“That was also St. Louis. When you relocate for projects such as these, you’ve never chosen to relocate to a small town.” Uncle Neal’s observation was true. Typically, Chandler chose to work remotely with contractors and project managers in smaller towns such as these. Occasional visits to drop in for on-site observance. But places like St. Louis? There had always been some adventure in packing up Peter, not to mention, in the bigger cities, the projects typically took far longer.
“But, how do I know I can trust her?” Chandler had argued, feeling inadequate and foolish.
Uncle Neal’s reassurance that it was a small town with small-town values hadn’t really assuaged her nervous nature. It was a new decade, after all. Morals and ethics were disappearing faster than the Arctic ice. But then, Uncle Neal’s dismissive attitude toward the care of Peter was nothing new. For him, it was Old Village Management, Inc. His business. His pride and joy. His life. Heck, it was his child, and if Chandler hadn’t bit her tongue, she would have reminded her uncle that he never left his baby to the hands of another. Not completely.
“Peter!” Chandler’s voice echoed back at her in the small entryway, bouncing off the scarred hardwood floors. Chandler’s ballet flats were soundless as she hurried into the hall, looking to the left under the arched doorway that led into the tiny living room.
No one.
She scanned the crowded dining area to the right. It’d been the allotted four-hour stint she’d hired Margie for. She wasn’t late in returning home. The silence in the rental cottage was eerie. It was unnerving.
“Peter!” Chandler rushed into the living room, glancing out the large picture window with its antique lace curtains and velvet sofa perched in front. An ancient willow tree draped over the yard, its feathery branches swaying in the autumn breeze. But there was nothing soothing about it. Nothing peaceful or welcoming.
“Peter!” Her voice was a bit strangled.
A foam bullet spiraled through the air, clocking Chandler in the middle of her forehead and bouncing off.
She screamed.
Peals of laughter ousted Peter’s position from behind the corner sofa.
“Nitro Steel attacks!” Chandler’s scrawny son flipped himself over the back of the chair onto its cushioned seat, a blue toy gun in his hands. He cocked the plastic weapon. “Watch out, Momma!”
Chandler held up a palm just in time to deflect the second bullet that rocketed toward her face. “Peter, stop. Please.” Her tending toward tears was now teetering toward a smile and indulgent acceptance of his sneak attack.
Peter lowered the gun, his smile top row toothless, and his enormous eyes like two giant questioning Tootsie Rolls of softness staring back at her. She’d always told Peter she wanted to eat him, from the moment he was born. He was delicious and delectable, and the echo of her mother’s voice rang in her ears.
“He’s a baby, not a Twinkie, honey.”
Chandler wasn’t sure Mom had ever really understood the bond between her and Peter. But then she’d never really given Mom the chance either.
Pushing that thought out of her mind, Chandler tried to ignore the memories of her mom’s nurturing soul and the disappointment etched in the once-proud eyes.
“Oh, there you are, Ms. Faulk!” The pleasant and very cheery voice of Margie collided with the end of Chandler’s frayed nerves. She sucked in a breath to steady herself as she reassessed the buxom woman whose cotton shirt barely concealed her overabundance of cleavage and whose face was hometown friendly. Margie’s naturally curly red hair striped with gray-and-white strands was pulled back into a messy knot that revealed how thick Margie’s hair was. She was flushed, with sweat beads dotting her forehead. The only evidence that something might still be off in what remained in the day.
“Margie, I tried calling you.” There was more insistent interrogation running through Chandler’s mind, but she didn’t have the guts to voice it now that Peter was perched safely on the sofa, his toy gun still ready to go on the attack under his superhero made-up pseudonym Nitro Steel.
Margie drew her hand across her brow and wiped it on the side of her chest as though her natural-made shelf was also a ready-made towel.
“I know. I’m so sorry!” She was breathless. Her hand extended in a haphazard manner and pointed behind her. “The kitchen. It flooded. I’ve been mopping up water all morning and it just keeps coming. I don’t know why.”
