Bill shifted in his chair and turned toward Michael, who approached from the side. His eyes grew wide, then he began to laugh. “You could be him, son, you could be old Jim Speller except for the eyes.”
Michael touched his bruised eye and shrugged. “I’m a fast healer. When this is gone, who am I going to look like?”
“Hell, it’s not the shiner. Jim Speller was always getting into fights. If anything, that mouse makes you look more like him. Nah, it’s your eyes. They’re green.”
Michael was wearing a light green sweater and his eyes had mellowed from a gray-blue into a green to match.
“What color were James Speller’s eyes?”
“Green,” said Bill.
“I think I’ll order our food,” said Michael, giving Jane the raised eyebrow that indicated she might be better at dealing with this crazy coot solo.
“Brown, too,” said Bill. “Dark like yours, honey,” he said to Jane. “One bright green eye and one so brown it was almost black. Drove people crazy when they were talking to him. Made some folks uncomfortable, but old Jim, he loved it. He’d stare right at you, dare you to look away from him. He was a character, all right.”
“What happened to him?” asked Jane.
Bill shook his head. “Some people around here thought Ada might have poisoned him with those medicinals she grew out in her garden. But I don’t think so. Ada was always peculiar, but she and Jim loved each other. He protected her, even if he wasn’t always real honest with her. He sort of hid her away from the town and he hid his own business away from her.”
“Did he hide his wife from her?” asked Jane. “Did he hide Martha?” Bill hesitated. Michael returned to ask Jane a question about the food, but Jane cut him off.
“Look, Bill, I know that Jim Speller had a wife named Martha who lived in a town near here. And I know he left her, maybe when she was pregnant. Or made her leave him. Do you know about it? It’s my family. My brother and I are Ada’s cousins and we’re trying to help her. You can see we’re related. You said yourself my brother looked just like young Jim.”
“I used to run with Jim and he could be one mean son of a bitch. That’s the truth. But we had fun, too. When I married my Helen, she didn’t want me hanging around with him and I could see her point so Jim and me kind of drifted off. One night, though, I was out at the tavern with the boys when Helen was visiting her mom, and Jim comes in, buying everybody drinks, telling everybody they should be doing the buying because he got married. He bragged that he had the best setup in the world. He could run his family place and make money there, but he had a wife in another town who knew enough to keep her mouth shut and let him tend to his family.
“It was Martha he said he married, all right. She grew up in Bonfield, I think. Maybe Limestone. It was all a long time ago.”
“Do you know what happened to her?”
“He’d bring her around the tavern and places for about a year, then after that, she just wasn’t around anymore. Some people said old Ada found her and sealed her up in one of the secret rooms in the house, but I think she just left. No one would have stayed with Jim. His sister was the only one who could bring out anything nice in him.”
Jane could see Bill was getting uncomfortable. His card-playing buddies had returned from stretching and refilling their coffee cups, getting desserts, and now were eyeing him, wondering what was going on, what was making him so talkative, and Jane could tell that this all felt wrong to him. Gossip was okay in a small town, but not gossip about the dead and gone.
“Thank you, Bill. This is going to help Ada,” said Jane.
Bill shrugged and turned back to the cards, motioning his friends to sit back down at the table with their drinks and pieces of chocolate cream pie.
“I know you’ll explain all this to me,” said Michael, “but I am so lost right now. Or maybe she could explain it all to me.”
Jane looked into the kitchen where the waitress was packing up the food Michael had ordered. “Why? What did she say?” asked Jane.
“Not a thing,” said Michael, “she was too busy listening to you and the old guy. I thought she was going to fall over, she was leaning so hard in your direction. I can’t believe she bagged up the right food. I told her we were in a hurry and she said they had premade sandwiches and salads. Some lunch specials left over, too. Is that okay?”
When the waitress returned with two full bags, Jane saw it was the same young woman who had been impatient to close the first time she had come into Edna’s with Michael’s picture.
“Remember me? I was in here the other day and asked you if you knew anyone who looked like this guy.” Jane nodded her head in Michael’s direction.
