Who Killed Mona Lisa?

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  “This is great,” she said to the bartender. “The apples are from here?”

  “Yup—orchard’s on the property, right out back.”

  “You live in the village?” Meredith asked, sipping her cider.

  “Nope, next town over.”

  “I’m Meredith Lawrence, and this is Claire Rawlings,” she declared. “What’s your name?”

  “Otis Knox,” he replied, wiping his hand on his apron and offering it to Meredith. The hand was broad, with yellow calluses along the finger pads.

  The door behind the bar opened and Mona Callahan entered. “Hello,” she said, seeing Meredith and Claire.

  “Hello,” Claire responded. Meredith was occupied fishing the cinnamon stick from her mug.

  “Hello, Otis,” Mona said, putting her tray down on the bar.

  “Hey, Mona.” His tone was casual, but Claire thought there was something forced about it. A flush worked its way up his muscular neck, spreading over his face until his cheeks shone. Mona brushed past him, and his color intensified. Claire had not at first thought that the waitress was especially attractive, but now, following Otis’s gaze, she saw, through his eyes, the soft line of Mona’s hair, the delicate eyebrows, upturned nose, the full lips.

  Mona Lisa Marie Callahan was an attractive young woman, Claire thought, if not exactly beautiful. What set her apart from other pretty girls Claire had seen, though, was her smile. It was a secret smile, as though she knew something very interesting she wasn’t telling. Claire had seldom seen so expressive a smile, though when she separated it into its various components it was not immediately obvious why the smile should seem to portend as much. Was it the way Mona’s mouth turned up at one corner slightly more than the other? Or maybe the secret was in her eyes: deep green, almond-shaped, with their thick dark lashes, they were her most striking feature. When she smiled, her eyelids half closed, like a cat’s, creating an aura of mystery. At that moment Mona Lisa Marie, the waitress, became Cleopatra, Mata Hari, Salome, Helen of Troy—a woman men would lose their heads over, daring destruction for the sake of a single kiss. Her smile held a subtle promise, an invitation to pleasure to come, of sunbaked seaside landscapes, swaying palm trees, perfumed summer nights—in short, whatever the lucky recipient of that smile might envision as absolute bliss.

  Claire watched as Mona turned her smile upon Otis Knox. She watched the red flush shoot up his neck and the way he averted his eyes, as if the strength of that gaze was too much to bear for long.

  “Do you have ice?” Mona said. “We’re all out.”

  “Help yourself. You still got customers?”

  “One table. They’ve just finished dessert.”

  Otis wiped his strong hands on a white linen napkin. “They’re gonna have a helluva time getting home.”

  “Oh, they’ve got one of those four-wheel-drives.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, I heard them talking about it,” Mona replied, fishing around in the ice bin.

  “I gotta get one of those. You can go anywhere in those things.”

  Mona pushed a wisp of hair from her face. “Where is it you want to go, Otis?”

  “Oh, I dunno. Anywhere.” He turned away so that she couldn’t see the color creeping back into his face, but Claire saw it.

  Mona shook her head. “Otis Knox, if you aren’t just the big adventurer.”

  The boy shrugged and turned an even deeper shade of pink. “All I’m saying is that it’d be nice to know you could have that kind of freedom, is all.”

  “Well, you’ll never earn enough to get one working here, that’s for sure,” she said, flicking the same strand of hair from her face.

  Otis sighed. “I know it—that’s for certain.”

  When the girl had left, Meredith leaned toward Claire and whispered, “He likes her.”

  “Shh,” Claire whispered back, with a glance at Otis, but he didn’t appear to have heard Meredith’s remark.

  Claire sighed; it was evident the young bartender did like the waitress, but probably because of his harelip he hadn’t approached her. To Claire it was a minor imperfection in an otherwise extremely attractive young man, but she could understand his self-consciousness . . . She thought of Wally Jackson and his beautifully shaped mouth. No imperfections there; she loved his face and could look at it for hours on end, she thought, without tiring of it.

