Simza.
The name popped into her head just as suddenly as the ghost of her great-grandmother disappeared.
Mallory pushed to her feet and held up the key, thinking that it was time to go home. As she swung around, she noticed the bookcase. In particular, the book that she was always drawn too during Nana’s exercises. Was it simply a coincidence that it was named The Secret Garden or was it a universal lever for the English garden passage way? She’d never actually taken the book from the shelf before. She stepped forward, reaching for it and as she tugged on the book’s spine, she heard wheels turning behind the bookcase. It sounded like something was moving to her right, which was where the fireplace was located. Sure enough the back wall of the fireplace had retracted like a pocket door revealing a dark entrance. She pushed the book back in to place and the pocket door slid closed once again.
Mallory closed her eyes and the dull ache in her heart throbbed to life at the remembered image of her mother—bronzed skin, long black braided hair—laughing as she tugged Mallory through the hearth’s hidden passage. It was one of the last happy times they’d been together before her mother had disappeared. Mallory’s mind circled an image the ghost was now showing her. A man, in a black leather vest leaning over her mother as she cried. Mallory remembered that day. She remembered her mother yelling at him that she hated him and then they’d stolen away home to the manor. Who was that man and why had her mother hated him so?
Wiping her eyes, she slid the book out once more and stepped inside the secret passage.
24
J ust inside the mouth of the hearth was a battery-powered lantern. Clearly, the batteries no longer worked, so she took out her cell phone instead and switched it on, grateful for it and stepped into the shadows. And another. And another. She then came to a staircase. Holding out the phone, she saw that rough stairs had been hewn into the stone. They curled down and down. Too intrigued to hesitate, Mallory began the descent and walked until she was once again at the cottage door.
She bent her head and placed the skeleton key in the lock and paused. After so much time, Mallory wondered what sights awaited her in the home of her childhood. Twisting one full circular motion, Mallory heard the click of the lock release. As she eased the door open, she half-expected a rush of rosemary and mug wort to tinge the air. Her mother had used them for protection and visions. Or maybe she expected musical sounds—the violin, guitar or the tambourine—to burst out through the space and sweep her away to the past. Instead a cloud of dust particles escaped from within.
She took several steps into the large open space that was the living room. The memories seeped in and reduced Mallory to the child who’d spent her days here loving, and laughing, surrounded by people and music. The faded oriental rug covered the inlaid wood floor. A carved mahogany credenza sat along one wall and on it was an elaborate hand-painted German Black forest cuckoo clock. The curtains were long, and the bottoms pooled on the hardwood in clouds of dust, allowing only a few shafts of sun to illuminate the yellow walls, the purple velvet fabric on the drooping sofa, the paintings of their ancestors, and her mother’s prized collection of tambourines.
“How I loved these,” Mallory told Bakalo, running her hands over the circular instruments. “I love them still,” she murmured.
Mallory turned left down the hallway, passing their bedrooms, the floorboards groaning as she stepped on their warped wood. In the corner of her old room was a dollhouse made out of an old dresser to look just like the manor. Its colours had faded, and it was riddled with spider webs. This was the window she’d peered in.
The door at the end of the hall was closed, and she paused with her hand on the knob. She’d buried the memories of this place, but why? Had it been for a reason, and what would happen now that she’d unlocked them?
Another wisp of stale air rushed at her as she entered through the door, through the beaded curtain, to the magic room. The name came to Mallory all at once. The portal. That was what her mother had called it. With one glance, Mallory took in the sacred space with its hanging Moroccan styled lanterns, bright pillows and fabrics and symbolic paintings.
Mallory walked to the three-tiered bookshelf across the room and perused the selection. It held an assortment of books: palmistry, healing herbs, tarot. Mallory could remember her mother and Nana lighting candles and reading from the book. She bent down to the circular braided rug where her mother’s spell book lay open. The spell was in French. Her mind was too distracted by the sound of the violins to translate the spell, and by the mirror that stood against the far wall—the kind of mirror that had legs and tilted if you pressed on it. A bright red scarf had been placed over it.
This was the mirror from her dream.
Mallory removed the scarf and stared at her reflection. The violin was now blaring so loudly that Mallory could scarcely concentrate. She could feel her cheeks burning. Her image disappeared and Mallory could see the garden through the mirror. Like an open door to the outside. She reached her hand out to touch it and the feeling was magnetic, like something wanted to pull her through. She jerked back and quickly covered the mirror with the red scarf.
***
Satisfied that Nana was slumbering peacefully, Mallory stripped her face of makeup and put on her faded grey onesie. Darkness had settled like a thick blanket over Caravan Manor. Rain was flooding the glass of the large circular window when Mallory returned. Mallory could see the hills and the lake off in the distance. She wondered silently where the cottage was hidden amongst them.
Danior and Mallory took opposite corners of the couch, sharing a pot of tea and a plate of homemade oatmeal cookies that Danior had baked just that afternoon. Mallory could feel her watching closely as she fidgeted—adding several pillows until she was propped and nestled to satisfaction under a soft chenille blanket.
