Thea whirled. Her hand flew to her mouth. At least it was Rose and not one of the nurses, or Dr. Ackerman.
“I-I wanted to . . . I’m sorry, I . . .”
Her fumbling for words was rescued by Rose. The other woman looked over her shoulder to be sure they were alone. She balanced a teapot in one hand and an empty cup in the other. She strode over to Thea. “You must be careful. Dr. Ackerman doesn’t like—he doesn’t want people with the patients.”
Thea nodded. “Of course.” She edged past Rose. “I should go down to the office. I’ve filing to do.”
“Yes. And hurry. I’m here to give Effie some tea for sustenance. The other nurses are in the far ward. If you go now, you’ll avoid detection.” Rose moved toward Effie’s door, then stopped, turned and gave Thea a stern eye. “Thea, don’t do this again. It is very frowned upon.”
Thea hurried away, her feet taking her down the enclosed staircase, until it opened at the bottom into the main foyer. She surveyed it quickly. It was empty. Kneeling at the bottom step, Thea rushed to check the steps and nearby wall, looking for a crack.
There.
She saw a gap between the wall and the bottom step. Thea reached toward it. Her finger barely squeezed into the tight space. She could feel the smooth edge of something wedged between the step and the wall. Working to push it toward the opening so she could grip it, Thea rejoiced when the edge of the tintype made its appearance.
“Did you drop something?”
Dr. Ackerman’s question drifted down from above her. Thea scrambled to stand, slipping the tintype into the pocket of her skirt, unnoticed.
“No. I just—lost my footing.”
His eyebrow raised, and his handsome features considered her words. He seemed to accept them and moved beyond her to go up the staircase. “Very well then. Be careful next time.”
“Yes.” Thea nodded, watching him ascend. “I will.”
She hurried down the long hallway to the office. Entering, she shut the door behind her, leaning against it, her breaths coming fast as if she’d been in a footrace. Closing her eyes, Thea collected her wits before reaching into her pocket and withdrawing the tintype.
The resemblance was staggering.
Misty Wayfair was most assuredly her grandmother. There was no denying it now. Her cheekbones were high, as were Thea’s, with lips the same shape, and her features the same as what Thea saw every morning in the mirror at Mrs. Brummel’s boardinghouse. Misty’s dress was dark, cut simple with a lace collar. The skirt was voluminous but not hooped as a wealthier woman during the time of the War Between the States would have worn. Her hair was parted in the middle and rolled on the sides to the back. On her lap . . .
“Mother,” Thea breathed.
A little girl, no more than two, perched on Misty Wayfair’s lap. Her dress was cut similarly to her mother’s, slightly offset at the shoulders. A small ribbon encircled the child’s neck. An inexpensive accessory to mark her as a female child. Curls sprung up on her head and at her neckline.
Thea stared at it a moment longer, then slipped it back into her pocket, considering all she knew. Edward Fortune had built the asylum here. Mathilda Coyle had found Misty in the well. Penelope had been admitted here, but by whom? Obviously, it was after a grown Penelope had left Thea on the steps of an orphanage much farther south, not to be given a family and a home until the Mendelsohns arrived some years later. And Effie . . . she spoke of their freedom, and yet the fear that hid behind her words was palpable.
Mr. Fritz was right. Something more horrible than just Misty Wayfair’s death had occurred in this place.
It was another night without sleep. Thea had found nothing helpful that afternoon. She’d returned to the portrait studio to fulfill a sitting obligation Mr. Amos had in his appointment book. After which Thea had visited the Amos home, pleased to find him mostly recovered, with Mrs. Amos scurrying around him with the agitation of a woman who looked forward to the day her crotchety husband returned to work.
Now, she lay on the bed staring at the portrait, the lantern on the bedside table casting a soft glow over the faces captured on tin. Thea pondered the woman in the picture and compared it to the woman she’d seen that night, when she’d first come to Pleasant Valley. Had it been her grandmother or merely an illusion? A deep ache filled her, causing a tear to escape the corner of her eye and trail its way onto the pillowcase.