  Just then the door to the bar opened and in walked the man who had greeted them upon their arrival the night before. Tonight he wore a maroon vest over a billowy ivory-colored shirt, black knee-high boots, and amber breeches. The young couple in the corner looked up at him briefly, then returned to their intimate conversation.

  “Hiya, James,” said the bartender as the man strode over to the bar, his leather soles making a scuffing sound on the wooden floor. Once again Claire couldn’t help looking at his legs, his thighs thick and strong under the linen breeches

  “’Lo, Otis,” he replied, tipping his tricornered hat to Claire and Meredith as he passed.

  “Slow night tonight,” the bartender commented as he poured a draft beer from one of the taps at the bar.

  “Weather’s keeping people away in droves,” James replied. He settled himself at a table next to Claire and Meredith and raised his glass. “Cheers.”

  Meredith raised her cider. “Cheers.”

  “We weren’t properly introduced yesterday. I’m James Pewter.”

  “James is the inn historian,” said Otis, leaning forward with his elbows upon the bar.

  “Oh, you’re a historian?” Claire asked.

  James hung his hat on the back of his chair and shook his head. “Unofficial. It’s a hobby of mine. I greet people at the door and answer questions about the place.”

  “Cool,” said Meredith. “Tell us something about it. Are there any ghosts here?”

  He took a sip of beer. The firelight reflected in the amber liquid in his glass, and Claire felt mesmerized by the warmth of the room, the hour, and the sweet smell of burning pine.

  “Kind of night Laura’s likely to be out in,” Otis said as he stood behind the bar polishing glasses. “Why don’t you tell them about her?”

  “Who’s Laura?” said Meredith. “Is she a ghost?”

  James Pewter leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Well, some people would say so,” he answered, running a hand through his soft brown hair. “The legend goes back to the eighteenth century, when the place was owned by a fellow named Ezekiel Howe. His daughter Laura was married to a local businessman, but when the war came along she fell in love with a dashing British soldier who was wounded at Concord.”

  “That’s not far from here, you know,” Otis interjected. “In fact, every April we have a march—”

  “What happened to Laura?” Meredith interrupted, her face eager and shiny in the firelight.

  “Well, Laura nursed the man back to health, and then she was so in love with him that she couldn’t bear to live without him. The story goes that she threw herself into the millstream, and was chewed up by the mill wheel . . . kind of a horrible death, really.”

  “Wow,” Meredith said softly. “We just saw it today—the gristmill, I mean.”

  Claire imagined what it would be like to fall underneath that slowly turning wheel . . . she shivered and rubbed her arms to warm herself. She looked over at the young couple in the corner, who were also listening to Pewter’s story.

  “They say that ever since then she’s been seen roaming the halls of the building in a long white dress, in search of her lover.”

  “Wow,” Meredith said softly. “That is way spooky.”

  Pewter leaned forward in his chair, the firelight warm on his honey-brown hair. “Her body is reputed to be buried on the grounds somewhere. Since she killed herself, the church refused to bury her in hallowed ground, so her father dug a grave in the woods somewhere around here.”

  “I wonder if we’ll see her?” Meredith said to Claire.

  “Her ghost even
returned after the fire,” James added.

  “Fire? What fire?” said Claire.

  “There was a fire two years ago that demolished a lot of the original structure of the building. It was only after extensive rebuilding that the inn was able to open again. Fortunately, most of the original timber survived the fire.

  “By the way, this room is the oldest one in the building, this and the museum. You haven’t seen the museum yet, have you?”

  “No,” Claire replied. “Where is it?”

  “It’s that room right across the hall. It’s been closed for some cleaning and restoration work, but should be open tomorrow. You should go take a look. It’s very interesting.”

  “Wow. What was the cause of the fire?” said Meredith.

  James shook his head. “Never determined. Arson was suspected, but nothing was ever proven.”

