Summer Shadows

by Killarney Traynor

  “We haven’t proven that it’s haunted yet,” Ron cautioned.

  “I think we have,” Dylan said. His voice was growing excited, despite his attempt at scientific detachment. “We’ve pick up some movement on film that can only be explained by supernatural activity.”

  Dylan showed them the picture of the hand behind the curtain and they were both impressed. George said that he always had a feeling about that place. Mac, however, pointed out that it might just have easily have been a squatter’s hand moving that curtain.

  “But you can see right through it!” Dylan protested.

  “I don’t know about that,” Mac said. “That screen is awfully small. It may just be a trick of the light or the fact that it’s low-grade film shot in the dark. Ron’s right – it doesn’t mean that there’s a ghost. It could just be a bum.”

  “Bummer,” George said, and laughed at his own play on words.

  “Well, if you don’t believe that…” Dylan was scrolling through the phone again, his fingers trembling with excitement. “Check this out, guys.”

  It was a shot with the same footage, showing the side of the house, only Dylan had gone in closer to one of the second story windows and fixed some of the pixilation. The window was dark, with no hand showing.

  “Awesome, dude,” George said. “A dark window.”

  “Look closer,” Dylan insisted.

  They did. Then Ron saw it, a small circle of light nearly obscured by the ancient curtains. It was too small and too concentrated to be a shaft of moonlight. Ron’s hands felt icy as he pressed them against his knees. He felt frightened, then annoyed at his cowardice. Dylan wasn’t afraid and Ron wasn’t going to be, either.

  “That is a ghost orb,” Dylan said in a low voice, resonating with awe. “That room is the studio of the dead woman – the place where they found her body.”

  George said, “Holy cow,” but his voice was so solemn that the words weren’t quite as funny as they might have been.

  Mac was impressed, but not convinced. “It’s probably a lamp or something. There are no such things as ghosts.”

  “How can you see this and say that?” George demanded.

  Mac shook his head. “Ghosts aren’t real. They’re archaic explanations for known scientific phenomenon.”

  Dylan grew impatient. “Look, Mac, I am one hundred percent sure that there is something supernatural going on in that house, and so is Ron and he’s as smart as you think you are. If it’s not a ghost, then it’s a poltergeist.”

  “Cool!” George said.

  “Ridiculous,” Mac countered. “Come on, Dylan, we’re too old to believe in bedtime stories.”

  “This isn’t a story – its reality. And we can prove it.”

  “How?” Mac asked, folding his arms.

  “By going into that room and seeing if there are any footprints or wrappers and stuff. Ghosts wouldn’t leave that behind, but bums would.”

  “Uh uh. No. Bad idea, Dyl, bad idea.”

  “Oh, come on!” Dylan sputtered.

  “Dude, think about it,” George said. “If it’s a ghost, we’re running the risk of upsetting it and getting dragged into hell. If it’s a bum, he’s probably high and has a knife or something to kill us with. Neither is a good option.”

  Mac rolled his eyes. “Ghosts don’t drag you to hell, George. Demons do.”

  “And how do you know this isn’t a demon?”

  “Dude, seriously?”

  “What difference does that make? Besides, if you don’t believe in ghosts, how do you know that they don’t drag you to hell?”

  Ron was annoyed. He wondered why Dylan thought that he needed George and Mac when they were such obvious doubters; but since he was the outsider, he kept quiet and tried to maintain that air of intelligence that Dylan had assigned him earlier.

  Mac sighed loudly. “George, ghosts do not drag people to hell, all right? Demons do.”

  “But you don’t believe in those either.” George protested. “And how do we know that ghosts aren’t also demons?”

  “Because they aren’t,” Dylan said dismissively. “They are a completely different thing. Ghosts are the spirits of dead people and they hang around because they either don’t realize that they are dead or because they have some final business to take care of. Demons are devil-spawn or fallen angels. The two are entirely different things. What we have here is a ghost, plain and simple.”

