Haunted (21 page)

I'll install the lock on the office door before the afternoon is out, he promised himself as she blathered on about God-knew-what. If such a thing were possible, she was more verbose today than yesterday.

"...and I was telling Calla just last night what a fine, handsome man you are and how you offered to read all her books and give her some advice--"

He winced. I not only didn’t offer to read that stuff, I told her no! "Minnie, when I'm in my office, I'm working and I prefer not to be interrupted unless it's very important"

"Oh, I'm sorry." To her credit, she appeared to mean it. "I didn't realize--"

"It's okay, Minnie. What's up?"

"Eric's finished planting the flower beds in front and wants to know if you have another job for him."

I'll have to leave her lists if I want peace and quiet. "Yes, I have something for him to do," he said, thinking about the door lock again. "But may I ask you a question first?"

"Anything you want-"

"I was told that Eric is a little slow," he said carefully. "Could you tell me exactly what that means?"

She eyed him. "Miss Pelinore told you that?"

Nodding, he said, "Yes, she did. I thought perhaps you could tell me a little more about him."

Folding her hands over her apron, she smiled. "What would you like to know?"

"Is he? Slow?"

She thought about that for a moment. "I suppose." One hand went up to rub her chin. "Or maybe he's just busy thinking about other things."

"What kind of things?"

"I have no idea, but I can assure you he's a good boy, honest as the day is long."

"Theo mentioned that he sometimes tells tall tales. Do you think that's true?"

"No," she said simply. "No, I don't. And you shouldn't listen to anything Theo Pelinore says," she added. "She's the one who tells the tales." Minnie's eyes narrowed and she darted a look behind her before whispering, "You know about Miss Pelinore, don't you?"

"Know what?" David wondered whether or not she was defending Eric just to be contrary to Theo.

"She sleeps around," Minnie confided.

"You mentioned that yesterday."

"You should have seen her following poor Eric around, telling him to take off his shirt so he wouldn't get paint on it, and just eyeballing him like he was so much beef roast on a platter. Why, she's old enough to be his mother."

"I doubt that," David said lightly.

"She's older than she looks," Minnie said vehemently, "and she wants to soil that poor young man!"

Barely stopping a chuckle from escaping his lips, David decided to take a different tack. "When Eric's in the house, does he ever seem frightened to you?"

"Only of Theo Pelinore," Minnie replied stoutly.

On the verge of anger or laughter--he wasn't sure which--David raised his hands. "Okay. Okay. Minnie, I know you don't like Theo, and that's just fine. I want to talk about Eric. Only Eric." He forced a smile. "Has he mentioned seeing any ghosts or anything else along those lines?"

"Well, sometimes he laughs when he's in the dining room. Last week, I walked in and caught him just standing there staring at the dining room table and laughing to beat the band. I asked him what was so funny, you know, I wanted something to laugh about too, but he wouldn't tell me. I got to thinking maybe he thought those dirty glass pictures were funny, but they're all over the house and that's the only place he laughs. It probably doesn't mean a thing, though.

David suppressed a smile, remembering the boy's story about Buttcrack the Ghost who crawled down the table. He decided to show as much restraint as Eric had and not tell her about it. "He's never told you any stories about the house or the lighthouse?"

"I told you, Mr. Masters, Eric's a good boy. He doesn't tell stories. Only Theo Pelinore tells stories. Why, that woman, she thinks she's God's gift to men, and she doesn't care a whit about who she hurts as long as she gets what she wants and--"

"Minnie?" he interrupted as patiently as he could. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

Her mouth still open and ready to fire, she nodded.

"Did Theo do something to you? To you personally?"

Minnie harrumphed. "I'm not one to talk, mind you, but, well, you met my Mickey yesterday."

"Yes." Technically, he'd met the man, though the grizzled little fellow barely grunted two words his way. He probably gave up talking long ago, David realized. He had too much competition.

"Well, then, you know how handsome he is. Any woman would want my Mickey." She crossed her arms and harrumphed again. "But that's no excuse for trying to seduce a married man."

"Wait a minute. You're saying that Theo--"

"That hussy!" Minnie blushed. "Excuse my French."

"How did you find out?"

"Mickey told me."

"I see." He nodded sagely. The only teller of tall tales revealed thus far, David decided, was Mickey Willard. "Would you ask Eric to come in now?"

"Certainly." She bustled out, forgetting to shut the door behind her.

"Oh well," he sighed, and picked up his copy of Great American Hauntings. It held the same sketchy Body House lore as a dozen other books, but what made it special was that somehow the author had managed to lay her hands on several blurry photographs of the dolls. He opened the book to the black and white--or brown and tan, to be exact--photos.

There were three dolls, two fancily-dressed females and one male in fisherman's garb, including a pea coat and watch cap. The captions identified them only as representations of two of the working ladies and of one of their customers.

That's a big help. Holding a magnifying glass over the page, he studied the two female dolls. Both were dark-haired and their clothing was similar enough to Lizzie Baudey's evening gown--both on the doll and in the portrait--but closer scrutiny revealed a number of subtle differences. He wished he knew the colors of the clothing. Raven-haired Christabel was known for always wearing black.

"Mr. Masters?"

David swiveled his chair to face Eric Swenson, whose tall, broad-shouldered body nearly filled the doorway. He smiled. "Come on in, Eric. Close the door behind you."

He was amused to hear Minnie harrumph in the hall just before the door latched. "Have a seat." He gestured at a channel-back chair beside the desk. "I want to show you something."