“What?” Chandler skirted Margie and hurried to the kitchen. Sure enough, water was still spraying in a slow but steady stream from the pipes underneath the kitchen sink. The cupboard doors stood open, and a pile of soggy towels were mounded beneath it and wrapped around an ice cream bucket, a poor attempt at catching as much of the leak as possible.
Chandler noted the mounds of paper towels in the garbage can. Wet ones. And the mop leaning against the wall.
“Did you call a plumber? The landlord?”
“Noooo.” Margie winced. She was honestly apologetic and frantic at the same time. “I looked for a number for the landlord and I didn’t see one posted. Usually a rental would have one, but . . . well, and then I tried to call a plumber, but the lady said her guys were all out on calls.”
“Did you try another plumber?” Chandler squatted in front of the pipes, eyeing them.
“There’s only one plumber in Bluff River” was Margie’s explanation. “Well, unless you call Bob’s Benders, but I wouldn’t recommend that.”
Chandler squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ignore the raging headache that had sprung up since ending her phone call with Jackson. “The landlord’s number is inside the pantry door.”
“Oh!” Margie rushed to the door and flung it open. “There it is!” She whipped out her phone and dialed without waiting for instruction from Chandler. “Well, gosh, I didn’t know this was one of Denny’s rentals!”
“Momma?” Her son’s voice drew her attention away from the spurting water.
“What is it, Peter Pan?” Chandler tempered her frustration. Her son was seven. Seven. And he was shooting up in height. A full inch in the last four months. All his size 6–7’s were too short, but she’d be darned if she bought him size 8. The idea was unbearable. Her baby boy. It’d been just them. Just the two of them, for so long.
“You okay? You look weird.” Peter scrunched his nose and eyed her.
“Oh, sure.” She ruffled Peter’s shaggy hair. “I’m just tired.”
Chandler tried to downplay the exhaustion that was biting into her muscles and handicapping her mental capabilities. She wanted to collapse onto the couch, succumb to a deep sleep, and pray that God would bless her with regeneration when she woke. But life didn’t afford time for naps.
“But you’re all shaky.” Peter’s fingers touched her arm. “Are you having an episode?” He was so tender, so trusting and tender. So observant too. He’d seen her, those nights in the past few months, shaking on the couch, her hands and arms in tremors, trying to will away the onslaught of another seizure. “Non-epileptic,” the doctor had declared, as if that was somehow a small victory. Maybe it was. She wasn’t sure yet.
Chandler crouched and pulled the scrawny boy into her embrace. She whispered into his ear, “No, Buddy. No episode. Shhh. I haven’t had my coffee yet.” She’d no intention of explaining the stress of last night’s trespass scare and her anything-but-reassuring conversation with Jackson.
“Ohhhhhhh!” Peter’s toothless grin stretched on his face. “That’s sorta—dumb!”
She noticed his attempt to avoid the banned word stupid and didn’t bother to correct any remote vibe of disrespect. Yes. Blame it on lack of caffeine. A little white lie, but necessary—at least it felt necessary. The one thing Chandler would never do was impose her own limitations on to Peter or expose him too early to a world touched by evil. He wasn’t responsible to care for her, and his innocence was too precious to her to see it tarnished before it needed to be.
“The landlord is on his way.” Margie reached for the coffeepot. �
��I heard you say you hadn’t had any coffee yet. That is completely unacceptable.”
Margie took control of the moment. With the faucet already leaking and spitting water over everything, she disappeared into the small powder room just off the kitchen.
“I never start a day without some sort of hot goodness. My aunt used to run a diner downtown, and every morning on my way to school I’d stop by and she’d give me three sips and half a spoon of sugar. Of course, my momma would have had her sister’s hide had she known, but . . .”
Chandler could hear Margie filling the coffeepot with water.
“Of course, then I had to zip by Ned’s Drugstore there on the corner, and by the time I made it to junior high, I was all hyped up on sugar and caffeine.” Coming back into the kitchen, Margie tossed Chandler a smile. “Comes with small-town living, you know? A kid ends up having more than one parent by the time they’re six. Everyone knows everyone, and everyone else’s kids too.”
Margie started rummaging through cupboard doors. “What do you have for coffee?”
“I haven’t been grocery shopping yet,” Chandler responded lamely. Today sucked.