  “I still say it’s a bum,” said Mac.

  “Look, Mac - if you’re going to be a jerk, you can just leave now, you know. We’re going to the house after dark to find out and I say we go tonight, after the party.”

  Mac shook his head. “Isn’t breaking and entering illegal?”

  “It’s been empty for nearly twenty years. That makes it public property. Besides, I’ll bet half of the doors and windows are unlocked.”

  “So we’d only be entering,” Mac said. “Is there an alarm?”

  Dylan paused. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, don’t you think we should find out?”

  “We will,” George said. “When we open the door, we’ll find out.”

  “Come on, Mac,” Dylan said. “Knock off the scared talk and tell me if you’re in or not? You sounded stoked on the phone.”

  Mac considered for a long moment. As he did, the crowd around the tables began to get up and come out into the yard. In a few minutes, they’d be surrounded and would be unable to talk.

  Finally, Mac nodded.

  “All right,” he said. “But if we find anything, anything, we tell the police, right?”

  The plans were quickly made. There was an old riding path that ran behind the houses which they could use to avoid being seen on the road. The other two boys were sure that they’d get permission to stay out late, but Ron wasn’t. To his relief, the older boys seemed understanding.

  “Just tell her that we’re doing video games or something,” Dylan said.

  “We’ll actually play some afterwards, so it won’t be a total lie,” George said.

  “Just a partial truth,” Mac added.

  “I’ll think of something,” Ron said. He didn’t want to lie to Aunt Julia. He worried about it until Dana ran up to invite them to volleyball match that some of the fathers were organizing.

  “They said if you weren’t too tired, to come up and play,” she said.

  “Too tired!” George jumped to his feet. “We’ll show them old guys: come on, team.”

  37

  When Jeanne Simpson found out that Julia lived on the same street as the Lang mansion, she could hardly contain herself.

  “Goodness,” she exclaimed. “I would be so unnerved living by that spooky old place, and I wasn’t even here when the murder happened. How do you manage it?”

  Julia was sitting between Jeanne and Mrs. Jurta at a long table filled with neighborhood mothers. Mrs. Ojacor was flitting from table to table, seeing to her guests.

  “It was twenty years ago,” Julia said. “And they did catch the guy. Or so they say.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She means,” Mrs. Jurta said, spearing a slice of cucumber with her plastic fork, “the justice system in this country leaves much to be desired. They’re always getting it wrong.”

  “Besides,” Julia said, “according to people who knew him, Lang seemed too prissy to be a murderer. It’s hard to imagine him getting blood on his hands, let alone his suit.”

  “But I thought Stephanie had been strangled,” Jeanne asked.

  “Oh, no,” Mrs. Jurta said. “She was beaten to death, blood everywhere. It was a crime of passion, no doubt.”

  Jeanne shivered. “It’s so creepy. All that murder and scandal right here in this little town. It’s like one of those Agatha Christie novels. Even her name sounds like the name of the trag
ic heroine in an epic novel, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe in a 1980’s miniseries,” Mrs. Jurta scoffed. “People aren’t named Stephanie anymore.”

  Julia leaned closer. “Mrs. Jurta, is it possible that Brad Lang didn’t kill his wife?”

  Mrs. Jurta considered the question. “It’s possible, I suppose – he didn’t really seem the type. He was gone a lot, on buying tours for the gallery, and she had loads of free time here, alone. She did what she pleased, but for all that, she did seem to love him. She was always doing portraits of him, and whenever they were together, she was all over him.”

  “He was a looker,” Sheila O’Reilly said. “In the upper-class, Harvard-man way, you know. Very WASPish, the two of them. We used to say that they were the only two real Yuppies in town.”

  “So,” Julia said, wishing that she had brought a notebook, “you think that she loved her husband but that she was also having an affair?”

  They nodded emphatically.

  “Very discrete, though,” Mrs. Jurta said. “No one wanted to know. This was Stephanie Milano Lang, the heiress and rising star in the art world. She and her husband donated lots of money to the civic projects and local charities, and they even went to church every once in a while. Who would speak out against them? It was like having a Kennedy move into town or something.”

