Praise for The Book of Beloved
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“A tour de force from an accomplished writer who has a gift for delivering vivid sensory impressions to deepen the impact of her story…A powerful book you will not soon forget.” —Historical Novel Society
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“Carolyn Haines is a master wordsmith who has succeeded where so many in the horror/supernatural genre fall short. She has created a story that will haunt its readers…” —Amazon Reviewer
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“This work is a slice of history, changing attitudes and a really good mystery all wrapped up in a well written story.” —Amazon Reviewer
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Praise for The House of Memory
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“What a page-turner! This book has it all. Ghosts of murdered young women, a haunted insane asylum, an antebellum house where evil lurks, and a still-living young woman threatened by human and superhuman forces. This is a classic and beautifully-crafted ghost story in the tradition of Ammie Come Home or The Turn of the Screw.” —Amazon Reviewer
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“This is a more than a mystery about spirits. The story is intriguing and cleverly plotted; it truly kept me engaged. Haines never disappoints!...Excellent series!” —Amazon Reviewer
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“Again, Ms. Haines has written a book that holds your tight grip on it page by page.” —Amazon Reviewer
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Praise for The Specter of Seduction
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“Haines once again spins a Southern Gothic ghost story so wonderfully complex that when the human villains are finally exposed on the last pages, it's a total surprise, yet nonetheless makes perfect sense…a perfectly satisfying ending to a gripping book.” —Amazon Reviewer
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“A gifted storyteller, Haines writes with a direct, crisp style that is at once lyrical and often sensual. As the menace and dangers build, the pacing and tension increase exponentially. And, when the suspense and characters are so compelling, as in Specter of Seduction, one might lose track of the fine quality of the writing itself. But this is a book that shines with refined, sharp prose. Haines has a poet's ear for language and knows how to utilize words to set a tone, evoke a feeling, and capture a moment.” —Amazon Reviewer
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“This is a great read--one you will not be able to put down once you start.” —Southern Literary Review
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“Don’t miss this 3rd in the Pluto’s Snitch series and be prepared to be on the edge of your seat until the very end.” —Amazon Reviewer
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Praise for The Seeker
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“Inventive...Aine's struggle with her own illusions is genuinely effective.” —Publishers Weekly
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“This mix of thriller and ghost story is all about what is just glimpsed for an instant, whether physically or psychologically. And the suspense is intensified by the fact that readers can't be sure whether they're following the thoughts of someone sane, unhinged, or in the process of coming apart...Great for both lovers of Thoreau and suspense fans.” —Booklist
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Praise for The Darkling
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“[A] spellbinding tale . . . eloquent evidence that Southern storytelling is indeed a very special art form.” —The New York Times Book Review
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#6 on the list of 10 best horror novels of the year “But it’s Haines’ knack for good, old-fashioned storytelling that truly sets The Darkling apart. The scares are parceled out sparingly, but assuredly. After the first few chapters, I found myself saving the novel for late nights, when I could pour a cup of coffee, light a lamp in a dark room, and allow the hyper-eerie visuals to seep into my bones. While Haines has found previous success with crime and romance, The Darkling may be proof of her true calling.” —Ryan Daley www.bloodydisgusting.com #6 on the list of 10 best horror novels of the year
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Praise for Carolyn Haines
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“Like the heat of a Deep South summer, Ms. Haines’s novel has an undeniable intensity; it’s impossible to shake its brooding atmosphere.” —The New York Times Book Review
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“A writer of exceptional talent!” —Milwaukee Journal
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“A masterful evocation of time and place.” —Kirkus Review
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“Surprising, sinister…harrowing, richly atmospheric, and sharp-edged…maintains the suspense until its final pages.” —Publishers Weekly
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“Absolutely riveting as it pulses forward with mounting tension…brilliant!” —Rocky Mountain News
A Visitation of Angels
Pluto’s Snitch #4
Carolyn Haines
Copyright © 2019 by Carolyn Haines
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design by Cissy Hartley
For Helene Buntman, my talented friend
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Carolyn Haines
Chapter 1
The heat rose up from the baked clay road in a hazy shimmer. For September, the afternoon was brutally hot. I tried to discreetly wipe the sweat from my forehead and upper lip as the open car lumbered along the rutted dirt road. Only the cool breeze generated by the vehicle’s movement made the journey tolerable. Even with the breeze I didn’t know how much longer I could take the sun beating down on us.