Margie tossed her a look of disbelief. “Do you need me to hang on here a bit yet today, honey? Seems like you could use some help getting settled.”
She could. Chandler hesitated. She had the money to pay for help, but she resisted it. Too proud, her dad would’ve said. Capable and not wanting to impose was more of Chandler’s reasoning.
“No, I’ll—I’ve got it covered.”
Margie scanned Chandler’s face, and a super-thin eyebrow rose over her gray eye. “Mm-hmm. Sure you do. Well, canned coffee grounds it is, then.” She pulled a can of coffee from an otherwise empty cupboard. “I’ve got nothing planned this afternoon, so I’ll just hang here anyway. You’ll need help cleaning up, and otherwise I just go home to an empty house. My husband left me two years ago and took our kids with him, all the way to Georgia. Blasted man.”
Chandler grimaced. She instantly related to being left alone but shuddered at the idea of her ex taking Peter. Of course, he’d never shown an interest. If she were even sure he was the father. Her cheeks warmed at the memories. College had been . . . fun. For a while.
“Goes to show you shouldn’t marry your high-school sweetheart. You change too much as you grow up.” Margie scooped grounds into the built-in filter. “And no, just ’cause I don’t have full custody doesn’t mean I was an unfit mother.” She smiled as if she was used to explaining it, although the thought hadn’t crossed Chandler’s mind. “We just made an agreement that he’d get the kids for the summers. They’ll be back in mid-August to get ready for school. Until then”—Margie shoved the filter into place and hit the on button—“I do in-home childcare, and on the weekends I work at the memory-care center. It pays the bills. I could be working in a factory, but I’d go nuts doing the same thing over and over and over again.”
A pounding on the front door broke into their rather one-sided and chatty get-to-know-you’s. Chandler shoved away from the counter she was leaning against. “I’ll get it.”
It was a good excuse to get away from Margie’s kind and welcoming visage. The kind that hinted she might relate to Chandler, might actually understand what it was to be a single mom, to have to fight to prove herself and make a living. It was disconcerting, the knowing look in Margie’s eyes. She had read Chandler silently, in a way that Chandler’s family hadn’t noticed even when she’d screamed for attention.
He was not what she’d expected for a landlord. Denny Pike’s wiry gray beard hung like Santa’s to the top of his rounded belly. A black leather vest hung over a gray T-shirt emblazoned with an American eagle and a beer logo. His blue jeans were held up with a belt, his paunch hanging over. A red bandanna was tied around his forehead.
Chandler glanced beyond him and noted his Harley leaning on its stand, chrome exhaust pipes on the back and, curiously, a fluffy pink stuffed rabbit tied to the front of the handlebars. It was either sentimental, a joke, or perhaps a bug catcher in lieu of a windshield.
She brought her attention back to the older man with the friendly eyes and the distinct smell of cigarettes.
“Mr. Pike?” Chandler couldn’t help the question in her voice. In her experience—which was pretty vast—landlords or landowners were, at a minimum, casually dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. At a maximum, like Uncle Neal, they wore tailored suits and ran large companies.
“Denny.” He grinned, exposing a row of teeth stained by coffee but otherwise clean. His blue eyes were small in his face, though they sparked with energy and confidence. “Like bikes?” He pointed over his shoulder, having noted her survey of his Harley.
“No.” Chandler shook her head, then stuttered to lessen the bluntness. “I mean, I don’t ride. I don’t know much about them.”
Denny laughed. A deep, chesty laugh that was a bit congested. She caught another whiff of the cigarette smoke clinging to him. Maybe that was the cause of the chest rattle?
“Didn’t figure. You’re a cute-’un but ain’t no biker chick.” He winked. “S’okay. I got your back anyway. So, what’s this Margie said about a leaky sink?”
“It’s in the kitchen.” Chandler started to lead the way, even though, she realized, he knew it well enough. She attempted to make small talk, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. “Margie says you’re friends?”
