Scent of Roses ; Season of Strangers

by Kat Martin

  Isabel had told her that she liked working there, that Mr. Harcourt took very good care of her. She didn’t mind his occasional visits to her bed. In fact, she enjoyed them. And she was careful, she said. Though she had to confess her sin at church on Sunday mornings, she took birth control pills so she wouldn’t get pregnant with his child.

  Propped against the headboard in bed, Maria considered getting dressed again and going over to see Isabel tonight. She would tell her best friend what had been happening to her, talk to her about the tests she had taken, the sessions she’d had with Dr. James. But it was really too late for a visit and Miguel would be home soon.

  At least she hoped he would be. She thought about returning to the living room to watch a little more TV, but she was tired. When she had returned from her session with Dr. James, she had worked in the vegetable garden, and the heat had exhausted her even more than she had been already. Now it was late and she was sleepy.

  She settled lower in the bed, pulling the sheet up beneath her chin, telling herself that now that she understood more about what was happening to her, the dream would not come again. She closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep, but the minutes ticked past and sleep remained elusive.

  Instead, she waited, listening for the sound of Miguel’s work boots on the steps outside the back door. More minutes passed. Slowly, her eyelids began to droop. Her body relaxed against the mattress and she slipped into sleep.

  It was the cold that awakened her, an icy chill that seeped into her bones like death in a crypt. Even this late, it was almost ninety degrees outside. How could it be so cold in the bedroom? Her teeth began to chatter. She pulled the sheet up over her, reached down for the thin yellow quilt, folded across the foot of the bed.

  Her fingers wrapped around the fabric tightly. For the first time, she noticed the sounds…the eerie moaning, the creak and groan like someone walking on the boards in the living room. The fragrance of roses drifted toward her. The odor thickened, grew more dense, turned harsh and cloying, filling her nostrils, burning her throat.

  She swallowed, sat there in the bed afraid to move, her fingers frozen around the top of the quilt. Her gaze drifted there, down to the foot of the bed, and her whole body tightened. There was something there, a cloudy, milky image she could see through but not clearly, something with the vague shape of a person.

  They’ll take your baby if you don’t leave. They’ll kill your baby.

  Maria whimpered. Dios mio! Gooseflesh rose over her skin and her hand started shaking, her knuckles going pale as she gripped the quilt.

  They’ll take your baby. They’ll kill your baby if you don’t leave.

  She closed her eyes but the image remained, frozen there, behind her quivering eyelids. A child, maybe eight or nine years old, hovering, floating above the floor at the foot of the bed, a little girl, she thought from the sound of the voice, but she couldn’t be sure.

  It is not real, she told herself, repeating what Dr. James had said. It is only in your mind.

  She whispered a silent prayer, told herself to will the image away, and kept her eyes tightly closed for as long as she dared. She repeated the prayer, whispering frantically to the Blessed Virgin, and when she opened her eyes, she saw that her prayer had been answered.

  The eerie sounds slowly melted into silence. Little by little, the harsh smell faded, turning softer, no longer strong, but delicate, almost soothing. The icy chill was gone from the room and the temperature returned to normal.

  But her heart still frantically pounded, slamming against her ribs, and her hands felt clammy, her mouth bone-dry. She shifted fearfully on the bed as another sound reached her ears, a familiar shuffling on the back porch stairs, then the smooth glide of the key sliding into the lock.

  Miguel was home.

  Maria closed her eyes and bit down on her trembling lips, determined not to weep.

  * * *

  Michael James sat behind his desk, listening to the wild tale told by the young Hispanic woman sitting across from him. He had seen Maria Santiago twice this week, but neither of the sessions had proved particularly successful.

  “I saw it, Dr. James. Last night, I saw the ghost. Un espectro. I am not imagining it. I saw it with my own two eyes.”

  “It wasn’t a ghost, Maria. There is no such thing. What happened is that you suffered an anxiety attack. It’s not uncommon. A lot of people at some time in their lives have experienced panic attacks. Normally, I’d have something prescribed for you, a mild dose of Xanax to help you relax along with some Ambien to help you sleep, but with the baby so far along—”

  “I do not need your drugs! There is a ghost in my house and all of the foolish questions you keep asking me are not going to make it go away!”

  He kept his voice steady and calm. “There are reasons for the questions, Maria. We’re working to explore your past. We need to discover if something happened to you during your childhood, something that might not seem important, but is. In cases like these—”

  “No! You ask about my father. Did he love me? Did I love him? I tell you he left when I was two years old. You ask about my mother. I tell you she loved me and Raul. We had no money and life was hard, but it was not so bad. You tell me I must be worried, feeling this thing you call stress, but I am saying that Miguel and me, we are excited about the baby. Until all of this started, I have never been so happy. You say that I am afraid of something I don’t understand and you are right!”

  Her hand clenched into a fist in her lap. “There is a ghost in my house and it is telling me to leave. It is warning me that someone is going to kill my baby!”

  Michael took a long, deep breath and released it slowly. “There. Perhaps you have just hit on the answer to your problem. You’re worried about losing the child. You’ve lost a baby before. Perhaps fear for the child you carry is what’s causing your anxiety.”

