by Brenda Hill
“I love you, you know,” he interrupted. “Just let that be enough.” Even crouching, his entire body seemed to sag, and his eyes held none of the roguish twinkle that used to be such a part of him.
Was his anguish due to some problem in their marriage he felt reluctant to discuss with her? But they’d talked openly about everything, including her anxiety-ridden childhood. Or was it something else?
Whatever it was, she’d give him the benefit of the doubt—at least until he recovered from his aunt’s passing.
“Okay,” she said. “We’ll drop it. For now.”
His relief was obvious. “Let’s check into the motel and get something to eat.”
“Eat first. I’m starved.”
Just as Eric swung around to head down the dirt road, something in an upstairs window caught her eye. A subtle outline, as if someone were watching them.
“Honey …”
He finished the turn.
“What?”
Lindsay twisted in her seat and looked back at the window. Whatever she saw was gone.
“Nothing.”
It was only the setting sun reflecting off the glass, creating distorted images that weren’t really there.
Chapter Two
Minutes later, they entered Crosby, a former iron mining town spruced up with green awnings and antique stores. Lindsay caught a glimpse of Serpent Lake between Main Street’s city blocks and thought how lucky the residents were to have a lake on one side of town and a forest on the other.
But at eight in the evening, the six-block downtown area was dark and deserted except for a convenience store with two gas pumps in front and a video rental place further down the street.
“Hope something is open,” Lindsay said, scanning the buildings. A nice dinner and a glass of wine would be heaven after an entire day of traveling.
Lights brightened the inside of one cafe, but according to the sign, it was due to close in ten minutes. Maybe they could order something and take it to the motel.
Inside, the smell of grease and old cigarette smoke hung in the air. Two men in jeans and baseball caps sat at the counter, talking and laughing over slices of pie. A thin, wrinkled woman occupied a booth, her short white hair spiking in all directions, a pink quilted jacket hugging her emaciated body. A radio played country music, and a blackboard listed the day’s specials. Most had been crossed out with chalk.
Eric and Lindsay took a booth by a window overlooking Main Street. A waitress about forty, in jeans and a sleeveless blouse, brought them water. Shirley, her nametag read. She recommended the hot beef sandwiches.
“Real mashed potatoes,” she told them, patting her elaborately fashioned French twist hairstyle. “Peeled them myself. And we have fresh apple pie. Made that, too.”
“Do we have time for all that?” Eric asked.
“Sure,” Shirley said. “I got to clean up. Besides, I wouldn’t throw you out.”
One of the men at the counter looked up. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. She’s got a mean right hand.”
“You should know, George,” Shirley said.
Both men laughed.
“You folks passing through?” Shirley asked, scribbling on her order pad.
“We’re here about some property I inherited,” Eric told her.
“Really?” She arched her penciled eyebrows. “Ain’t that nice. Where at?”
“Just out of town. From my aunt, Frida Peterson.”
Everything went silent, even the conversation at the counter stopped.
The faint click of the diner’s ventilation system switching on sounded like a bass drum in the sudden silence. Cool air blew on Lindsay from above.
Shirley stopped writing. “The old Peterson place?”
“You know it?” Eric said.
“I’ve heard of it,” the waitress mumbled, glancing at the old woman.
The look they exchanged was strangely intense. The men at the counter dropped some change by their plates and left without speaking.
“Well, your dinner will be right up.” No longer smiling, Shirley passed their orders to the kitchen, then became busy wiping the counter. The old woman rose to pay her bill, all the while staring at Eric and Lindsay. She didn’t return their smiles.
“What happened?” Lindsay whispered.
Eric shrugged. “Guess it’s closing time.”
Lindsay was opening her car door when the old woman from the diner rushed over to them and grabbed her hand.
“What is it?” she asked.
The wrinkled eyes bored into her so intently that Lindsay was unable to look away. The old woman finally spoke, her dentures clicking in her thin face.
“Stay away from that house! Evil lives there.”
Chapter Three
The one-story motel sat on the northwest shore of the lake, with all the rooms facing the water. Lindsay waited while Eric checked them in.
Evil lives there. What did that old lady mean?
Suddenly the trip caught up with her. Totally exhausted, she didn’t want to think, didn’t want to do anything but fall into bed and stretch out next to her husband’s warm body.
From several hundred feet away, an outboard motor buzzed to life, then the sound faded as the boat sped up the lake. Even from the car, Lindsay could hear the waves gently lapping the shore.
Eric pulled in front of the door at the far end of the motel.
“To escape the noise,” he said.
Lindsay glanced around the vacant lot; theirs was the only car. “What noise?”
“You never know who might check in.” He jumped out of the car, opened the motel door, and began unloading the car.
She grabbed an armful, walked through the open door—and came to an abrupt halt.
Twin beds. Two individual beds separated by a solid oak night stand holding a bible and a green ceramic lamp. Each bed was neatly made, its own little world at a distance from the other.
“Twin beds?” She dropped her handbag and overnight case on the bed closest to the wall.
