by Kari Bovee
“Excuse me?” I was confused by this random statement that had no context in regard to my gesture to proceed.
“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. There are just so many souls present, and they are all clamoring for my attention. It can be a bit overwhelming.” She smiled graciously, her pale-blue eyes sparkling and fixing on mine.
“Oh. And are these souls connected to me?” I asked.
“Not all of them. It’s Joshua, my collective. They say there is someone waiting to speak with you.” Miss Lange closed her eyes and lowered her head. A sweep of different emotions crossed her face, and her hands alternated between gripping the arms of the chair and relaxing. “Yes, yes, I see her. An older woman is coming through,” she said. She raised her head but kept her eyes closed. “I get the sense she might be a grandmotherly type. She’s in a shop of some kind, a haberdashery or a dress shop. She’s wearing a beautiful dress—finely made with rich fabric. It’s something from the early Victorian era. She’s telling me she made it.” Miss Lange opened her eyes and looked at me. “Does that sound familiar to you?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“She’s telling me she’s your grandmother. Did your grandmother sew?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I never knew my grandparents on either side. My father’s parents passed away when he was a young man, and my mother never spoke of her parents.”
Miss Lange looked down at the floor and cocked her head as if listening. “She says she is connected to someone whose name begins with the letter B. I’m getting B-E . . .”
My heart leaped. “My mother’s name was Belinda.”
“She says this woman didn’t mean to harm you. She was— She was—”
My hands tingled. This wasn’t making sense to me.
“Your grandmother is saying this woman was out of her mind.”
I shook my head, not understanding.
“What?” Miss Lange cocked her head again, and I knew she wasn’t questioning me but questioning this woman, or Joshua, from the beyond. Suddenly, her eyes met mine. “She’s saying something about a knife.”
I sucked in a breath. Could it be the knife I’d seen in my dreams?
Miss Lange closed her eyes again. “Wait. Let her through,” she said. “I see her now. She’s beautiful, with a girlish face. She’s crying. No, sobbing.” She grabbed her chest, and her face contorted with pain. “She keeps saying she’s sorry, over and over.”
“Who? Sorry for what?” I scooted to the edge of the love seat, my hands squeezing together.
Miss Lange’s face contorted as myriad emotions skimmed across it once again. With her head bowed, she said, “She’s gone. She’s faded into the collective.”
I sat in silence watching her for what seemed an interminable about of time. I wanted to say something, but Miss Lange had her eyes closed. She raised her head again, emotions flitting across her face like a movie reel. She almost looked inhuman. My mouth went dry, and a spike of adrenaline shot through me. I looked away from her, wanting to leave, but I felt glued to the cushion.
“Gracie,” she said finally. Her voice was not her own. It was higher pitched.
The blood drained from my face at the use of my nickname. I stared at the woman, whose eyes were still closed. Was she all right?
“Gracie,” she said again.
Could this really be Sophia coming through?
“Yes?” I whispered.
She lifted her head and opened her eyes, leaning her weight upon one of the armrests. With her other hand, she pushed her hair off her forehead, just as Sophia used to do. Then she giggled like Sophia used to—before life had become too heavy for her.
“Sophia?” I peered into Miss Lange’s face.
She batted her eyes in a girlish way. Then her face took on another expression. Her eyebrows rose, and her lips protruded into a frown. “Mommy, don’t. Mommy, I’m scared. Leave her alone. Leave Gracie alone.”
What was she talking about? Had my mother been trying to hurt me? Is that what Miss Lange had been trying to say earlier?
I studied her expression, which had now become more relaxed but still serious. “What you seek is beyond the garden,” she whispered.
“Garden? What garden?” I shook my head in confusion.
Miss Lange convulsed, her eyes rolling back into her head, her neck snapping backward as is she’d been hit in the face. She righted herself and blinked several times. “They’re gone,” she said with a shudder. “Only Joshua remains.”
I gaped at her, unable to process what had just happened. Some of it had rung true, but the rest I couldn’t make sense of.
