formal, maybe. This is a formal room, one of those that Victorians used only when the minister was coming to tea or they were hosting a wake. The rest of the time they kept the room closed off—hence the pocket doors. Open them up for light when you use the room, close them to save heat when you don’t.”

  “Okay, that makes sense. But the colors are kind of blah. I wish I hadn’t seen the William Morris ones first.”

  “Why not go with Morris wallpaper, then, if you like it?”

  “Because it’s hideously expensive, no matter how historically correct it is. Like over a hundred dollars per roll, and I’m afraid to calculate how many rolls we would need.” Much less contemplate matching patterns around all those windows and doors.

  “But you like it?”

  “I do. It’s gorgeous.”

  “So order it,” Ned said firmly.

  “Ned!” Abby protested. “It seems so extravagant. I mean, with a world full of starving people, how can I justify putting a thousand dollars’ worth of paper on my walls?”

  “Send another thousand to the starving people.”

  Abby shook her head. She was not used to having money. Of course, she didn’t actually have it—Ned did. Ned had earned it, through his own efforts. He had the right to spend it any way he wanted. He wasn’t into showing off—not that anyone, until his mother, had seen the house, and Abby couldn’t see them ever hosting soirees full of important people—that is, the ones who would recognize and appreciate William Morris wallpaper. But it seemed morally wrong, and being so extravagant made her uncomfortable.

  But it was so pretty, and it went so well with the house.

  “Abby, what’s the problem?” Ned asked quietly.

  “I feel guilty, I guess. I mean, the only people who are going to see it are you and me.”

  “So? You like it. It makes you happy. Do you have something against being happy?”

  “I don’t think so. Maybe I should practice more.”

  “So get the wallpaper you like.”

  Abby regarded him for a moment, then said, “All right—for this room only. We’ll find something more affordable for the back parlor and the dining room. And we’ll paint the kitchen.”

  “Okay, one task done: we’ve picked out a wallpaper for the parlor. Does the floor sanding come next?” Ned asked.

  “I think so. Are you planning to do that yourself?”

  “No way. I would end up destroying the floor—it would look like a topographic map, with hills and valleys, and it’s too nice to risk it. I love the inlays around the edges. Let’s see if we can find a trustworthy contractor and find out what he’ll charge us. It’ll be cheaper in the long run.”

  “Check—I’ll put that on the list. Once we get the wallpaper, we can match the paint color. Oh, and is the wiring okay?”

  “That I can answer: yes. It was a fire hazard the way it was when I bought the place, so I had that replaced before I moved in. The same time I put in the Wi-Fi.”

  “Oh, great—one decision I don’t have to make. Good thinking.”

  “Did we have other plans for today, now that we’ve decided on a wallpaper?” Ned asked.

  “I’m hunting for Samuel Barton. You can do what you want, like mow the lawn. Do we have a lawn mower? Your mother asked, and I had no idea.”

  “Yes, we do. A gas-powered push model—good exercise. Have you used one?”

  “No. Dad always did it at home. Do we have a snowblower?”

  “Yes. Abby, it’s May—are you worried about snow already?”

  “After this past winter, aren’t you?” Abby retorted. “Where the heck are you keeping these things?”

  “In the cellar, near the hatch in back—not the most convenient solution, I’ll admit, since I have to haul them up and down the steps there. The property had a stable when it was built, but it burned down before I was born, and I guess the people who owned the house didn’t bother to rebuild. Are you yearning for a garage?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it. At least the driveway is big enough to accommodate two cars. With a lot of shoveling. But I don’t want to deal with adding an entire building until we’ve gotten a little further with this one.”

  “Good point. Then I shall go mow the lawn, and you can go hunt Bartons. We can rendezvous for lunch.”

  “A brilliant plan,” Abby said, and kissed him. Which took at least five minutes. Anything worth doing was worth doing well, her mother had always said, although Abby doubted that she had counted on this particular application. She shoved him away at last. “I’ve got work to do.”

  As Ned wandered out in search of the lawn mower, and gas for it, and whatever other tools he needed, Abby sat down at the dining room table and booted up the laptop, then laid out what information and diagrams she had. She zoomed in on Eliza Barton, who, by her calculation, was her fourth great-grandmother. Based on her experience in Salem, the man she had seen, Samuel Barton, was most likely a lineal ancestor of hers, so it was time to find out who Eliza was. There had to be a connection, didn’t there?

  Abby started by trying to figure out why Eliza seemed to have been born in Vermont. Why did these people keep moving around so much? Abby had always believed that in earlier centuries people lived and worked on the land they owned, or at least leased, and stayed there. She apparently had been wrong, because she was finding that various members of her own family had moved not just from one town to another nearby, but across state lines, or even into uncharted wilderness. What was going on back then?”

  Focus, Abby. Bartons in Vermont. Why?

