The Wicked Waffle: Book 1 in The Diner of the Dead Series
Page 7
The room was dark, and the lights were off. The only light came from the well-stoked, roaring fireplace. Belinda, a dangerously skinny-looking woman with long black hair, sat in the chair near the fire, clutching something in her hands.
“Hello, I’m . . .”
“Sonja Reed of the online journal?”
“Uh, y-yes,” Sonja stumbled over her words, suddenly feeling remorseful about her ruse.
Belinda turned to look into Sonja’s eyes, and Sonja felt that strange shiver again, cold and unsettling.
“You don’t expect me to buy that, do you Sonja?” she drawled.
Sonja stared at her open-mouthed. “Excuse me?” she managed to choke out.
“Sit down,” Belinda instructed with a wan smile, motioning toward the other chair near the fire. Feeling somewhat dazed, Sonja obeyed, taking a seat.
“I remember you, Sonja, from the one year we spent together in elementary school.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, and I know you’re not from any online journal. You’re here to see me.”
Busted. Sonja shifted in her chair.
“As a matter of fact, yes. I am here just to see you.”
“I heard you asking questions. You’re worried about me.”
Sonja tilted her head to the side. She wasn’t worried about Belinda at all. She was worried about Samuel, her father. But still, she nodded, allowing Belinda to think whatever she pleased.
“Yes,” she agreed, mentally crossing her fingers behind her back.
“I knew it. And after all these years. It’s nice to know I still have one friend in this miserable town.”
Sonja nodded again, trying to maintain her caring facade. She didn’t remember ever being friends with Belinda when they were in elementary school, but it was apparent that Belinda did, whether it was true or not. It looked like Pastor Williams hadn’t been exaggerating, Belinda was unstable. She could easily be fabricating the memory. Even so, Sonja couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty.
A friendly smile doesn’t mean she’s not a murderer, Sonja reminded herself.
“What’s that in your hand?”
“Oh, this? This is daddy,” Belinda held up the small picture. It was an old photo from an instant camera, and a blurry one at that. It looked like Belinda was very young, probably only about five or six, and next, to her was a fairly tall man in jeans and a work shirt. He wore a wide-brimmed cowboy hat that obscured part of his face in shadow, and he had a thick black beard.
“That’s your dad?” Sonja asked.
It was a very different image than she expected. She had never seen or met Leonard Smith before - he was more of a recluse than his daughter. Sonja vaguely remembered Belinda getting dropped off for school, usually by the maid or someone else— but never by Leonard Smith himself.
This image of a roughish-looking man with a beard just didn’t scream “high-class” or “rich” in the way she expected.
“I keep this picture with me all the time. I feel like it’s the truest picture of him,” Belinda said softly, absently caressing the picture.
Definitely unstable, Sonja thought.
“I liked it when he looked like this. When he didn’t ignore me.”
“Ignore you?”
“After this picture, I was forced to stay in the mansion. Wasn’t allowed to see other kids. Dad changed. He looked different, he acted different. And he began to ignore me. It was like he was ashamed to look at me. He just wasn’t my dad anymore,” the troubled girl murmured.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It actually makes it easier to talk to him, now that he’s gone,” Belinda stared into space.
Sonja’s heart begin to race inexplicably.
“So, you do talk to him?”
“Oh yes. All the time. I try to hold a séance at least once a week.”
“And what does he say?”
“Unfortunately, he doesn’t really talk. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t give many signs. But he will.” Belinda gripped the picture tightly. “He has to.”
“Why? What’s so important?”
“I just know that Ronda killed him. She convinced him to change his will and then she killed him. I’m trying to get him to tell me, but so far, he just stands there and stares.”
Sonja involuntarily shivered at the thought of someone, someone she couldn’t see, just standing there in the room with them staring. She thought of the face that had stared at her from inside the diner.
“I think you could help,” Belinda said, with an eerie calm.
“Me? How could I help?” Sonja swallowed hard, not really believing in all of the things that Belinda was saying, but feeling unsettled just the same.
“You have a strong spiritual presence. I felt it when you first came in the house.”
“I-I do?”
“Yes, and I think, with your help, we could get my father to talk.”
“You mean . . . you want…”
“I want to have a séance with you – right this second,” Belinda clearly was not going to take no for an answer.
Chapter 12
Sonja’s hands were sweaty and her heart was dancing a jig, as she watched Belinda set up for the séance. She pulled two chairs closer to the circular table in front of the fireplace, then she got out a set of three tea-light candles and set them in a semi-circle at the edge of the table. Pulling an old Ouija board from a top shelf, she placed it in the center of the table along with the photo of her father.
Sonja really wished that she knew whether what she saw at the diner her first night back in town was real, or if she was just crazy. On the other hand, if she discovered that it was real she might just go crazy. The rain outside had really picked up and was slapping against the window in sheets. The ominous sound only added to Sonja’s anxiety.
“Okay, take a seat at the edge of the circle,” Belinda instructed.
Sonja obeyed, sitting back down in her chair.
Belinda sat across from her on the other side of the circle.
“Place your fingers on the planchette,” Belinda instructed, demonstrating by setting her fingers on the edge of the white triangular object with the glass circle in the middle.
