A Stranger in Alcott Manor

by Alyssa Richards

  Beau covered the girl’s face.

  “Out of curiosity, we started googling arsenic poisoning symptoms. The strong scent of garlic and white horizontal lines on the nails were two of them.”

  “So, Bertha Mae did it on purpose,” Beau said.

  “She killed her own daughter. It must have been in that so-called medicine she gave her.”

  The pressure in the room intensified, a contracting that made Peyton feel her organs were being squeezed.

  Beau stepped back, grabbed his head.

  A crackling noise sounded in the room. They both looked up to the source of the noise and saw the edges of the room turning black, like singed paper.

  Beau grabbed Peyton by the arm and they backed away.

  “What’s happening?” he asked.

  “I think we finally found the manor’s best-kept secret, and now it’s letting go of these memories,” she said.

  “With us in it?” He guided Peyton toward the stairs. “If this is its last secret, then it should finally allow us to go home, right?”

  “It looks like solving Rachel’s death was enough to dissolve this world.” She watched as bits and pieces of the room tumbled inward and fell away, leaving nothing in its place. “But I’m not sure it was enough to get us home.”

  They dashed up the stairs, Beau taking them two at a time, pulling Peyton close behind him. They shut the door that led to the basement.

  Guests had left the foyer area and the low chattering noises of party-like conversation drifted from the living room.

  Beau pointed to the doorknob that began to twist and melt. The upper corners of the doorway turned black and dissolved.

  Peyton’s heart seized. “We need to get outside, buy us some time to figure this out.”

  Hand in hand they ran down the long hallway to the kitchen, stopping short at the wide doorway.

  Bertha Mae stood in the middle of the room. Hasseltine stood in the back with her hands folded in front of her. To the side of Bertha Mae was an older, mustached man in a black suit who held her camera and a tripod in his arms. Peyton knew him at once, had known him since she was a child.

  His hair had once been a thick shock of jet black, but now it thinned such that his white scalp shone through the sparse gray strands. His cheeks were sunken, like he hadn’t eaten well in years. And his physique had shrunk from lumberjack strong to nearly skeletal. But it was Horace, nonetheless. Mrs. Miller’s husband.

  His mouth opened and hung there like he had been struck. Finally, he said, “Peyton?”

  Peyton hurried toward the kitchen like a scared rabbit, jumped over the black edge that ran across the end of the hallway. She motioned to Horace for him to follow them outside, but when she opened the screen door she ran smack into a hard, smooth surface. The outdoors weren’t an option. They didn’t exist anymore.

  Peyton rubbed the sharp pain on her nose and faced Horace, placed a hand on his black sleeve. “Yes, it’s me. We have to go home now.”

  Bertha Mae grabbed Peyton’s arm and stopped her. “He’s just the photographer, my dear. Does some of my tintypes for me. Unfortunately, he’s going to make a tintype of my beloved girl’s funeral. I don’t know what I’ll do without her.” Bertha Mae’s mouth tightened as if she thought about crying. “Bad things keep happening. I try to be strong.” She glanced at Horace and her soft brown eyes returned, as if she posed for a picture.

  “I think we should make a tintype of the kitchen, Horace. We don’t have one with the lovely Miss Peyton, do we?”

  Horace assembled the tripod and camera without question.

  Bertha Mae’s expression was the same one Peyton had seen the first night she arrived—a gracious smile, celebrity-quality. Only now Peyton saw it for what it was: manufactured. She gasped slightly at remembering something from that first brief trip to the manor’s memories, the first night she saw Beau.

  “Maybe Horace knows how to get to the holiday photos where Ruby is?” Beau whispered to Peyton. He raised his eyebrows in question.

  “Beau, I think I may know—”

  “Come with me while I make you some tea,” Bertha Mae interrupted and guided Peyton away from Beau. She jingled a set of keys that hung from her waist. She spooned white powder into the hot water and talked about not knowing how she could live without her daughter, her precious Rachel. She glanced at Horace, watched while he got organized for the next tintype.