Eric was already digging through his suitcase. He said nothing, just kept busy until he found his pajama bottoms and disappeared into the bathroom. Lindsay grabbed her toothbrush and was about to follow him when the bathroom door closed—nearly in her face.
Taken aback, she sat on the bed.
The bathroom door opened a short while later and Eric, clad in pajama bottoms over his briefs, exited. Lindsay was astonished. He had never worn pajamas in the entire year they’d been married.
Avoiding her eyes, he climbed into bed.
“Honey, I’m beat,” he said, busily arranging the top sheet over him, “and we have a lot to do tomorrow. Our appointment with the attorney is at nine, and we have to stop at the mortuary. I need to get some sleep.”
“Of course.” Lindsay rose to give him a quick kiss, but he clicked off his light and rolled over to face the wall.
At a total loss, Lindsay stared at his back.
Tension crackled in the air.
“Eric—” she began.
“Don’t make a big deal out of nothing. I’m tired, that’s all.”
After an hour of lying in bed staring at the ceiling, Lindsay ran water for a bath. Instead of showering in the morning, perhaps a warm soak would relax her.
She lay back in the tub, her head resting against the blue-tiled wall. She breathed deeply, trying to ease the pressure in her chest, that old tightening she’d felt growing up with a vagabond mother, the creeping fear that snaked through every nerve in her body, taking over, crushing her so she couldn’t eat or sleep. Something was threatening her marriage, and it was worse than her childhood, because this time, she had no idea what the threat was. Only that it was there, growing, just beyond her vision.
She had to get some answers, had to convince Eric to talk about the problem so they could fix it.
But was now the right time?
He must be exhausted from adjusting to the expanded territory at work, and, his aun
t had just died. Though he hadn’t seen her in years, he obviously thought a great deal of her. Coming back to his childhood home must be emotional for him, a time of memories, some good, some not so good. Growing up with two maiden aunts after his father died and his mother went to work couldn’t have been easy for a young boy, and now she needed to support him in every way she could.
She’d wait until he settled his aunt’s estate, then she’d insist on some answers.
When Lindsay woke the next morning, Eric was already dressed. He kept glancing at her as if bracing himself.
But today was going to be a long day for him, full of legalities and memories, so she wanted to make it easier for him. When she smiled, he brightened, and she caught a glimpse of the old Eric, a man of positive energy and charm.
After a quick breakfast at the bakery, they climbed narrow stairs in an old frame building to the attorney's office. From behind a cluttered oak desk, a stocky man with thick white hair rose and shook their hands.
“So sorry for your loss,” Mr. Mathews said once they were seated. “Miss Frida was a fine woman. I was her attorney for years. Miss Berina’s as well, before she passed on about forty years ago.”
“I just have a vague memory of Aunt Berina,” Eric told him. “She died when I was seven. That was about the second year I stayed with them.”
“Your Aunt Frida was a wonderful woman,” Mathews said. “She devoted her life to taking care of Miss Berina until the day of her death.”
“What was wrong with Berina?” Lindsay asked. “Was she the oldest?”
“The youngest,” Mathews said. “By a couple of years. And she was a beautiful woman, although she lived a secluded life. Some say she just wasted away.”
“I never knew much about her,” Eric said, “other than rumors about some kind of nervous breakdown. But no one in the family talked about it.”
“Well, that’s as it should be,” Mathews said briskly, his tone closing further discussion. “Now, as I told you on the telephone, Miss Frida will be cremated, all according to her instructions. There’s to be no service, then she wanted her ashes scattered in the lake.”
“I thought she’d want to be buried with the family,” Eric said.
“I was surprised as well.” Mathews replied. “I'd be remiss if I didn’t inform you that while scattering ashes in the lake isn't illegal at this time, it is considered a nuisance and not to be encouraged. Nevertheless, once the cremains are turned over to the family, all official responsibilities end. Do you understand?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Of course,” Mathews continued, “if you must return to California before then, I’m to take care of it.”
“We can stay a few extra days, can’t we?” Eric asked Lindsay.
“Absolutely.” Extra time away from work would be wonderful for him, she thought. Maybe he could finally relax.
“The estate has gone through probate and it’s all ready for disbursement.” Mathews cleared his throat. “Have you seen the property?”
“Just a quick look last evening,” Eric replied. “The house was locked, of course.”
“Mr. Mathews,” Lindsay began. “The strangest thing happened.” She paused and both men looked at her. “We stopped for dinner at the diner, and this old woman—”
Eric laughed. “You’re not going to tell him about that, are you?”
“About what, Mrs. Peterson?”
She told the attorney about their reception in the diner after the people learned who they were, finishing with the old woman’s warning. ‘“Evil lives there,’ she said. It was creepy.”
“You didn't take that seriously, did you?” Eric asked. “Even small towns have strange people wandering around jabbering nonsense.” He glanced at Mathews as if seeking corroboration.
The attorney stiffened. Lindsay detected a slight reddening in his cheeks. Why would an attorney flush?
Mathews cleared his throat. “That they do,” he said, bending down to search through files stacked on the floor. “Here we are.” He pulled out a legal-size file. “You have a couple of decisions to make.”
“Everything's in order, isn't it?” Eric asked.
