The house was minimalist, but not in a stylish way. The kitchen table was devoid of cloth. Sparse paintings decorated the neutral-colored wall. There were a few pictures of Zoey as a kid. She had lush brown hair and a big smile. Between ages 9 and 15, something changed. It could be puberty that led her to her goth persona.
“Is it just you?”
“Wife passed a few years ago,” the man said.
“I’m sorry,” Evelyn replied.
“She made her choice.”
Evelyn averted her eyes. She remembered her own “choice” years ago. It ended with Terrence, a complete stranger at the time, pulling Evelyn’s broken and bleeding body out of the ruins of her car. If only everyone had such luck.
David gave them mugs of hot tea and took a seat at the head of the square dining room. They crowded around three of the four seats. “Did Zoey run away or was she killed?” David asked.
“Killed,” Evelyn said. “The news will disclose the victim's information soon enough.”
“My wife was right after all,” the man said.
“I promise you, Mr. Pinkerton, we are doing everything in our power to make sure your daughter finds peace.”
“Why?” the man asked.
“Eve and I believe that we can help the restless find closure,” Terrence said. “In doing so, we hope you’ll find peace.”
“And you’re doing this for money?”
“Any other case, yes,” Evelyn admitted. “Not this one.”
“Then what do you hope to gain?” David Pinkerton eyed her.
Terrence and Evelyn looked into each other’s eyes. “The truth.” And some overdue peace and quiet.
Mr. Pinkerton chuckled sadly. “If my wife knew there were people like you when our daughter first vanished, things might have been different.”
“Tell us about Zoey.”
“She was a hermit with a brilliant mind,” David said. “She hid behind shades of black, but her heart was good. She was good, even if I didn’t agree with her in most things. I only wished I had told her that instead of doing what was best. She vanished after we had a big fight about her music and attitude. I was a different man back then.”
“Did she say where she was going?” Terrence asked.
“She didn’t say, but I knew. It was to her godfather’s house.” Tired lines etched around his eyes. “Maxwell Quenby.”
Evelyn’s heart skipped a beat. “Godfather?”
“Yeah, I gave Quenby the honors. I worked his land. Taught him how to ride horses. If there was ever a man who was misunderstood, it was Max.”
Finally. Someone who doesn’t hate him. “Tell me about him.”
“I thought you were here for Zoey?”
“I’m here for both,” Evelyn replied swiftly and with fire.
David raised his brows. After a moment, he returned to a normal tone. “He didn’t want the family name. The Quenbys were always movers and shakers here in Adders. They liked keeping an eye on the town and its money, and made sure the old blood stayed in power. They had blackmail material on everybody and when they made an investment--cattle for example--they’d cripple the competitors. Some people believe that’s why Adders never grew in size. In a small town like this, most people were okay with that. It was the outsiders who got the shaft.”
“But Maxwell was different?”
David nodded. “Night and day compared to his father. Maxwell had no desire to flaunt his wealth or extort anyone. After his father died, Maxwell wanted to live a quiet and peaceful life with a family and kids. The town’s institutions--police, judiciary, big business, small business, you name it--wanted his family’s knowledge and continual donations. They pressed him day in and day out. There was a time where he had different guests every day, some would stay from breakfast to dinner. Maxwell hated it. After a while, he voiced his opinion but no one listened. To open their ears, Maxwell destroyed his family’s blackmail material, stopped all funding, and shut himself in.”
“Why name him Zoey’s godfather?” Evelyn asked.
“I swore I’d take that to the grave.”
Evelyn leaned over the table. “Please.”
David grumbled. “All I can say is this: he had to give up his own daughter for reasons unknown and the mother was never in the equation. Because I counted him as my closest friend, I let him help raise Zoey. It brought some joy back to his life. Though our parenting styles differed back then. When Zoey was around fourteen, I kept her away from Max. A few years later, he found someone else to fill that emptiness inside. Little Mary Sullivan.”
Evelyn let the revelations sink in.
“Evelyn is Maxwell’s daughter,” Terrence told David.
He studied Evelyn. “You don’t look like him. Why did you come back?”
