ShadowsintheMist

by Maureen McMahon

  It was David who broke the silence. He stood up abruptly, downed the last of his drink and flexed his long legs. “I think I’ll go over to the marina. I’ll go mad if I sit here much longer.” He smiled apologetically at Darla. “Not that I don’t appreciate all you’ve done. I just need to get out.”

  She nodded benignly. “I’m glad to be of any help. Grant hasn’t had much work for me lately and I feel like a bit of a freeloader at Beacon.”

  I didn’t trust myself to respond politely to this, so I set aside my barely touched drink and stood up as well. “I must be going too. I’ve got a few bones to pick with Grant.”

  David lifted a curious brow but said nothing. Darla, seeing no other alternative, gathered up her belongings and followed us out.

  David walked with me to my car and kissed me lingeringly. I couldn’t help shooting a victorious glance in Darla’s direction before driving off, feeling as though I’d scored a winning point. It’s surprising what baser instincts surface when faced with a bit of competition.

  Grant’s car wasn’t in the drive when I arrived home but I noticed Alicia in the living room chatting on the telephone. By the time I removed my raincoat and placed it on the rack in the hall, she’d hung up and was scribbling hastily on a pad of paper.

  “You seem better today,” I commented, coming into the room.

  She looked up and her face was lit. The change in her was indeed remarkable. She’d washed her hair and applied makeup. Even her long nails were newly painted and she seemed to have revived much of her old energy.

  “I feel better,” she responded brightly. “I needed something to take my mind off all the horrid affairs of late and I’ve found just the thing!”

  “What is it?” I smiled. “I could use some myself.”

  “Colin suggested I get together with some of my old friends and I thought the best way was to have a little party.”

  “Party?” I echoed, sitting down and taking the list she offered. There were at least a hundred names. A few I recognized but most were unfamiliar. “If all these people come, this won’t be a little party.”

  She waved a hand and her bangles clinked. “I couldn’t decide, so I just invited everyone. It’s a Halloween party,” she went on. “Don’t you think it’ll be fun? Everyone can dress up and we can have jack-o’-lanterns and cider just like when we were kids!”

  I eyed her with doubt. It seemed to me a party was the last thing we needed, especially with reporters still lurking behind corners waiting for any juicy gossip. But at the risk of dampening her healthy enthusiasm, I didn’t say so. Instead, I gestured to the list. “Who are all these people?”

  “Oh, most of them are friends of mine from the theater. I haven’t seen them in ages. That one there,” she pointed with one coral nail, “is one of the most famous mediums around. I knew her when I was working in LA. She’ll be lecturing in the area and agreed to come along and conduct a séance.”

  I frowned and glanced at the name. Madam De Luna. I hadn’t heard of her but that didn’t mean anything. “Alicia, I really don’t like the idea of a séance. It seems pretty morbid, considering…” I stopped.

  What was I saying? It was only a bit of harmless fun. I certainly didn’t believe in communicating with the dead. Or did I? No. I was worried about Alicia. She was so easily influenced and despite her newfound enthusiasm, she still wasn’t fully recuperated.

  I’d witnessed a couple of amateur attempts at contacting the spirit world. Every teenager dabbles with ouija boards and slumber party séances. We used to get a kick out of turning out the lights and frightening the daylights out of one another. Nothing ever came of it but each experience left me with an uneasy feeling and I soon avoided them altogether.

  I was certain a more “professional” approach wouldn’t change my opinion, despite the fact I knew most of the production was arranged with cheap props and theatrical special affects. Besides, Alicia was too recently recovered to risk being traumatized. Who knew what tactics this woman might use just to enthrall her audience?

  Alicia laughed. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking! But I’m not such a ninny as you think, Suzanna. I know this stuff is mostly for show but I like to keep an open mind. If Leo or Giles could talk to us, I know a lot of people would be interested.” She lowered her voice and leaned closer. “We may even discover what really happened.”