“Oh, there you are!” The sound of Chet’s voice pulled me away from Miss Lange’s gaze. “Hello, Miss Lange.”
She gave him a nod in greeting and then pressed her fingers to her temples.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
She squeezed her eyes shut as if in pain. “Yes. Yes. Just fatigued. It’s not unusual after a reading.”
Chet tilted his head toward the door. “I think I may have found something.”
I stood up from the love seat. “Will you excuse us?”
“Of course, dear.” She set her elbow on the arm of the chair and cradled her head in her palm.
“Thank you . . . for the reading,” I said quietly so as not to further disturb her.
“You’re welcome.” She released her head to wave her hand. “Please let me know if I can be of any more assistance.”
I smiled shakily at her, still unnerved at the experience.
I followed Chet out of the room, down the hallway, and into the foyer. “What is it? What have you found?” I asked, wanting to focus on the tangible. Just then, Felicity entered the foyer, probably on her way to the parlor, and came over to us.
Chet scratched his temple. “I’m not sure it means anything, but I found the deed to a property in Reno, Nevada.”
I pulled my chin back in confusion. “Reno? What significance does that have?”
“Maybe none. But what if this Elsa and Greta Mayfield live there? Maybe he lived there with them for a time. Had he ever mentioned having a home there?”
I frowned. “Not to me. Felicity?”
She shrugged. “No. Never.”
Chet squeezed his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m going to go up there.”
I blinked at him. “You’re going to Reno?”
“Yeah. See if I can find them there. It’s a long shot, but I have a hunch. I combed through those files. This was the only thing I found.” Chet looked to Felicity. “Does Travis have a safe?”
“Yes. There is a safe in his study. I found it when I redecorated in there. It’s behind a panel in the wall. But obviously I don’t have the combination. Florence doesn’t, either. It was always a bone of contention between them. She wanted to have it in case—” She looked at me and then at Chet. “In case something happened to him.”
Chet placed his hands on his hips. “Well if it comes down to it, we may have to see about getting some kind of search warrant to get into the safe. But I’m going to follow this lead first.” He held up the deed.
As important as this trip was, I hated for Chet to leave with Lizzy and Daniel in jail. What if we needed him for something? In addition to all my other responsibilities, plus trying to redeem Lizzy, I would have to work with Ned and Joe to keep things running smoothly at the ranch and go back to work if Timothy was able to start production again. A pang of anxiety took hold of my chest, its sharp claws sinking into my heart. I wished I felt as strong as everyone thought I was, but after the strange reading with Miss Lange, my nerves felt more frayed than ever.
Chapter Twenty
Chet left for Reno shortly after dinner. He wanted to do most of the five-hundred-mile drive at night to avoid the desert heat. I hated to think of him tired and driving all night, but I had to put my worrying about him to rest. I had so many other things to worry about at the moment.
By the time I’d gotten S
usie into bed and had said goodnight to Ida, it was late. I went back downstairs to do some reading. I thought it would help take my mind off things. I needed to find a way to relax and recharge. Besides, I still hadn’t finished The Man in the Brown Suit. I had intended to read it every night when I went to bed, but every night I’d reasoned that I’d been too tired to do so. The result had been a lot of tossing and turning, and then dozing only to be awakened by nightmares. Perhaps if I read it downstairs and not it bed, it would give me the desired effect of drowsiness.
Rose and Miss Meyers had retired to their rooms, and I was thankful for the quiet. Remembering that Chet had stashed a couple of bottles of red wine in the dining room sideboard, I pulled one out and poured myself a glass. Hopefully the wine would help, too.
I walked into the darkened living room and turned on the lamp on the side table next to the sofa. Feeling completely decadent, I settled on the sofa with the novel. I kicked off my shoes and tucked my feet under me. I sipped my wine, opened the book, and started reading. When I had drained the glass, I still didn’t feel sleepy, so I got up to pour some more. When I came back, I picked up the book again. I had just gotten to the part when Colonel Race was telling Anna the story of the diamond theft by the son of South African gold magnate John Eardsley when my mother entered the scene . . .