Simeon was right. Misty Wayfair was dead. Whether her spirit still roamed the woods, looking for peace or avenging herself against the Coyles for some unknown reason, Thea couldn’t explain it. But her ties to Misty, to her mother, had been broken long ago by death. She would never have them back, no matter how hard she looked or what she uncovered. For uncovering more of her roots had left Thea feeling as unfulfilled as the moment she’d stepped into Pleasant Valley and photographed Mary’s dead body.
There had to be more.
She rose from her bed. Still dressed, Thea reached for her sweater, its dark-green wool soft against her as she pulled it on. She slipped the tintype into her sweater pocket. Soon she’d traveled down the stairs of the boardinghouse and had eased the front door open quietly.
The night air was cool, and she could hear the river in the distance. It beckoned to Thea as though, were she to jump in, its current would sweep her away toward something meaningful. Toward purpose. Toward an explanation of why she even existed in the first place.
Thea reached the riverbank and saw his silhouette. The moon was still large and round, shining down on the water and making it sparkle like a million diamonds. The woods beyond the river were dark shadows of blue. But Simeon sat there, on the bank, silent.
She’d not had a premonition that he would be here. Yet it appeared the same place called to them equally. Sinking to the earth beside him, Thea said nothing.
Simeon gave her a sideways glance. His body was calm again. It had been calmer of late, she realized. His face less contorted. As the intensity of the circumstances increased, for some reason, Simeon seemed more at peace.
Thea pulled the tintype from her pocket and held it toward him. His fingers brushed hers as he took it. It was difficult to make out the details, the woman’s features under the night sky, but she saw Simeon lift it close to his face. She noted the lines that creased between his eyes.
Simeon handed the portrait back to her. “Misty Wayfair and your mother.”
“How did you know?” she asked, slipping it back into her sweater pocket.
Simeon stared out over the river. His jawline clenched, whether from his perpetual tic or because he was biting down, Thea wasn’t certain.
“Even in the darkness I can see the resemblance between you and Misty. It’s no wonder Effie thought you were her.”
“Effie knew my mother.”
Simeon looked at her, the moonlight casting shadows across his face, illuminating the stubble along his chin.
Thea searched to put her thoughts into words, to explain to Simeon what she’d found out from Effie. To try to identify which questions still floated unanswered, and of them which ones haunted her the most.
“Simeon . . .” She hesitated. He didn’t know of Mr. Fritz, of her agreement with him. The deception gnawed at Thea’s conscience. “I’ve spoken to a newspaperman. He’s been seeking out information about the hospital, about the treatment of patients there.”
Simeon waited, his gaze fixed on her.
Thea hurried on, “While I’ve told him nothing is amiss, he also has been looking into the asylum’s history. It wasn’t your great-grandfather Kramer who founded the hospital. It was Edward Fortune—he built it over the well your grandmother found Misty Wayfair’s body in.”
She waited. Watching. His face would begin to twitch soon, and his shoulder would follow suit soon after. But nothing happened. Simeon narrowed his eyes.
“Edward Fortune” was all Simeon said. Then he nodded, as if it somehow made sense.
“How do you remain so calm?” Thea asked. Her voice d
rifted over the waters. “I have this urgency in me. I can’t quench it. I feel as though so much is amiss, and it is all about to explode like a gunshot and wound more than the past already has!”
Simeon picked up a stick and snapped off the tip. He tossed it over the bank into the river. “I am making peace with myself.”
His answer was so simple. Thea envied him.
“How?”
Simeon snapped off another piece of the stick and flicked it from between his fingers. It flipped into the air and disappeared into the darkness. “Something Mr. Amos told me once. I’ve pondered it. I believe I’m finding it to be true.”
“And that is?” she asked, pulling the sleeves of her sweater over her hands until only her fingertips peeked out.
“That while the past—the consequences of the past—might have a dire effect on me, it still doesn’t change who I am. We weren’t created to find our identity in life. We were created to discover our Creator. In doing so, our identity is defined.”