  “Arson, huh?” Meredith replied. “That can be hard to trace. Arsonists are sneaky. I once saw a thing on 60 Minutes about this firefighter who—”

  “How about another round?” Otis said suddenly, coming out from behind the bar to collect glasses. As if on cue, the young couple in the corner rose from their table and silently left the room.

  “Who are they, anyway?” said Meredith.

  “Lyle and Sally. He’s a poet—they arrived here two nights ago,” Otis replied.

  James leaned back in his chair. “Otis here is a direct descendant of Henry Knox, George Washington’s chief engineer and gunner during the Revolution.”

  “Really?” said Claire. “That’s very interesting.”

  Otis laughed. “He was quite a character. Big fat man, a real eccentric. He adored Washington, and left his job as a bookseller to join the Continental army.”

  “Yeah, I remember reading about him at school,” said Meredith.

  Otis shrugged and went back behind the bar to wash glasses. “Everyone’s got a history,” he said, plunging beer mugs into a basin of soapy water and rinsing them off under the tap. “Who knows? I’m sure on the other side of the family I must have ancestors who were bank robbers.”

  “Really?” said Meredith. “Bank robbers?”

  “I’m just saying it’s possible.”

  “Hmm . . . I wonder what my ancestors were.”

  “Probably horse thieves,” James Pewter remarked.

  Meredith turned to him. “Really? You think so?”

  Claire laughed. “I think he’s just having fun with you.”

  “Oh. Well, I think you’re wrong anyway,” she replied. “I don’t even like horses.”

  “No?”

  “Nope. They’re sweaty and smelly, and they’re not very bright.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” the historian replied. “There are all kinds of intelligence.” He rose from his chair and stretched himself. “Well, I guess I’d better get on home before the snow gets much deeper.”

  “Where do you live?” Meredith asked.

  “Just down the street. It’s the only other house on the road besides the Wilsons’.”

  Claire remembered passing a little stone house after turning off of Route 20. “Oh, we saw it when we came in,” she said. “That’s your house?”

  “Yup,” he said. “Also dates back to the eighteenth century. Frank and Paula’s house is more modern—about 1890, I believe.”

  “Oh, is that their house—the big wood-frame across the street?” said Claire.

  James nodded. “It is. Lived in it ever since Henry was born.”

  “Is that their son?” said Meredith, and James nodded again.

  “I think we saw him last night,” Claire said. ‘Thin and pale, with dark hair?”

  “That sounds like Henry. Well, I’m off.” James handed some money to Otis. “This one’s on me,” he said to Claire.

  “Oh, you don’t have to—” Claire began, recognizing the phrase her father had used so often.

  “I know I don’t have to,” James replied as he pocketed his change. “I want to, that’s all.” He leaned toward Claire and the tips of his fingers brushed her shoulder. She felt her skin heat up through her clothes at his touch. He stood and tipped his hat. “Enjoy your stay.” He opened the door to the bar, letting in a rush of cold air from the hallway, and then was gone.

  Claire felt a pang of disappointment at his departure; she had to admit she found James Pewter very attractive. Later, back in the room, she was afraid Meredith was going to comment on it; sometimes the girl had an uncanny ability to know what Claire was thinking. Instead, though, Meredith sat on the cot taking off her shoes and tossing them into the corner.

  “Did you see Otis around Mona? He thinks she’s awesome.”

  “He does seem to like her,” Claire agreed.

  Meredith flopped onto her bed. “Like her? He’s nuts about her.” She rolled over onto her back and pulled off her socks, flinging them vaguely in the direction of her shoes.

  “She has an interesting smile, don’t you think?” Claire observed.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Meredith answered, picking at her toes.

  “It reminds me of something,” said Claire, “but I can’t think what it is.”

  “Hmm . . . let’s see.” Meredith bent over her feet, her thick red curls hanging over her face like a veil. “I know!” she cried suddenly. “It’s like the Mona Lisa—the painting.”

  “Yeah, maybe that’s it. It has that same mysterious quality, you know?”

  “Yeah, like she’s keeping a secret or something.”

  “Right,” Meredith agreed. “And the secret the Mona Lisa was keeping was that she was pregnant?”

