Amy considered. “I don’t think my mom would like it much.”
“Why not? Louann would love it.”
“She doesn’t like to admit Louann is different.” Amy wasn’t in the mood to talk about that problem, either.
“Our minister believes in ghosts,” Ellen said after a few moments of silence.
“How do you know?”
“He said once—he said things happen that we can’t explain. And if you see something like that, you should feel lucky, not afraid, because most people never have the experience. I’d be afraid,” she added honestly.
“I bet he would, too,” Amy said. “I bet he wouldn’t feel so lucky up there in that attic with a ghost crying and lights going on and off and dolls moving….” She lay back, squinting into the sun. Grown-ups could make a lesson out of anything!
At three o’clock they gathered up their belongings, leaving the Frisbee on a picnic table for someone else to enjoy. Ellen’s mother had said she would be at Aunt Clare’s house at four.
“This was a fun day!” Ellen exclaimed as they left the park. “When we moved to Claiborne, I didn’t know anybody, and now I have a best friend. Just like Cissie said when she was telling my fortune. I’m glad it’s you, Amy.” She turned to Louann, who was listening intently. “You’re a good friend, too, Louann.”
Amy wished later that their day could have ended right there. But as they turned into the yard of the old house, they saw Aunt Clare sitting on the top step of the porch. Her face had a dark, closed-up look, and she barely nodded in response to the girls’ hellos.
“Your mother called—she’s on her way, Ellen,” she said abruptly. “She wants you to be ready because she’s in a hurry. Are you all packed?”
“Yes.” Ellen looked at Amy.
“What’s the matter, Aunt Clare?” Amy asked. “What’s wrong?”
Her aunt glared at them. “I’m sure if you think about it, you’ll know very well what’s the matter. We’ll talk later.” Her voice shook with rage.
“I’ll get my suitcase,” Ellen said and hurried inside.
“But I don’t know what’s wrong,” Amy insisted.
“We’ll talk about it when Ellen is gone,” Aunt Clare said tightly. “There’s already been far too much talk in front of strangers.”
They sat in silence on the steps until the crunch of tires on gravel announced Mrs. Kramer’s approach. Ellen must have been waiting and watching from an upstairs window, for as soon as the car turned into the yard, her footsteps sounded on the stairs. She came outside on tiptoe and closed the door gently behind her as if someone were ill.
“Thank you for the lovely party, Miss Treloar,” she said. “It was really nice. See you Monday, Amy.”
Amy nodded, too upset to speak.
“ ’Bye, Louann. ’Bye, everybody.” Ellen jumped into the car and was gone.
“How dare you?” The words cut like a blade across the chirping, buzzing peace of late afternoon. Amy swung around to face her aunt. “How could you gossip about our family to all those girls? I can’t forgive you for that, Amy. I told you how I felt about your putting the dolls in the rooms where they were murdered, and yet you went right up there and did it again last night. In front of everyone! You don’t care how I feel!”
So that was it. Aunt Clare had been in the attic and had looked into the dollhouse.
“I went up to put Ellen’s blanket away, and there was the house standing open the way you left it last night. And the dolls were in the bedroom and the parlor again! And the desk—oh, Amy, that was the worst! What were you doing—putting on a play for your friends? I just can’t believe you’d be so insensitive.”
“The desk?”
“You know what I’m talking about! The desk in the parlor was moved over in front of the door. You must have read about that when you and Ellen went poking through the newspapers, looking for all the grisly details. After Grandma Treloar ran downstairs to the parlor with Paul, she pushed the desk against the door to try to keep the—the killer out. It didn’t stop him, but she tried. The desk is there in front of the parlor door now, right where you put it.”
“I didn’t!” Amy was suddenly angry, too. Aunt Clare had no right to assume she was guilty without giving her a chance to explain. “I didn’t touch the dolls after we put them back in the box the other night. You were there and saw me do it. And I didn’t touch the desk, either.”
Aunt Clare clenched her fists in exasperation. “Amy, this is terrible! Why must you lie to me? You did move them—you or Ellen—there’s no other explanation.”
