For the Kennett Square visit they had dispensed with the usual limo and Mavis drove them to the house in her Jaguar, seeming a bit giddy at the opportunity for a road trip (albeit a very local one). They passed through the rolling horse pastures of southern Chester County, hedgerows intersected by jumping gates, low stone walls that seemed to run for miles.
Mavis’s GPS directed them to a modest, century-old, two story clapboard house set by itself near the road—Ann guessed that at one time it might have housed a caretaker of one of the surrounding farms. The yard was a bit overgrown and the paint was peeling in places but the flower beds with their bright patches of daffodils were lovingly tended and the brick walkway was carefully swept. Ann knocked on the door and it was opened so promptly that she suspected that Flora had been watching for them.
Flora was a diminutive woman with wavy white hair pulled back in a bun, wearing a flowered dress under a white cardigan that looked to Ann like a going-to-church outfit.
“Miss Kinnear, please come in, I recognize you from the TV,” said Flora, standing aside for them. “And you must be Mrs. Van Dyke,” she said, nodding at Mavis. Mavis, who was taking her vow of silence very seriously, nodded back.
They stepped into the central hallway of the house, a tidy living room on one side and a dining room on the other. The furniture was obviously the same that Flora and Harold had acquired as newlyweds. Ann smelled wood polish.
“I’m so glad you agreed to come. Would you like some coffee or tea?” Flora asked.
“What are you having?” asked Ann.
“Tea,” said Flora. “But I could have coffee,” she added quickly.
“Tea sounds fine, thank you,” Ann answered.
Flora looked at Mavis who risked a word by replying, “Splendid!”
Flora led them back through the central hallway to a seventies era kitchen complete with knotty pine cabinets and Harvest Gold appliances. She seated them at the kitchen table with a plate of homemade butter cookies, then busied herself with the kettle and tea pot and tea leaves.
“I talked with your manager, er, your brother—well, your manager and your brother, I suppose. Did he tell you what I’m looking for?”
“He told me in general but why don’t you tell me yourself.”
The kettle whistled and Flora filled the tea pot. “My husband, Harold, died two years ago. Lung cancer.”
“He died at home.”
“Yes,” said Flora, glancing at Ann. “Did your brother tell you that?”
“No,” said Ann.
Flora waited for a moment to hear more but when no more was offered she nodded. “Yes, he died at home. In the end he wanted to die in his own house, in his own bed. That’s how it should be.” She brought the tray of tea things to the table and sat down. “I thought I could keep the house even after he was gone—a neighbor cuts the grass and there are people from church who would help with the handyman-type work if I asked, but it’s still a lot to take care of. And the winters are hard, I don’t like driving in the snow, so I have to ask people to bring me groceries. Which they do, but I hate to ask. And now both my children are in South Carolina which is very pretty. Also nice and warm. And I’d be able to see my grandchildren more often. I have four grandchildren, all in their teens so it’s not like they’re babies but still it would be nice to see more of them. Even at that age they change so much in a year! But other than my children and grandchildren I don’t know anyone there. Plus, you know, if you live in a place long enough you get everything just the way you want it. I hate to think of starting that all over in a new house. And maybe I wouldn’t be able to afford a house, maybe I’d have to rent an apartment. I know people who live in apartments and they say it can be very noisy. I’m not used to having to deal with other people’s noise.” She stopped for a breath, then smiled sheepishly at Ann. “Heavens, that’s probably more than you needed to know.” She poured out the tea and nudged the creamer and sugar bowl toward Ann and Mavis.
Ann added sugar to her tea with a delicate demitasse spoon. “Did Harold spend a lot of time in the kitchen?”
“Oh, no,” laughed Flora. “He wasn’t a kitchen-type man, not like a lot of men these days. My son and son-in-law are both quite good cooks but Harold only knew how to heat up soup.”
“He spent most of his time in the living room?”
“Yes.”
“Can we have our tea in there?”
“Oh yes, of course!” said Flora starting to pick up the tea tray.
“I can just take my cup,” said Ann. Mavis nodded vigorously.
“Of course,” said Flora, picking up her cup as well as the plate of cookies.
In the living room Flora put the plate down on the coffee table in front of the couch and cleared some books to the side to make room for their cups.
When they had gotten settled, Ann said, “Tell me about Harold.”
Flora smiled fondly. “Oh, we were childhood sweethearts, you know. My family moved to this area when I was in first grade and we knew each other ever since then. Even said we would get married, the way children do. Harold’s father owned the hardware store in town and Harold took it over when his father died.” She continued, occasionally sipping her tea, but Ann only partially paid attention. Harold had only been gone for two years and his spirit was still strong. Ann could smell the lingering scent of pipe tobacco which she sensed was both a physical residue and a manifestation of Harold’s spirit. She thought it was likely a good way to describe Harold’s essence—earthy and comfortable.
When Flora finished Ann asked, “Can we walk through the house?”
“Oh yes,” said Flora, “wherever you like.”
