Cru swiped at a cobweb that blanketed a lone high-backed chair tipped over on its side. “The most popular of the stories say she was found strangled in the old costume shop—your office,” he said with a quick glance. “Or that she was found hanging right here in the depot. History has left the exact whereabouts unclear. But, they say she was found with a necklace around her neck, twisted so tight it’d dug into her skin.”
Chandler grimaced and bent over to right the antique chair. “I wonder why that little fact has been remembered.”
Cru frowned. “I’m not sure.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets again. “Patty’s death was sort of the catapult to the discovery.”
“Discovery of what?” Chandler had a feeling she already knew what it was going to be. She moved away from Cru and began to circle the room, sidestepping mouse droppings and swiping at cobwebs that hung in the air seemingly suspended from nothing.
Cru’s voice followed her. “Bluff River’s one claim to criminal fame. The Watchman. Ever heard of him?”
Chandler nodded. “Briefly.” Thanks to Hank Titus.
“Legend says he was responsible not only for Patty’s death but also several others along the rails. Always women. Always young and with loose morals. Prohibition probably didn’t make them too hard to find, as they all congregated in the speakeasies and underground bars.”
Chandler wanted to lean against the wall again, but she held off. It was too filthy. “At least they caught him,” she stated, recalling Hank’s vague reference to the wrong man being executed for it.
Cru poked at a canvas tarp with the toe of his shoe. “A lot of people think the Watchman was a hobo, while others say he may have been associated with Bonaventure Circus. No one knows for sure. Regardless, the guy was vicious.”
“Well, the good thing is, that was decades ago, and it’s not like people turn up dead on a regular basis in Bluff River.”
Cru widened his eyes in recognition of Chandler’s thought process. “No, we’re not a cesspool for murder, but . . . well, outside of Al Capone stopping in occasionally to drink in the basement of the old Bluff River Inn, the Watchman is the bad legend the town loves to wrap itself around.”
Ghosts didn’t murder. Besides, Chandler didn’t believe in ghosts, in spirits, in poltergeists. But she did believe there were serial killers out there, and she also believed there were copycat killers. She’d heard of them many times. Wannabes who imitated their preferred killer’s methods. Insane people, psychopaths, those who thought they could revive a lost art of inducing death.
She needed to stop watching crime shows.
She needed to focus on restoring this train depot and raising her son.
She didn’t need to awaken any of the old souls—kind or evil—who had once walked across this wooden floor, their footsteps leaving behind the indelible mark of their presence. Never to leave, never to be erased. They had walked here. The good, the bad, and the wicked.
Chapter thirteen
Chandler collapsed onto a porch chair—the plastic kind that cost all of fifteen bucks at Walmart. She was glad for the excuse to sit down. Her head felt as though it weighed fifty pounds, and the pressure that banded around the back of her head was an ever-present reminder that she had pushed too hard today. Exploring every room of the depot had been finished by midmorning, and then she’d allowed Cru to treat her to lunch at a diner in the downtown square. What used to be an old gas station had been converted into a hamburger joint like one would find back in the fifties. It was a good sign that Bluff River embraced the idea of historic properties being repurposed.
After lunch, she’d split ways with Cru and spent the afternoon alone in her office. Making phone calls, catching up on emails, making connections surrounding the revitalization of the train depot—all while sending covert glances at the ceiling and the very silent yet still upended second floor. It was lonely in the building. Now that she knew Patty Luchent had potentially been strangled and gargled her last breath in this place, Chandler swore she felt cold fingertips brushing the back of her neck.
Here I am was the inaudible whisper of Patty’s spirit that flitted from corner to corner in the old sewing room that once housed tables with sewing stations and bolts of colored materials.
Chandler didn’t want to find Patty. She didn’t want to find any dead person—ghost or otherwise—ever.
Now, seated in the peaceful still of her front porch, Chandler didn’t miss the irony that she was sewing. Much like Patty Luchent had done at the costume house, only Chandler was a few miles away at the opposite end of the small town.