“Don’t yell at Amy!” Louann was on her feet at the foot of the steps. “Amy doesn’t lie. I don’t like you!”
“And I don’t like being lied to,” Aunt Clare snapped. “Sit down, Louann. I’m talking to your sister.”
“I saw the poor dolly,” Louann shouted. “I heard the dolly cry.”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“The poor dolly—”
“Aunt Clare.” Amy knew what she had to do. She struggled to keep her voice steady. “I didn’t move the dolls when I was up there last week, and I didn’t move them yesterday. Neither did Ellen. Something really strange is happening in the dollhouse. The parlor lights up, all by itself, and the dolls move around. I saw the grandmother doll moving. I did!” She turned away from her aunt’s disbelieving eyes and hurried on. “Last night Louann went up there after we were all asleep, and I went to look for her. The house was open again, and there was a light, and”—she took a deep breath—“there was crying coming from the parlor. And some of the little books fell off the shelves, all by themselves. I saw them!”
“The books fell down,” Louann said in the silence that followed.
Amy waited for the explosion that was sure to follow her story. She hadn’t wanted to tell, but Aunt Clare had forced her to do it. When the silence stretched out, she looked up and saw that Aunt Clare had buried her head in her arms. Her thin shoulders shook with sobs.
Amy scrambled up the steps and laid a timid hand on her aunt’s arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you. I wasn’t ever going to tell you, because I knew you’d hate it. Please don’t cry.”
Aunt Clare didn’t answer. Gradually her sobs became softer, but she didn’t lift her head. She seemed to have forgotten Amy and Louann were there.
“Aunt Clare?”
“You’d better leave me alone for a while.” The words were muffled.
Amy signaled to Louann. “We’ll be inside,” she said. “Come on, Louann.”
They were in the foyer, looking at each other in bewilderment, when Aunt Clare spoke again. “I’d like to believe you wouldn’t lie to me,” she said tiredly. “But if you’re telling the truth—if there’s a restless, unhappy spirit haunting this place—that’s even worse. Because it means what I’ve always suspected is true. And I can’t bear that.”
THE curtains on the west window were dancing in the wind when Amy and Louann entered their bedroom.
“There’s going to be a storm,” Amy said. She stood at the window and watched the clouds boiling up over the trees. The darkening sky matched her mood.
“Let’s go home, Amy.” Louann sagged against the foot of the bed. “I want to go home right now.”
“We can’t,” Amy told her. “There’s no one there.”
“I don’t care. I want to go now.”
“I said we can’t,” Amy repeated. “Mom and Dad wouldn’t like it if we stayed in the house alone overnight, and Aunt Clare would have a fit.”
“She doesn’t care.” Louann stuck out her lower lip. “She doesn’t like us. And I don’t like her.”
“Did Mom say anything about when she’d be back?” There was a slim chance her mother wouldn’t wait for Dad’s seminar to end on Sunday. After all, she’d only gone along so that Louann would have to be at Amy’s party. Maybe she’d come home on the bus today.
“I don’t remember,” Louann said. “You call her an
d tell her to come right now.”
Amy considered. “I could call and see if she’s at our house, I suppose,” she said. Amy was willing to try anything. She didn’t want to stay another night any more than Louann did.
She tiptoed downstairs to the telephone niche, catching a glimpse of Aunt Clare still hunched on the top step of the porch. She looked like a little girl sitting there by herself. A frightened little girl.
Amy brushed away the thought. Aunt Clare knew as much about the haunted dollhouse now as Amy did. If she refused to believe, whose fault was that? She’s not my responsibility anymore.
Amy let the telephone ring a dozen times, just in case her mother was in the basement or out in the garden. But she didn’t really expect an answer. Her mother was almost certainly a hundred miles away in Madison, shopping or having dinner with Dad.
“That isn’t necessary.” Amy whirled around. Aunt Clare stood on the other side of the screen door. “You don’t have to call anyone. I don’t want you to leave, Amy—not before we try to straighten this out.” Her face was set and pale, but her voice was strong.
“We can’t go home anyway,” Amy said. “Nobody is there.”