Ann stood—Mavis also popped up—and walked around the living room, examining knickknacks and guessing at their provenance. Followed by Mavis and Flora, she crossed the entrance hall to the dining room where a sideboard held a number of framed photographs. Harold must have been the family photographer because she didn’t see any recent pictures of him, but there was a photograph of Harold and Flora on their wedding day, Harold, with bushy brown hair and wire frame glasses, towering over his smiling bride.
They made a cursory tour of the upstairs but Ann already knew that what she needed was in the living room. Flora offered to show them the basement but Ann declined. They returned to the living room and Ann and Flora sat on the couch, Mavis standing to one side.
“My brother explained to you what it is that I do?”
“Oh yes,” said Flora, “and I saw you on the TV.”
“I don’t converse with spirits—I’m not going to be able to convey a message from you to Harold, or from Harold to you. Harold’s spirit is very strong here and I can tell you the sense I get from that spirit, for example, if it’s contented or confused. Or angry. But that’s all I can do.”
“Oh, I understand, your brother explained,” Flora said eagerly.
“All right,” said Ann, standing up and smoothing her slacks.
Flora stood too. “What should I do?”
“You sit where you would normally sit in here,” said Ann.
Flora went to sit in a chair near the window that had a knitting basket next to it.
Ann gestured to the armchair on the opposite side of the window. “This is where Harold sat.”
“Yes,” said Flora.
Ann glanced around the room and, not finding any easily transportable chairs, went into the dining room and came back with one of the dining room chairs which she put down next to the armchair. She sat down and nodded to Mavis to sit on the couch.
“Now I want you to tell me, very slowly, what the decision is that you need to make. Tell me what the alternatives are and what your questions and concerns are about different options. Tell it just like you told me earlier but very slowly.” Ann rested her hand on the arm of the armchair and settled back in her chair, looking out the window at the view that Harold Soderlund had no doubt looked at every evening for most of his 77 years.
Flora began
her story, telling it slowly as Ann had requested. She ran through the unordered list of pros and cons of moving or staying but always came back to the key question of whether Harold would be angry if she sold the house and moved away.
Ann sensed a press of emotions, now more like colors than scents, drifting around Flora as she spoke. She had expected more of a variation in response as Flora reached different points of her story but the emotions were steady and the color of the spirit—a rich brown—hovered near Flora protectively.
Ann suspected that Flora had not stopped talking to Harold when he died and that he had heard this story many times before. The answer had been right before Flora all the time but she had not seen the answer, or perhaps had seen it but had not trusted herself to understand it.
When Flora stopped talking Ann sat still for so long, looking out the window, that Flora thought perhaps she should start talking again but then Ann stirred.
“There’s no anger. But then I don’t sense that Harold was a man given to anger.” She smiled at Flora.
“Oh no, he wasn’t. The only time I saw him really angry was when Bert ran the car into a tree. Bert had been drinking,” she added with embarrassment. “But selling the house, I thought it might make him angry. He spent his whole life here.”
“No, not angry,” said Ann. She sat still for another minute, looking out the window. “Sad, but understanding. I sense he understands that it’s time for you to move on.” She looked at Flora. “You don’t need to stay here for Harold’s sake.”
Flora, who had been perched in the edge of her chair, slumped a bit in relief. “Oh, that’s good, that’s what I thought but I wanted to be sure.” They sat looking out the window for a minute. Then Flora said, “You sense Harold’s spirit in the house?”
“Yes,” said Ann. “Very strong.”
“If I moved,” Flora hesitated. “If I moved, would he come with me?”
“No,” said Ann. “He would stay here. This is where he belongs.”
Flora pulled a tissue out of her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “Yes, that’s what I thought too.” She smiled at Ann. “Thank you.”
*****
After they left, Ann acquiesced to Mavis’s suggestion that they stop for a glass of wine at a nearby restaurant. Ann figured that she owed Mavis more than the hour with Flora and Harold to make her investment worthwhile, although Mavis seemed perfectly happy with how the visit had turned out.
They took stools at the nouveau rustic bar and Mavis asked for a wine list. “What are you in the mood for?”
“Something red.”
Mavis scanned the list and then handed it back to the bartender. “A bottle of the 2008 Beaulieu Cab. And the cheese plate.”
Ann might have been alarmed that the person who was her ride home had ordered a bottle of wine but from experience she knew that Mavis’s practice was to pour herself one glass which she nursed for the duration. She resigned herself to the task.
“So,” said Mavis, leaning in conspiratorially, “what could you sense about him?”
Ann recounted what she had experienced—the solid earthiness of the essence, the protective aura surrounding Flora.
“You didn’t tell the wife about all that,” said Mavis reprovingly.
“It wasn’t what she had hired me for. I’ve found it’s best to stick to answering the questions they ask to have answered—you never know when you might describe a spirit as having a smoky scent and then you find out that his pipe smoking was a major issue between them and now you have an upset client.”
“Is there anything you’re not telling me?” asked Mavis, alarmed.
“No, I tell you everything because that’s what you’ve hired me for.” She took a sip of wine. “Plus, you’re not personally involved. It makes it easier.”