She adjusted the silver material in her lap and bit off the end of a thread she’d just tied. Peter’s superhero cape for Nitro Steel needed mending. It was second nature to her, since she’d excelled in sewing class in high school.
“Is it finished, Momma?” Peter bounded up the porch steps, his cheeks reddened from expended energy. His light-colored hair was flattened to his head with the sweat a little boy produced from merely existing and playing regardless of the outside temperature.
“Just a second,” Chandler muttered around the thread in her teeth. She ground them together, picturing her sewing scissors in her travel kit upstairs. The thread snapped. She ran her fingers across the mended section, then flipped the silver cape out and up so it caught the small breeze and floated down around Peter’s shoulders. “There you go.”
“Epic!” Peter shouted. He liked to repeat big-kid words from the Disney Channel. “Nitro Steel can fly again!” He spread his arms and flew-jumped down the stairs, then twisted and took a knee, extending a closed fist in Chandler’s direction. “Pew, pew, pew!” His high-pitched gunfire traveled across the porch.
“Steel darts again?” Chandler smiled. Gosh, how she loved this kid and his imagination!
“Steel arrows! Nitro Steel leveled up today! And I captured Rustman!”
“Rustman?” Chandler allowed an eyebrow to wing upward. This was a new twist on Peter’s self-imagined superhero stories.
Big brown eyes widened and twinkled so bright that his enthusiasm was contagious. “Yep. He’s the only one that could kill Nitro Steel. But since I am Nitro Steel, I ran super fast and shot out steel arrows from my fingertips and my eyeballs. It totally captured Rustman.”
“Why is he called Rustman? Does he collect rusty nails for bullets?”
Peter tilted his head and scrunched his face in a bewildered expression. “Ummm, noooo. Rust. Steel rusts. He’s like—the opposite of Nitro Steel!”
He darted off into the yard, his silver cape flowing behind him. Chandler was impressed how her son had somehow figured out that steel could rust.
The screen door slammed, and Margie stepped onto the porch, two mugs in her hands. She handed one to Chandler. The raspberry tea wafted to Chandler’s nostrils, soothing and enticing. It was almost a perfect evening. Almost a night in Mayberry. If Andy Griffith had walked up the sidewalk whistling, she probably wouldn’t have been surprised. But no. Bluff River wasn’t Mayberry. Its history was shadowed and haunted.
Margie eased the bulk of her frame onto another plastic chair. She took a sip of her tea, and her hazel eyes smiled.
“Your son is a stitch. I’m having so much fun watching that boy.”
Chandler observed Peter as he ran up and down the lawn. He was. He was a precious stitch. She squeezed her eyes tight to ward off the wave of dizziness that accompanied the painless migraine. Her doctor had explained there were different sorts of migraines. Some—the ones Chandler experienced—brought on severe pressure, like a blood-pressure cuff pumped to the tightest level and not releasing.
“Are you okay?” Margie leaned forward, and Chandler opened her eyes to meet the concerned study of her rent-a-nanny.
“I’m fine. Just—tired.”
“I’ve got you topped by at least fifteen years, and I’m not acting like an old lady.” As Margie sipped her tea, her expression told Chandler she was far savvier than one might first give her
credit for. And caring. Chandler wasn’t quite sure how to process the caring Margie exuded. She was used to going it alone.
“There’s a lot of pressure with work, and . . .” Chandler halted. What could she say? She was hiding her autoimmune disease for fear her parents would weasel their way into adopting Peter’s care. She was constantly worried the disease would inhibit her ability to travel, to do her job properly, and that Jackson would edge her out. These were admissions Chandler barely faced herself, let alone vocalized to someone she’d just recently met.
Margie tapped her foot on the porch. “It sucks being a single parent. I know. I’m there right now. Of course, my kids are with their dad for now, but once they get back it’s like all hell breaks loose sometimes. My ex all but forgets the kids exist, and then I have to pick up the pieces after they just spent a summer with him being spoiled. He buys their forgiveness and then I’m the idiot mom who makes them pick up their clothes, do their homework, and actually has to say no to the two-hundred-dollar video game console.”