  “I always said, though,” Sheila said, “that she was asking for trouble. No one can play with that many lives and hope to keep their own.”

  The power that this dead woman still wielded over the town was fascinating, Julia thought. Every detail that would defame her character was given as though it were a mere personality quirk, or it was hastily covered up.

  “So what did happen that day?” Jeanne asked. “I’ve never heard the full story.”

  Mrs. Jurta looked past Julia to answer. “I didn’t have much to do with Mrs. Lang except for the fact that she offered to give my daughter some lessons. As it happens, I was supposed to meet her on the day she was murdered to discuss those lessons, only I ran into her jogging on the street in the morning. She was a health nut, kind of like you, Julia.”

  Julia shivered, but said nothing.

  “She looked very distracted by something when I stopped,” she continued. “I thought that she’d forgotten who I was, but that wasn’t it. She knew exactly who I was and even thought to ask about a dog that was ill. She told me that she couldn’t keep her appointment with me in the afternoon, but that if I could come over at around seven, she would probably be in then.”

  “Did you find the body?” Jeanne interrupted.

  Mrs. Jurta shot her a scornful look. “Of course not!” she said. “Brad did. Anyway, she runs off, and I go home. At six-forty-five or so, I was out walking the dog again when I notice that she was riding her bike down the street, away from her house.”

  “On which street?” Julia asked.

  “Why, ours, of course. I was at the end of the road and turning, so I didn’t see which way she went after that.”

  “Did you go on the witness stand at the trial?” Jeanne asked eagerly. “Were you for the defense or the prosecutor? You must have been an important eyewitness.”

  Mrs. Jurta snorted. “That was a hassle. I had five kids and six dogs. Being a star witness was not exactly something I had the time or energy for. Anyway, I knew then that she’d forgotten our appointment, but Liz made such a fuss that I called anyway and no one answered. We thought nothing of it – she was an artist and got caught up in things and whatever. Besides, I thought it was good for Liz to know that sometimes things didn’t work out. Later that night, I was watering the garden and…”

  “At night?” Jeanne asked.

  “It was hot that day,” Mrs. Jurta explained, exasperated by the interruption. “Anyway, I was in the front yard watering, when I saw Brad’s car pull up. He went inside and I stayed outside to finish up. The light was off in Stephanie’s studio, but some of the other lights were on, so I remember thinking that she’d probably returned, too. Then, while I was packing up the hose, I thought I heard something, like a shout or a cry, but it was very distant. When I looked at the house again, the studio light was on and I saw shadows moving in front of it.”

  “He was probably doing it right as you watched!” Jeanne said, rapt with attention.

  Mrs. Jurta shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I went back inside and a few minutes later, we heard the sirens. Len and I went outside to see what was happening and we were told to stay away, that there had been a robbery and murder. Mrs. Lang was dead, some sketches and knick-knacks were missing, and Mr. Lang had collapsed. The whole neighborhood was terrified. We thought some gang was ransacking the area. I didn’t sleep well that night, I’m telling you.”

  Sheila said, “I remember that. We thought it may have been the Rooney boys. It was only later that we realized that the monster was Brad Lang.”

  “Who were the Rooney boys?” Julia asked.

  “The local drug lords.”

  “It’s less exciting than it sounds,” Mrs. Jurta assured her. “They were lazy bums who pushed dope, is all. They were never really violent.”

  “Except when they were drunk,” Sheila countered.

  “True. Even then, they broke a few bottles and called it a night. Hardly worth worrying about.”

  “So Brad Lang stole his own stuff to make it look like a robbery,” Jeanne said, quietly awed.

  “That’s what the police thought,” Mrs. Jurta added. “He must have stashed the knife with the other things.”

  “So they found it, then?” Julia asked.

  “The knife? No, they never found the knife.”