Mavis took a minuscule sip from her glass. “No, I suppose I’m not,” she said wistfully, then added hopefully, “This Harold Soderlund sounds like a nice man.”
“Yes,” said Ann, “I think he was.”
After the wine, cheese, and analysis of the Soderlund visit had been exhausted, Mavis dropped Ann off at Mike and Scott’s townhouse. It was located in an upscale development outside of West Chester, just a few miles from where Mike and Ann had grown up. The house was sleek and sophisticated, geared to entertaining, with a layout designed for mingling, a high-end sound system, and a well-stocked basement wine cellar.
Ann found that recently built homes generally did not have spirits since spirits often existed in the location where a person had died, and with each generation fewer and fewer people died at home. However, Mike and Scott’s townhouse was inhabited by a small, gray, fuzzy presence that Ann took to be their cat Scooter who had chewed through an electrical wire and electrocuted himself in the living room a few years before. Scott especially took great glee in Ann’s reports of what Scooter’s spirit was doing; tonight Ann reported that Scooter was sitting on the kitchen window ledge.
“She loved the window ledge,” said Scott wistfully. Mike poured three glasses of Pinot noir and delivered two of the glasses and a small bowl of nuts to the kitchen table where Ann and Scott were sitting. Ann groaned.
“What?”
“I just ‘shared’ a bottle with Mavis.”
“I could get you some orange juice—”
“No, I’ll tough it out,” said Ann, taking a sip.
“So it sounds like the arrangement worked out?” Scott asked.
“I think so. Flora didn’t seem to mind Mavis being there and Mavis likes any sensing event. I keep expecting her to get bored ...”
“Why would she get bored? It’s exciting!” Scott gave a little shiver of appreciation. “Plus there’s the human interest angle—you were able to set Mrs. Soderlund’s mind at rest about moving.”
Ann shrugged and swirled her wine. “I didn’t tell her anything that anyone else couldn’t have told her. In fact, I’m guessing it’s exactly what a lot of people probably already have told her. Why does she think that I can tell what Harold would want better than all the people who actually knew him when he was alive?”
Mike sat down at the table. “Because they could tell her what they think Harold would have wanted but only you can tell her what Harold feels right now.”
“That’s right,” said Scott, looking at her with concern.
Ann gestured with her chin to the slightly ajar basement door. “Scooter’s going downstairs.”
“You see? It’s a gift!” said Scott, patting her arm.
Chapter 15
Wednesday morning, another beautiful April day, the limo picked up Ann and Mike at Mike’s townhouse. They drove to Collegeville to pick up the Van Dykes and then headed into Philadelphia to the second house on the itinerary.
The limo let out its passengers across the street from a handsome old townhouse just off Rittenhouse Square. The brick building was three stories, with a short flight of marble steps leading from the brick sidewalk to a dark green door topped by an arched marble surround enclosing a semi-circular fanlight. Wrought iron grates covered the windows at the basement level. Through the large windows on the first floor they could see what appeared to be a library. The door of the house opened and Joyce Grigson, the Van Dyke’s long-suffering realtor, waved to them from the doorway.
“Beautiful house,” said Mike.
“Nice work on the inside, too,” said Lawrence. He and Mavis usually visited prospective houses themselves before involving Ann and Mike so they could eliminate ones that were unacceptable for reasons other than the lack of a spirit.
“Let’s go in,” said Mavis, and started across the street.
“No!” said Ann, and they turned to her in surprise.
Her face had gone pasty and her arms were crossed as if she were cold despite the warmth of the morning.
Usually the nausea she felt after sensing a spirit was similar to what she imagined must sometimes overcome long-distance runners—a rebelling of the self against too great a demand being placed on i
t. In the case of the runner, it was a physical demand; in the case of the sensing, it was a psychic demand.
This, however, was totally different. The clench she felt in her stomach was what she might have experienced if she opened a jar of food from her kitchen cupboard to find it filled with blood. The impact first struck her as an odor but then she realized it was less a smell than it was a physical assault, a force pushing her away from whatever was in the house.
At the same time, she felt something call to her, like a cry for help from the occupant of a burning house.
She staggered back a step, then turned back to the limo but the space was empty, the driver having glided around the corner to look for a parking space.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mike.
“You don’t want this one,” said Ann tightly.
“Why not?” asked Mavis eagerly.
“It’s not what you want,” said Ann. “It’s … unhealthy.”
“What does that mean?” said Lawrence.
“It’s unfriendly,” said Ann. “Bad karma. We don’t need to go in, I can tell from here.”
“But we have to go in,” said Mavis. “I’d like to hear more about what this ‘bad karma’ is.”
“You wanted to know if you should buy a particular house,” said Ann loudly, her agitation was increasing. “I’m telling you, you don’t want this one.”
Mavis crossed her arms. “We paid for you to go through these houses and that’s what I expect you to do.”
“I’m not going into that house,” said Ann. “Doesn’t that tell you what you need to know?”
The Sense of Death: An Ann Kinnear Suspense Novel (The Ann Kinnear Suspense Novels Book 1) Page 10