  Maria stood up from her chair. He could see that she was trembling. “You don’t believe me. I knew that you would not.” She turned and started walking toward the door, her belly making her sway a little as she moved.

  Michael stood up behind his desk. “Maria, wait a minute. We need to talk about this.”

  She just kept walking, making her way across the small reception area, over to the desk. Michael got up and followed her through the door.

  “I wish to speak to Ms. Conners. Tell her…tell her Maria Santiago would like to see her.”

  “She’s just finishing a session,” the receptionist, Terry Lane, told her. “She should be opening her door any minute.”

  “Fine. I will wait.” She sat down heavily on the sofa, her back broomstick straight, chin thrust out.

  It was only an instant later that Elizabeth’s door opened and a blond woman and a teenaged girl walked out of the office. Elizabeth followed them into the reception area.

  “All right, then. I’ll see you both next week.”

  The woman, about forty with frazzled blond hair, just nodded. She motioned for her daughter to leave and both of them headed for the door.

  Elizabeth’s gaze lit on Maria, standing next to Terry’s desk. Michael stood patiently waiting.

  “Mrs. Santiago would like to talk to you,” Terry told her. Terry was young, in her twenties, with short, spiky blond hair. She had only been working at the clinic for a couple of weeks, and Michael could see she was a bit unnerved.

  “That’s right, Elizabeth,” Michael said from his open doorway. “Maria has something she wants to tell you.”

  Elizabeth flicked him a glance, caught his silent appeal for help. Sometimes it was difficult to win a patient’s trust and obviously Maria trusted Elizabeth, not him. Michael had considered advising Elizabeth to counsel the girl, but anxiety was more his field of expertise, and they were afraid Elizabeth’s relationship with Maria was too close for her to be completely ob
jective.

  Elizabeth smiled at Maria. “I’ve got a few extra minutes. I’ll be happy to help in any way I can.”

  “Why don’t we all go back into my office?” Michael suggested, then waited as the women filed past him into the room. They sat down in chairs on the opposite side of his desk, Elizabeth assessing the girl with obvious concern.

  “Tell her, Maria. Tell Ms. Conners the story you told me.”

  “It is not a story,” Maria said defensively. “Mi casa es encantada.”

  Elizabeth’s blue eyes widened, though she kept her features carefully bland. “I thought we discussed this before, Maria. Surely you don’t really believe your house is haunted.”

  “But I do. There es un espectro. Last night I saw it.”

  “Last night you saw a ghost?”

  “Sí, that is right. It was small…like a child. It sounded like a little girl, but I could not tell for sure. The air was freezing cold and I heard the noises. And there was that same sickening-sweet smell. I am not making it up.”

  Elizabeth flicked Michael a glance and seemed to consider her reply. “If you are that convinced something happened, then perhaps there is another explanation. Maybe the house is just getting older, making different noises than you’re used to. Maybe the smell is something that has died under the house.”

  “I would like to believe it is something like that, but I do not. I only know that something terrible is happening and I am afraid.”

  Elizabeth said nothing more and neither did Michael. In all his numerous cases, he had never had to deal with a ghost, but he could see that Maria was truly afraid.

  “Perhaps I should speak to Miguel,” Elizabeth suggested. “He could investigate, see what might be causing you all of this worry.”

  Maria’s eyes widened in panic. “You must not tell my husband. Miguel will not understand. He will think I am being childish. That is what he says whenever we disagree.”

  Michael leaned across his desk. “Listen, Maria, you can’t go on like this. You need to talk to your husband. I need to speak to him, as well.”

  Maria shot up from her chair. “No! You think to ask him the same stupid questions you asked me. Well, nothing he says will make any difference. You are wrong about this—both of you. And I am not imagining things.”

  Whirling away, she moved clumsily toward the door.

  “Maria!” Elizabeth went after her and Michael let them go. There was nothing more he could do—not until the girl was ready to face her problems and accept his help.

  He could only hope that Elizabeth would be able to make her see reason and she would return. Until then, Maria was destined to suffer her ghosts.

  * * *

  Friday. Another week in L.A. Another hot July day in the valley. Zach usually drove down after work on Friday night. The case he’d been working on, a lawsuit against a company that produced a drug called Themoziamine, took hours of investigation and planning. But the traffic going over the hill into the San Fernando Valley was murder. He’d worked late all week so that today he could take off early.

  The trip had been relatively easy, since he’d gotten on the road at a reasonable time, but it was already hot in San Pico. He swung his brown Jeep Cherokee off Willow Road into the parking lot of the Willow Glen Retirement Home and pulled the car into one of the parking spaces. The asphalt was so hot he could see ripples of heat coming up off the pavement.

  He climbed out of the car, took a breath of the burning air and started toward the front door of the main building, a light brown two-story stucco structure. As he walked along, hot air enveloped him. Damn, he was glad he no longer lived in San Pico.