“Certainly. Even after Miss Frida was moved to the nursing home ten years ago, she had periods of total lucidity. No problem there.” Mathews opened a manila envelope and extracted some papers.
“As you know, you’re the only heir, so there shouldn’t be any challenges with the deed transfer. However,” he paused, pulling off his glasses, “there's an unusual provision we have to address. Your aunt demanded that once she passed away, the house and all the associated buildings be destroyed by fire.”
“No!” Lindsay cried, surprised at how much she already loved the house.
Eric frowned. “Burn it down? Why on earth would she want to do something like that?”
“It doesn't make sense,” Lindsay said. “It's a little rundown, but the place is lovely. Or it could be with some TLC.”
Mathews nodded. “It was indeed a showplace in its time.” He paused. “You should know there’s already a question as to the enforcement of that provision. As executor and as her attorney, I owe fiduciary loyalty to Miss Frida; however, I can't go beyond the boundary of the law.”
“Meaning?” Eric asked.
“While I'm obligated to adhere to the terms of the will, I cannot do anything illegal.” Mathews leaned back and folded his hands over his ample stomach. “That will was drafted thirty years ago, and laws have changed. We now have a fire ordinance prohibiting burning in the city’s immediate area—especially a home and its contents. Toxic air pollutants, you understand, from lead, plastics, and other household materials. Ordinarily, we'd find some other way to destroy the property, which is technically going against the demand, so already we have a tort—a breach of contract of sorts. Before I decide how to proceed, I’d like to know your intentions regarding the house.”
“We’re thinking of using it as a vacation home,” Eric told him. “I grew up here before my mother and I moved to California.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. I’m sure, as the descendant of one of Crosby’s founding citizens, visiting here must bring back a lot of memories. However—”
“Founding citizens?” Lindsay broke in. While Eric had talked about his grandparents and some of the difficulties they’d faced while building a life in the winter’s sub-zero temperatures, he’d never mentioned they had been prominent in the area.
“Indeed they were,” Mathews said. “However, while it’s a fine old house, almost a historical landmark, I wouldn’t advise keeping it. You could raze the house and sell the land.”
Lindsay frowned. “But I like the house.” The thought of that lovely place being burned to the ground because of a whim of an old woman seemed outrageous.
Eric agreed. “Why would I want to destroy the house? I don’t understand. Sure, it needs quite a bit of work, but it’s in a prime location—far enough from the other lakefront homes to afford privacy, yet close enough to walk to town. And with the forest in back, it’s ideal.”
“I’m afraid that even though the Peterson trust held funds for maintenance, the house, as I’m sure you noticed, has fallen into some disrepair.”
Mathews seemed embarrassed, Lindsay thought. Or was it something else?
“I, uh, had difficulties keeping someone and ten years is a long time.”
“I understand,” Eric said. “We’d expect to do some remodeling. Mind you, we haven't made any final decisions, but we'd like to know our options.”
“Still, vacationing here would be quite a change from your California lifestyle,” Mathews said. “Something you should consider.”
Again he seemed flustered and Lindsay wondered why. He was obviously an experienced attorney. “Is there something you’re not telling us, some reason we shouldn’t keep the house?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I simply want you to consider what it would mean to keep the house intact.” With an abrupt change
of topic, he continued. “Would you like a formal reading of the will? I can check with Helen to schedule a time.”
“That’s not necessary,” Eric told him. “If you don’t mind, just give me the details now. I’m not sure of the financial status, especially with Aunt Frida in the nursing home so many years, but were there any funds left? In case we keep the house.”
“The trust your grandparents left Crosby has helped fund many community improvements and we all get the benefit. And while there’s not a large sum of money, there’s enough, together with the bonds, to do some repairs to the property—within reason, of course. If you decide to follow through with Miss Frida’s wishes and raze the house, you could rebuild. Or even sell the land if you don’t wish to use it. Just let me know your decision as soon as you can.”
Chapter Four
Downstairs, Eric and Lindsay decided to walk the three blocks to the mortuary. Traffic on Crosby’s Main Street was sporadic, the few cars and RVs, many of them pulling boats, passing by at a slow speed. Minutes would pass before another vehicle drove by. Lindsay found the pace restful after living near an interstate in Southern California all her life.
“That old lady isn’t the only strange one here,” Lindsay said. “He didn’t come out and say it, but I got the distinct impression Mr. Mathews didn’t want us to keep the house.”
Eric shrugged. “I doubt it’s anything personal. As Aunt Frida’s attorney, even with the new burn laws, he must perform his duty to her as much as possible.”
“Miss Frida? Miss Berina? He sounded straight out of Tara, but we’re too far north for that.”
“What can I tell you? Small town, old habits. My grandfather was well-known in his day, president of the bank, and he helped build several roads around here.” Eric grinned. “Didn’t know you were so well-connected, did you?”
“Well, I’m certainly impressed. I didn’t know I’d married a celebrity.”
“Stick with me, kid,” he teased, “and I’ll show you lots of things. Important things like how to skip a rock in water, or how to dig for the best fishing worms. Bet you never knew that was an art, did ya?”