Reginald Proctor and I had been on the road for several days making the difficult journey to a remote area of northeast Alabama, where the Appalachian foothills provided daring driving opportunities. During the time we’d been on our trip, Tennessee had voted to ratify the 19th Amendment. Women had gained the right to vote—but I feared my poor brain would be cooked in my head before I got a chance to cast a ballot. Not even my bobbed hair and a large straw hat helped.
Reginald, my friend and partner in our newly formed detective agency, rolled the big touring car to a stop in front of a huge mud puddle that covered the entire road and spilled into what looked like a slough on both sides of the road. In the afternoon heat, the stillness was instantly suffocating.
“I’m afraid the bottom of that puddle isn’t solid and we’ll get stuck.” Reginald wiped his forehead on the sleeve of what had once been a pristine, starched white shirt. Now it was as wilted as my own clothes. Because of where we were going and what we intended to do, Regin
ald and I had both opted for the more conservative attire of the early 1900s. With his Brilliantined hair, neat mustache, and athletic grace, Reginald looked like a handsome movie star, even when wilted from heat. My modest skirt and white lawn blouse was stifling, but we would not risk more modern attire. Not in Mission.
There was no other road to our destination—Mission, Alabama, on Sand Mountain. We’d been called to help a young mother who found herself in a desperate situation. We’d been delayed leaving Mobile, Alabama by a bad storm that had blown in from the Gulf of Mexico with high winds that toppled trees, tore the roofs off buildings, and pushed torrential rains inland. The legacy of the storm was bad roads and dangerous river crossings, which had hampered our travels.
“Maybe if we back up and get a good head of steam we can power through that puddle.” I was ready to get to our destination and get out of the hot car.
Reginald cocked an eyebrow, his sleek black hair winking in the bright sun. “You want to risk getting stuck here until someone happens by?”
“I don’t like sitting here, but I also don’t like the alternative.” Reginald was the best sport and a fair man, but he did take pleasure in deviling me in small ways.
For all of his handsome looks and dandified ways, Reginald was a practical man, and one who took me at my word that I wanted to be treated as an equal. “Slip off your shoes, hike up your skirt, and wade out to see how deep the puddle is.”
It was my turn to perform this chore. Perhaps the muddy water would at least cool my feet and lower legs. It was worth a try.
Reginald leaned against the door of my uncle Brett’s car and lit a cigarette as he watched me kick off my shoes. He smoked while I stepped into the water. The mud squished up between my toes unpleasantly as the water lapped at my ankles. The puddle was lukewarm, not cool.
“Be on the lookout for leeches.” Reginald spoke with wicked calm.
“If I see one, I’ll catch it and put it on you.” I hadn’t been an English teacher of high school boys for nothing.
Reginald tossed his butt to the ground and crushed it, making sure the fire was out. The surrounding brush and trees were soaked by the storms that had tormented us for the past week. There was little danger of fire, but he was always careful. I liked that. “I’ve been thinking about this woman we’re going to help. Elizabeth Maslow,” he said.
I waded in a little deeper, the water moving up to mid-calf. “And?” For all that we’d been trying to get to Elizabeth Maslow for two weeks, we hadn’t really discussed the merits of the case. My uncle Brett Airley and his fiancée, Isabelle, had not wanted us to take it up to begin with. Uncle Brett warned us that many of the residents of Sand Mountain were hardworking farmers who might be a little peculiar due to isolation. Good people, as he said. But there were other residents in the area, religious cults that had sought an isolated location that allowed them to practice a belief system that might draw legal consequences elsewhere.
“Raissa, please reconsider taking this case. Sand Mountain is a strange place with a lot of…different beliefs. They won’t tolerate an uppity woman.” Uncle Brett had leveled his gaze at me and held me pinned. “You’re outspoken, Raissa. I enjoy it, but there are groups who will not, and you’ll be far removed from my help.” He’d turned to Reginald. “They’ll hang you, son.”
Uncle Brett hadn’t been judging, merely stating fact.
When Reginald didn’t pick up the thread of our conversation, I glanced at him. His furrowed brow told me he was concerned. We’d discussed this before we left Mobile, but it still weighed heavy on my conscience. I’d overridden his concerns with my insistence. “She said an innocent man is going to be executed. We have to at least try to help. While I’m worried about this McEachern man, I’m equally worried about Elizabeth Maslow and her child. Superstitious people are capable of great harm. And she has no one else to turn to.”