  Julia frowned. “That’s really odd. I mean, he didn’t have all that much time to hide it before the police showed up. It must still be nearby.”

  “What about the sketches that were stolen?” Jeanne asked. “Were they ever recovered?”

  “No, they weren’t,” Sheila said. “They’d be worth some money now: original Stephanie Langs, evidence in a murder investigation.”

  “It would have been good if they had been found,” Mrs. Jurta said. “They would have proven Brad Lang’s guilt one way or the other, and Doris Mone would be the happiest woman in the world. She was insufferable when the verdict came down.”

  “Yes, she was…” Sheila said. “I remember her saying that a life sentence was not enough. She kept saying that this was New Hampshire and we had to use the death penalty, otherwise, he’d be out to do it again.”

  “They must have been great friends,” Julia said. “Mrs. Lang and Mrs. Mone, I mean. She speaks so highly of Stephanie.”

  “They weren’t,” Sheila said firmly. “Mrs. Mone is a follower. She was always trying to get in good with the Langs just because they were the closest thing this town had to aristocracy. I heard Stephanie charged double her normal rate on their portraits just because Doris was such a pain in the neck.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” Mrs. Jurta said archly. “Doris has terrier-like tendencies and always had. She’s gotten worse over the years, too.”

  “Noel Hickey was another one I couldn’t understand,” Sheila said. “He was in good with the Langs and I never understood why.”

  “Noel Hickey, the postman?” Jeanne asked.

  “Stephanie took a fancy to him and drew him a few times,” Sheila said. “She even did a portrait of her handyman for free – I can’t remember who he was at the time, but that wasn’t uncommon. She’d do that if the subject interested her enough.”

  “She took a fancy to Noel?” Jeanne asked, her tone heavy with disbelief.

  “An artistic fancy,” Mrs. Jurta explained. “Stephanie Lang may have been many things, but she had standards.”

  “I would hope so!”

  “Noel never got to see his portrait. It disappeared the night of her murder. It was one of the things missing. He went
on about that for years.” Sheila glanced beyond them, then brightened and sat up straight. “Cake time!” she said, with a grin.

  They twisted in their seats to see. John Irwin and J. C. carried an enormous sheet cake, ablaze with candles, to the table where Mr. Ojacor sat. Caroline followed, her face bright with anticipation and carrying a giant bowl that seemed to be filled with whipped cream. All other activity and conversation stopped as John Irwin boisterously led the crowd in an off-key birthday song. Mr. Ojacor stood and blew out all the candles with the help of some of the children.

  They cut the cake as the younger kids crowded around the serving table, anxious to get a piece of cake with a candied letter on it and a scoop of the whipped cream.

  Julia used the opportunity to excuse herself from the table and away from all of the talk. Looking around, she realized that Jack was no longer with the other little boys, playing with chalk on the patio.

  Fear gripped her stomach. She made her way through the crowd towards the house and the serving station. It was growing dark. Julia checked her watch and saw that it was 8:30.

  She located the girls soon enough. They were in a corner of the porch with several other girls, giggling and talking movies. Amelia hopped up when Julia beckoned, and Dana did so more reluctantly.

  “Have either of you seen Jack?” Julia asked, trying to keep her voice even.

  “He was with Tim last time I saw him,” Amelia said.

  “They were playing on the concrete,” Dana added.

  “He’s not there now,” Julia said, biting her lip. “I can’t find him.” She saw Dana’s face grow pale with anxiety. “Have you seen Tim around?”

  “He’s there by the counter.” Amelia pointed.

  The little boy was there, but Jack was nowhere to be seen. Dana put her plate down on a nearby seat and said, “Maybe he’s in the bathroom. I’ll go look. Come on, Amelia.”

  “Thank you, Dana,” Julia said. “You two look in the house. I’ll look outside and meet you on the porch.”

  Julia began to search, trying not to look as anxious as she felt. She called out his name softly, responded politely but quickly to anyone who tried to engage her in conversation and kept walking.