“She inherited the plantation,” Terrence explained. “We came down here to sell it, but… our plans changed.”
“What else can you tell me about my adoption?” Evelyn said, ignoring all that Terrence had said.
“I’ll tell you when you find my daughter’s killer,” David bargained.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all. You find who killed my daughter and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Reluctantly, Evelyn agreed. “Did you ever suspect Maxwell hurt Zoey?”
David locked eyes with her. “Never. Not in a million life times.”
“What if I told you her remains were found hidden in his basement?” Evelyn asked.
The vein in David’s neck bulged. “Then I’d call you a liar.”
Evelyn decided not to say any more about it. She asked more questions about Zoey’s disappearance. Just like the other victims, not a trace was ever found.
Five victims in five years, and not a shred of evidence. Whoever Evelyn was up against was good. Very good.
Terrence and Evelyn ate dinner at a local mom-and-pop restaurant in the heart of town. It couldn’t get more Southern than country fried steak, green beans with bacon bits, and a glass of sweet tea. Unlike the rest of the family patrons enjoying their Thursday evening, Evelyn and Terrence had trouble keeping their eyes open. The emotional roller coaster of the day ended with more questions and heavier stress.
“I’m going to need a vacation for my vacation,” Terrence said, midway through the meal.
Evelyn cracked a smile.
They returned home. Evelyn gazed up the painted angels on the domed ceiling. Terrence took a shower and crashed on the bed. Evelyn wasn’t as fortunate. At about 2 a.m., she was staring at the ceiling growing frustrated, but she couldn’t turn off her mind. She walked downstairs to the hall of portraits. The oil painting of her fat ancestor was cast to the side and the wooden wall with a secret door had a massive gash on it. The broken planks formed crooked teeth around the hole like a circular jaw. Evelyn didn’t bother unlocking it with the old key. She stepped through the portal.
The hallway to the secret study was three feet wide and seven foot tall. Unpainted wooden planks made up the interior. Dust flowed through the creaks. The floor groaned under Evelyn’s slippers. At the end of the short hallway, the door to the secret study was wide open, with an arm-sized axe hole at its core. During the night of the invasion, Evelyn and Terrence fled here while the masked killer took an axe to the door’s face. Mary pointed Evelyn to safety using the secret trapdoor beneath the ancient mahogany desk. It spit them into the bed of bones.
Evelyn scanned the decimated room. It looked like the killer knocked over every light, tore every book from the shelf, and turned over the various Antebellum antiquities. Evelyn picked up some of the clutter. Many of the books were classics in their earliest edition. If they were in a little better condition, they could fetch a good price. She approached the desk and swiped her hand across its top. Within lay the original land deed and slave purchase receipt. Evelyn guessed this was where the blackmail material used to be as well. Quenby House was built on blood and deception, and her father wanted to make it right. Evelyn liked that tho
ught. She pulled open the drawers and shuffled through the contents. A small picture of freckle-faced Mary Sullivan was lodged in the back corner. Evelyn stared at the child, wondering what it would’ve been like to be raised by Maxwell. Evelyn had seen Mary’s drawings. They were always pleasant. She put the photo aside, allowing the small thought to warm her in this dark, cruel world.
Something else caught her eye. A knob the size of tack at the back of the upper drawer. Evelyn pulled it, revealing a small cache. It was made for a notebook that could fit in her palm. Evelyn opened the thin leather bindings. Within were a number of random names. Some were circled while others were crossed out. She didn’t recognize any of the names. A lot of them were terribly misspelled. Drunken text or a code. She turned page after page of misspelled names until she reached the end of the first third of the booklet. There was one blank page, but the page following it had a list of dates and locations. Six in all, and each coinciding with one of the victims found in the basement. Even Mary Sullivan, whose remains were ash somewhere on Quenby land.
Evelyn stared at it for a long while. Why would you have this?
Evelyn must’ve fallen asleep because she awoke in the master bedroom and Terrence wasn’t beside her.
She got up and took a shower. Getting dressed in a blue and black striped long-sleeved shirt and dark capris, she headed downstairs. “Terrence?”
Voices seeped through the foyer. Cautious, Evelyn followed the noise to the mural hall. She silently pushed into the lounge. Terrence sat in the loveseat with his eyes glued on his laptop.