  Beau looked into the hallway.

  Peyton stared at the camera that was aimed in her direction and stepped away.

  “I received this camera as a gift from my husband,” she offered. “You know Alcott Manor is going to go down in history. It will be famous for its beauty, for the fact that my husband is a senator. So, I have lots of tintypes made. Even on horrible days like today.”

  Bertha Mae stood ramrod straight, her smile fading when she watched Peyton back away from her. Her long-sleeved black dress garnished with ruffles did nothing to soften the sharp angles of her mood. She whispered something to Hasseltine.

  Peyton sidled up to Horace. “Is Ruby Lee here?”

  His forehead turned into a roadmap of worry lines and wrinkles. “She’s here?”

  Peyton nodded and glanced at Bertha Mae, who poured water into the iron pot. “She’s usually in the holiday scenes. I hoped she might be in this tintype today.”

  “You know how to get us home?” he asked.

  “I’m working on it,” she whispered.

  Bertha Mae served the tea, called Peyton to the table.

  Peyton spied Hasseltine in the back corner of the room shaking her head furiously. She waved a white tea towel at her from behind Bertha Mae’s back.

  Peyton gave a subtle nod, backed away from the table.

  Hasseltine calmed, though her eyes remained wide. She shook her head once more.

  “What’s the matter, dear? Don’t want your tea?” Bertha Mae’s tone was syrupy sweet, and yet there was a hardness to the edges. Like she dared Peyton to defy her.

  “I’m going to let it cool a little, first,” Peyton smiled her most accommodating smile.

  Bertha Mae pressed the front of her dress. “Drink up. It will make you feel better.”

  Peyton thought she remembered Bertha Mae saying something similar to her daughter when she gave her the oily medicine. “Excuse me, please,” she said to Bertha Mae.

  She made her way to Beau, who said nothing but pointed down the long hallway. The area slowly folded in on itself, its edges turning dark and crumpling like burnt paper trash. “We have to get out of here,” he said. “The whole house is going to go away.”

  Peyton tapped her hands against the outside of her thighs. “What we do to one side we have to do to the other—” she said distractedly, remembering her yoga teacher’s words. “I have an idea.”

  “What?” Beau slipped his arm around her and pulled her away from the memories that rolled toward them like a giant boulder, destroying everything in its path.

  “Maybe we have to achieve some sort of balance in order to get out of here.”

  “What balance?” Beau’s questioning look was laced with panic. “Like justice?”

  She stopped. “Maybe justice. I was thinking more about the tintypes. What if getting home has to do with the number of photos that were taken beforehand? Mrs. Miller only made one tintype of me that day and that landed me here. Then I got caught in one here and that got me home, put me back where I started. How many did she make of you that night?”

  “I was drunk,” he rubbed his forehead, trying to remember.

  “Make a guess, it’s important.” Peyton waved Horace over. Time moved ungodly slow. And the disintegrating memories burned too fast. She showed Horace the hallway, how the scenes were dying, and quickly explained why they wanted to figure out how many tintypes they had been in.

  Beau’s eyes looked past her. “There were five different suits and six or seven tintypes each. So, thirty-five. Maybe more.”

  “How many tintypes
have you been in since you got here?”

  He shook his head as if the answer wasn’t an easy one. “I’ve avoided them for the most part. No more than five a year, I’d say.”

  “So maybe you have five or so left before it evens out,” she said. “Hopefully not more than that.”

  “How many did she make of you this last time?” he asked.

  She tried to remember. “Five? Or Seven?” They had been talking during the process and she wore the same outfit. She counted the poses. “Five,” she finally said.

  “You’ve been in two tintypes so far, so you have three left. Horace, what about you?”

  “Two,” he said without reservation. “Two left. I haven’t been in that many tintypes, mostly I make them.”

  A horrible crackling noise sounded from the hallway.

  “We have to hurry,” Peyton said. “Horace, how quickly can you make more tintypes?”

  “A few minutes per piece. Less if I have help with the developing.”