  The suggestion made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle and I didn’t like the odd glint in Alicia’s eyes.

  I handed the list back and stood up. “Well, frankly, I don’t approve, Alicia. But if it’s what you want, I can’t stop you. I just hope you remember it could make things a lot worse than they already are.”

  She smiled, undaunted. “I knew you wouldn’t be a wet blanket! You’ll come, won’t you? I mean, I’d really like you to be here—for moral support.”

  I sighed. I was beginning to realize Alicia was very talented at manipulation. She was right. If she was going to go ahead with this thing, I was duty-bound to be on hand in case anything went wrong. “Yes. I’ll come.”

  She clapped her hands and put a large check mark next to my name. “Thanks. Oh, I know you’ll enjoy it!”

  I pursed my lips doubtfully and left her to her phone calls. I supposed it wouldn’t hurt to let her have her fun. Heaven knew, we could use something to ease the oppressive pall that hung over Beacon.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Past—the dark unfathom’d retrospect!

  The teeming gulf—the sleepers and the shadows!

  The past! the infinite greatness of the past!

  For what is the present after all but a growth out

  of the past?

  Walt Whitman, Passage to India

  Kong sat expectantly at the door of the attic, his slanting yellow eyes assessing me as though he knew what I planned to do and felt it his duty to supervise.

  I went straight to the trunk and opened it, finding the spiral notebooks on top where I’d left them. I removed the most recent one, determined to find out whom it was my mother had likened to a “coiled cobra”. It was very possible this same person might be the one we were all looking for. Perhaps Anna, with her quiet perceptive instincts, had sensed a manic streak in someone that the rest of us couldn’t see.

  I sat down on the chair near the window and thumbed slowly through. Eventually, I located the passage I’d glimpsed before and flipped past it, only to find torn stubble where a number of pages were ripped out. The rest of the book was empty. I stared at the ravaged edges blankly, then went back to the trunk and removed each of the other diaries and shook them, hoping against hope that the missing pages would fall out. I knew it was useless. If Anna had indeed put a name to her suspicions, someone made very sure it wouldn’t be discovered.

  I leaned back in the chair and stared out the window, filled with dejection. Who could’ve known about the diaries? David came quickly to mind. Had he seen through my little white lie about them? Perhaps he’d seen more when he casually thumbed through the notebook than I realized and came back later to destroy any damning evidence. But no, anyone could have ripped out those passages. Chances were they’d been severed even before I laid eyes on the book. Those diaries had been in that trunk since my mother’s death and in all those years, any member of the household could’ve come upon them.

  Sadly, I opened the book again and read the pages just prior to the end. Leo had brought Grant to live at Beacon. Anna was skeptical about the arrangement, finding Grant a “sullen and uncommunicative young man”. Colin was becoming harder and harder to discipline. There were reports from school about his fighting. She suspected the other children taunted him about his father’s precipitous marriage.

  “I can’t seem to talk to Colin about it,” Anna wrote. “He probably blames me for everything. Leo has no patience with him and seems to be more interested in Grant than his own son. No wonder the boy is so resentful.”

  And later, “Giles tells me not to worry. He says I should be ta
king it easy but I find it impossible. My nerves are always on edge. Leo is forever running off to Chicago, or wherever the company needs him and I’m expected to sit in this museum and amuse myself! At least, I have Suzanna. She’s such a good girl. I only wish I didn’t have to stay in the house alone.”

  I read the next passage. “Grant Fenton is entirely too ambitious for my liking. It seems unnatural for a boy of that age to spend all his free time studying or tagging after Leo. And I’ve seen the way he looks at Suzanna. She’s still just a child! As if I don’t have enough to worry about.”

  Puzzled, I considered this paragraph, unable to remember Grant looking at me in any particular way unless with aloof disinterest. I knew Grant had considered me a “spoiled rich kid” from the start and, in my own rebellious way, I did nothing to alter his perception. In those days, I set great store by my father’s fame and would never admit to myself I could be attracted to someone like Grant. I realized now that he was on my mind often and, by avoiding him, I was also avoiding my own feelings.