“Do the kids hold their dad over you?” Chandler ventured. Their mutual single-parenthood-ness granted Chandler the confidence that it was okay to ask.
Margie kicked off her flip-flops and stretched her bare feet out in front of her, crossing them at the ankles, waggling her purple-painted toenails. “No. Well, maybe at first. But then it’s more the abandonment that follows. The ‘why doesn’t Dad call?’ The ‘how come Dad doesn’t want us to visit for Christmas?’ I can’t make sense of him, so I don’t see why the kids would.” Margie set her mug on the small table between their chairs. “But I keep fighting the good fight. One sign of weakness and I swear he’d be all over me for custody like a bee to honey. It’s a game with him. Who will be the winner? It’s not about the kids—not really.”
Chandler hid her emotions in a long drink from her mug.
“You’re a fighter, aren’t you?” Margie crossed her arms over her chest.
Chandler smiled sadly and shrugged. “Maybe? I do what I need to for Peter’s sake.”
“We always do what we need to for our kids,” Margie acknowledged.
Peter ran across the yard, hollering, waving a stick in the air, and yelling, “I’ve got you, Rustman!”
Chandler felt that sharp pang again, that fear which nagged at her. That someday she would lose her boy. That she would lose her very heartbeat, and then where would she be?
“I’d kill for my kid,” she mumbled.
Margie chuckled and responded, “Wouldn’t every mother?”
But Chandler wasn’t sure that Margie realized she was never more serious than in this moment.
“Go long!” The very deep, very male voice caused Chandler to leap from her plastic chair, tipping it over. Margie jumped at Chandler’s quick movement. A football—Peter’s neon-green football—flew, and she saw her son put his arms straight out, completely lax in his ability to catch it.
She hurried down the porch steps to see what man had intruded uninvited into her son’s life. Hank Titus was hulking toward her, his gray T-shirt loose on his muscular frame. His jeans were loose too, and it was apparent he didn’t care much about looking particularly GQ, as his feet were shoved into leather sandals, his hair damp and hanging in waves.
“Hey! Good throw!” Peter ran in front of Chandler and skidded to a halt a few yards away from Hank, drawing his arm back to throw.
“Hold up, kid.” Hank shot Chandler an unembellished glance, which stopped her mid-word as she was ready to call Peter’s name. He crossed the sidewalk that split the yard and approached her son. Chandler stood and watched, sensing Margie’s presence beside her.
An intake of breath.
A low whistle.
“Hellllooooo, hottie,” Margie muttered for Chandler’s ears only.
Chandler’s face turned warm, and she sent a be quiet glare in Margie’s direction.
Hank ignored them both and came up alongside Peter. He bent, hair falling forward, his corded forearms in severe contrast to Peter’s skinny, pale arms.
“Hold the ball like this.” Hank adjusted Peter’s hands on the football. “Draw back and use your shoulder when you throw. Move your waist.” He directed Peter’s body and arm to help the boy feel the motion.
Something tweaked in Chandler as she saw Peter’s expression. Hero worship was already blatant on the boy’s face. There was no nostalgia, no sentiment, no longing in Chandler. It wasn’t a moment where she suddenly wished Peter’s father were around—that she even knew who his father was. It was jealousy. Peter was supposed to adore her. Only her.
Wow. That was petty.
Chandler recognized it all in a split second and then justified her jealousy when she recalled Hank at the depot. Uninvited. Hank fixing her sink and all but threatening her with ghost stories.
“Peter, time to get ready for bed,” she called.
It was a pathetic attempt to interrupt the special man-boy moment. But Hank Titus had less rights to her son’s time than anyone else on the planet.
She debated about whether to be civil or hostile. To demand what Hank wanted of her, why he was here, and why he’d given her the stink eye when he’d ridden past the depot that morning on his bike while she was there with Cru. Chandler opted to remain on the porch and cross her arms while mustering the willpower not to rush inside after Margie and Peter. Hank positioned himself at the bottom of the porch steps, and for a moment they both eyed each other. His serpentine green eyes were sharp and wary as he assessed her with the perfect calm of the still air before a tornado.