  He had almost reached the edge of the parking lot when his gaze caught on a late model, pearl-white Acura a few spaces down from his. Liz Conners drove a car like that. He had seen it the day she came out to tour Teen Vision.

  He wondered if the Acura might be Liz’s and picked up his pace, walking faster than he usually did toward the sterile, white-walled room occupied by his father. Seeing the old man lying there staring at the ceiling, or slumped in his wheelchair, always depressed him. But the doctors still held out a small degree of hope that one day he might improve, and either way, Zach wasn’t about to abandon him.

  He pulled open the heavy front door and stepped into the air-conditioning, grateful for the burst of cool air against his face. Since he came out to the home whenever he was in town, the receptionist, a small, dark-haired woman with glasses, recognized him.

  She smiled. “Hi, Zach. Don’t forget to sign in.”

  “I won’t. Thanks, Ellie.” He penned his name and the date and started across the well-appointed lobby down the hall, passing a long line of rooms filled with the elderly. The place was very nice, compared to the kind of rest homes he had read about. No more than two occupants to a room, some of them private, like his father’s. After the terrible fall Fletcher Harcourt had suffered, he’d been brought to Willow Glen to recover as soon as he’d been released from the hospital.

  Zach had wanted him to have in-home nursing so that he could live in his own house, but Carson believed he should stay in the nursing home where he could receive more professional care. Since Carson was the eldest, according to provisions in their father’s will, he was named conservator of all of Fletcher Harcourt’s holdings, including the farm and any decisions to do with his health care.

  Zach had argued, but Carson had the final say, and their dad had stayed in the home.

  Just one more thing to dislike about his brother.

  Zach made his way along the hall, glancing into the rooms along the way, until he came to C-14 in the west wing. He recognized the woman walking out of a room just a few doors down and paused there in the hall.

  “Hello, Liz.”

  She looked up at the sound of her name, came to an abrupt stop in front of him.

  “Zachary…” She looked back over her shoulder. “You’re here to see your father?”

  He nodded. “I come by whenever I’m in town. What about you?”

  “I’m doing a teaching series for the nursing staff.”

  “Subject?”

  “Geriatric Psychology. Basically, it involves teaching techniques to deal with the elderly.”

  “Sounds useful.”

  “Every little bit helps.” She turned toward the open door. “I knew your father was in here. I hope he’s doing all right.”

  “His condition stays pretty much the same. His legs don’t work quite right. There’s some kind of problem getting signals from the brain. He doesn’t talk much. When he does, he remembers bits and pieces from the past, which he gets mixed up with the present. Nothing about the accident or much about things that have happened since then.”

  “I heard about the accident when it happened. He took a fall down the stairs, right? My dad was still alive back then and my sister still lived here. She and her husband moved to San Francisco in March.”

  “Tracy, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “Tracy’s a couple years younger.” She looked past him through the doorway to the form on the bed, lying beneath the sheets. “Such a terrible waste. Your father always seemed such a vital man.”

  “He could be a real bastard at times. But mostly he was good to me. I owe him a lot. More than I could ever repay.”

  “Is there…is there any chance he’ll get better?”

  He looked at the man on the bed. “The doctors still hold out hope for him. They say technology is always improving. They say there’s work being done that might allow them to operate, remove the bits of bone that are pressing into his brain. I keep hoping. All of us do.”

  Liz looked at him, studying him as if he were a specimen under a glass. “You’re a surprising man, Zach. You’re here to see your father. Sam says you founded Teen Vision. You’ve conquered yo
ur drug and alcohol problems and you’re a successful lawyer. You’re also rude and overbearing and irritating as hell. I can’t seem to figure you out.”

  Zach grinned. “It’s encouraging to know you’re trying. Why don’t we go out to dinner and you can have another go at it?”

  “I told you—”

  “Yeah, I know. You’re busy.”

  For a moment, she glanced away. “Look, I’d better get going. I’ve got a lot to do back at my office.” She turned and started walking.

  “Liz?”

  She stopped, slowly turned to face him.

  “If you won’t go to out dinner with me, how about lunch?”

  She didn’t answer for so long his palms began to sweat. Jesus. The last time a woman did that to him he was in high school.

  “When?” she asked and his heart kicked up just like it used to back then.

  “How about today? It’s already eleven o’clock. You’ve got to eat and so do I. We can meet at noon, after I’ve had a little time to spend with my father.”

  “All right, but if you say Marge’s, the deal is off.”

  He laughed. “I was thinking The Ranch House. They’ve got a pretty decent lunch menu.”

  “Fine. I’ll meet you at The Ranch House at one.” She started walking again.

  “One is fine. One is great. I’ll see you there.” Zach watched her turn the corner and disappear out of sight. She looked different today, all business in a simple coral suit with a plain white, open-collared blouse.

  He dried his damp palms on his slacks, his heartbeat once more under control. It was crazy. Women didn’t make him nervous. If anything, it was the other way around. Maybe it was some weird psychological hang-up left over from the big-time brush-off she had given him in high school.

  Must be, he told himself. Still, he planned to meet her, and as he walked into his father’s room, it bothered him to realize how much he was looking forward to it.