  It seemed to me my mother must’ve been speaking of Grant in that final entry. The Grant of those days was indeed wound tightly like a spring, as though with obsessive diligence he could make up for all the early years of poverty and ignorance. He seemed to have no time for anything or anyone who couldn’t help him in his struggle up the ladder of success.

  I’d never considered the driving force behind Grant. As children do, I merely accepted his presence, secretly admiring his rough manners, so different from the studied charm of the nouveau riche with whom I was used to associating. Grant said what he meant and did what he wanted without pretense—or so I’d believed. Now I wondered.

  Anyone born into such a desperate situation as his would certainly carry the scars for a long, long time. It would be only natural to develop a deep resentment toward others born with the proverbial silver spoon in their mouths. It also seemed likely such resentment could very well fester and turn violent.

  I shivered and put the diaries away. I was having second thoughts about confronting Grant about his handling of the business. I was becoming more and more suspicious of his intentions. When all was said and done, he could very well be the one responsible for the deaths of my father and Giles.

  Hadn’t I considered this before I married him? Wasn’t my reasoning that, married to him, I would pose less of a threat to him? It now occurred to me, however, that marriage to him wouldn’t necessarily protect me, should he decide I was interfering with his plans. Maybe I should back off—say nothing about Mike and let the vote for chairman slide. I was still unsure what Grant’s plans were but if Mike’s beliefs were accurate, he was set on remodeling Dirkston Enterprises to suit his own personal ambitions and would dispose of anyone who stood in his way.

  But he knew I still held the purse strings. If he felt I wasn’t going to relinquish them to his care, would he simply have me removed? Even if the money didn’t pass directly to him after my death, Colin could easily be managed since he’d never had any interest in the company. He’d gladly turn it all over to Grant, as long as his own comforts were assured.

  It was this point that convinced me Colin must be innocent. He didn’t possess the ambition necessary to commit murder and I could see no other motive that might evoke such ruthlessness. Still, I wouldn’t rule him out altogether. There was the marina, which he admitted was floundering. He’d solve most of his problems by collecting the inheritance.

  But even this theory had a gaping hole. It was Colin who uncovered the contents of Leo’s will long before it was officially read. If he knew he wouldn’t inherit directly, what was his motive for murdering Leo? Resentment? Perhaps. He had good cause to despise our father but I doubted it. The crime was too well executed—as though it was planned or at least considered for some time beforehand.

  It all came back to Grant.

  I closed my mother’s trunk and latched the shutters at the window. Kong watched me intently.

  “If only you could talk,” I said absently and bent to stroke his thick coat. He endured my caress, even going so far as to arch his back against my fingers and purr loudly. I was ridiculously pleased he chose to accept my friendship. At least, he was one member of the household I could trust.

  * * * * *

  After Giles’ funeral, David spent more and more time at Beacon. I, for one, was pleased. I enjoyed seeing more of him and I knew it was healthier for him to be with people than to sit and brood in the empty house where his father no longer dwelled. We developed a deeper empathy for one another. We’d both experienced the death of a parent by violent means and, though I might have preferred to find closeness some other way, those tragedies formed a common ground on which we could share feelings more intimately than before.

  I think, for the first time, David needed me as a friend. Colin was there, of course but he never fully understood the depths of sadness David experienced. Colin felt nothing similar over the death of his own father and he was too young to remember much about his mother’s death. There was no one else for David to turn to but me and I liked it that way.

  The guestroom near my own was prepared and David stayed there most nights, away from the haunted emptiness of Spindrift. I could see, despite a brave front, he suffered deeply and, though he never admitted it, I knew he wanted me close. He insisted on accompanying me most places, purporting to worry about my safety. I didn’t object. I told him how Sergeant Davison encouraged me to leave and he understood that by staying I was taking a big risk.

