O'Hare House Mysteries

by Kate Danley

  "My dear, are you well?"

  She clutched her chest. Her heart felt as if someone had closed their hand around it and held it tight, putting its rhythmic beat out of sync. It didn't match the breaths she was taking. It seemed like it was going sideways instead of pumping blood through her veins. Her lips felt cold. She tore at her collar, desperate for air. The world was going black.

  "Give her air!" Wesley shouted. She felt him lower her to the ground. She did not have the air in her lungs to speak. The little that remained passed over her vocal cords in a whisper.

  She pounded her hand upon her heart, hoping he would understand.

  "Her heart…" Wesley said. "It is her heart!"

  "I shall send for the doctor!" Marguerite cried, fleeing from the room to find Mrs. Nan or Mr. Willard.

  "Oh, Clara, stay with me!" he begged.

  How could she communicate to him that this was not natural. That she was being attacked by the same force that killed Thomas. That killed Alastair Beltza.

  How did one shield oneself from a supernatural foe?

  Her wild eyes fell upon the box of scarabs Dr. Van Flemming had given to her. What was that story that Phineas had told her? That they were placed upon the heart so that it could speak in the afterlife of the good the owner had done? That they held the heart in place so that it would not wander off?

  Clara clawed her way towards the box. The sweet call of gentle slumber lulled her eyes to half mast. The divine call of unconsciousness tugged at her, whispering its comfort. The pain in her heart could stop if she would just let go.

  "What can I do to help you?" Wesley asked, unsure of Clara's flailing.

  Her hand fell, unable to fight anymore. Eyes open, she stared at the box, so close, and yet, a lifetime away.

  "The scarabs!" Wesley shouted, leaping to his feet. In his haste, he knocked the box off the table and the contents scattered.

  She would miss him, Clara thought as the warmth overtook her. He was a good man and she was grateful for him. Clara could see a scarab beside the leg of the table, almost hidden beside the chair legs. Her eyes closed.

  Wesley scrambled on his hands and knees looking for the carved bit of red rock. "Do not close your eyes on me, Clara! You will not!"

  Her pallor had turned to grey, her lips to blue. He ripped open her shirt. He did not see a pulse beating in her neck. "Oh, Clara! We have been through too much! You are not allowed to die!"

  He placed the scarab on her quiet heart. Nothing happened for a moment. Then another. And then suddenly she sat straight up, gasping for breath.

  "My god!" she exclaimed. "I just died!"

  "Clara!" Wesley cried, gathering her up. He covered her face with kisses, tears of relief threatening to spill from his eyes.

  "I do say. This is quite a sight for the eyes," said Marguerite from the doorway.

  Clara realized her shirt hung open as she clung to Wesley. She clutched it closed. "I apologize," said Clara. "My heart was giving me terrible pains. But I feel well now."

  Marguerite laughed. "Well. I can see it is certainly not your modesty binding your heart too tight."

  In a gentlemanly fashion, Wesley tried to help Clara button her shirt, but she waved him away. "I am afraid it has come to my attention that we need more of these," Clara said, showing the scarab to Marguerite.

  "What happened?"

  "I fear we may be under supernatural attack."

  Marguerite gave a low whistle. "So, what happens if you put it down?"

  Steeling her courage, Clara placed it on the table and let go. The terrible vise around her heart struck once again with its grip. Immediately she picked it up and the pressure faded. "I am afraid I have grown quite attached to it." Clara suddenly looked around, realizing there was someone else who might be in danger. "Where is Red?"

  Wesley and Marguerite realized that he had not come in yet. Suddenly, Mr. Willard came running.

  "Red has been captured," the butler panted. "The specter who was watching the house! He took Red!"

  Clara looked at Wesley and Marguerite. "I fear that Trevor Beltza has discovered our deception."

  23

  Clara paced the front parlor, glancing out onto the street every five minutes, waiting for Marguerite's return. She had gone out to the police station, despite Clara's protests, to warn them of Red's kidnapping and the most likely perpetrator. She swore the department would look more kindly on their actions to get him back if they were kept informed.

