by JL Bryan
Aria snorted. “So much for the amazing value of your fancy college degree.” Then she headed out into the pre-dawn darkness, carrying the steaming mug with her. The bus arrived a minute later, covered in blinking and flashing lights, like a UFO arriving before sunrise to whisk her off to Planet Middle School.
“I don't blame her,” Cherise said quietly. “I'm starting to doubt this was the right choice, too.”
“I want to apologize again for waking you—” I began.
She waved it off. “We all make mistakes.”
“Well, it wasn't precisely a mistake,” I said, trying to hold in my irritation. From her viewpoint, she had plenty of reason to be annoyed. “Stacey can show you the video clip of the cold spot and the other readings from the hallway. It's clear something was there, and it moved into your room. Considering the last cold spot turned out to be a pretty scary-looking guy, I was worried for your safety.”
“But I was fine.” Cherise gave a long yawn. “I'm still so tired.”
“I'm not sure you were fine, either.” I explained the oily black mass I'd seen floating above her. “If you've been waking up tired, it's probably been feeding on you like that at night.”
“I'm waking up tired because my life is nothing but stress,” Cherise said.
“I'm sure that's true, too, but what I saw—”
“What you saw. What my sister says she saw, which you pretty well just repeated. All I've seen is some blue spots on a thermal camera, and I don't need a detective to tell me this house is drafty and cold.”
“Okay.” I took a breath. “I hate to pry, but can you tell us what you were dreaming about right before I woke you up?”
Cherise looked at me for a long moment, then shook her head. “I don't remember.”
I didn't think she was telling the truth, but I also didn't think prying onward would get me anywhere. “If you do remember, please let me know. It could give us some critical insight into this entity. And it is the most dangerous entity we've encountered in this house, I believe, because it appears to be feeding on the living. If it's feeding on you, it may be feeding on your little sister, too.”
This seemed to trouble her. “How do we know it's dangerous?”
“Only the negative ones prey on the living.”
Cherise thought that over a moment, then stood. “I'd better be getting off to Athens. Please stay out of my room. I know I've asked this before, but the request didn't seem to stick.”
“All right. Sorry again,” I said, feeling chastened and annoyed at the same time. I'd only entered her room because I was worried about her. Cherise wasn't stupid, but she was at least partly in denial.
She left for work, leaving us there as the sun began to rise, and the light through the windows made the house a bit less gloomy. It didn't do much for the chill, though.
There was a queen-sized bed in our borrowed room, and we each had our own sleeping bags. I'm normally very protective of my privacy, but when sleeping at a haunted location, I'd rather have someone else in the room.
I wasn't sure I could sleep here, or even should, given the things I'd observed. The fleabaggish motel was sounding better and better—though a place like that could have plenty of ghosts of its own.
The large antique bed turned out to be absurdly comfortable, though, and soon Stacey was zonked out asleep as if she didn't have a care in the world. Like Cherise, she hadn't seen the ghosts in this house with her own eyes.
I kept thinking over the case while looking at the closed door, expecting something awful to come through. I calmed myself by texting a good morning to Michael, who would be heading to work at the fire station.
It seemed like it would be impossible for me to sleep in that house, but I finally dozed off.
I awoke groggy. I'd been dreaming about my childhood, and I hadn't slept nearly enough sleep, but my phone alarm was beeping me awake. I'd rested until mid-morning, since it would probably not have been a great idea to start cold calling people and asking them strange and random-sounding questions about dead people at five or six in the morning. Ten felt like a more polite hour for such things.
I took my coffee into the front parlor and settled into an old leather chair surrounded by volumes of ancient literature. Stacey was upstairs, reviewing audio and video, an activity that would likely clash with my phone calls.
My first call was to Piper's mother, Annalee. This went direct to voice mail. I identified myself as a private investigator helping with some details of Dr. Marconi's estate, and that I had a few questions about Dr. Marconi that I hoped she could clarify.
My next call, one I dreaded more, was to Marconi's ex-wife, Vera Towning, who'd reverted to her maiden name after the divorce. Her current address was a retirement community near Little Rock, Arkansas.
I decided to stop and have a little more coffee before putting in that call.
As I brewed it in the house's spacious but aging kitchen, my phone rang. Annalee, Piper's mother, calling back already.
“What's this about?” she barked at an ear-bashing volume. She was in her late seventies; maybe she had developed hearing problems.
I identified myself quickly. “I have a couple of quick questions about your late son-in-law, Dr. Marconi, ma'am.”
“He passed away.”
“Yes, ma'am. Had you been in touch with him recently?”
“What's this about? You said the estate?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“He didn't leave me nothing.”
“Oh. Well—”
“Rich old man marries my little daughter and don't even put me in the will. Philip's estate can kiss my buttered grits.”
“Well... I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am,” I said, not sure how else to respond. “Were you, by any chance, in contact with Dr. Marconi recently? Before his demise?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“We are trying to put together a picture of his final days. Just ticking some boxes. Can you tell us anything about his state of mind?”