  Grant came and went unannounced. I could tell by his rigid face and gruff manners he wasn’t pleased with David’s residency and I was careful not to allow him the opportunity to confront me.

  At David’s suggestion, I locked my door each night. This, however, didn’t prevent the recurring dream that woke me frequently and left me shaking and drained. The dream was unlike any other I’d ever experienced and the intensity of its realism was horrifying. Each time I felt the presence that had beckoned me at the cabin and surrounded me the first night in the swimming pool and on the beach. The presence itself didn’t frighten me but the desperation it emitted did. After the dream, I awoke in a cold sweat, racking my brain to remember details but able only to piece together a hodgepodge of sensations and disjointed images.

  I must’ve called out in my sleep, for often it would be David hammering on my door that brought me awake. On these occasions, I fell tearfully into his arms, allowing him to comfort me with soothing words and hot tea he fetched from the kitchen.

  I tried to ignore the effect these late-night disturbances had on me, though I found myself sleeping later and later and having to drag myself about during the day with little or no energy, longing only to return to the soft security of my bed and the partial oblivion of sleep.

  Alicia seemed to have recovered completely from her close call, though no one but Grant would have the temerity to question her about her use of drugs and he seemed too preoccupied with the business to worry about it. With the party only a week away, she was ambitiously organizing costumes for everyone in the house and suggested I find something from the attic.

  She was ridiculously excited when I mentioned Anna’s wedding gown and insisted it would be the perfect thing. I could be the bride of Dracula or Frankenstein’s bride. Personally, I didn’t care. Together, we brought the dress down and I tried it on. It was too small in the bust and hips and there were a few brown stains on the full white satin skirt but with the help of Martha and Lottie, the garment was cleaned and altered until it looked practically new and fitted me well enough.

  I felt ridiculous wearing it. I suspected it was chosen by Leo rather than Anna, for it was much too elaborate for Anna’s quiet tastes. It was intricately embroidered with pearls and sequins, with a high lace collar and long, fitted sleeves. The skirt was meant to be belled out with hoops and petticoats but I drew the line there and had the hemline raised so it could drape naturally.

  I endured the fittings apathetically
, grateful to pull on a pair of comfortable jeans afterward. I thought wryly of my own so-called wedding and wondered if I’d ever have another. The logical side of me viewed large weddings as a waste of time and money, though the romantic in me longed for all the frills and frippery of a traditional ceremony.

  Darla made herself more and more at home at Beacon, despite her professed insecurities. I couldn’t see she was accomplishing much of anything in the way of secretarial duties. Occasionally, she shut herself into my father’s—now Grant’s—office and I heard the click of computer keys or the whir of the fax machine. Still, it seemed the woman was more than dispensable as an employee and I deeply resented her presence. I tried my hardest to avoid her but she seemed set on confronting me at every turn and was forever popping up “coincidentally” at the oddest times and places.

  My mother’s diaries drew me like a magnet. I brought them down to my room and read each one carefully, particularly attentive to the most recent one. The more I studied it, the deeper was my conviction that Anna was genuinely afraid of Grant. She never said so directly but her references to him were emotion-packed and it was obvious she wished he hadn’t come to Beacon.

  The idea that Anna’s fall might not have been the accident we’d all assumed came suddenly upon me one evening as I sat working on my neglected manuscript. At first, I tried to put it from my mind, telling myself I was getting paranoid. But surrounding events and occurrences began to slide into place, fueling the suspicion. I switched off my computer and went downstairs to the library, hoping to find something to distract me.

  Martha was sitting in a wingback chair, reading. Her hair was curled with clips and a pair of bifocals was balanced on the end of her nose. She was covered from neck to ankles in a warm lavender dressing gown and her feet were encased in soft, fluffy, white slippers. She glanced up surprised.

  “Don’t get up,” I said smiling. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”