by P. N. Elrod
With interest I saw the whites of his eyes flushing deep red as the blood spread through him. Mine would look the same. “Miss Francher’s gone, too?”
“Yes. Away shopping.”
There’d been a slight hesitation to that yes. “Shopping?”
“Off in the city. Dress fittings and such, see some movies, take in a few plays.”
I drained off my cup and managed to put it and the saucer back on the trolley without breaking either. “You’re a piss-poor liar, Barrett.”
He snapped a glare my way, shoulders and spine stiffening. “I am no liar, sir.” But he didn’t challenge me to a duel, so I was on the right track.
“You left something out, though.”
“Emily has gone to the city, as I said.”
“And?”
“None of your damn—” He cut off and shook his head, slumping a little. “Oh, bloody hell.”
The room got quiet since neither of us had a heartbeat. I waited him out.
“What does it matter?” he finally muttered. “You might as well know. She left me.”
The hell? “You’re kidding.”
But his visible pain said it all, explaining his general scruffiness and fatigued manner. “When?”
He grunted, shaking his head.
“But you were together for so long.”
He gave a soft snort. “Not really.”
Yeah, to someone his age those years with her were an eye-blink. “Anything set her off?” Maybe the massive exhumation within sight of the house had been too much.
“This was some while in coming.”
Escott should be here. He was good at this kind of stuff and friends with the man. Barrett barely knew me and wasn’t thrilled about it. Making no comment seemed the best way to get him to talk. In this silent house one of us would have to say something.
He put his cup down, made a fist, and thumped it gently against his chair arm. “The last year has been . . . difficult. But it started before then.”
I made one of those encouraging sounds in the back of my throat.
“The first few weeks after her change to this life were not easy, but we got through it, and things were wonderful for a time. And then it began to fall to pieces so gradually we didn’t see what was happening. We had rows over nothing yet didn’t talk about the real problems. Too afraid to, I suppose. There is a great security to being in love. One does not want to face the terror of its death, so you pretend it is still there, that all is well, that you don’t have to be alone.”
“Until you can’t take it any longer?”
“Yes. Even so. There comes the point where being alone is not such an unbearable state after all. So she left.”
“That stinks, Barrett. I’m sorry.”
He gave a small shrug. “Thank you. I appreciate your listening.”
“She’s gone for good?”
“She packed for an extended trip, took both maids along to look after her during the day, and went to the city about a month ago. Last week I got a card from some place in Florida so I’d know where to forward their mail.”
“You write to Charles about this? He never said anything.”
“No, I did not. Perhaps when you return you could let him know for me. I haven’t the heart to write. Family laundry, personal business, and all that.”
“Sure. No problem.”
He leaned back in the chair, looking introspective. “Though this is hardly familial. We never married, though I asked her. Just as well that we did not.”
I couldn’t help but feel a tug of sympathy and not a little selfish concern for my own situation. I’d proposed to Bobbi until she’d told me to stop. She loved me, but wasn’t ready to take that step. Though our situation was different from Barrett’s, I couldn’t help but wonder if the same thing might someday happen to us.
That lasted about three seconds, when I came to my senses. Bobbi and I were crazy about each other and had been through too much together. We didn’t have fights, either. It helped that she was usually right about things, while I rarely bothered to form an opinion in the first place.
I tried to recall what I knew about Emily Francher. She was—with her determinedly reclusive nature and predilection for wearing layers of diamonds—eccentric, but hadn’t struck me as being very interesting. Barrett obviously cared for her, but I never saw what the fuss was about. The only spark in her that I’d noticed had come from the jewelry.
She’d been bullied into marriage by her mother, ignored by her husband, and made a young widow not long after. The experience must have soured her on matrimony. Barrett may have overlooked that.
And then what? Years later her young cousin murders her; she wakes up in a coffin, disoriented, not remembering her own death. Barrett had been overjoyed that she’d made the change from dead to undead, but Emily had a hard time taking it in; I’d seen that much in her eyes. Confusion, fear, denial, anger, and who knows what else in those earliest moments when everything you know has been flipped upside down and inside out. The memory of my own difficult resurrection still gave me the heebies.
Escott and I left the next night, assuming Barrett and Emily would live happily ever after. Now I could see where things might have been less than perfect for them. They’d prepared for her possible return, but not Laura’s death and vicious crimes. How had that hit Emily? Did she blame Barrett? Did she blame herself? And why in God’s name had she continued to stay in this oversized museum with its bad memories? She must have decided a winter trip to Florida would blow out the cobwebs.