The depth of his words rolled over Thea. She’d been pondering much the same since the time they’d last spoken of such things. A Creator. She questioned His existence as she questioned Misty Wayfair’s. Yet a blind man could see they all didn’t just come from nothing. Perhaps one might wish to discredit God someday and say they did, but Thea couldn’t believe that. It would be like throwing her photographic chemicals and plates into the air and suddenly a beautiful picture came into being. No. It took thought, creativity, an investment.
Simeon’s stick snapped again. Another flick. Another piece falling silent into the river.
“I remember my grandmother Mathilda. She hated my father, for what he did to us children. My mother never fought him. She waited until he was finished with the strap or the back of his hand and then she would comfort us. But there was something in the eye of my grandmother. Something dark.” Simeon tossed the rest of the stick into the water. “I never wanted to think about it. But if I can focus on the Creator then, perhaps the mistakes and carelessness of those around me don’t define me. He does.”
The ache in Simeon’s voice frightened Thea. She turned to search his face, but his profile was without expression. He simply stared over the water in the direction of the asylum.
“I don’t believe Misty Wayfair haunts these woods, Thea. Your grandmother was laid to rest when she died. Your mother, years later. There is no curse, except that of mortal sin.”
Thea was scared to reach for him. To touch him. She waited.
Simeon shrugged as if she’d asked him a question, or perhaps his tic was returning. “My grandmother said something once. She told me that to protect one’s family, sometimes grave choices must be made.”
Thea waited.
Simeon turned to face her.
She could see his eyes, sad, and his voice was resigned.
“No matter what my grandmother Mathilda claimed publicly, she believed my grandfather had been with Misty.”
His statement was simple, but it was heavy with meaning.
Thea drew in a soft breath. “Do you think she—?”
“I don’t know.” Simeon shook his head. “But, Mathilda Coyle did find Misty’s body . . . and who but the killer would think to look in a well?”
Chapter 33
Heidi
Heidi was raging. Ten calls to Vicki between the memory-care facility and the Crawford home. Ten ignored calls. And she knew they were ignored, because they only rang once and then went to voicemail, and the last six calls went straight to voicemail. Vicki was snubbing her.
She hopped out of the truck before Rhett had even pulled it to a complete stop.
“Hey!” he shouted at her as she marched toward the house. Heidi heard his door slam and his footsteps close behind her. “Heidi, you need to calm down.”
Calm down. Sure. If the heartache of her mother recognizing Rhett and sharing personal history with him wasn’t enough, Vicki’s direct refusal to take her calls had tipped her over the edge. She couldn’t even find out who she was if Vicki didn’t at least talk to her! According to their mom, they were Coyles! They did have history here in Pleasant Valley. Vicki had to know more—she had to!
“Heidi.” Rhett was directly behind her shoulder, catching up to her with long strides. “Stop and look at me.”
Enough with the directives!
Heidi turned but kept walking backward, giving her hands a haphazard wave. “No. I don’t need to obey you. Go ahead. Kick me out! Send me packing! Join the club, ’cause I’m used to it!”
Rhett’s face darkened.
Heidi turned back toward the house. She yelped when he sidestepped around her, and his body blocked her from continuing toward the house. She almost rammed her nose into his chest.
Rearing back, she glared at him. “Just leave me alone.”
He touched her arm, applying a bit of pressure, like he instinctively did with Emma to calm her. “Come with me. Please,” he added for good measure.
Heidi stumbled backward. “No. I don’t need you.” She jabbed her finger at him, annoyed at the water in her voice. “I don’t need—need them,” she said and waved toward the Crawford house and Emma. “I don’t need my mom, or Brad, or-or Vicki!” She ended with a shout. An emotional, dramatic yell, and her fingertip rammed into Rhett’s chest.
She gave him a stony scowl.
“You all can take that and—and shove it.” Heidi spun and stalked toward her car.
“Heidi!” Rhett shouted after her.
She ignored him and hauled her car door open.
“Heidi!” This time a sharp command.