“What are you doing in here?” Evelyn asked.
Terrence looked up from the screen. She realized he was watching the news.
“I needed to see if they knew anything about this,” Terrence said in a harrowing tone.
“About what?” Evelyn scooted in next to him.
He tilted the screen her way.
The local news anchor spoke objectively. “At eleven o’clock last night, local nine-year-old girl, Bella Day, vanished. Authorities are looking for any information about her current whereabouts.”
Evelyn felt a chill. She glanced behind her, seeing Barker, Alannah, Zoey, Mary, Winslow, Peter, and Andrew standing sentry.
Immediately, she knew that the killer’s cycle had just restarted.
18
The Vanishing of Bella Day
With rich brunette hair cut at the shoulders and big brown eyes, Bella Day would be a looker when she grew up. If Evelyn could rescue her.
She twisted back to the phantoms. “Do any of you know about the Day family?”
Terrence looked them up and down, unable to take his eyes off their fatal wounds.
“To take a girl that young…” A look of disgust scrunched Peter’s handsome face. He put his one hand on Mary’s shoulder.
Barker took a puff from his pipe and wiped the blood from his chin. “It stinks of the same bastard who killed us. I can feel it.”
Evelyn stood to face them better, but also to keep the couch as a barrier between her and the phantoms, not that it would help. “You’ve got to give me something. All our leads are busts. So think. Andrew showed me how he died. Can’t the rest of you do that?”
The phantoms turned to Andrew. His featureless white mask displayed no hint to his expression. He glared at Evelyn through the black, button-sized eye holes.
The blood left Terrence’s face. “Evelyn. I don’t think--”
“That little girl is going to die,” Evelyn barked at her husband. She redirected her attention on the victims. “Please.”
Zoey, the goth, said, “You’re going to regret this.” It wasn’t a threat. It was a warning.
“Try me,” Evelyn replied.
With a sad smile, well-endowed Alannah reached over the back of the loveseat’s backboard and put her hands on Evelyn’s cheek. “I’m sorry, darling.”
“Hey,” Terrence yelled at the woman in the jade dress. “What do you--”
Evelyn didn’t hear the rest of it. She was too busying having her throat slashed. Her red fingernails dug into the old wooden chair’s arms. Her long, perfect legs kicked in all directions. Her heels crunched away at the dirt. In the night, tall yellow hay swayed around her as crimson seeped from her opened throat and into her bosom. Her blurry eyes met the glowing lantern set on the stomped grass a few feet in front of her.
Evelyn returned to the lounge, grasping her neck. She staggered back and sucked in air. The phantoms had formed a circle around her. Alannah stepped back. Peter put his only hand just above Evelyn’s chest.
Terrence stared in horror.
Evelyn was back in the field, seated on the wood chair, looking at both her hands bound at the forearms. They were Peter’s hands. She glanced up at the silhouetted figure standing between her and the lantern. He raised the meat cleaver. Moonlight reflected on the polished metal. Then the blade cut the air and dropped on Peter’s right wrist. A quick splash and then cold shiver.
The vision ended. The shakes didn’t.
Winslow grabbed Evelyn’s shoulders with his large hand. His meaty nude body and slash across his belly made Evelyn queasy. Winslow mouthed something, but the underbite made it impossible to interpret.
“Get off her.” Terrence tried to pull at him, but phased through the body.
Evelyn stood in a meat locker. Something moved in the other side of room, swiftly passing between the slabs of dangling meat. No one was supposed to be here, she knew. Papa won't like that. She grabbed a loose hook from the rack and readied herself. Though the room was freezing, Evelyn--in Winslow’s body--was sweating profusely. She saw something running to her from the corner of her eye and swung the hook at them. It scraped against the wall. She blinked and awoke, suspended with her bound wrists dangling from a hook in some sort of basement that wasn’t Quenby. Winslow closed his eyes--Evelyn couldn’t see either-- as the figure worked the blade across her belly. No one heard the screams.
Evelyn was back in the lounge. She opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t find words. Her whole body was burning up, but she was shivering.
