Cusp of Night, page 10
A bloated face framed by a hunk of blond hair popped to the surface.
“Shit!” Collin tripped in his haste to get away, nearly landing on his butt. “Oh, shit. Hell, no.” He could see it clearly now, the body of a young woman, her clothing in tatters. Scrapes and abrasions marred her exposed flesh, chunks of skin gouged from her arms and legs as if every scavenger in the river had nibbled on her corpse. Wide, sightless eyes stared upward, frozen in an unanswered plea for help.
The stench hit him.
Collin dropped to his knees and vomited.
* * * *
The bulk of activity took place about thirty yards away, but Collin couldn’t bring himself to go closer. He stayed clear, seated on the riverbank, knees raised, legs braced apart. By concentrating on the Hode’s Hill skyline jutting from the opposite shore, he could partially erase the image of the dead girl from his head.
The grounds of Amethyst Hall had been overrun with officials within moments of his call to 911—police officers, forensic techs, medics, the county coroner, a crime scene photographer—so many people to document the tragic end of a young life. It was impossible for emergency vehicles to reach the girl’s body, so medics were forced to drag a gurney along the bumpy trail, picking their way through reeds, doing their utmost to preserve the site. Others, wearing lanyard IDs, carted collection kits, powders, brushes, measuring tape, and God only knew what else. He tried not to think about it.
He tried not to think at all.
His mother had suffered a fit of histrionics when the plethora of vehicles, many with screaming sirens and flashing lights, descended on Amethyst Hall. It had taken five minutes of effort to calm her before he convinced her to return to the house. She hadn’t asked about the girl but had been more concerned about the Hode name being dragged through headlines. Her reaction made Collin swallow bile. When had his parents changed from people he knew into cold facsimiles he barely recognized?
“Rough way to start a morning.”
He glanced from the skyline to find David Gregg standing off to the side. The detective was sloppily dressed, wearing old jeans and a faded Ducks Unlimited T-shirt, a sign Collin’s call to 911 had likely roused him from bed.
Too drained to move, Collin stayed seated on the bank. He’d provided his statement earlier. “Is it the missing girl?” He couldn’t remember her name, a slight that made him feel worse.
“Tina Sanford.” Gregg supplied it for him. “There’s no ID on her, but it appears that way. We won’t know for sure until the coroner has a chance to examine her. She’s been in the water, dragged and scraped across the bottom with the current. Every freshwater predator has taken a bite.”
Collin grimaced, his stomach roiling. How did someone become calloused to viewing dead bodies, talking about them dispassionately? “Did she...do you know what happened to her? How she died?”
“That’s the coroner’s job.” Gregg plucked a stone from the bank and sent it winging into the river.
“I hope she wasn’t…” Cold sweat chilled his neck. He couldn’t seem to spit out the word.
“Murdered?” Gregg cast him a sideways glance. “The last time she was seen, she was with Graham Kingston at the Fiend Festival. A few of Graham’s friends told me he seemed drunk that night. Tina might have been, too. Accidents happen.”
“Yeah.” In some ways, it was less painful imagining Tina had slipped and fallen into the river rather than been a victim of foul play. Collin knew Rueben Kingston and his wife frantically awaited word of their son. When the news came, he hoped it didn’t come attached to a body bag.
Dusting off his jogging shorts, he stood. Among the knot of people still combing the embankment, a uniformed officer staked out crime scene tape. “My father will probably be released from the hospital today. It would be better if he didn’t have to face any of this.”
Gregg followed his glance to the hub of activity. “We shouldn’t be much longer. You know where to reach me if you think of anything else.”
“About that—”
Gregg glanced at him expectantly.
“If the family needs anything...” Collin fumbled for words. “If there’s something I can do, let me know.”
“What are you saying?”
Hell if he knew. Only that he couldn’t let the poor girl pass from this world to the next so heartlessly. “Funerals aren’t cheap, and I’m sure her parents didn’t plan on burying a daughter so young. When the arrangements are in motion, I’d like to donate anonymously.”
Gregg’s eyebrows rose into his hair. “You or Hode Development?”
“Just me. Without the knowledge of my family.” If his parents hadn’t been concerned enough to hold services for Ford—their own child—they certainly wouldn’t mourn a stranger.
Collin’s cell phone rang. “Stay in touch.” Turning his back, he dug the phone from his pocket. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a black body bag being loaded onto the gurney. Behind him, Gregg’s footsteps retreated, and he turned his attention to the number displayed on his phone.
An unknown caller. Few people had his personal cell, all of them stored in his contacts list. Probably a robo call. Except he had given his phone number to Maya Sinclair. A quick swipe of his finger completed the connection.
“Hello?”
“Collin Hode?” a woman asked.
“Yes.”
“This is Maya Sinclair.” She paused as if waiting for him to make the association. “I need to talk to you about the brownstone I’m renting.”
He blanked. “What?”
“From Hode Development. The brownstone on River Road.”
Was she serious? He had a dead body on his property, and she wanted to debate rent. “Uh, look, Maya, you’re going to have to call the rental office. I don’t get involved with tenant complaints.” He should have never given out his number.