“His state of mind?” She sounded confused at first, then took a little gasp. “Is this about life insurance?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Oh, it is, isn't it? I doubt I'm named on that, either. Who is it? That little black girl he left everything to? You working for her?”
I was again taken aback. “Ma'am—”
“I think we all know what was happening there,” Annalee chuckled, fairly harshly. “Should have seen it coming. Third time's the charm, I guess. She was the one lucky enough to be with him when he finally croaked out and left it all behind.”
“If you're referring to Ms. Edmunds, she's only receiving a small stipend for a temporary period.”
“Uh-huh. And the house, from what I hear.”
“She's only boarding there while she catalogs his collection.”
“So she stays in the mansion and gets a paycheck, while nobody else gets nothing. And she didn't even have to marry him.”
I tried to keep focused on the information I needed. “Can you tell us anything about Dr. Marconi's state of mind—”
“I'll tell you what, Miss Represents the Estate, I'll talk for a fee, how about that? Everybody else is getting paid for this, she's getting paid, you're getting paid, why don't I get paid? I gave my daughter, didn't I? And I got nothing.”
“A fee?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Okay. I guess... I could spare twenty or thirty dollars.”
She snorted. “You must not want this information too bad.”
“What were you thinking?”
“More like... well, a good thousand would be nice.”
“A thousand?” I didn't even know how to respond. “I don't have anything—”
“It's the estate's money, ain't it? Everybody else is reaching into this dead man's pocket. I just want a little for myself. I got bills, same as everybody.”
“I just don't think it's possible. I wish I could come up with that kind of money, but
I have a very limited budget here.”
“So do I, honey. So do I.” And she hung up on me, taking a tough stance in what was apparently a financial negotiation.
After a short break to shake off those unexpected consequences and eat a quick breakfast, I took a deep breath and called Vera. While I still dreaded this call, it seemed unlikely that it could go much worse than the previous one.
I was able to get Vera on the phone right away—a rarity these days, someone answering a call from an unknown number. I'd expected voice mail. I did my best to steel my nerves before plunging into the cold water of this conversation with the dead man's ex-wife.
Her data-fusion profile had told me that she'd worked for a few public high schools as a performing arts teacher, finally retiring near her last teaching job in Arkansas.
She was stiff and reserved as I gave her the same basic vague story I'd given Annalee.
“I wouldn't know anything about his state of mind,” Vera replied. “I hadn't spoken to him in years. He was a distant and distasteful aspect of my past that I have long since put away. Wisdom comes from our mistakes, but they are cruel teachers. He was the cruelest.”
“Did you hear about his recent demise?”
“I considered sending flowers, but could not find any quite ugly enough.”
I held back a laugh. “From your experiences with him, do you think it was possible he was suicidal? Was he given to depression?”
A long pause. “Would he have killed himself? Let me tell you about Philip. When we met, he was a young star on campus. He'd just landed a book contract, too, though it was quite a while before the book came out. That stupid Charms and Curses book was a mild pop-culture ripple in its day, during those foolish years when crystals and Ouija boards were trendy.
“He was my teacher for an undergraduate American history class. Just a standard core requirement. I wasn't even a history student. My major was accounting back then, because my father said I should learn business skills.
“Philip was handsome and eloquent. I was flattered by his attention. He seemed to see more in me than anyone else ever had. When I was in the school play, he encouraged me to change my major to theater. And I did. My parents were furious, but I didn't care. He told me I would be a great actor in New York one day, and I believed him. I wanted to believe him, and everything seemed possible. It was the seventies, I was in my twenties, Athens was a wild party town and I never wanted the party to end. I thought to myself, if I marry Philip, it never will. So I accepted his proposal.
“Of course, once we were married, all was subordinate to his career and his desires. We traveled, and he taught in a few interesting places, but there was little talk of my alleged future in the theater. In time, it dawned on me that I was only to perform for him. He was to be my sole audience for life.
“Then the baby came. I don't know how I was supposed to be the great actor while stuck in that old house in the middle of nowhere, caring for a child while he focused on his work. I would go day after day without seeing anyone except the baby, the housekeeper, and occasionally my husband.
“He grew less interested in me, and in our son Victor, especially after little Vic failed to qualify for the gifted program at school. Vic was never as smart as Philip wanted; by the time Vic was about seven or eight, Philip had written the boy off as a loss, as a kind of unwanted pet, and treated him accordingly. Philip was never physically abusive, but he could not have been emotionally colder to that boy.
“The divorce was shocking, but looking back on it, inevitable. Philip felt Victor and I reflected poorly on him; he berated me for giving him what he called 'an empty-headed dud.' And he moved on to someone else: younger, prettier, more talented, another undergraduate. He wanted to start over. His first family was just a first draft to be thrown away. And in my youth, I'd been foolish enough to sign the prenuptials Philip's father had insisted on. The divorce left me with nothing except custody of a child Philip made no pretense of wanting.