Barker stepped up and took her hand in his that was cold and clammy.
The next kill began in the same basement, seated at a table and drinking a tall glass of chlorine while feeling a gun barrel on the back of her head.
Evelyn could taste the chemical as she returned. The enfeeblement of every vision clung to her like her only slice of hell. “No…” she mumbled.
Terrence pulled at her, trying to get her out of the circle, but some unseen force locked her in place.
With a look of guilt, Zoey stepped up and put her hands behind Evelyn’s head. Tears fell down Evelyn’s red face. They met eyes and Evelyn saw the approaching car on Quenby Avenue, the shadow-shrouded driver, odd tranquilizer gun, and hay field where a sharp metal pole was jammed into the back of a skull.
Back in the lounge, Evelyn crumbled to the floor. Her body trembled. Her eyes were blinking but lifeless. Her body was an empty shell, imprisoned by the sights and feelings of five deaths.
Terrence rubbed his hands up his bald head and stared at the phantoms with utter horror. After a moment, he dropped to his knees and held Evelyn’s wrist to stop her from shaking. “Eve, baby. Oh, come, baby, stay with me.”
Evelyn tasted the chemicals on her tongue. She felt the cold blade across her flesh in every place the victims suffered injury. The fear made her heart beat rapidly and then slowly and then rapidly again. Her chest cramped. Images burned into her mind, horror and nightmares she couldn’t escape.
Yellow hay sprouted from the floor and swayed in the darkness. The walls of the room fell away and she was back in the chair. She saw a house in the distance. Quenby? She couldn’t tell. She heard a mechanical scream as some unseen power tool turned on right behind her head. A circular saw neared her head. This wasn’t from one of the visions. What the hell was happening?
Terrence twisted back to the victims, “What the hell did you do?”
&nbs
p; Mary stepped forward. “They showed her.”
“Whatever you did, reverse it!” Terrence demanded.
“We can’t, darling,” Alannah replied with pity. “What’s seen can’t be unseen.”
Terrence turned his shaking hands into fists. “Get out,” he fumed. “Get out of my house!”
The phantoms stared at him, almost confused or hurt by his words.
“Go! Go!” He grabbed the lamp off the couch table and slung it through them. It shattered on the wall.
The phantoms stepped back. In a blink, they were gone and Quenby House was deathly silent.
“Terrence,” Evelyn said weakly from the floor.
Terrence turned back to her and brushed her blonde hair away from her cheek. “What did they do to you?”
Still in the hay field, Evelyn saw her husband’s wide eyes. Suddenly, the world returned to normal and she was back on the floor of the lounge.
“Don’t blame them,” Evelyn said, cycling through the five deaths in her mind. “They don’t remember. They never saw his face.”
Terrence helped Evelyn sit up. Evelyn rubbed her hand down her sunken face that seemingly aged twenty years in two minutes. The feelings of the victims’ deaths faded, but didn’t disappear. How long the phantom pains would remain, Evelyn didn’t know. She looked ahead at her next goals. “We need to visit the sheriff. See if he’s learned anything about the bones and Bella Day.”
“Evelyn, this is insane,” Terrence argued. “I know you want to do the right thing, but they’ve gone too far.”
Evelyn forced herself to stand. She closed her eyes until the sense of vertigo left her. “I wanted them to show me.”
“You didn’t know what you were asking.”
Evelyn pursed her lips. She hated that her husband was right. “If the cycle restarts, more good people are going to die.”
“And why is that our responsibility?” Terrence retorted. “I make fiddles for a living. You--you find missing people. Living people. For money. I went along with you for so long, Evelyn. First, it was sneaking into Stephen Doyle’s shed. That ended with two gunmen under our roof. Then, I followed you to this lounge where I find myself questioning my sanity with every second that passes, and now we’re going after some little girl we don’t know because there’s a chance a serial killer has her. I could go on about the sleepwalking, death visions, the way you looked at me like I was some monster some days ago, but that was only the start of the fiasco. It’s the finale that worries me. How do you think it’s going to end? Tell me. Because I don’t know.”
The Haunting of Quenby Mansion Omnibus: A Haunted House Mystery Page 18