“Well, you need to be involved in this one.” Her voice cracked with an edge of anger. A second later, she drew a frazzled breath. “I know your father is in the hospital, and I wouldn’t bother you with something trivial. This is not a problem your office is going to be able to handle.”
Despite a sliver of annoyance, his curiosity was piqued. “What kind of problem?”
“It’s too difficult to explain over the phone. I was hoping you could visit the property later today.”
A dead body, a mother given to theatrics, and a father who kept secrets. Did he have time to juggle anything else?
When he didn’t reply immediately, she spoke into the silence.
“If you have other questions about the night your father was attacked, I’ll be happy to answer them.”
A bribe, but one that made him rethink his stance. “What time do you want me there?”
* * * *
Maya started her morning with a quick shower, conscious of every creak and groan in the house. She stayed clear of the front bedroom, heading downstairs for a cup of coffee just as a barrage of sirens erupted outside. From the parlor window, she watched a string of emergency vehicles race across the North Bridge.
An hour and a half later, she phoned Collin Hode from the library, calling before any of the other employees arrived. Despite some initial reluctance, he agreed to meet her later that evening. When Ivy and Brook strolled through the front door, she said nothing about her ghostly visitation.
Was it possible she’d been hallucinating? The thought of an actual supernatural encounter frightened her. She was tempted to talk to Brook—who surely knew more about paranormal encounters than she did, despite her time in the Aether—but decided to wait until she could discuss the situation with Collin. He might know something about the house that would explain what she saw.
Be careful here. This place has history.
Imelda’s words haunted her. Maya’s neighbor was someone else she needed to question.
She spent her morning occupied with work, kept busy by patrons. One needed help researching frontier medicine, another the navigation techniques of ancient sailors. In between, she cataloged reference materials and weeded out old information. After a night of little sleep, she found it difficult to concentrate. By the time lunch rolled around, she was dragging.
“You look tired,” Ivy said. “Is something wrong?”
“Just a headache.” She didn’t like lying to her friend, but the truth wasn’t an alternative. Not until she knew more.
“Why don’t we go downtown and grab a sandwich? The fresh air will do you good.”
“I think I’d rather go home and lie down for a while.” She only had a half hour, but fifteen minutes of sitting in the sun in the parlor would do her good. She also needed to figure out what she was going to say to Collin later that night.
When she neared her brownstone, she spied Imelda Bonnifer seated on the steps next door, a clay flower urn tucked between her knees. Flats of marigolds and geraniums were positioned one step down, an open bag of potting soil and several cones of ornamental grass rested at her feet. Three other empty pots nested behind her.
“Oh, hello, dear.” Imelda waved when she spied Maya, lifting a hand wrapped in a pale green garden glove. The floppy brim of a yellow sun hat shaded her eyes. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Maya stepped closer, smiling at the red and yellow riot of flowers. “What a wonderful idea to dress up the steps with flower pots. I need to do that.”
“Flowers are so cheerful. It’s something I do every year.” Imelda paused to take a sip of lemonade from a frosted glass at her feet. “Are you finished at the library for the day?”
“Just a lunch break. I work until five.” It felt as if she’d already done eight hours. She fought back a yawn. “I thought you’d be at the antique store.”
“Not today.” Using a small spade, Imelda transferred potting soil from the open bag to the flower urn. “Two nights a week I keep the store open later for people who work during the day. I don’t go in until the afternoon. It seems to work well.”
“Where do you get your pieces from? I mean…” Maya mentally backpedaled, fearful she’d spoken too abruptly. “The antiques you sell in your store. Where do they come from?”
Imelda shrugged. “Different places. Estate sales, auctions, even flea markets. Sometimes people will contact me to ask if I’m interested in this or that heirloom.” She paused to finger her wedding ring. “You’d be surprised by the amount of vintage jewelry I get. It’s sad, really. All those pieces packed up in boxes, memories forgotten.”
“Do you keep records?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I’m curious about the rocker you sold me.”
“Oh, that old piece.” Imelda pawed the air dismissively. “That’s an easy one. It belonged to my mother.”
Maya’s mind flashed into overtime. “You mean Sonia DeLuca?”
“I see you’ve heard of her.” The brim of Imelda’s hat concealed her eyes, making her expression unreadable, but a thread of tightness had wormed in her voice.
“Yes, I…someone mentioned her.”
“Well, if you want to know about the rocker, you’ll have to ask her. I just remember it being in our house from the time I was a little girl. When my mother moved to Pin Oaks, I took several items for the antique store.”
Maya was surprised she hadn’t wanted to keep the rocker, or that Dante hadn’t desired it, considering how close he was to his grandmother. Deciding the observation wouldn’t be well received, she kept the thought to herself. “This may sound odd, but do you remember anything unusual about the rocker?” If the chair dated back to Imelda’s childhood, she’d surely remember any strangeness attached to it.
“Such as?”
Not the answer she was looking for. “Nothing, I guess.” She wasn’t about to admit to nightly hauntings. “It’s just sometimes…I get a feeling about it.”