“I began teaching high school theater to support us. I did audition for things occasionally, once Victor grew into a teenager and didn't need me around so much. We all have our little gardens of dead dreams, don't we? And sometimes we still try to water and tend those gardens, long after we should know nothing will ever grow there.
“I heard Philip and his new wife gave lavish parties at the mansion, that he'd even expanded that house for her. Why? It was already too big. And he expanded his book collection until they nicknamed his house The Great Library of Philomath. He held court there with his trophy bride.
“It was a bit sad to hear of her death. She was probably young and more or less innocent like I'd been. I wonder if she lived long enough to regret the marriage, like I did. Was there a third one after her? I stopped listening to gossip about him over the years.”
“Not that I know of,” I said.
“To answer your question, there is no way Philip Marconi killed himself. He thought far too much of himself for that. He thought he was above most of humanity. He thought others should be sacrificed to him, not the other way around.”
I'd made several notes. That was one vote against suicide, then—from someone who knew him well but had been out of touch for many years. I'd picked up a lot of background, too.
“I appreciate your help,” I said. “During the time you were together, did Marconi spend a lot of time researching the occult?”
“Folklore. I don't think 'occult' is correct.”
“Nothing involving communication with the dead?” I was trying to verify whether Marconi's study and practice of necromancy had really started after Piper's death.
“Goodness. I don't think so. Well, we did have a Ouija board party one October. The ghost of Elvis Presley spoke to us. I'm fairly certain our friend was pushing the planchette.”
“What was Elvis's message?”
“Don't step on my shoes.”
“Sounds like him to me,” I said, and the elderly lady chuckled. “Thank you so much for your time.”
“My time isn't worth what it once was,” she said. “Especially since they took the Murder, She Wrote reruns off my TV service.”
“I'm sorry to hear that. Jessica Fletcher was an amazing woman.”
“I'm auditioning for Steel Magnolias at the community theater next week. Perhaps that will fill the afternoons instead.”
“Oh, good luck. One last question: during your time at the house, did you ever have any unusual experiences?”
“I can't begin to answer that question.”
“Anything that could have been interpreted as paranormal or supernatural,” I clarified. I'd saved this question for last since it was the kind that often caused people to hang up. The bridge-burning question.
“Are you asking me if the house was haunted?”
“Only if you had any such experiences there, or if you heard of anyone who did.”
“I don't see how this could be of concern to an estate investigation,” she said. “But no. There was the family graveyard. I didn't like going back there. Didn't like thinking of myself getting buried there one day. And now I won't be. That's a relief. They can bury me just about anywhere but there.”
I thanked her again and ended the call. She'd given me a lot to think about. So had Annalee, despite her general hostility and lack of cooperation. Even that had told me something.
The more I learned about Piper's short life and sudden death, the more I understood why she might be spending her afterlife weeping. Hopefully we could help her move on.
Chapter Fourteen
“I've got something for you,” Stacey told me in a singsong voice when I stepped into the room.
“Great. Let's have a look.”
“There's not much to see, but there's much to hear.” Stacey angled a monitor toward me. “This is from Ye Olde Marconi Family Cemetery, established 1901.”
“Piper Overbrook Marconi,” my voice said, from when I'd stood at the young woman's grave, and I went on asking
questions. “If there's anything you want to say—”
“Help me.”
“—you can tell us. We're listening.”
“Wait!” I said, talking over my recorded self. “Did you hear that?”
“I did.” Stacey zeroed in on it. The ghost's voice was pretty flat, but sounded female. “I had to isolate it from the wind and the rustling leaves. And slow it way, way down. Yes, I'm amazing, and you're welcome.”
“Help me.”
On the recording, my voice continued: “How did you feel about your husband?”
“Help me.”
“Did you love him? Were you happy with him? Or did you have regrets?”
The wind picked up and tree limbs creaked.
“Are you still here, haunting the house?”
“I don't belong here.”
I jumped and pointed. Stacey nodded, grinning wider. “I had to slow that one down, too. It was like a fast little squeak at first.”
“Do you feel trapped?” I asked on the recording. “Are you upset that your husband brought you back after your death, Piper?”
A shriek of wind and creaking, groaning limbs sounded from the recording, loud enough to make me wince.
“Sorry.” Stacey stopped the recording. “That's it, anyway.”
“'Help me,'” I repeated. “'I don't belong here.' She doesn't belong in the cemetery?”
“I mean, she kinda does, though,” Stacey said. “She's dead, there's a big headstone with her name on it, and she's buried next to her husband. Where else would she belong?”
I nodded. “It reminds me of what his first wife Vera just told me.”
“You talked to Vera?”
“She gave me an earful, thankfully. He encouraged her to be an actress, said they'd go to New York and make it all happen for her. Then they got married and suddenly she's a housewife, pretty much all alone out here in this isolated house while he's out getting on with his life.”
“So New York was just a fairy tale. Like Oz. Or Magicia.”
“Sure. She felt trapped. Then the professor divorced her.”
“And she went to New York?”
“By then she had a son, so it ended up being North Carolina and community theater. And teaching high school drama.”