“She’s coming back, though, right?” I asked.
Barrett shrugged. “I expect she’ll return in the spring, but things are too broken between us to ever repair.”
“You sure?”
“I am. For all that I adore them, women are absolutely maddening, and damn me if I can understand any of them. I do know when one has ceased to love me. I just wish . . . .well, there’s nothing for it, it’s the devil of our condition.”
“What is?”
“That I cannot get roaring drunk and forget about her for a time.”
Actually, he could. If he got enough booze into one of his horses or fed from a drunk human—but I wasn’t going to share that with him. I’d turned into a dangerous lunatic when it’d happened to me.
“So you’re going to stay on here a few more months?” I wanted to change the subject.
“Longer than that. Emily offered me the house. I bought it.”
That bombshell made me blink. First, I didn’t know Barrett had that kind of money, and second, that Emily was capable of doing something so big. Perhaps waking up undead had woken her up in other ways. Suddenly young again, free to go anywhere she liked, and able to do just about anything she wanted without worrying much about consequences—it must have been a hell of an eye-opener.
“You like it here?” I asked, not thinking.
He shot me a strange look, and unexpectedly began to laugh until it turned into a coughing fit. It took another teacup of horse blood to clear his throat. “I should explain—this is my home.” He waved a hand, palm up, indicating a wider area. “The land, I mean. The land belonged to my family long before that damned rebellion forced us to move to England. When I finally came back to see what had become of the holdings I found that it had been confiscated and sold—illegally—to some upstart who wouldn’t part with it.”
“You’ve been after it ever since?”
“Please, I’m no lost heir looking to reclaim my kingdom. I only wanted to make sure it was preserved and not divided up and sold off a bit at a time. Past owners have been sensible about that sort of thing. Those who were not always benefited from a talk with me.”
Which would certainly include a bout of hypnosis. It’s what I’d have done to change someone’s mind.
“It’s why I attended a party years ago in the old house. There had been upheavals in the Francher family and Violet—Emily’s mother—was an unpredictable harpy. I wanted to see w
hat she was up to . . . and then I met Emily and everything changed.”
Great, he looked ready to slump over and start a fresh round of misery. At this point every subject would lead back to Emily. He wasn’t the only one missing the numbing effect of booze.
“You’re going to live in this big place on your own?”
“For the time being. Lord, man, you look horrified. What would you have me do?”
“Get out, go somewhere, and do something.”
“What? Find work? Our nature rather limits our choices, though I understand you’ve done well for yourself. Sir, as I have the means for it, I am content to be a country gentleman until such time as it wearies me. I will not deprive some fellow in greater need by taking his job. In turn, I shall provide employment for a few good-hearted sorts who won’t mind seeing to the more mundane aspects of running this estate in exchange for a fair wage from a lenient master.”
Sitting around with nothing to do but watch someone else polishing the silver would send me straight into the booby-hatch.
Barrett read my face. “That evidently holds no appeal for you, yet you have a nightclub. Charles mentioned it in correspondence. What is it but another version of what I have here? You employ people and oversee something that provides you a goodly amount of pleasure and pride.”
“It earns a living.”
“A minor disparity.”
He was full of spinach, but it was his house, he was my host, and further disagreement would be bad manners. Once in a while, when I made the effort, I could be polite with the best of them.
Besides, I understood what it was like nursing a broken heart. I just didn’t like thinking about it.
“I appreciate your listening,” he said again. “You’ve helped lift the weight of some of my personal distress and to forget others. Those must soon be attended to; we’ve a sad evening before us, sir.”
Maureen’s funeral. “When do we . . . ?”
“The pastor will arrive a little before ten.”
“That late?”
“I allowed for the possibility that you might be delayed.”
“Won’t he think a funeral at night is kind of unusual?”
“When I was younger all funerals were held at night. Perhaps not so late, though. No need to worry about him or anyone else—I’ve seen to the legalities and done a bit of influence on those concerned to keep this quiet. It lacks courtesy, but I’d rather avoid gossip. Lord knows there’s been enough, what with Emily selling and moving out, and that construction equipment tearing things up.”
“You hypnotized the workers, too?”
“There were no workers. I rented equipment, got instruction on how to use it, and did it all myself.”
That was impressive, though I had a hard time picturing him in overalls and heavy boots and operating a bulldozer. “To avoid gossip?”
“When one chooses to put down roots for an indefinite period, the less talk the better. I wish to have a quiet life here, and laborers telling tales at their favorite tavern would work against that endeavor. If anyone found out the real reason behind the digging I’d have no end of interest from the police. One may influence for a time, but it never lasts, as you well know.”