Imelda returned to shoveling dirt into the pot. “Are you sure it isn’t the house?”
Exactly the opening she needed. “I heard it sat empty for a long time. Did you know the previous renters?”
“Of course.” Imelda removed a grouping of marigolds from the flat. Carefully, she cracked the plastic container, working the first from its packing. “Trevor and Madeline Carr. Nice young couple. He was a railroad engineer, she was a nurse. They moved when he got a job out of state.”
Maya wondered if the Carrs had ever experienced strange occurrences in the house. She bit her lip, debating how to broach the question without sounding crazy.
Three doors away, a neighbor she’d yet to meet sprinted down her steps, a Siberian husky leashed at her side. The woman waited for traffic to clear, then jogged across the road to a walking trail paralleling the river. Two small johnboats bobbed near the North Bridge while cars kept up a lazy drone in the background. Even if the home was not within walking distance of the library, she would have found it a pleasant place to live. The small grouping of brownstones was attractive and well maintained, the open view of the river, picturesque.
“I see Jillian is taking Blizzard for his walk.” Imelda waved to the woman across the street, who waved back. “She dotes on that dog.”
Maya watched as the husky led his owner farther down the trail, pausing to nose around a few clumps of reeds as he went. “I haven’t met her yet.”
“She’s about your age. Nice girl. Does some kind of computer work from home, but that’s off track, isn’t it?” She worked soil around the marigolds in the pot. “You were asking about the Carrs and your brownstone.”
“I just don’t understand why someone didn’t jump on the vacancy right away.”
“It could have been the cost of the rent. Or they weren’t the right fit for the home. Maybe they just didn’t like what they heard about the place.”
“What do you mean?”
Imelda sighed. “I might as well tell you. You’re sure to find out eventually.” She tilted her head to gaze up at Maya. “I’m your landlord.”
Maya stared. “What?”
Depositing the small spade in the bag of potting soil, Imelda stood and stretched her back. “Merrill and I bought the place for an investment a few years before he died.” She tugged off her gloves and dropped them onto the steps before reaching for her lemonade. “At first it was easy to rent. We had several out-of-towners who came and stayed for a while. But people in Hode’s Hill can be funny about the place. There was a married couple with three kids who looked at it before you did. I was glad when they decided not to take it.” She wiped a veil of condensation from the glass. “Not that I don’t like children. Just that three little ones leaving toys over the steps and scrambling around outside—well, it seemed like a lot. When you went through, a nice young professional lady, I knew you were the one. I’d also reached the point where I decided reduced income was better than letting it sit vacant, so I dropped the rent.”
“Um, thank you.” Maya struggled between feeling shocked and flattered. “It’s surprising to learn you’re my landlord.”
“Well, everything goes through Hode Development.”
“Of course. I won’t trouble you with complaints. I actually love the place, and I’m flattered you thought I’d make a good tenant.”
Imelda cocked her head, her face shadowed by the brim of her hat. “Even so, there’s something you’ve left unsaid.”
Maya wasn’t ready to plow into stories of nightly rappings and creaking rockers, but town gossip was something different. “You said people in Hode’s Hill can be funny about the house. Why is that?”
“Because of the Blue Lady.”
The name startled Maya. The newspaper accounts tied to Charlotte Hode’s death had also mentioned a Blue Lady. “Who?”
“She lived in your home around the turn of the twentieth century, along with a housekeeper.” Imelda tugged her ear as if giving the matter serious thought. “I don’t know a great deal about her, just bits and pieces picked up from my mother. She was always fascinated by town history and knew a lot about the Blue Lady. From what I understand, she was a practicing medium.”
“Do you mean she conducted séances?” That dovetailed with the Summerland reference Maya had discovered during her research, but it left her no easier for the connection. Had something from the other side been trapped in her house, lingering there for over a century?
“Most people aren’t bothered by the idea,” Imelda continued. “But they don’t take the tale of the Fiend lightly. Charlotte Hode wasn’t the creature’s only victim.”
Maya caught her breath.
“I tell people it’s all ancient history, but some will have nothing to do with the place.” Imelda stared up at the brownstone, her gaze roaming over the front stoop and the tall parlor windows. “The Blue Lady and her housekeeper were both murdered within nights of each other. And just like the creature, the Blue Lady’s body was never found.”
Chapter 7
March 3, 1898
Lucinda met Emma Dorsey on a soggy day when rain drummed mist from the cobblestone streets. The woman arrived on her doorstep enshrouded in a cloak the color of ash. Tall and thin with a pinched face and graying hair caught up in bun, she looked as though she might have been conjured by the storm itself.
“Please, come in.” Lucinda stepped aside and motioned for her to enter. “I’ll have someone retrieve your bags from the carriage. Simon is in the parlor.”
Emma nodded stiffly, eying Lucinda up and down. “You’re very young, aren’t you?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“To be his wife. If you expected me to comment on your unusual skin tone, I’ve heard all about you. The newspapers claim you are a genuine psychic.”
Lucinda hesitated, standing in the open entry, rain pelting the stoop outside. She closed the door without answering.