“Of course not.” Aunt Clare came into the foyer. “Let’s go to the kitchen and make some cookies,” she said. “I want to talk to you, and we might as well do something constructive at the same time. Where’s Louann?”
“Upstairs in our bedroom.”
“I upset her terribly, didn’t I? And you. I’m sorry. Would you go up and ask her to come down? Tell her I’ve stopped roaring.”
“She won’t come—not until she feels like it.” Amy followed her aunt to the kitchen, dizzied by her mood shift and wondering what was going to happen next.
A flick of the light switch turned the kitchen into a cheery haven from the storm that was beginning to break overhead. “Chocolate chip?” Aunt Clare began getting out ingredients without waiting for an answer. Amy sank into a chair, still not sure what was expected of her.
“I’m not going to talk about the dollhouse,” Aunt Clare said firmly. “I’ve thought it over, and I believe that you believe what you said is true. So it was wrong of me to say you lied. I hope you’ll forgive me. My temper is my curse. But I do want you to know why I feel so strongly about being reminded of what happened in this house. The thing is, Amy”—she turned away to pour chocolate bits into a measuring cup—“I’m quite certain that it was my fiancé, Tom Keaton, who murdered Grandpa and Grandma Treloar.”
“Oh!” The word popped out of Amy as if she’d been hit in the stomach.
“Tom was eight years older—hotheaded, reckless, charming—exciting to a strong-willed eighteen-year-old girl who’d seen practically nothing of the world. Grandpa and Grandma met him only once—I told you about that—and they said I was to stop seeing him immediately. He was drunk when he came to the house. It seemed terribly unfair that they’d let one bad impression make up their minds and determine the course of my whole life. He’d already asked me to marry him by then, and I’d agreed.”
“Oh, Aunt Clare—”
“Let me keep talking while I feel up to it,” Aunt Clare hurried on. “You can get out the cookie sheets, if you want….
“I was furious with Grandma and Grandpa. I told them a hundred, a thousand times that I didn’t want to be treated like a child. I guess that’s why I despised the dollhouse. I was practically an adult when they gave it to me, and my grandmother insisted that it remain in my bedroom for the next three years. When I was a woman of eighteen, in love with an older man who said he loved me, I still had a dollhouse in my bedroom!” Aunt Clare’s voice shook. “It seems incredible now that a thing like that bothered me so much. But it did. I sulked and stormed all through those months, and I never stopped seeing Tom. Grandma and Grandpa suspected what I was doing, but they couldn’t stop me. I’d pretend I was going out with other friends, and then I’d meet him somewhere. Or I’d just sneak out of the house after the others were asleep. Grandpa caught me coming in once, but he didn’t tell Grandma. She wasn’t well—she had severe arthritis—and he didn’t want her to be any more upset than she already was.”
Amy moved around the kitchen in a daze, setting the cookie sheets on the table, rinsing the measuring cups and spoons as Aunt Clare finished with them. At one point she realized Louann was standing in the doorway, watching and listening.
“Gradually I realized that Grandma and Grandpa might be right about Tom. He was drinking a great deal, and when he drank his temper was uncontrollable. Worse than mine! I was frightened, but I was far too stubborn to admit I was wrong about him. The more they tried to keep me home—the more they treated me like a prisoner—the more determined I was to be with him. And then he began to insist that we get married soon. When I put him off, he blamed my grandparents for influencing me, and one afternoon he told me he was going to come to the house and have it out with them. I didn’t believe him—he was drunk, rambling—I was sure it was just talk. That night I went to a movie with girlfriends, to have something else to think about. That was the night they were killed.”
Later when Amy thought about Aunt Clare, she remembered watching teaspoonfuls of batter plop onto baking pans in neat rows. The familiar sound of the spoon scraping the bowl made Aunt Clare’s words that much more horrifying.
“I came home from the movies and found the front door standing open. The parlor door was partly closed, and when I pushed it, something kept it from opening all the way. I peeked into the room and saw the desk—and I saw Grandma lying in front of the fireplace—the blood…I ran upstairs, and Grandpa was lying across the bed in their room. Paul—Paul was nowhere! All I could think of was that Tom had come and killed them all. And it was my fault!”