Did I ever. There was a homicide cop back in Chicago just waiting to put me away on general principles. Now that I couldn’t hypnotize him anymore I took pains to keep my head low.
“I’ve let the curious think I’m excavating with the idea of building a new guest cottage on the foundations of the old house. In due time I shall give it up as a bad idea and fill it in again. Perhaps I shall plant new trees. I never liked the land there being so unnaturally flat. But that’s for the future.” He straightened a little. “There is another issue, too. I wouldn’t mind your advice.”
“Oh, yeah?” He was just full of surprises. “On what?”
“It can wait until after the service. The pastor arrives at about ten, along with the hearse for transport.”
“Trans—what do you mean?”
“To convey Maureen to the cemetery,” he said gently.
“She’s here?”
“Of course. Where else?”
“I thought she’d be at the funeral home or a church.”
“Different times, different customs, Mr. Fleming. Her casket is . . . well, I’ll show you if you wish to pay your respects.”
That phrase again. It sounded better when he said it. “Yeah, sure.”
“It is sealed. As you might have guessed, things were not pleasant, but it was a duty I could not impose upon another.”
Until now I’d been able to avoid thinking about that aspect of Maureen’s disinterment. It’s what made Barrett the better man. I wouldn’t have been up to the task knowing that it meant seeing her like that. I looked at him, feeling pity and respect. “That had to be. . . ”
“Yes, it was. But it is past. We will look after her and lay her worldly shell to rest and remember better times.”
Okay, that was something I could do.
“I must beg your pardon, I’m in no fit state for company. If you will allow, I’ll correct things after I show you to your room.”
He rose and led the way back to the main entry to get my trunk.
Barrett was ready to take the trunk upstairs himself, but I got there first. We compromised, each grabbing one of the leather handles on each side. On the second floor he surprised me again, ushering me into what had been Emily’s room. The big bed and some feminine-looking furnishings were left, but everything else had been cleared out, not even her scent remained.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he said, easing his end of the trunk down. “It’s the only bedroom that’s light-proofed and it has its own bath.”
The curtains looked to be inches thick, and the door to a large bathroom was open. If there’d been sheets on the bed and pictures on the wall it would have passed for a suite in a fancy hotel. “It’s great. If you don’t mind my asking, where’s Maureen?”
“Ah. Yes. This way.”
Downstairs again, he took me to the same room where Emily’s casket had been nearly two years earlier. That bothered me, but I couldn’t say why.
I hesitated; he went through, turning on the lights. They were also of low wattage, meant to soften things, I suppose. Futile.
Get it over with, he’s already done the worst part.
I made myself go in and saw pretty much what I’d expected.
Barrett had done her proud when it came to the flowers. He must have emptied a winter greenhouse. She’d loved roses. The color didn’t matter so long as it was a rose. Barrett had surrounded her with all kinds, along with carnations and other blooms I didn’t know.
As promised, the casket was closed. He’d picked a nice one, nothing fussy, but not cheap. The brass fittings gleamed like gold against the warm brown wood—until I realized they were gold or at least gold-plated.
I must have made a noise.
He turned an inquiring eye on me. “A problem?”
“I was just thinking what she might have said about this.”
He understood what I meant. “Yes. She would not have approved of the extravagance. I’m sure she forgives me.”
Half a dozen chairs were set before the casket. Too many, considering we were the only mourners, but it gave balance to the tableau, made it less lonely.
I took in the rest of the room as an afterthought and damned-near jumped out of my skin.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered.
Resting on an ornate easel was a life-size oil portrait of Maureen. It was at eye-level and disturbingly realistic.
Barrett gave me a moment, then stepped forward. “I had it painted in those years we were together. I. . .” He cleared his throat, for his voice had gone suddenly thick. “I wanted to see what she looked like in sunlight.”
I couldn’t speak. There was a knot in my own throat.
Memory is treacherous. It makes you forget too much of what’s important. It had taken from me the shine in her
eyes, the color of her sweet lips, and a thousand other details.
Barrett murmured something and left us alone.
I pulled one of the chairs over and sank onto it, suddenly a tired traveler. The artist had done some trick with her eyes so she seemed to be smiling down at me.
She’d posed outside, drenched in sunlight so pure you could feel waves of heat coming from the canvas. Her clothing was a loose draping of material that imparted a timeless quality to the work. She held a brilliant spray of flowers, the originals long wilted and gone to dust, but their image preserved with her forever.