“Yup, and the answer’s still no. But I know one thing about that old lady across the street now. I asked my boyfriend and he says she’s pretty crazy, and around Halloween, she gets even nuttier. He says bad things happen to people who mess around with her.”
“Yeah?” said Jane.
The waitress nodded.
“What’s his name?” asked Jane.
“Who?” she asked, her attempt at a menacing stare dissolving into a confused look.
“Your boyfriend,” said Jane. “Anyone who knows anything about Ada is someone I might like to talk to. You know, keep this quiet, but there was a . . .” Jane hesitated, then leaned forward and lowered her voice. “A murder might have been committed just outside of town. There’s an investigation going on right now. Don’t say anything, but anybody who knows anything about weird goings-on is going to have to come forward . . .”
“Will you get us a bunch of extra napkins, please,” said Michael.
The girl hurried back to the kitchen, and Michael leaned over and whispered into Jane’s ear, “You might be the detective, but you’re not such a great judge of character. I told you she’s an eavesdropper, which means she’s a gossip, too . . .”
“Here you are. And some extra ketchup for the meatloaf.”
Jane looked guiltily at Michael and nodded before turning back to the waitress.
“What I told you is confidential,” Jane said. Turning to Michael, she indicated the house across the street.
“Let’s go meet Ada.”
“Man, Q would love this house,” said Michael as they stepped onto the porch. “Look at those spiderwebs. They are works of art.”
“Don’t put your hand in them, most of them are real,” said Jane, knocking then opening the door. “Cousin Ada doesn’t hear too well. You have to plant yourself right in front of her. She doesn’t see that well, either, and I’m afraid when she gets close to you, she might act a little strange. I mean stranger than usual. If she thinks you’re her dead brother, just follow my lead, okay?”
“I came here to solve my problems back home and it’s working. I don’t even remember why I got on that plane,” said Michael.
When they stepped into the house, Michael and Jane were greeted with a moaning sound. At first, Jane thought it might be some kind of Halloween recording, some scary haunted-house sounds that Ada might be playing. But this sorrowful wailing was real and close by. Jane motioned for Michael to follow her as she walked through the hall into the dining room, calling Ada’s name out loudly.
They found her in the kitchen, sitting at the table, knife, as usual, in her hand. But she wasn’t carving a pumpkin. She was holding a paper cutout of a black cat with a devil’s mask and shaking her head, crying. Before Jane could catch her attention, Ada put the cutout on the table and stuck the knife into it, ripping the cat down the center with a jagged tear.
“Holy Toledo, Ada, that’s worth hundreds of dollars,” said Jane. “Ada,” Jane shouted, “Ada, don’t!”
As Jane approached her cousin, Ada looked up, still sobbing, and dropped the knife.
“Ada, don’t tear up your decorations. They’re valuable. All of these,” Jane said, gesturing around the room. “People collect these pieces.”
“No,” said Ada. “It’s not mine. Somebody took m
ine and put this one up instead.”
Jane picked up the torn paper and felt it between her thumb and forefinger. Ada was right. It wasn’t an original Dennison cutout. It was a flimsy paper copy.
Jane looked closely at the black cat. It wasn’t even that great of a phony. Someone had just color-copied the original, then pasted the copy onto a thin piece of cardboard, coated it with a shiny Mod-Podge kind of material, and stuck it up on the wall. This wasn’t the work of a counterfeiter—someone who was trying to fool vintage collectors with carefully, if cheaply, made phonies. This was done by someone who thought he didn’t have to work very hard to fool Ada. Whoever had done this assumed her vision was poor enough that she’d never spot a fake among the originals. Oh had said earlier that effective con men were great listeners. But they make mistakes, Jane thought, by underestimating their mark. Ada might have compromised vision, but every other sense in this woman’s body was finely tuned to every object that held a place in her world. Jane was certain if she took away one of the green glass salt cellars in the dining room hutch, Ada would spot its absence the next time she walked through the room. Something would be wrong—placement, color, shape—and she would know.