She is wearing only a nightgown. Her hair is disheveled, and the look on her face fills me with terror. Sophia is in the background, crying, begging her to leave me alone. Suddenly, we are off the ship and in our family home. I observe the scene as if I am watching it on the screen in a movie house. I see myself cowering in the corner of my parents’ bedroom. I can’t be more than eleven or twelve years old. My mother is raging at me, but I can’t hear what she’s saying, only Sophia’s pleading.
I watch in horror as the scene unfolds. My mother clutches a knife dripping with blood. She heads toward me with it held high above her head. I scream, but no noise comes from my mouth. She’s just about to plunge the knife into me when my father grabs her by the hand. Suddenly, the sleeve of his shirt is torn and soaked with blood. I scream again and then start to cry.
“Grace! Grace!” Someone shook my arm.
I opened my eyes to see Rose’s face inches from mine. She was kneeling in front of me. Still completely shaken and sobbing, I threw my arms around her neck.
“It’s okay, Grace. You were having a nightmare.” She stroked my hair, and with my eyes squeezed shut to block out the horrible scene I’d just witnessed, I took comfort in this unexpected tenderness from her.
“I’m sorry,” I gasped, suddenly embarrassed.
She sat down on the sofa beside me. “Don’t apologize, dear. That must have been a doozy of a nightmare.”
I took in a deep breath and then shuddered, the tears still streaming down my face.
“Want to talk about it?”
“I . . . I . . . .” I wasn’t sure I could utter the words.
“Okay,” she said softly. “Just sit here, then, and catch your breath.”
I shook my head. “No. No, I’m sorry. I—”
She took hold of my hand and patted it. I felt my shoulders relax a little. Truth be told, I was glad she was here. I didn’t want to be alone.
“I think I’ve remembered something,” I said. “Something too horrifying to believe.” The memories started to flood in. The arguments between my parents. My mother lying in bed. My father pleading with her to get help. Her going into a rage at him. The memory then shifted. She ran into the kitchen where I was eating some cookies with Sophia. Frightened by her madness, I stood from the table too fast and knocked over a glass. It fell to the floor and shattered. She grabbed the knife and screamed at me that I was a stupid girl, that I had broken her best glass, one of the set her mother had given her. Terrified, I fled from the kitchen and ran into their bedroom. I heard my father growl in pain and then suddenly my mother was standing over me with a bloody knife.
“My mother stabbed my father in the arm, and then tried to kill me . . . when I was a child.”
“Oh my goodness,” she said, her hand flying to her mouth.
“I must have suppressed the memory. But today, Miss Lange—she’s a spiritualist—she gave me a reading, and some of it came back. It must have unlocked the memory.” I looked into her eyes. “That’s why my parents left. My father was taking her to a sanitorium, but—” my eyes filled with tears again “—they were killed in a train accident.”
She pulled me into her warm arms again, and I cried into her shoulder, the anguish so great it threatened to push all the air out of my body. Years of pent-up denial washed over me, breaking like a dam. My own mother, in her deranged madness, had tried to kill me—had been actually going to kill me.
Sophia and I had never spoken of it. Perhaps she knew I had erased the memory from my mind and was glad of it. Perhaps she had suppressed it, too. Or in her compassion, maybe she never brought it up. She had always protected me from everything, even the truth. Because the truth was too horrible to give voice to sometimes.
Rose pulled away from me and patted my knee. “Let me fix you some tea,” she said.
I shook my head, completely drained from the dream. “No. I just want to go to bed. I think I’m okay now,” I said, not really sure if that was true but I felt bad at keeping her up when she had to wake so early in the morning to prepare breakfast. I put my hand over hers where it was still resting on my knee. “Thank you, Rose. Thank you for listening.”
She smiled at me and stood up, all business again. “You go get some rest now. If you need me, you know where to find me.” She walked away, leaving me to my thoughts.