  “I’ll help, I’ve done developing like this before,” she said.

  “How does that work with just the three of us? Someone will get left behind.”

  Peyton had already known that she would put herself last. If this worked, she wouldn’t ask Beau or Horace to endure one more day in this hell. Horace didn’t look like he would physically survive the time. Beau figured out how to get fed, but being left behind would push him beyond his mental and emotional limits. “I don’t know. Let’s just get started. How long do we have in this memory?”

  “Not long. Everything shifts soon.”

  Peyton wondered. When the memory shifted, would there be another one to step into? Or had they all disappeared?

  21

  Jayne Ella propped her camera phone on the edge of one of the stairs. The lens pointed toward the floor at an angle so she could record the entire process. When she finally broke through the flooring and the cement, she wanted the camera to see Austin’s watch. She needed that recorded proof, to keep him from taking the manor.

  She’d called the security company and told them she was hosting a private gathering at the manor, that the cameras would be off for the evening. Then she unplugged each of the cameras. They made her sign a paper relieving them of any liability. If the board found out she did that, she would have a hard time explaining her actions.

  Talking the police out of patrolling the manor for the night had taken more doing. She was pretty sure she raised too much suspicion by her insistence that they not show up tonight. But it had to be done. She’d lied and told them she was hosting a small gathering, that some politicians were in attendance and they didn’t want to be seen. The police finally agreed, albeit reluctantly. They probably thought she was hosting something illicit.

  Using four metal ladders, she created a partial dome with extra long sheets of plastic. If she set it up right, the plastic would catch all of the wood and cement dust that would fly once the buzz saw began. She’d never used a buzz saw before and the man at the hardware store cautioned her, saying it was dangerous. “Knew a man once who lost control of the dang thing and sawed his foot right off. I recommend you hire someone to do whatever it is that you need done.”

  She would have hired someone, but she couldn’t have anyone knowing about the gold. She didn’t need another Mrs. Miller in her life, blackmailing her for yet something else that she shouldn’t have done, or worse, turning her into the police. Or maybe even taking the gold for themselves. She picked up a pair of heavy-duty steel-toe work boots, instead.

  She unfolded a king-sized plastic sheet and placed it over the surrounding area. She checked her watch. She had no idea where Peyton was but she would wring her neck when she found her. Taking off like that and leaving her to manage the bankers on her own, it was unthinkable. Peyton knew what was at stake.

  Jayne Ella shook the folds out of another sheet. Now that she thought about it, she needed her gone tonight anyway. Jayne Ella had managed to get rid of all the volunteers for the night by giving them much needed time off.

  She got Mrs. Miller to leave by telling her that she had just remembered a box of tintypes she had in a storage unit where some other Alcott belongings were held. Mrs. Miller loved those old photographs. She had kept them at the museum for months after Jayne Ella insisted they be moved to the manor.

  The only wrinkle in the plan was Ira. Peyton’s absence was driving him insane. As well it would any man. He had told her that Peyton postponed the wedding, that she needed time to think things through. But he hoped to talk with her again. He checked in three times a day, wanting to know where Peyton was. He didn’t say it aloud, but she knew he thought she had left him. Bailed on their engagement.

  “I’ve sent her on errands,” she told him once when she found him on the back porch looking in windows. “She’s meeting with our financiers,” she said another time when he knocked on the front door. Jayne Ella was running out of excuses.

  For all she knew Peyton had gone for one last fling before she intended to settle with Ira. If indeed she would. Since Peyton arrived at the manor, Jayne Ella had been worried that Peyton was going to screw this one up. Too many memories of Beau, perhaps. She didn’t think her girl ever completely got over that boy. Now Peyton wasn’t answering her phone or texts or email.

  Jayne Ella refused to cancel the ceremony. She would find a stand-in and have the photographers make good use of the flowers, the tent, the chairs. Someone Peyton’s size. Someone who could wear her wedding dress.