“What did you do?” Amy’s whisper was almost drowned out by a clap of thunder.
“I ran out of the house. The nearest neighbor was a half mile away, but I never thought of using the phone. All I wanted was to run! When the police came, they found the phone lines had been cut, so I couldn’t have called anyway.”
Aunt Clare slid the cookie sheets into the oven. When she turned around, she saw Louann and motioned her to come in. “You’re just in time, Louann. We’ll have cookies and milk in about ten minutes.”
Louann, looking sullen, sat at the table and propped her chin on her hands. Amy sat next to her, and Aunt Clare pulled out a chair across from them.
“The police found Paul—your father—sound asleep in the wood closet in the parlor. He couldn’t tell them a thing. They decided the killer must have broken in on Grandpa and Grandma in their bedroom. He shot Grandpa, and Grandma ran out of the room. She grabbed Paul from his bed and took him downstairs to the parlor. The phone lines were cut, and her arthritis was too bad for her to run away, so she did the only thing she could think of. She hid Paul in the closet, and then she pushed that desk up against the door as a barricade. But Tom—the killer—was too strong. He pushed the door open, and he killed her. Then he went through the house emptying drawers, pulling things out of closets, making a shambles.”
Aunt Clare’s voice faded off, and for a few moments no one spoke. Then Amy suggested timidly, “Maybe it wasn’t your fiancé who did it. If things were stolen, it could have been just anyone. A burglar—”
“Tom would have been clever enough to make it look like a burglary,” Aunt Clare said. “And I know he owned a gun. I don’t think he came here meaning to kill them—he probably intended to frighten them. But when he suddenly appeared in their bedroom, they must have told him exactly what they thought of him. Grandma would have, I’m sure. And he went crazy! I’ve imagined it a thousand times, every hideous minute of it. Sometimes I feel as if I’d been there myself.”
She sighed, looking into the girls’ white faces. “I’m talking too much,” she said. “But I want you to know how it was….Later, the next day—the house was full of policemen and my grandparents’ friends—I realized that something else was wrong. People were looking at me
and whispering. Finally, someone told me that there’d been a car accident, and Tom was dead. He’d been driving at high speed on a road north of town, and he’d hit a tree. No one knew we were engaged—I’d never dared announce it—but there’d been rumors, and everyone knew we were close. I suppose the police wondered if there could be a connection between the two tragedies, but Tom had friends who testified that he’d been with them all evening. So that was it. The police called it ‘murder by person or persons unknown.’ And I was the only person who guessed the truth.”
The timer buzzed, and Amy and Louann jumped. Aunt Clare got up and opened the oven. “Perfect,” she said. “There’s something soothing about baking. It’s one thing you can count on to turn out right, if you just follow directions.”
She lifted the trays from the oven and set them on trivets to cool. Then she went to the refrigerator and poured tall glasses of milk.
“As soon as I could get away—as soon as I knew Paul would be taken care of—I went to Chicago to look for a job. I never wanted to see Claiborne or be reminded of what happened here again.”
“But you did come back,” Amy marveled. “I don’t think I could have done it.”
“I didn’t have much choice,” Aunt Clare replied. “You see, even though I’d left Claiborne behind, I couldn’t forget. The guilt—the terrible feeling that Grandma and Grandpa died because of me—just about drove me out of my mind. Eventually I found a good job, but six months later I was fired. I had awful headaches that made me miss work—and moody times when I just couldn’t get control of myself. I found another job, and the same thing happened. It’s never really stopped. The periods between ‘explosions’ are longer now, but the bad times haven’t ended. I dream again and again about this house and what happened here. A couple of months ago, after a long period of sleeplessness, I had a battle with my boss—and I was out of a job again. Just about then, your father wrote, pleading with me to take time to look over the house and get it ready to be sold. I had nowhere else to go, nothing else to do. I thought maybe if I came back and emptied the old place of all its memories, I’d be able to make a fresh start.”
The Dollhouse Murders (35th Anniversary Edition) Page 9