“Well,” She whispered. “Are you going to keep me in suspense? You look like you saw a ghost.”
A floorboard creaked. Mallory paused, thinking perhaps Nana had woken, but relaxed when Bakalo made an appearance, jumping up on the couch and making a beeline straight for her lap.
“I’m still having trouble processing everything,” Mallory said petting Bakalo as he frantically purred and squirmed. “Why don’t I just show you.”
“Yes!” Danior jumped up off the couch so fast Mallory almost got whiplash.
“Not right now.”
“Huh?”
“We can’t leave Nana. She just came home from the hospital. What if she wakes up? I’ll take you tomorrow after the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party I’m hosting for the Victorian Ladies Society.”
25
M ALLORY was at the front desk the next morning, adding some blush-colored roses to the silver vases, and covering for Lise when Danior wandered by looking happy and youthful in a paisley-patterned romper.
“Danior—hey—perfect timing, did you get those White Rabbit Cupcakes done for the Alice in Wonderland themed tea party?”
“You bet. Also did Queen of Cherry Tarts and Eat Me Macaroons.”
“You are a miracle worker. Can you grab me that box of pens off the top shelf? Someone’s kidnapped the stool again.”
“No problemo, shorty.” Danior said, reaching up to grab it.
The manor’s door opened, and Lise returned to take over, but before Mallory could go after Danior to tell her about what she’d found in the garden, she heard her name being called. Mallory looked around and saw Kaden walking in.
“Ms. Vianu,” he said, his voice light and airy, “you look lovely this morning, special occasion?”
Mallory looked down at her dress—plunging white chiffon with a few purple and yellow flowers and a varying lace hemline that made it quite short in the front.
A wave of giddiness coursed through her. Was he flirting? “Thank you. I’m hosting a Mad Hatter’s Tea Party in the garden for the Victorian Ladies Society today at 11am… it required dressing a little more feminine than my usual.”
“Well,
you look angelic. The floral headpiece adds a nice touch.”
Mallory blushed, removing the ring of flowers from her hair. She’d forgotten it was there. Were the guests staring at her? Mallory cleared her throat, “I didn’t know you were stopping by. Is there something you’re in need of that I could help you with?”
“Yes, please. I would love you—that is I would love your assistance.”
Mallory stared into his blue… no wait blue and green eyes. Her gaze darted between the two irises. They were so similar to Danior’s and yet Mallory hadn’t noticed them before.
“I have partial heterochromia.” He replied, as if he could hear her thoughts.
“Oh, I apologize. I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s okay. It happens all the time.”
“I only noticed because your eyes are so similar to Dan’s.”
“She has partial heterochromia too, then?” He questioned.
Mallory nodded. “So, anyway, you were saying…”
Now he was blushing. “Right, I need to see Mr. Weasel’s room one last time.”
Mallory grabbed the key from behind the desk. “Lise, show the Victorian ladies to the garden if they arrive early. I’ll be back in time to serve the tea.”
In the hallway, Kaden made a sweeping gesture toward the stairs. “Ladies first.”
“I guess that would include me today.” Mallory said with a smile.
“I think it would always include you, unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”
Mallory glanced back when she reached the top and he almost tripped as she caught him ogling her behind.
“You should watch your step,” Mallory admonished.
He smirked for the merest part of a second, “Yes, this is a dangerous place,” then focused his attention back on Raymond’s door.
Mallory smiled before unlocking it and pushing it open.
“I’ll be right back.” The detective said, stepping past Mallory. “Wait here, okay?”
Though he’d asked politely, Mallory knew she was being given a command. She moved aside but held her foot against the inside of the door so it wouldn’t close all the way.
Without even realizing she’d done so, Mallory was suddenly in the room and was standing an arm’s length from where they’d found the dead man.
Kaden came out of the bathroom, his brow creased into a trio of deep furrows, and beckoned to her.
“I see that you decided not to wait.” His voice hinted at reproach. “Now that you’re in, just be careful not to touch anything.”
Mallory nodded and scanned the room. Just like before, papers lay scattered on the desk and bed as well as a half empty suitcase. Kaden put on a pair of latex gloves and lifted some of the papers and clippings. Then she watched as he ran his gloved hand between the mattress and the box spring. After another five minutes of searching, he sighed and said, “The book isn’t here.”
“Book?” Mallory’s senses went on high alert. Was he talking about Simza’s book? After all, he’d been there when she found it during the last murder mystery game, but why in the world would he think Raymond had it? “Who’s book?”
Kaden paused. When his eyes met Mallory’s, she felt like she was being scanned by a machine. “You’re acting strange, all of a sudden. Is there something you need to tell me?”
There was no way she could successfully lie to this man. Danior was so much better at this sort of thing. “I’m just wondering if it’s connected to Elsa’s death.”
“Elsa Dustfeather. That’s right, you found the body. Why would it be connected?”
“Because Elsa was supposed to translate a book for us—my great-grandmother’s diary.”
“Is that the book you found in the attic during the snowstorm?”