  She wouldn’t let Peyton ruin the perfect publicity opportunity that she had set up for the manor. She tucked her hair into a black knit hat and slipped on a pair of safety glasses. Checked her watch. Five o’clock. If she worked nonstop, she could get through the layers of flooring and relocate all of the gold well before morning. Problem was, she wasn’t one hundred percent certain where they had left the gold. Not precisely, anyway. The great hall was a large space and if she were a few feet off here or there, she would have to keep cutting to find what she needed. That meant there would be a gaping hole in the floor, but she couldn’t worry about that. Keeping her back to the camera, she plugged in the round saw and turned on the power.

  22

  Like an earthquake, the manor’s memories shifted and with such an abrupt force that Peyton lost her balance. She fell to the ground, her face hitting the cold tile floor. The cavernous black line slid toward her, and her heart jumpstarted into a skitter as she struggled to get to her feet.

  The camera slipped from Horace’s grasp and tumbled toward the floor.

  “Stay with us!” she shouted to Horace. “Hang on to the camera!” The kitchen walls shifted, their shape and definition morphing into different colors, a different scene. Beau slid his arm around her waist, helped lift her over and on to the other side.

  When everything stopped, they had arrived in the living room, the large area at the front of the house with two fireplaces and three sitting areas. Peyton looked toward the foyer and found it missing. Not empty, but gone. In its place was a beige nothingness, a blank screen.

  “Have to find Ruby.” Horace’s voice was raspy and harsh, and a white substance had gathered at the corners of his mouth. He leaned on a nearby chair, lifted himself upright. He smoothed his gray hair to the side, ran a hand over his tired, drawn face.

  Peyton wanted to help him, she wanted to ask Hasseltine to get him water and a meal. But there was no time. “Where’s the camera?”

  Beau pointed across the room. Bertha Mae stood at the head of the table that held flowers in vases and tintypes of Rachel. She finger-combed a long, thick lock of her daughter’s brown hair, tied with a blue silk ribbon. The camera sat on its tripod, aimed at the display.

  Bertha Mae placed the hair on the table, walked behind the camera and hovered low, as if she tried to see what the lens would see.

  “She’s not exactly behaving like the grieving mother,” Beau said.

  “We have to get that camera away from her, and for lo
ng enough that we can get our tintypes made. We need to stay close together so we don’t get separated.” She tried to exhale relief that the camera hadn’t been destroyed. But Bertha Mae’s presence took all the oxygen from the room. Her softest expression, the one she saved for the camera, was gone. In its place was the hard shell that let nothing and no one inside.

  As if she knew she was being watched, Bertha Mae jerked upright. “What are you two doing in here?”

  “I’m here to help, ma’am.” Horace limped toward her with practiced confidence, unmoved by her sharp tone. “Find Ruby,” he whispered to Peyton when he passed.

  She looked in the kitchen and found Hasseltine but no one else. There weren’t any other rooms, and at the far end of the living room, the corners turned black and curled inward. This room was disappearing, too.

  Peyton leaned close to Beau. “Ruby’s not here and the other tintypes might not exist anymore. I don’t want to leave her behind, but we have to go. We don’t have a choice. I’ll distract Bertha Mae for as long as I can. You and Horace take the camera, start making tintypes of each other.”

  “No. What about you?”

  “You and Horace go first. He knows how to develop the tintypes, and you have more to do than any of us.”

  “I’m not leaving without you,” Beau said. He clasped his hand around hers and squeezed. “I won’t lose you again.”

  She squeezed his hand in return and nodded quickly. “Don’t worry.”

  Peyton walked toward Bertha Mae and felt as though she approached a client. Someone whose image was a wreck.

  Peyton remembered her grandmother’s words. “The truth shall set you free, sweetheart. Confess it, stand on it, cling to it. It will always give you a way forward.”

  It was the first step with any client. Get them to tell the truth about what they’d done. Once she had their honesty, once she knew the real story, she had a chance at fixing their image. She wondered if the manor needed Bertha Mae’s honesty to help pave their way home.