“Nice kid.” His peace offering made her bristle. She didn’t trust him, didn’t like him, and didn’t want him anywhere near Peter.
“What do you need?” Chandler purposely inserted the word need instead of want. Somehow it seemed just shy of harsh while still maintaining a firm ground.
“We need to talk.” He mimicked her stance and crossed his arms over his chest. His biceps were very noticeable.
Chandler averted her eyes from his arms and met his green stare. “Why?”
“The depot,” he answered.
“What about the depot?” she countered and managed to remain steadfast in their war of the stares. Neither of them blinked.
“You have what I need,” he said.
She didn’t know why his words made her stomach tickle as if a thousand butterflies had been set loose inside. There was enough distance between them and yet his very presence filled the entire yard, climbed the stairs, and wrestled with her emotions.
“And what’s that?” Chandler tried to steady her nerves by turning her back to him and going to retrieve the mug of now-cold tea she’d set on the windowsill. It was a nonchalant gesture, but when she faced him again, she could see he wasn’t fooled.
A dry smile bent the corner of his mouth. He knew he unnerved her. He could tell she was floundering for confidence. It was obvious he liked that he had that effect on her.
“I need to get into the depot. Figured I’d ask or you’d probably call the cops on me, like you did on whoever broke in the other night.”
“Brilliant idea.” Chandler tossed him a fake smile. “And you’re going to tell me why you’re so confident someone was inside the very locked depot?”
“No.”
Jerk. He wasn’t going to offer her anything. Chandler plopped onto the plastic chair, irritated that her nerves had heightened her shakiness. She hid her trembling hands beneath her legs and chose not to say anything.
Hank put a foot on the bottom step and shot her a look that seemed to ask silent permission. When she didn’t respond, he took the stairs in a single step and leaned against the porch rail, staring down at her.
“Are you okay?”
His soft inquiry jolted Chandler. She hadn’t expected it. Not from him.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
Hank tipped his head toward her lap. “You’re hiding your hands. They were shaking. And, you look like you’re going to pass out.”
“I’m fine.” Chandler’s repeated assurance didn’t erase the doubt from Hank’s face. But he was right. She did feel light-headed. Now was an awful time to start experiencing the early-onset symptoms of one of her seizures.
No, God. Not now.
Her prayer was more mental than anything else. Sometimes God listened and considered, other times He listened and promptly told her no. It felt like He rarely ever said yes. She hadn’t figured out His purpose in all of this. If she was being honest, she usually felt hidden from Him, and not in a good way. Like she had been playing hide-and-seek all her life, and people—God—had simply stopped looking for her and moved on.
“Listen.” Hank’s deep baritone rumbled across the porch. “I just need to look around the depot. I’m trying to connect some family dots, and it took me there.” He seemed to think through his next words. “There’s too much unfinished crap that I need to figure out. As for someone being in the depot, if Lottie saw a light, then she saw a light. And the dust on the floor was disturbed and—”
“What unfinished crap?” Chandler felt her shoulder twitch as she interrupted him. His words were starting to sound distant. His voice like an echo.
“There was a woman murdered in Bluff River.”
“I know. Patty Luchent was murdered by a serial killer back in the twenties.” Chandler rolled her eyes. If she heard the story one more time . . .
“And there’s the missing girl from 1983.”
“What missing girl?” Chandler’s shoulder twitched again, this time noticeably.
There was a flicker in Hank’s eyes.
Chandler realized her words had slurred. She was sounding a bit tipsy.
“Linda Pike.” Hank’s reply was accompanied by a narrowing of his eyes.
Where had she heard that name before? Chandler’s mind turned foggy, and she blinked quickly to clear her vision. Hank’s form swam in front of her, and suddenly her head felt too heavy to hold up. But she tried—she really, really tried—to stay conscious and pretend all was fine.
The Haunting at Bonaventure Circus Page 11