  Wesley sat in a chair against the wall where no prying eyes could spy him. His foot beat out a tattoo as he read through the newspaper. "It appears that Lady Beltza's funeral has been announced," he said absentmindedly.

  Clara wrung her hands, completely uninterested in society gossip. "What could be keeping her?" she uttered aloud for the twentieth time. "Do you think that Marguerite has been taken, too?"

  "Clara," said Wesley. "Come here."

  She walked over to his chair and sat on the floor beside him, resting her head upon his leg. "She should be here by now."

  Wesley glanced up at the mantle clock. "She is only an hour late." He bent over and placed a comforting kiss upon her head. "She will be back."

  "If anything happens to Red…" Clara stated, her sentiment trailing off. She clutched Wesley's arms. "What if they kill him?"

  He shushed her. "They won't kill him. If they've figured out who he is, they'll know how valuable he is to us. They won't kill him for as long as they can use him."

  "Was this all for nothing, though?" asked Clara. "Did we place the life of our friend at risk for absolutely naught?"

  "Clara," Wesley said, stopping her train of thought. "He knew what he was getting into. He has survived among a much rougher crowd. He would not have placed himself into any sort of danger if he thought there was any lurking."

  Clara clung to the scarab which now she, Wesley, and Marguerite wore. Perhaps Red had experience with fighting off the thugs in town, but this danger was not the sort which could be solved with smarts or fists.

  At that moment, Mr. Willard entered with a note on a silver platter. "This arrived just a few moments ago," he said, holding out the tray to Clara.

  She took it off and tore open the envelope. She pulled out the paper. Sure enough, it had the four door watermark in the corner. "It says that we are to bring the money tonight to a cemetery located at the address enclosed if we wish to see Red alive again. A cemetery…"

  "Wait," Wesley said with sudden interest. He stood, took the newspaper, and spread it out on the coffee table before Clara.

  "What is it?" she asked, leaning forward to see.

  "The burial announcement for Trevor's mother," said Wesley, "Look! It is for the same address."

  Though the trapping of a formal funeral had fallen out of fashion, it stood to reason that the Beltza family would most likely have a large procession with mourners.

  "What a perfect opportunity for the Quatre Portes to gather in one place," mused Clara.

  "No one would suspect them of ulterior motives," added Wesley. He pointed to a map which had been placed in the paper. "How interesting that they would put a map with the procession route to the new cemetery."

  "Look at how the streets are laid out!" Clara exclaimed. She ran into the study and began looking through the stacks of paper which had built up in the past few weeks. She came back with a small, crumpled paper. The night that Marguerite's partner, Norman Scettico, had died, he had drawn a maze. She had thought it just a map of Horace Oroberg's basement, but now she placed it on the table beside the picture in the newspaper. It matched the roads on the map perfectly.

  Wesley gave a low whistle. "So not only is this group building these rooms with four doors in the cellars of homes, they have controlled the entire layout of the city?"

  Clara nodded fearfully. "If these rooms are capable of holding and focusing power, imagine what could be unleashed if such a structure was scaled larger, so that the power gathered was from all the living souls i
n the town."

  Wesley shook his head fearfully. "And what is at the center of this? What is our room with four doors?"

  "The new cemetery," said Clara, pointing at the square green park with gates on four sides. "And at the center?"

  "I am terrified to ask," confessed Wesley.

  "Then let me inform the both of you," said Marguerite walking into the room with a large bag in her hand.

  "Marguerite!" Clara exclaimed.

  "Sorry about my delay," she said, "But I figured out what was going on the moment I saw the funeral announcement for Lady Rhoda Beltza." Marguerite walked over to the map and placed her finger on the cemetery they had just been looking at, confirming Clara's worst suspicions. "This cemetery, to stay at the front of fashion, has decided to break away with common themes and to introduce an Egyptian flair to the architectural design of their new mausoleum."

  "Oh no…" said Clara.

  Marguerite looked at the little slip of paper Clara had placed on the map. "What is that?" she asked.