Sonja did as she was told, resisting the urge to bolt from the mansion and never look back.
“I’m not sure about this,” she said, biting her lip.
“It’s always a little frightening the first time,” Belinda dismissed her worries, closing her eyes. “Now repeat this phrase along with me: We call you, spirits of the other world. We call you, spirits of the other world.”
Feeling more than a bit silly, and a little frightened as well, Sonja chanted along with Belinda. “We call you, spirits of the other world.”
They repeated the phrase six times and then stopped. Belinda paused, keeping her eyes closed. Sonja hadn’t closed her eyes, she wouldn’t dare. She wanted to see exactly what was going on the whole time.
Belinda spoke, “Are there any spirits here in the room with us?”
They waited for a moment. Sonja wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen next, but suddenly the planchette began to vibrate, seemingly humming with otherworldly energy. Her whole body shivered as adrenalin shot through her veins. The planchette was moving!
It had to be Belinda. She had to be moving it. Sonja’s rational side desperately tried to cling to what she knew, but truthfully, she wasn’t so sure.
The planchette continued moving until the glass circle in the center of the triangle was directly over the “yes” on the board. If there was really a ghost in the room, it was letting them know.
“Is Leonard Smith in the room with us?” Belinda asked.
Again, the planchette moved, circling around the board until it came back to rest on “yes” again. The wind howled, almost as if confirming the statement. The rain seemed to intensify even further, underscoring the tension in the room, and the window panes began to shudder under the impact of the harsh wind and water.
“Dad? I’m here…talk to me, please,” Belinda pleaded, her eyes closed, her head thrown back. “Dad, tell me what happened. How did you die?” she whispered.
Sonja kept her eyes wide open, staring at the board. Belinda opened her eyes and looked at the board expectantly. Both waited for an answer. Nothing happened. The planchette didn’t move.
Belinda looked up from the board directly into Sonja’s eyes. “You ask.”
“Me?” Sonja squeaked. It was more of a protest than a question.
“Yes, he may be trying to spare my feelings, but he might respond to you.”
Sonja hesitated, and then spoke shakily. “Leonard Smith. How did you die?”
The planchette shuddered under their fingers once more. Sonja gasped as it moved across the board, first going for the H, then the E, and continuing on until it spelled out heart attack.
“He’s speaking to us!” Belinda cried, eyes bright with happy tears.
“Was it natural causes?” she demanded, serious again.
The planchette moved. “No.”
“Was it murder?” Sonja said, surprising herself.
“Yes.”
In for a penny, in for a pound, it was now or never, Sonja decided. “Who murdered you?” she asked.
Suddenly, the planchette went crazy. It spun in circles, jerked back and forth, moving all over the board. The candles flickered madly, the wind screamed, and the rain roared. The sound of it all seemed to swirl around them, holding them captive, away from the rationality of the outside world.
“Did you take revenge?” Belinda shouted over the gale. “Did you kill Ronda?”
The planchette flew off the board and sailed directly into the fire, melting into a gooey liquid on contact. The circle of glass inside the planchette shattered, causing Sonja to emit a nervous shriek. The window blew open, both shutters swinging wide, letting the rain pour in, and Sonja looked outside and gasped. The rain was coming down in a strange pattern, as if someone she couldn’t see was hovering there, in the downpour.
“L-Leonard Smith?” She whispered.
Then the figure roared, and as it did, Sonja saw its face - the same face that she had seen at the diner the night she came into town.
“That was him, that was daddy,” Belinda trembled, clearly on the verge of hysteria.
The lights in the room were turned back on, the window were closed, and both Sonja and Belinda sat in front of the fire, somewhat dazed.
“You saw him too,” she mumbled, rocking back and forth. “You saw my dad.”
Sonja couldn’t believe it. She had seen him. She had seen the figure in the rain.
“I saw,” Sonja whispered, eyes wide—trying to make sense of everything that had happened.
“I knew it. I knew he would come if you helped me,” Belinda smiled an eerie smile.
“I knew you’d come,” she whispered to the picture.
The picture. Sonja suddenly had a thought. “Can I see the picture again?”
Belinda handed it over. Sonja looked at it, confirming her suspicion. The man in the photograph, while he looked familiar, was not the person in the photo. His face wasn’t the face of the figure that she had seen screaming in the rain.
Chapter 13
Once Sonja was back on the road, driving away from the mansion, her heart began to return to a regular rate. The rain was still pouring down, but driving the winding mountain road in the rain was far less terrifying than what she had experienced back inside the Smith Mansion.
She tried to piece everything together in her mind, and wound up frustrated. Both the maid and Belinda had verified that they were together, holding one of those awful séances, on the night of Ronda Smith’s murder, so they were each other’s alibi. Mr. Daniels claimed that he had been out of town when her murder took place, and to assert that he had a definite motive was a bit of a stretch. Alison, of course, had a motive, but Sonja just didn’t believe it could be her—there was no way. The thing that really stuck in her craw was the fact that, somehow, the gun used in the crime had ended up in a broken down car that her father had abandoned.