Whatever. She’d never listened to anyone before—and for good reason—and there was no way she was going to start now.
She dared a look through the windshield at Rhett’s thunderous expression. A moment of misgiving stabbed her. A few weeks and she could see through his Hulkish exterior. He was worried—about her. Protective. But she didn’t need protecting. No one ever had anyway, and really, if she were honest, she knew no one ever would. At least not for the long haul.
The little dive on the main street of Pleasant Valley was quaint and rustic. A typical Wisconsin Northwoods bar and grill, it was family atmosphere colliding with an old western saloon. The main room served pizza and opened to a narrower galley-style bar that opened again at the far end to a small stage. It was early evening, and a few families sat enjoying their pepperoni and cheese pizzas. Some couples ate hamburgers across from the bar. The bartender was busy pouring Mountain Dew, Orange Crush soda, and popping the tops off bottles of beer—right or wrong—in true Wisconsin style.
At the stage, the karaoke speakers were muffled, with half-blown woofers and a treble that sounded like it was being played through tinfoil. Heidi sat at a corner table. She’d hide here—in the corner—until she figured out what to do next. She’d listen to karaoke and try to pretend the corner’s shadows were the old closet she used to huddle in. It was numbing. She didn’t even need alcohol. In fact, her large Dr Pepper with ice, held in her left hand, was proof of that.
“Ironic.” A college-aged girl smiled at the karaoke DJ.
He grinned. “Alanis Morrisette. Atta girl.”
The singer stepped onto the stage. A few couples sat at tall, round tables, their smiles of encouragement welcoming. No one was intoxicated here. It was just small-town fun well before sunset.
Heidi shrank further back into her corner, eyeing the carefree expression of the girl who balanced the mic in her hands. The music started. Heidi closed her eyes. They were depressing lyrics. But oddly it fit, and the girl singing wasn’t half bad.
The music continued. A few hoots of approval from enthusiastic onlookers. Heidi took a sip of Dr Pepper. The scraping sound of a chair against the hardwood floor made her eyes fly open.
Rhett caught her gaze. Heidi took another long drink of Dr Pepper, not looking away, daring him to stay—and if he did, challenging him to understand her.
Rhett held out his hand.
The background track continued to play, and the girl warbled on the minor-keyed melody.
“Please, come with me.” A small flick of his fingers, encouraging Heidi to take his hand.
He said please.
Heidi was helpless to ignore that. She stood. He followed, and together they exited the bar and grill.
They stepped onto the sidewalk. The evening air assaulted Heidi’s senses. The smell of the grill’s deep fryers mixed with the scents of the nearby river and woods. It was as close to Heaven as she’d ever gotten. She hated the fact she’d fallen for this place. She wouldn’t even think about how she felt about Rhett.
She started as she felt Rhett’s fingers graze hers, and then the callused palm fold around her hand. Heidi was in step with him as Rhett continued to walk, not saying a word. Finally, she twisted her hand so that she held his back. It was a small gesture from them both. His indication of being more sensitive. Hers of releasing some of her stubborn hurt so she could listen to reason.
They walked in silence. Heidi jogged alongside him as they crossed the road. Followed him down a gravel trail, then stopped on the embankment of the river that cut between town and the woods where the asylum lay in ruins.
Heidi let go of Rhett’s hand and wiped her eyes with the heels of her palms.
“I’m sorry.”
Rhett didn’t say anything. He stared out across the water and watched it take its rolling course over rocks and boulders, cutting the earth away a little bit at a time with its momentum.
Heidi flattened her lips as she followed his gaze. “I need to talk to Vicki—if she’ll acknowledge me. But I—I don’t have a good feeling about this. About where this is going.”
Rhett nodded.
Heidi gave him a glance from the corner of her eye. He squatted down and picked up a flat, round stone and sent it out over the water. It skipped a few times before disappearing into the depths.
“You don’t have anything profound to say?” Heidi quirked her eyebrow and curled her lip in sheepish hope.
The Curse of Misty Wayfair Page 29