I’m like that, thought Jane. I know when things are missing, when things are added, adjusted, rearranged. Even when I can’t say what it is, I know when things are not right. Jane took Ada’s hands in her own and coaxed the old woman to look up at her. Her thick glasses, so darkly shaded, added to her ominous look. In such a dark house, why did Ada wear tinted lenses?
“I’ll find the real decorations, Ada. I’ll find your cats and your pumpkins and—”
“Mama’s,” said Ada. “I know what Ma’s things are and people shouldn’t take away those things.”
Jane nodded. Ada looked past Jane then, and saw Michael. Jane felt Ada’s hands stiffen and she withdrew them and stood up. Age had no effect on Ada’s spine or posture, and when she rose to her full height, she was formidable with her long hair fanned out behind her. Jane didn’t see Ada pick up the knife, and until the old woman lunged at Michael, the flash of silver in Ada’s hand didn’t resonate. It was a reflex, Jane told herself, just pure reflex that made her jump up and use her own arm to knock Ada’s hand aside, causing her to drop the blade. Ada’s fist connected with Michael’s chest, though, and she said in a low growl, “You’re not my brother.”
Michael took Ada’s hand in his own and shook his head.
“Where did you get my brother’s face? What did you do to it?” Ada said, softer and sadder. “My brother is dead, isn’t he?” Ada unclenched her fist, but Michael still held it.
“I’m Michael. I look like your brother, but I’m not your brother or pretending to be him.”
Jane watched Ada’s body relax.
“I thought you were the ghost, and my brother doesn’t come to me looking like that . . . I thought . . .”
“Ada, someone has been playing awful tricks on you,” said Jane. “Not us. This is my brother, my brother, Michael. Nellie’s boy. And I’m Nellie’s girl.”
“Why would anyone play tricks like that?” said Ada. “Halloween? Ma gave wonderful treats. No one should be playing those tricks.”
Ada was calmer now, but she still stared at Michael.
“You’re like my brother,” she said. “But you don’t have the eyes.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Michael, giving Ada a big smile.
“Heterochromia,” said Ada.
“What?” said Jane. “What did you say?”
“Heterochromia. That’s what Brother James had. Pa wanted us to know the real word for it. It meant that his eyes were different.”
“And your eyes, too? Is that why you wear dark glasses?” asked Jane.
“No, no, no,” said Ada, smiling, truly relaxed now. “My eyes are your eyes.”
She removed her glasses and Jane and Michael saw that she had deep brown eyes, almost black, like Jane’s own.
“It was Mama’s idea that I wear these glasses. Brother James was my twin and Ma said it would be better if everyone saw our eyes as the same. James wouldn’t wear dark glasses. He liked heterochromia. He said it made people remember him better. Mama said, though, that it would make us even more twin if people thought my eyes were like Brother James’s.”
“So you tricked people,” said Jane.
“Just a little,” said Ada. “But I never stole from people.”
“Heterochromia,” said Michael. “I never heard of it. Do you have a dictionary or an encyclopedia, Ada?”
“My father’s library,” said Ada.
Jane thought there would never be a better time to tell Ada that there had been some tricks in the library, too. When she took down one of the paper “book covers” someone had slipped in to fill the gaps where the missing books belonged, Ada’s face grew mournful.
“Father wanted his books to stay together. He told us they belonged together. One led to the next one, he said.”
“I’m going to try to get them back. We think someone has been stealing from a lot of people and trying to sell their good things. We’re going to catch the thieves. Maybe tonight,” Jane said, in a whisper. In fact, Jane had dropped her voice so much that both Ada and Michael strained forward to hear her. Louder, she added, “We’re going to recover all the stolen property tonight. We hope. Tim and I are going to send everyone home and we’ll stay and work all night if we have to,” Jane said, now projecting her voice so Ada would understand.
Before Michael could ask what she was talking about, Jane took Ada’s arm and asked if she would take them out to the backyard to see the pumpkins. Ada nodded, and turned away from the books, leading the way to the back door.
“Who carved all these jack-o’-lanterns?” asked Michael.
“Everyone comes and carves,” said Ada. “When we were children, the town was invited. And even when Mama and Pa were gone, we invited everyone. From the diner, the children from school. Their teachers would bring them. Brother brought friends, too, from his work.”