  "The night Norman died, he drew this," said Clara. "It matches perfectly."

  Marguerite smiled affectionately, shaking her head. "He figured it out before all of us."

  "It just took us this long to understand," Wesley added.

  "So what do we do now?" asked Clara.

  Marguerite placed her bag upon the table. "As you know, Norman and I tracked something wicked across the continent for over fifteen years. We learned a thing or two about protecting ourselves from the monsters Peter Nero's artifacts stirred up."

  Wesley took a look at all of the items Marguerite had brought back with her. Candles and swathes of cloth and weapons of various sizes. "What are you proposing, Marguerite?"

  Marguerite looked over at Clara. "I don't know about you, but I’m getting a little tired of the Beltza family ruining our lives. I say we go and get Red back."

  "We are with you," said Wesley.

  "Good," said Marguerite. "Because I have a plan." She threw a long white sheet at Wesley. "What do you say we help all those death-lovers see a ghost?"

  24

  Night had fallen. The great iron gate to the massive graveyard was open. Marguerite pulled Red's carriage beside it. As she hopped down and hitched the horse to the post, Clara and Wesley climbed out.

  "Looks like Trevor is expecting us," noted Marguerite.

  "Be safe," said Wesley, taking out the box filled with chains, candles, and sheets.

  "Just stick to the plan and we should get out of here intact," said Marguerite.

  Wesley wrapped his free arm around Clara's waist and pulled her close, giving her a desperate kiss, as if he was frightened it might possibly be their last.

  "Don't worry," said Clara. "We shall be fine."

  Wesley nodded grimly. "Take care of her, Marguerite."

  "Aye-aye!" she saluted. "Now get out of here before someone spots you and ruins the whole thing."

  Wesley ran into the darkness of the graveyard. The shadows soon engulfed him and Clara felt frighteningly alone.

  "Come along," said Marguerite. "This is not going to get any easier."

  Nothing illuminated Marguerite and Clara's way besides the moon as they made their way to the center of the cemetery. They had decided against a lantern. Though there was little expectation of catching Trevor unaware, they hoped to keep their arrival as secret as possible for as long as they could.

  The center of the cemetery was the new mausoleum compound. The entry to this new section was flanked by two columns with decorated palm frond carvings at the top. The white gravel crunched beneath their feet as they walked up the center aisle. Right and left were the doors to family tombs. Each had a bracket holding a torch, most likely to allow friendly visitors a welcome light, but tonight, none were lit. At the end of the aisle was a circular building.

  At once, every torch lit, one right after the other, and fire raced up the aisle and around the circle. Clara choked back a scream.

  "I believe our presence has been noted," said Marguerite, taking out her pearl-handled derringer.

  "You are armed?" stated Clara.

  "Bessie has never let me down," said Marguerite patting the gun. "We should think about getting you her twin."

  They continued to the central mausoleum. Two ornamental Egyptian gods sat as guards on either side of the door. The designer most likely had picked them for their pretty figures.

  "Dare we go in?" asked Clara.

  The doors swung open.

  Marguerite shook her head. "I don't believe we have much choice."

  They walked inside. Despite the newness of the mausoleum, the hallway was covered in a thick layer of dust which crunched beneath their feet. Clara crouched down and realized it was not dust, but sand. Had they tried to recreate the ancient Egyptian tombs found in the Valley of the Kings here? The hallway led to a set of steps going down and Clara realized that they were in a catacomb running beneath the graves above. The walls here were painted with hieroglyphs and symbols. She wondered how long it had taken to construct all of this and what it had taken to keep the builders silent.

  She did not have too much time to consider things, though, for as they turned another corner, a bright golden light spilled out into the hallway and they found themselves in a large, circular room.

  Seated on a golden throne was Trevor, his singular eyebrow wrinkled beneath the weight of a pharaoh's headdress. But beside him was a man whose face Clara only knew from a painting she had seen in the Beltza estate. The man was pasty and white. His paunch rolled over a white loincloth. His head was bald. He was the most utterly unremarkable man Clara had ever laid eyes on. And he was responsible for everything that had happened since she had moved into her house on the square.