Denny’s boots clomped on the wood floor as he followed her. “We go back a ways, yep. Was about ten years ahead of her, but she went to high school with my little sister. Ohhhhh, I think that was back in the eighties?” They paused in the kitchen doorway, where Denny edged by Chandler, who was still struggling with feeling completely inept. She needed to eat. She needed a nap. She needed . . . something.
“Let me check out that sink.” Denny grunted as he squatted down by the open cupboard doors. “I might need to run for parts, and I’ve got a meet-up with my nephew in about thirty minutes.”
Denny and Margie exchanged hellos, laughs, friendly banter, then Denny asked, “You try turning off the water supply valve?”
“The what?” Margie raised her brows.
“Oh duh!” Chandler exclaimed. It was the first thing she should have thought of if she hadn’t been coming off a call with Jackson, which had ruffled her nerves like rubbing a cat’s fur backward, and worse, the jarring circumstances of last night.
“S’okay.” Denny eased onto his knees from his awkward squat. “I got ya.” He grunted again as he reached under the sink to shut off the water. Once done, he tinkered around a bit, muttering under his breath.
Chandler noted that Peter had disappeared.
Margie read her mind. “He went upstairs to play Nitro Steel.” A sparkle in Margie’s eyes proved she’d been introduced to Peter’s imaginary persona and was more than up to the challenge of chasing around a seven-year-old superhero.
“Yeeeeeup, looks like a bad seal.” Denny gripped the edge of the sink, his knees cracking as he straightened. “I’ll have to run to the hardware store. I can be back later this afternoon to get it fixed. Meanwhiles, if you’re okay just cleaning up? Leave the water shut off till I get back.”
“Thank you.” Chandler managed a smile as Denny faced her.
But he was looking at Margie as he wiped his wet hands on a dish towel. “You hear about the scuffle at the old train depot last night?” he asked.
Chandler stilled. It wasn’t that she had anything to hide. Nothing had really happened outside of her interaction with Sasquatch Man and Lottie’s claim that she’d seen lights inside.
Margie shook her head. “No, I didn’t. What happened?”
Denny tossed the towel on the counter. “Nothin’ much, I guess. Except Lottie is swearing up and down about the supernatural.”
“That Lottie.” Margie’s voice went up a few chords and she laughed. “That place has been boarded up since I was in school. If it’s haunted, like they like to say, only Lottie would see it. No one cares.”
Denny wrapped his hand around his beard and dragged it down. “Yeah, I know. And you know how the town goes. Somethin’ appetizing about our history, everyone wants a taste of it.” His eyes flickered with shadows for a moment, then they vanished and the sparkle returned.
Margie clicked her tongue and patted his arm. “Everyone always likes to gossip, hun.” Her bosom rose and fell as she heaved a sigh, the sequined purple flower on the front of her T-shirt glittering a reflection onto the watery floor. “Besides, all that haunted nonsense started eons ago. It’s nothing new.”
Denny shrugged. “Lottie said she got the sense there was another presence there last night.”
Chandler frowned. There had been another presence. A very male, very human presence.
Margie let out a quick shout of laughter, complete with a musical giggle at the end of it. “She’s a French fry short of a Happy Meal, God love her.”
“Ehhh, maybe.” Denny rubbed his nose and then tugged at the bandanna on his forehead. “But you can’t argue she knows stuff. Sees stuff.”
“You believe Lottie?” Chandler tested them. She was curious how much clout the woman had in Bluff River. Or, for that matter, how many rumors of hauntings and ghosts circulated in this small historic town.
Margie squished her lips together and rolled her eyes. “I went to school with Lottie. She’s a lovely lady. Really, she is. And, she’s our local, well, she’d say she’s our local medium. But we just say she’s our ghost chaser. She and her son, Cru. They lead the ghost tours in the old section downtown, and I think that depot’s always been on the tour trail, right?” She glanced at Denny, who nodded his affirmation. “Yep. It’s a good gig for the tourism we get here ’cause of the circus museum. Sort of goes hand in hand with history. What’s better than ghosts and creepy old clowns? But sometimes Lottie takes it past a story and thinks she’s actually in the know, ya know?”
Chandler didn’t.
“Sees things,” Margie supplied.
The Haunting at Bonaventure Circus Page 5