Clearly, someone was lying. Someone must have invented their alibi. Having the maid verify Belinda’s alibi was an obvious choice that could have been easily bought and paid for, but there was no proof of that, and obviously both women would deny it. Mr. Daniels could have easily lied about not being in town, which might be easier to prove, if she knew where to start.
The detail that kept popping into her mind again and again, though, was the fact that the face of the man in the picture Belinda had, didn’t match and the face Sonja had seen at the window, or at the diner. Not that seeing ghosts would hold up in a court of law.
Deciding that she needed to clear her mind and relax for the bit, Sonja concentrated on getting home safely, planning to take a nice hot shower, after which she’d crawl directly into bed. Quite frankly, she wanted a brief respite from having to think about murders, suspects, or ghosts, at least until morning.
She had just begun to relax at the thought, when a movement up ahead caught her eye. Something large was tumbling down the mountain face, headed directly for the road in front of her. Sonja screamed and slammed on the brakes, but it was too late, the boulder was hurtling toward her windshield. She flung her hands up to cover her face, waiting for the impact, but it never came. There was merely a dull thunk as the car came to a grinding halt, when she pushed the brake pedal to the floor, and then silence. Sonja opened her eyes. Blinked. There seemed to be no damage to the car. The windshield looked pristine and there didn’t appear to be any dents in the hood. What on earth?
Sonja opened her door and stepped out into the rain. She spotted the boulder leaning up against a nearby tree. So she hadn’t imagined it, it was right there, but strangely, the tree didn’t show any damage either. So how had she managed to avoid a collision? The massive stone had made a beeline toward her windshield when she hit the brakes. She stepped closer to the boulder and touched it, gasping with shock. The boulder was made of Styrofoam that had been painted to look like a rock.
Sonja frowned, wondering if the “boulder” would fit in the sedan. It was only about three feet or so wide. She leaned over and picked it up, marveling at how light it was. She carried it over to the car, opened the back hatch, and shoved it inside. Fortunately, she had already put the two backseats in the down position in anticipation of moving items for the sale the next day, so the fit was tight, but she managed. As Sonja closed the door she heard another sound that made her jump. It sounded vaguely like fireworks, but when a nearby tree exploded into a rain of splinters, she knew it was a gunshot. Someone was shooting at her! Another shot came, whizzing by her. She ran for the door and jumped inside, hearing two more gunshots as she drove away.
Chapter 14
The next morning, after a good night’s sleep and some strong coffee, everything seemed far more normal. It was as if the horrifying experiences of the night before—the séance, the ghost, the boulder, getting shot at—had been nothing more than an incredibly vivid nightmare. Sonja was so happy to see the sun that she actually hummed while she moved about her tiny kitchen.
When she’d finally arrived at home the night before, she had immediately called the Sheriff. He had one deputy go check out the scene of the shooting, while another came to take her statement, and then sat outside the guest house all night long, just in case anyone had followed her home.
Sonja had also told the Sheriff that she had discovered new evidence about the Ronda Smith case. He sounded angry, but didn’t threaten to arrest her. She wondered if he was cutting her some slack because she’d just been shot at.
Throwing herself into her work at the diner, she mixed up a batch of her favorite chocolate chip waffles. She’d made a promise to Marie and intended to keep it. It was a simple recipe, just her mother’s clas
sic waffles, with some dark chocolate chips, just for the joy of it. The key to perfection with these waffles was to cook them just long enough so that the edges got crispy but the chocolate chips had not yet begun liquefy.
Sonja never relied on the little red light on the waffle maker that supposedly told you when the waffle was done, if you did that the waffles never came out right. It was tricky to get them just right, be she’d made it nearly an art form. Waffles were like gambling. You couldn’t see it while it was cooking, but if you played your cards right, the payoff was huge.
She opened the waffle iron to pull out the last waffle of Marie’s stack. It was the perfect shade of brown—almost a nutmeg color. And the chocolate chips were tucked away inside the fluffy, crunchy goodness, little pockets of chocolaty joy in every bite. It looked so perfect, Sonja almost wanted to eat it herself, but she knew, if there was one thing better than making a perfect waffle, it was giving it away to make someone happy.
* * *
“So, this is what rolled down the mountain last night?” Sheriff Thompson confirmed, gazing at the “rock” that sat on the conference room table at the police station.
“That’s it, Sheriff.”
He shook his head, frowning. “I just can’t believe it. Why would someone throw a Styrofoam rock down the side of a mountain?”
“For the same reason they shot at me. They wanted me dead,” Sonja pointed out.
Sheriff Thompson sighed. “I told you to let us handle it.”
“I’m sorry, Sheriff, I was just trying to help,” she apologized, realizing now how much danger she’d put herself in by being…inquisitive.
“What do you think?” The Sheriff asked a deputy who was sitting with his feet up on the table.
“Looks like a Styrofoam rock.”
“Get your feet of the table, Greg,” The Sheriff ordered, rolling his eyes.
“I think that it is the same tactic the murderer used when they wanted to kill Ronda Smith,” Sonja said.
The Sheriff nodded. “That was my thought, but why use a fake boulder? Why not just use a real one?”