“Yes.”
“And so she translated it for you?”
“She said she did. That’s why she called me over. She’d found something extraordinary. But the translated notes were burned, and she was dead when I got there.”
“Did someone steal the diary?”
“No, that’s just it. Elsa hid it. Someone broke in and tried to steal it while we were in there looking for it. We found it first.”
“You’re telling me you broke into a crime scene and stole evidence? You should be arrested for that.”
Mallory looked away. She needed a zipper on this damn mouth of hers. Why the hell was she telling him so much.
“So, do you know who did it? Who it was that broke in while you were there?”
“No. Eve knocked me from behind and I got distracted.”
The detective rolled his eyes. “Of course, Eve Banter was involved in this. Was Penny there too? Cody is not going to be happy about you breaking into his crime scene.”
“No. We called Penny but Eve showed up instead.”
“Do you have any proof that Elsa was murdered?”
“You mean besides the fact that she was poisoned?”
Kaden frowned. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear most of this conversation.”
“Pretend away.”
“So, what does this have to do with Raymond?”
“He also read it. He was helping me to translate it, but he got spooked and now… this happened.”
“So, you think Elsa and Raymond were killed because they both read it? I’m going to need to see that diary again.”
Mallory nodded. “Fair enough but now it’s my turn. If it’s not our diary you were looking for. Just whose was it?”
“Raymond’s.”
“Men keep diaries?”
“I’m sure plenty of men do, but I’m thinking more along the lines of a notebook. You do remember what I told you? Mr. Weasel was writing an exposé on your family. His editor claims he had quite the juicy details and that he kept a medium-sized blue journal.”
Mallory paused long enough to fold her arms over her chest. “I see. So, you want to see what kind of dirt Raymond Weasel had on my family so that you can pin his murder on us. You think we would be stupid enough to murder someone in our own home? It hasn’t exactly been good for business. We’ve had several cancellations for this month already.”
“All the more reason to keep him from airing the manor’s dirty laundry.”
Shoot! Mallory had probably just incriminated her family further.
“I’m teasing. I’m sure your family wouldn’t appreciate the gossip piece, but between you and me, Mal, I don’t think you or Nana are capable of murder.”
Mallory noticed he hadn’t mentioned Danior. Slip of the tongue, perhaps?
“I do wonder if Raymond found out about something he shouldn’t have been privy to or if he was blackmailing someone. Let’s just say he had a history and a knack for it. As it happens, I think maybe he simply targeted the wrong person this time.” He pivoted. “But until we find out who Mr. Weasel wronged, this room should remain off limits.”
Mallory searched the detective’s aura. He was surrounded by royal blue and bright red—a fellow intuitive soul with powerful overtones. “Thank you, Detective. I appreciate your vote of confidence. Follow me and I’ll show you the diary.”
26
K ADEN followed Mallory downstairs to the library where she’d hidden the book in plain sight. She handed it along with the translated entries over to the detective and sank down into the chair while he perused it. Bakalo hopped up and settled in her lap, purring loudly as she stroked his fur.
“Is this true?” the detective asked, taking a seat on the couch, his eyes staring straight ahead. “Your great grandmother foretold that the holocaust was coming.” He tapped the end of the pen on the table as he read over the translated notes.
He set the notes aside and flipped open the actual diary, skipping to the end. He pressed his lips together firmly. “Those cards she mentioned, do you think that’s what Elsa wanted to tell you about? She said to keep them for her granddaughters—that you would need them. They would be worth a lot
of money today if they’re as old as they sound.”
“You can read it?”
“Yes, my grandfather is German. I visit him and my cousins every summer—have since I was a child. Look at this.” Kaden pointed to the last page and Mallory tilted her neck to see it from the same angle as him. She leaned forward, her eyes flicking over the words. She had no idea what it meant.
“I can’t read German.”
“Come over here and I’ll translate.”
He motioned to the couch beside him and Mallory’s stomach did a little flip as she walked over and slid onto the sofa.
Mallory squinted as he jotted down the translation on the notepad he’d brought. Why had he written granddaughters, plural? Perhaps his German was rusty.
Dear Great Granddaughters,
I can see you in my mind’s eye as I write these last pages. I will not bore you with the details, for by now you most likely know my life was a good one.
The resistance helped me to flee occupied Europe. They placed me with a family of similar heritage, by the name of Vianu where I came to know and love my husband, Ion with all of my heart. The Vianus are good people and the Manor in Bohemian Lake is my home now. My only regret is that I will not live long enough to know my son, Mikhail as man, or any of you.
Do not mourn the loss of me; if I am correct, then you will be seeing me soon. It is the way of our blood, for our gifts allow us to see beyond the veil of time. One only needs the tools to lift the veil.
The detective paused, “How is this possible? Is this a joke? How could this woman write to you when you weren’t even born yet?” He pointed to a section of text that consisted of two uneven rows, situated in the center of the book. He copied each word down, then began scribbling down the translated words as he figured them out.
Make-Believes & Lost Memories Page 11