“And she knows this Slater McEachern didn’t murder anyone because she saw the truth in a dream?” Reginald didn’t hide his skepticism. He believed in the supernatural. In fact, our detective agency, Pluto’s Snitch, specialized in cases with a paranormal aspect. But a woman who intended to stand up in court and say that she dreamed the truth was a bridge too far for him. “I can see why a judge or jury might find that problematic.”
His words were ringing in my head as I made it all the way across the large puddle. The bottom was covered with a squishy residue, but beneath that the hard clay held. We could drive on without getting stuck.
I wasn’t finished with the topic of dreams that foretold the truth. “No one wanted to believe me when I saw that soldier under the oaks at Uncle Brett’s. I don’t dream things, but I do hear the whispers of dead people who tell me truths.” I said it softly, without challenge, but Reginald nodded.
“I know there are things in this world that can’t be explained, and I believe in them. I believe in you, Raissa, but the legal system requires facts, not fragments of dreams. I’m not certain we can do anything to help Mrs. Maslow or Mr. McEachern.” He flashed a grin. “And I don’t particularly want to get hanged or see you on a gallows.”
I answered with a grin of my own. “I can understand that, but this is 1920. We have powerful connections in Mobile and the state of Alabama. I can’t believe you and I would be in real danger. Now Elizabeth and the child are a different story. We may not be able to change a thing, but we can at least try to help. I promised we would hear her out.” I waded back across the puddle and went to stand in front of Reginald. “According to the map we got back at the grocery in Thomasville, we’re not far from Mission. We’re almost there. If we can’t help, we can leave tomorrow.”
Reginald nodded reluctantly. “Promise me you’ll be careful in what you say. I’ve been around some people who…use what they believe to control others. If you threaten them, they can turn nasty.”
Reginald was really worried. “I promise.”
He nodded more decisively this time. “Then let’s get going.”
Our car cleared the big puddle and the road became steeper and more difficult. The silence between us was not strained, but we were both on edge. We’d left the open and cultivated fields behind and were deep in the woods, which were quite beautiful, but the sense that we were being watched festered and grew in me. We passed several streams that bubbled over the large stones that were scattered among the trees. This was not the lowland terrain I knew. I’d done a little research at the library on this region of the state and I knew the average elevation was over 1000 feet, the Alps compared to the flatlands of Mobile. When we came out of the woods into a clearing, a breeze swept over us, and I sighed in relief. The air was only marginally cooler, but the humidity of the lower elevations was much reduced.
Reginald slowed the car. A meadow on my right sloped to what appeared to be the edge of a precipice. Wildflowers were everywhere, an assortment of yellows and oranges. I spotted black-eyed Susans, one of my favorites. The goldenrod had also begun to bloom, the heavy gold fronds swaying in the breeze.
“It’s beautiful here.”
“It is,” Reginald agreed.
He moved the car slowly forward. When we rounded a curve, he braked hard. He didn’t have to say a word. I knew what stopped him. The sight was so ominous it made my breath catch in my throat.
More than twenty buzzards perched in the limbs of a tree that had been blasted black by lightning, leaving only a charred husk of what had once been a mighty oak. The large, black birds hunched their ugly red heads—heads that seemed always dipped in carrion. In my brain, I knew vultures cleaned up the dead creatures on roadsides and farther afield. They were benign, even helpful. In and of themselves, they were harmless. They weren’t predators. Nonetheless, the sight of so many, waiting so patiently as they watched the road, disturbed me. The birds perched, motionless, until a few opened their wings and cried at us. The sight and sound tapped into the concern that had continued to grow as we neared Mission. I couldn’t help but think the birds were an
omen.
“I’ve never seen buzzards roosting like that,” Reginald said.
“Me either.” I saw a crudely made sign that had been nailed to the tree. Somehow, it had survived the incineration. Mission, 2 miles. Beyond the tree was a clump of hardwoods, and movement there let me know someone was watching us. “There’s someone—”
“I know,” Reginald said softly, his gaze focused on the copse of trees. “I sensed someone watching us about four miles back, though I couldn’t be certain. But there’s definitely someone here.”
“Shall I call to them to come out?”
“No!” Reginald put a restraining hand on my arm. “Ignore them. Look at me.”
I did as he requested. “What are we going to do?”
“Drive into Mission and pretend we didn’t notice. I suspect the community doesn’t get a lot of visitors. It’s natural they’d be curious and cautious.”
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