Eric sat down and waited patiently.

David took the doll from the drawer. "Amber found this last night."

"That's Miss Lizzie, isn't it?"

"Yes, I believe so." He extended the doll to Eric. "What do you make of it?"

Gingerly, Eric took the creation in his big square-fingered hands. He turned it over and back, a slow smile dimpling his face. He touched the fiery hair, ran one finger down the skirt of the bottle-green satin gown. "It's nice," he said simply.

David, who had been hoping for more signs of psychic ability, hid his disappointment.

"It feels good," Eric continued a long moment later. "She's a nice lady."

Aha! "Does the doll make you think that?"

"Yes, sir." He paused, a look of concentration on his face. "But her legs hurt."

He didn’t look under the dress, he couldn't possibly know the legs are cracked! "What do you mean by that?"

Eric looked up. "They hurt, David. They just hurt. Did Amber find this in her room?"

"Yes, she did."

"In the wardrobe?"

Barely controlling his excitement, David nodded. "In a hidden compartment. Did you know it was there?”

"No, David."

"Did you find any other dolls when you were working on the house?"

"No, but..."

"But what, Eric?"

"Well, I guess this is why that wardrobe felt nice. Miss Lizzie was in it."

David asked him if he meant the doll was haunted by Lizzie's spirit.

"Kind of. I mean, she's around it sometimes."

"Do you see her?"

"Oh, no. Usually I just see those leftovers--"

"Like the ghost of the fat man crawling on the dining table?"

"Yes. He's not here, he's just leftovers." Eric grinned. "Or more like a gym sock."

"Are you saying you believe Lizzie is actually here?" He'd mentioned something to that effect yesterday.

"Yes, she is." Eric sounded positive.

"And she's not just a movie? A leftover?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Yesterday, you said something exists on the third floor that can travel around. Is that Lizzie?"

"No, Miss Lizzie's nice." He looked at his knees. "I don't want to talk about that other one."

"Eric, listen to me. If I tell you something, can you keep it secret?"

"Oh, yes."

David believed him. "It's important that I know what or who it is. You were right when you told me it can move around. It came downstairs last night and it came into my bedroom. It was very cold and powerful. It was scary."

Eric only nodded.

"Can it go anywhere in this house?"

"Mostly."

"Where can't it go?"

"I don't think it can go in your daughter's room." He gazed at the doll. "But I think you should maybe put the doll back in there, just to be sure."

"Why?"

"To make her stronger, I think."

"Amber?"

"No." Solemnly, he shook his head. "Miss Lizzie. That was her room."

"I thought the room with all the closets at the other end of this hall was probably Lizzie's."

"Yes, I think it was her office, like this is your office, but she slept there, too. When her legs hurt."

"How do you know this?"

"I don't know." Eric shrugged. "I really don't. It sort of popped into my head just now. It's just feelings I get when I touch things or see things. That's why I stopped talking about ghosts to people. They think I'm crazy."

"I think you're psychically gifted, particularly with psychometry."

Eric smiled uncertainly, prompting David to explain, "That means you can sense things by touching inanimate objects."

"Wow. Are you psychic too?"

"No, not at all," David admitted. "I don't have a bit of intuition about ghosts, but when I saw that downstairs room, I thought it was. Lizzie's room, just because it looked like something she'd like and because it was very luxurious with all the closets and cabinets. It was... logical."

"Yes."

"But ask yourself why you know so many other things, Eric. Have you read about the house?"

Eric blushed. "I'm not much of a reader."

"Well, you've lived in Red Cay all your life. Maybe you've heard stories."

"Well, sure, Uncle Craig told me about finding the dead hippies."

"What about older stories? Ones about Lizzie and Christabel?"

"Well..." Eric rubbed his chin. "I guess I mostly heard stories from Andy Cox."

"Ferd Cox's brother?"

"Yes, he's the town expert. The historian. He told me a little about Captain Wilder. The ghost in the lighthouse."

"He must have told you about Wilder being in love with Lizzie."

"No, sir."

"You just knew that?"

"Yes."

That would be easy enough to check out, David thought. He'd have to try to get over to Barnacle Bob's in the not too distant future. "Did you know that Lizzie was crippled not too long before she disappeared?"

Eric nodded. "Andy said Christabel did it because Miss Lizzie wouldn't let her do what she wanted."

"It makes sense, then, that she'd sleep downstairs after that." David felt relieved and disappointed. Maybe Eric wasn't as psychic as he appeared. "It does make sense."

"I guess it does. I just know for sure because my legs hurt when I go in that room and I know it's Miss Lizzie I'm feeling." He looked dreamy. "Her leftovers in there feel nice, but really, really sad. And hurt."

"I thought you said she's not leftovers--" David began.

"She isn't." Eric looked at David and explained as if to a two-year-old. "There are leftover feelings in the room. There are in most rooms."

Eric Swenson's tendency was to refer to "leftovers," ghosts and certain spirits as if they were all different things. David was sure now that "leftovers" were inanimate objects and feelings, while "ghosts" were the boy's term for human apparitions.

But that didn't matter at the moment. Right now, he had a hunch about the doll, Lizzie's accident and Christabel's involvement. "Eric," he began, "What part of your legs hurt when you're in that room?"

"Here." Eric touched one of his legs halfway between the knee and the ankle, then the other closer to the ankle. "And here."

Goosebumps prickled on David's neck. "Lift the doll's skirt," he said softly. Voodoo.

Another blush. "But--"

"Go ahead. Look at her legs."