I stood up and made my way to the stairs. I thought back to the dream that had unlocked a truth so vile I’d shoved it away to some dark place in my mind. But had it been the dream that had unlocked the truth or had it been Lenora Lange with her reading? Was that what Sophia had been trying to tell me? But what about the woman Miss Lange thought might be my grandmother? She was trying to tell me that my mother hadn’t meant to hurt me, that her mind had been sick, and in its confusion had overridden her instinct to protect rather than harm her child.
And hadn’t Miss Lange inferred that my grandmother had been a seamstress? And possibly owned a dress shop? Maybe that was where I’d gotten my passion for sewing all those years ago.
When Sophia and I lived on the streets, she would somehow find fabrics and I would make doll clothes to sell. It didn’t bring in much, but during those hard years, it had given me something to be proud of, a way to help Sophia and myself any way I could. The act of creation also had made me feel free, even though the two of us had been prisoners of our poverty.
My thoughts shifted again to what had been revealed during the reading. Hadn’t there been something about a garden? Finding what I was seeking beyond the garden?
My mind clouded over with fuzziness or fatigue, and I couldn’t string my thoughts together in a way that made sense anymore. But one thing was clear: despite being so intimidated by the idea of a reading previously, I now wanted to do another.
I’d managed to get a few hours of sleep. It wasn’t enough, but at least I hadn’t had any more disturbing dreams. In fact, I didn’t recall having dreamed at all. I dragged myself out of bed and drew a bath, hoping it would refresh me.
I lingered in the tub until the water started to feel cool. I forced myself out, toweled off, and proceeded to get dressed. I usually didn’t wear much makeup, save for some mascara and lipstick, but today I had to call out the reinforcements of Max Factor and used some foundation under my eyes to disguise the purple moons. The effect was satisfactory, but my lids were heavy and my skin was pale. I quickly dabbed on some rouge. I looked like a porcelain doll with painted cheeks. I grabbed a tissue, then wiped off the smudges of pink. A little remained, giving me somewhat of a glow. Resigned to looking ten years older, I gave up. I ran a brush through my hair, pinned my bob away from my face, and called it good.
Downstai
rs, I was relieved to find that I had missed the children, as well as Miss Meyers and Ned, for breakfast. Rose was cleaning up.
I entered the kitchen and poured myself some orange juice.
“I saved you a plate. Did you get some sleep?” she asked. I smiled and held my hand out, palm down and turned my wrist from side to side, indicating it was only so-so.
“I’m not really hungry.” The thought of food made my stomach curdle.
“You won’t be of help to anyone if you keep eating like a bird.”
I couldn’t argue with that, so I didn’t. I took my glass of orange juice to the table. “I’m going to go see Lizzy and Daniel again,” I said. “I hope they let me see Daniel this time.”
Rose stood at the sink, washing dishes. “I’ll prepare some baskets,” she said.
She stopped what she was doing and leaned her hands against the sink. “I know I’m not the warmest person in the world. In truth, I don’t have much use for people. Never have.” She dried her hands on her apron, walked over to the counter next to the stove, and then brought me a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. She set it down, and I stared at it, not sure I’d be able to force down a bite.
“Thank you.” I picked up my fork but only held it over the food.
“I’ve not been a good mother to Chet, I know, but I do consider you a daughter of sorts, and I want you to know I care about you.”
I looked up at her, stunned. “Thank you, Rose. I care about you, too.”
“I know you do, girl. Now eat your breakfast.” She gave me a wink and went back to doing the dishes.
Touched by her words, I forced myself to eat everything on my plate. Though still tired from lack of sleep, I did feel my energy restored by the nourishment as I pondered the horrible dream I’d had last night and the experience with Lenora Lange yesterday, including the message about the garden.
What you seek is beyond the garden.
What exactly was I seeking? Proof of Lizzy’s innocence. Proof of Daniel’s innocence. The truth. The murder weapon.