  "Peter Nero," she stated.

  Peter let out a strangled sound, but Trevor struck him and he fell with a whimper.

  "Welcome!" Trevor replied. "You received my invitation. Come in!"

  The doors behind them scraped closed with just a motion of Trevor's hand. He crooked his finger. "Come closer!"

  Though they did not move their feet, Marguerite and Clara were dragged forward across the floor like chess pieces on a board.

  "I am so delighted to have company. It has been so long!" said Trevor. "Did you bring the money your husband stole from my associate?"

  "He did not! He didn't steal it!" Peter tried to say, but cringed back as Trevor lifted the back of his hand to silence him again.

  "What did you do with the money, Peter?" Clara asked, knowing full well that her husband had purchased the emerald with it.

  "I don't know!" he pled. "I don't know!"

  "Everyone thought you died in the desert trying to return the heart of the queen after unleashing her curse," said Clara.

  "Well, he did start off doing that," said Trevor with an affectionate smile towards his new pet. "But the cursed dead have such a way of being persuasive. His daughter, Violet, wanted other things, didn't she, daddy dearest?"

  Peter's fat, round shoulders hung in defeat.

  "It seems a strange irony that this weakling should live while his daughter died." He clapped his hand and the torch light flared. From within the shadows came the ghastly men who had stalked Clara outside her house. "Fortunately, I have found others from the realms beyond who have shown me the errors of his ways."

  "You control these creatures?" asked Clara.

  "What creatures?" Marguerite muttered, spinning her gun wildly about her, unable to see the ghoulish faces of the ghosts.

  "How could I resist such a power? First this spirit offered Violet Nero eternal life. And now he offers you and I the same. And all he wants is the ruby, which this fool won't give me."

  Trevor clenched his fist and Peter fell to the ground, clutching his heart.

  "It was you!" said Clara staring at Trevor. "You killed my husband." Then more of the pieces came together. "You killed your own father, too."

  Trevor's face grew icy cold. "He killed my Julie. I ma
y have understood his reasoning in ridding himself of Lady Grey's daughter, but I loved her. Never could I allow such a sin to go unpunished. Even if it was for the good of the family. He stole money from our family's trust. He killed my love. Like refuse in the street, he needed to be swept away."

  Peter's face was turning purple.

  "And then you killed my husband?" Clara pushed him.

  Trevor laughed. "I found that little note he left in the bottom of the lock box. I knew that he had stolen the money. If he had left that money where it belonged, my Julie would still be alive! Thomas O'Hare is the reason my father killed Julie Grey! Him and him alone!"

  "But the Quatre Portes!" Marguerite said bravely.

  "Yes," said Trevor. He released his hand and the color came back to Peter's face. "It is the only reason this weasel is still alive, for he alone holds the power to unleash our revolution. But once I have this power, the Quatre Portes shall take over this weak country and bring it to its knees!"

  There was a shuffling sound and Clara turned around in fright. Forty cloaked members of the Quatre Portes stepped out of the shadows.

  "What is it that you want?" Clara asked Trevor.

  Trevor got up from his dais and picked up an object from the ground. In the darkness, Clara had thought it was just a broken stick. But it was the staff. The members of the Quatre Portes stopped on the command from Trevor. "Why, to rule."

  "This is madness," Marguerite said, eyeing the silent sentry warily.

  "Not madness," said Trevor. "Merely ascension into the ranks as I was born to do."

  "We would have left you in peace, Trevor…" said Marguerite, pulling back the hammer on her derringer.

  Trevor clucked his tongue. "My, my… such an outburst." He turned to Clara. "My dear, I have an offer."

  She was eyeing the corpses warily as they formed a circle around her and Marguerite. Even Marguerite appeared to be nervous.

  "You see, you are quite talented," said Trevor. "And I have great plans for you…"

  "Great plans?" Clara parroted back.

  "Every ruler must have a queen at his side and I think you would do quite nicely."