  “Right. Except didn’t they discover that da Vinci used his own face as a model or something?”

  “Yeah, I think they found some early sketches or something.”

  “That explains why she’s not so foxy. I mean, who’d want to look like some old Italian guy? Ugh.”

  Claire laughed. “I wouldn’t mind, if it meant I was worth twenty million dollars.”

  Meredith shrugged. “Whatever. Still, it’s weird, if you ask me.”

  Claire looked out the window at the knot in the trunk of the maple tree. For some reason, William Blake’s poem The Tyger popped into her head.

  Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

  In the forests of the night,

  What immortal hand or eye

  Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

  “There’s something going on here,” Meredith mused.

  “What do you mean?”

  Meredith shrugged. “I’m not sure. But don’t you get the feeling these people know more than they’re telling?”

  Claire sat on the bed across from her. “I guess so. But we’re just visitors. Why should they tell us everything?”

  “That whole fire thing’s suspicious, for example. I mean, James brought it up but then he didn’t want to talk about it. He changed the subject right afterward . . . I don’t know, it’s just a feeling I get, that’s all.”

  “Where’s my mohair scarf?” Claire said, noticing it was gone from the peg in the closet.

  Meredith lay back on her bed, the blankets pulled up to her chin. “You had it on in the bar, I think.”

  “Oh, right. Then the room got warmer and I remember taking it off. I’ll bet I left it on the back of the chair. Don’t go anywhere—I’ll be right back,” she said, throwing on a robe.

  Meredith scrunched up her face. “Now, where would I go at this hour?”

  Claire went down the main staircase and through the front hall to the bar. Sure enough, she found her scarf dangling from the chair where she had been sitting. She scooped it up and crept up the back stairs to the second floor.

  Chris and Jack Callahan occupied the first room at the top of the main staircase. It was, Frank Wilson had told Claire, one of the two remaining rooms from the original building; the rest had been added on some years later. As Claire was making her way back up the stairs, she heard voices coming from inside the room.

  “Well, why did you come
here, then, if you don’t want to talk about it?” It was a woman’s voice, and Claire thought it sounded like Mona.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Mona, can’t we just have a good time for once?” Claire recognized Chris Callahan’s distinctive voice, and he sounded angry.

  “He’s my father, too, you know,” Mona replied, and then she said something Claire couldn’t make out. Claire crept down the hall to her own room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Later, as Meredith lay snoring gently in her cot, Claire gazed out at the snow falling on the fields and woods behind the inn. She thought of the young woman in white whose body lay buried not far from here, a tragic victim of love.

  She forced her mind away from Robert, away from her own narrow escape from death at his hands, and thought instead of Wally. She imagined him lying in the bed beside her, warm and solid and as comforting as the blanket of snow that fell softly upon the frozen landscape outside, burying sadness and grief in white silence.

  Claire heard the creak of a floorboard out in the hall and, being wide awake, decided to investigate. Creeping to the door, she opened it quietly and peered out. There, at the other end of the hall, she saw the white-clad figure of a woman. For a moment, Claire froze where she stood, an icy chill in her veins. In the dim light, the woman looked insubstantial, diaphanous, backlit as she was, and her white nightgown seeming almost to glow from within. But then Claire realized she was looking at Mona Callahan, who was just coming out of her brother’s room.

  She stood in the hall outside the room for a few moments, and as the hall light caught her face, Claire thought that she looked disturbed. She was so preoccupied with her thoughts that Claire didn’t think Mona saw her, because the girl turned and disappeared around the corner without a word.

  Claire stepped back inside her room and closed the door, but she couldn’t help wondering what it was that had upset Mona. It wasn’t unusual for the decline of an aging parent to cause dissension among siblings. She had seen it in her friends’ families: disagreement as to treatment, estate questions, control of the parent and their money—all of this could cause rifts in the closest of families. And by the look of it, she thought, Jack Callahan had made some money in his time. His son had the smell of prosperity about him.