“Work? Didn’t James run the farm and manage the property? Did he have a job, too?” asked Jane.
“He managed this property and other property. Ma and Pa owned buildings in other towns where people lived. Apartments. Brother James checked on all the buildings, kept it all up. He carried keys on a big brass ring and checked on things. He sold the buildings, so I’d have money to keep me. I have the house and I have—” Ada stopped herself.
“Brother James is dead?” she said to Jane, who nodded.
“Who is living in my house with me?” Ada asked.
It was a simple question, but so odd and unafraid. Jane felt cold all over.
“Is someone in your house now?”
“Someone is always in my house,” said Ada.
Jane looked at Michael who, although fascinated by the conversation, looked as hungry and tired as he had before they had come to town. Jane knew they had to get back to the farm. She didn’t like leaving Ada, but knew Ada would refuse to leave the house. Jane felt that no matter who was in that house, any intruder would be more interested in Jane’s claim that all the valuables would be discovered at Swanette’s tonight. Ada and any other real ghosts might have the place to themselves this evening.
Ada bent down to her herbs and picked a fistful of green and yellowish stems and handed them to Michael.
“Boil these and soak a piece of new wool in the tea. Put the compress on that eye, the bruising will be gone in two days,” said Ada.
Michael thanked her and impulsively hugged the old woman. She hugged him back, but in a no-nonsense Nellie-like manner. She broke away and patted his arm and touched his eye briefly and gently. Then she went into the house, leaving Jane and Michael alone in the backyard—alone except for a hundred leering faces staring them down.
“Must be something when they’re all lit up,” said Michael.
Jane nodded, but her mind was somewhere else.
“In the library, I didn’t notice if
you looked it up? Heterochromia?”
“I didn’t have time,” said Michael, as they walked around the house and crossed the street to Jane’s car. He unwrapped one of the sandwiches and started eating. “Either this is the best tuna salad I’ve ever tasted or I’ve never been hungrier.”
“Heterochromia,” said Jane. “You’ve never heard of it before?”
Michael shook his head.
“I’m not sure. I feel like I’ve heard about it somewhere,” said Jane. “It’s driving me crazy.”
17
What had begun as a warm autumn Sunday had turned into something else entirely. Late afternoon, as the sun dropped lower, the temperature followed.
Claire Oh retrieved her own blue knit jacket from her car and buttoned it up as she worked her way through the drafty house. Nellie had found an old Pendleton plaid wool jacket in the hall closet. It had a forties-style nipped-in waist and shoulder pads, giving Nellie the look and style of a spunky starlet from a Frank Capra movie. Tim had put on one of the sixties-style crocheted ponchos he found in the teenage niece’s closet. Every time someone looked at him, he smiled and flashed the peace sign. Don found a down vest in one of the sheds. Oh had shown up that morning wearing a tweed wool sport jacket and seemed to remain comfortable. Michael, spoiled by California, had brought a Patagonia fleece in his duffel, prepared for a Midwestern October chill. Jane went from closet to closet, marveling at the different eras of vintage clothes, trying to find something that would warm her, but had no luck finding a decent-fitting jacket.
She was shivering in her denim work shirt when she walked out to the camper van at the entrance to the driveway. No one had seen Dave, the lighting technician, all day, and around dusk, when they were breaking for some food, Jane realized that she needed to tell him what was going on at the property that evening.
Jane knocked on the door, but there was no answer. She walked in and was astonished at the efficient outfitting of the small space. The rear half of the camper was all storage with specially fitted boxes for the lights that were set up on the grounds. When they were taken down, they would all fit neatly back into their crates. But the front half of the van, behind the driver’s seat, was a delightful space, intimate, personal, and comfortable. A small tabletop could be folded down from where it was latched to the side wall. A swivel recliner, complete with a clamped-on reading lamp, fit neatly behind the driver’s seat. A built-in LED TV screen was hung opposite the comfortable chair. Another small drop-down table was built over a space where a small refrigerator and microwave sat.
Scary Stuff Page 18