  By lunchtime she had made a little progress. Eliza had been born in Vermont, but she had married Silas Flagg in Massachusetts. Samuel Barton had come from Massachusetts. Ergo, maybe Vermont was a detour and Eliza’s people had come from Massachusetts, so why not look there? Well, there were probably good reasons not to make that leap of logic, but Abby was impatient, and she could only hope that all those Bartons were watching over her and would give her a nudge if she got off track. Her hunch was proved right when she found one Daniel Barton who had married a Vila Towne in Hampshire County. Towne . . . why did that name sound familiar? Something from Salem? But that was well over a hundred years earlier—and more than half a state away. She still had a lot of dots to connect.

  Encouraged, Abby went back to wading through Bartons in western Massachusetts. There were a lot of them. They all had a lot of children. They all used the same names for all those children. Why did she think she would find anything at all before Christmas?

  Over sandwiches in the kitchen at noon, Ned asked, “How’s it going?”

  “Don’t ask. Too many people with the same name, and they keep moving around. It’s like Whac-A-Mole, or maybe in reverse. Every time you think you’ve identified someone, he or she disappears down a hole, then pops up somewhere else.”

  “You don’t have to do this, you know, if it’s so frustrating.”

  “But I do! Now that I’ve seen Samuel. Maybe if I hadn’t, I’d just say, Too bad, and forget about it. But I did see him. And I heard him. And I heard him say what that clerk in the corner wrote down—not verbatim, because the clerk left out the ‘ums’ and ‘ers’ and cleaned it up a little—I’ve read the text, in the scanned version. Although come to think of it, Samuel spoke pretty clearly, and he didn’t seem intimidated by the judges, which is kind of surprising under
the circumstances. The whole witchcraft trial thing was just getting started then, and it hadn’t gotten out of control yet.”

  “Do you want to like Samuel?”

  “You mean, am I biased, so I’m seeing what I want to see? That all my ancestors were brave and true? Or handsome and intelligent? I don’t think so. I knew exactly nothing about him when I started, so whatever I saw should have been objective. Well, as objective as anyone’s view of a ghost can be. Absurd, isn’t it?”

  “Kind of,” Ned agreed.

  Abby took another bite of her sandwich. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “What?” Ned looked wary.

  “Ellie. Don’t flinch—I just wondered if you had any idea what she and I should do on Wednesday, assuming this plan Leslie and I have cooked up goes forward.”

  “You’ve spent more time around kids than I have. What do you think?”

  “I think Ellie’s seen enough history and museums, so I won’t drag her through any more, particularly in summer. But I don’t know what she likes. Can she swim? Is she artistic?”

  “Abby, I am not the right person to ask. I haven’t seen much of Leslie for years, and we certainly don’t discuss Ellie when we do talk. Use your own judgment. She’s seven years old. I might suggest that you don’t sit inside playing video games or watching movies, when there’s gorgeous spring weather out there. Go outside, run around, have a picnic, visit a forest or the ocean.”

  “What, no cemeteries?” When Ned started to protest, Abby held up a hand and said quickly, “Joking! I’ll just treat her as a normal kid. I can ask her what she likes to do. And about any friends she has, and what they do together. I’ll confess I’m a little worried on that front: she seems like kind of a loner, although I did see her with some other kids when I picked her up at school. I hope she has some BFFs and they giggle together, at least now and then.” She hesitated before asking Ned about something that had been troubling her. “Ned, do you think Leslie is a good mother?”

  “What? What are you asking?”

  “I’m not sure. You know Leslie a lot better than I do, and you helped her make Ellie and Peter, so I have to assume you felt she really wanted children. But wanting them and having and raising them are different things.”

  “I have no reason to believe that Leslie is not a good mother,” Ned said stiffly.

  “Normally, I wouldn’t judge—but based on what we’ve learned recently about Ellie, Leslie missed a few things.”

  “Abby, nobody watches their own child like a hawk to make sure she isn’t seeing things that aren’t there.”

  “What about when Ellie would disappear to visit the local cemetery? Did Leslie not notice?”

  Ned stood up abruptly and started pacing around the room. “Abby, I don’t know. Did your mother always know where you were? I know mine didn’t. And I was hanging out with Johnny, and my mother never knew about that either. I can’t speak from experience, but I think hovering parents are a pretty recent development, and I’m not sure it’s good for the kids.”

  “I agree. But should we worry that Ellie didn’t share any of what was happening with her mother? Or with George?”

  “Again, did you, with your parents? No secrets? No special places you didn’t want anybody else to know about. Abby, what is it you’re asking?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t want to overstep any limits, or Leslie won’t let me see Ellie anymore. And I know I have to watch that I don’t treat Ellie like a lab rat. I’m just feeling my way along here.”

  “We all are. Just take it as it comes. You haven’t even spent a full day with Ellie yet. I’m sure she likes normal kid things, but she comes with a little something extra.”

  “Gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘differently abled.’” Abby stood up and started clearing away their lunch dishes. “Are you finished mowing?”

  “Uh, maybe? I may now go practice my pruning skills.”

  “Try not to kill anything, okay? You might want to consult with your mother about gardening—I think she’s been practicing lately.”

  “I’ll see how it goes.” He came over and squeezed her shoulders. “Don’t worry about Ellie, okay? I think any kid will pick up on your anxiety. Just relax and let her set the pace—you’ve got plenty of time.”

  She smiled at him. “Time kind of has a new meaning these days too, doesn’t it? I seem to keep dropping in on different centuries.”

  “That it does.” He went out the back door, whistling tunelessly. Abby marched back to the dining room and sat down in front of the laptop. “Okay, Bartons, where are you hiding?”

  It seemed only a short time later that she looked up and discovered the sun was low in the sky, the room filled with shadows. The table was strewn with pads and loose papers covered with scribbled notes and diagrams. But she’d found what she was looking for.

  18

  “Earth to Abby?” Ned said when he came into the room and found her sitting in the dusky light staring at the ceiling.

  “What? Oh, hi. Sorry, I was thinking. I’d better stop, since my head feels like it’s stuffed full of insulation. The pink kind.”

  “Want me to figure out dinner?”

  “Sure, if I can watch and talk to you. I want to make sure I’ve got all this stuff straight in my head.”

  “Got what?”

  “The Bartons. I’ve followed them back to Salem, but it’s kind of a long and twisting path.”

  “I’ll be happy to listen. I can do that and cook at the same time.”

  “You are a wonderful and multi-talented man.”

  She settled herself on a stool and watched Ned as he moved efficiently around the kitchen. Was being a scientist an asset or a hindrance to cooking? Did he insist on accurate measurements? Did he get frustrated when using a precise recipe didn’t turn out the same way each time he made it? But she wasn’t going to interfere, and she hadn’t been disappointed by the results.

  “So, what have you got?” he prompted.

  “My goal was to trace the line from me back to Samuel Barton from Salem, by way of the Flagg family, who you’ve already met. That’s eleven generations, if you can believe it.”

  “William Flagg’s wife was a Reed, and we’ve already pinned them down. So it was William’s mother’s side?”

  “Exactly—his mother was a Barton—Eliza. But it bothered me that Eliza seemed to have been born in Vermont, so I had to go hunting for her father, who, as it turns out, was born in western Massachusetts. Eliza’s father was Daniel, and his father was also named Daniel, but I ran into a snag there because Dad didn’t exactly marry Daniel Junior’s mother. As you can probably guess, people weren’t always eager to record illegitimate children. But there I got lucky, because there’s a document that shows that Junior’s mother got pissed when Daniel Senior announced he was planning to marry someone else, right about the time Junior was due. So she sued him! And since he had no money of his own, she included his father in the suit. Good for her!”

  “So Daniel Senior was not a sterling citizen, and you found his father’s name. What ever happened to Mom?”

  “She moved back home, married twice, and wound up living in Ohio, although I’m not sure who Daniel Junior ended up living with. But she provides another clue—she came from Oxford, and so did Daniel’s father, Reuben Barton. And Reuben’s father was Joshua Barton, and his father was Samuel!” Abby finished triumphantly. “Samuel died in Oxford.”

  “That is good work, Abby. I wonder why he left Salem?”

  “I haven’t gotten that far yet. Maybe he wasn’t too popular, after he stood up for Elizabeth Proctor. She’s the one from The Crucible, she and her husband John.”

  “Yes, I have heard of that,” he chided her as he started sautéeing pork chops.

  “I’m sorry—do I sound condescending? It’s just so weird to find these connections, and that they’re personal.”

  “Is that what you hoped to find?”

  “Yes, I suppose. But . . .”
Abby stalled, wondering if she wanted to go on.

  “But what?”

  “Like I told you, when I saw Samuel, I saw him from the outside, you know? I was watching him, not seeing through him. Which means I could have been seeing through someone else’s eyes. There may have been someone else there who belongs in my family tree. So finding him or her would be the next step.”

  Ned put a lid on a casserole and turned down the heat. “What’s your goal here, Abby? You’ve already made your point. Salem was a nexus for strong emotions, and you found an ancestor there who was in the thick of it, and then you saw him. Point proven. Why do you want more?”

  Abby took a moment to consider. “I’m not sure how far I wanted to go. But if I now believe there was someone else involved, I want to know who it is. Call it curiosity. And was it Samuel who was generating that energy? Or the person who I was seeing through? Or was it just kind of free-floating, because everyone was upset?” She studied him a moment. “Ned, do you disapprove of what I’m doing?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. “I . . . I don’t know, to tell the truth. I understand why you’re doing it, but I’d hate to see it become an obsession.”

  “Ned! That’s not fair. I’ve known about this for less than a year, and I’m a long way from understanding it. Am I going to let it consume the rest of my life? No, I don’t think so. I’ve always thought of myself as pretty level-headed”—well, maybe not so much where Brad was concerned, but that wasn’t the same thing—“and I haven’t lost my perspective. But right now I want to know. Don’t you?”

  “I guess I’d have to say I’m ambivalent. Part of me wishes we’d never uncovered this ability. Another part of me wants to pin it down and analyze it until we both understand it. All I want is a simple, normal life. With you.”

  The simple normal ship sailed a while ago, Abby said to herself. “And so do I. Just two ordinary people who happen to see ghosts.” She smiled at him. “But I’d like to find out more about what happened at Salem. I still don’t really grasp why it happened. How can people have been studying this for three hundred years and still have no single answer?”