The House on Lake Jasper: A Tilton Chartwell Mystery (Tilton Chartwell Mysteries Book 1)

The House on Lake Jasper

A Tilton Chartwell Mystery

#1

Anne Kelleher

Dedication

The original incarnation of this story was undertaken as a collaborative project by the Oral Traditions Cohort at The Graduate Institute in Bethany, CT in the summer of 2013. 

To say it drove us crazy is an understatement. 

So of course, I couldn’t resist. 

For Ron, Cindy, Alissa, Joanne, Leslie, Robin and Bud:

You bare-foot lads and light-foot lasses,

With love and fondest memories.

Jasper, Jasper, dark and deep,

How many secrets do you keep?

Jasper, Jasper, dark and cold,

How many bodies do you hold?

Chapter One

The phone starts ringing
as Tilton turns the shower taps on.  I don’t hear you, she thinks.  She’s running late, and she doesn’t want to deal with anyone who could possibly be calling her at 815 in the morning. 

Since her talk at the local middle school went horribly awry last Wednesday, her phone hasn’t stopped.  It’s been either the persistent press, angry parents, or– since her ex-husband’s sermon on Sunday, denouncing modern-day witches, psychics and Pagans as harbingers of evil and members of the legions of Satan – members of her old congregation, begging her to repent. 

Add in a few supportive friends and bewildered family members, some of whom have heard about this erupting circus on the national news, and Tilt’s spent the major part of the last five days talking to disembodied voices. 

Which wouldn’t be so unusual, but unfortunately not for paying clients.  And with the rate her phone’s been tied up, she hasn’t had a prayer of a client getting through. 

Don’t let them forget. 

At first Tilton isn’t sure she’s hearing a voice or the steady rush of the water falling through her fingers as she waits for it to heat.  The phone begins to shrill again, and Tilton ducks her head into the shower stream. 

Don’t let them forget
. 

Unlike the phone, under the sluice of the water, the woman’s voice is clearer.  Tilt takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.  Kaleidoscopic images of a woman with dark hair and sad eyes begin to cascade through her mind, and she realizes she has a visitor:  the kind of visitor that only a psychic would welcome. 

Don’t let them forget
.

Sudden grief catches her by surprise, brings tears to her eyes, and a sense of such loss and desperation, Tilt reaches for the cold tile to steady herself.      

The impressions continue, becoming more detailed.  Like glimpses of old photographs, Tilt sees a flash of chiseled words on a granite tombstone, white lilacs on fresh-turned earth.  A white handkerchief spotted with blood, a pair of gardening gloves, high-button shoes covered in dust.  She closes her eyes and turns her face up, letting the water wash over her eyelids.   

Don’t let them forget. 

The images start to fade. 

Don’t go, Tilt implores silently.  Tell me more… what’s your name?  But despite reaching out with everything she has, the energy fades, dissolving like spray. 

Don’t let them forget. 
The last whisper takes with it that intense sense of desperation.   

Okay, okay, Tilt thinks, I won’t.  She has a couple clients coming in this morning - assuming they haven’t been scared off - and she wonders if this message could be for them.  It’s not uncommon – at least in her experience - for spirits with messages to show up hours, even days before. 

She reaches for the soap and sponge, and turns her attention to the body she’s slowly but surely been working into the best shape of her life.   Ever since she hit forty – which was a few more years ago than she likes to remember - she’s had the sense of now or never.

And for the most part, except for a few lapses now and again, mostly of the hot fudge variety, her regimen’s working.   Her tummy’s tighter, her thighs are leaner, and overall, she’s feeling not bad for an old broad with two college-age daughters.  It’s part of what got her in trouble, actually.  Some of that new self-confidence is making her say things she would never have said to anyone when she was married to Peter. 

Now it feels like she’s managed to offend just about everyone in town: the Christians, Jews and Moslems are furious over her remarks on monotheism,  the Pagans are furious about her take on Salem and the Burning Times, the school administration is annoyed by all the angry parents, and her friend who invited her isn’t speaking to her.  Even the spiritual-not-religious seem horrified that anyone would attempt to explain to a group of thirteen year olds words like pantheism, empiricism and land-grab. 

Tilt turns the taps off, and steps out of the shower carefully.  The phone is still ringing.  She reaches for her favorite fluffy towel, glances toward the vanity, and freezes.  In the mirror above the sink, through the swirling steam, superimposed over her own face and soaking hair, she sees the pale features of an unfamiliar woman slowly fading away. 

Don’t let them forget. 

She’s been gone a long time, over a hundred years.  I’m not the first one she’s come to, thinks Tilt, as she steadfastly ignores the ringing phone.  Can you tell me your name? Tilt tries again to get something – anything – concrete, but the energy is gone. 

With a sigh, she dries herself off.  She remembers to dress with awareness that someone will probably wave a camera or a microphone in her face.  She hesitates to try the new make up her daughters convinced her to splurge on when the divorce was final, but figures if her face has to be splashed across the evening news and projected into cyberspace, she should at least look as good as she can. 

But the lingering sense of urgency and desperation is so great, Tilt forgets to check for messages until she’s driving to the little store-front office she rented a few miles from her house.

Having an office outside her home takes her out of the basement reading room, and spare bedroom office Peter, her ex-husband and devout minister, begrudged her with every fiber of his mortally embarrassed soul, and into a whole new level of professionalism.   These last few weeks, she’s so enjoyed her sunny space with the red geraniums in the window, taking time to paint and stencil and sew. 

At her official opening, she’d proudly unveiled a bronze plaque with the words “Tilton Chartwell, psychic medium.”  Even her sister, Aubrey, who’d brought red-velvet and devil’s food cupcakes – thought it was a beautiful touch.  Thinking about her space, her office, the place she makes her livelihood, makes Tilt feel so happy she totally forgets all the recent negativity.  That was last week, she tells herself as she drives blissfully toward her work.  Time to focus on the positive, on the now.  It’s a brand new week. 

But as she turns the corner onto that office’s street, a police blockade half way down the block forces her to a near halt. 

Chapter Two

Even from this distance,
she can see there’s a crowd with signs and cameras clustered around what just could be her office door, and a stern-faced cop in uniform gesturing for her to stop.

Tilt eases the car to a halt and slides the window down.  She gazes up into the face of an officer she vaguely remembers as a member of Peter’s church.  Great, she thinks.  “Uh, hi, Ron, what’s with the barricades?  President coming to town?”

He scowls, and she remembers what an ardent member of the opposing party Ron is.  Tilt smiles back. 

“You have ID, ma’am?”

“You know who I am.  I’m Peter – Reverend Hammond from First United? – I’m his ex-wife.  You used to shake my hand every Sunday.  Remember?” 

The shell doesn’t crack and neither does his expression.  “ID, ma’am?” 

Tilt sighs and reaches for her purse.  She rummages for her wallet, then hands over her drivers’ license.  He spends an ordinate amount of time looking at it, turning it this way and that, almost as if he thinks it could possibly be fake.

Finally he looks at her.  “Reason for being here?”

“I beg your pardon?”  Tilt holds out her hand for her license but he doesn’t give it back. 

“Your business?  Why are you here?”

Behind Ron, Tilt can see that several people in the crowd are holding signs of several religious groups, and across from her office, she can see a line of people silently holding hands with bowed heads.  At the end, she recognizes the tall blonde head of her ex, Peter. 

“I work here, Ron,” says Tilt, with just a note of impatience.  This is ridiculous.  “That’s my office down there… and you damn well know it.  Now give me back my license and let me park my car, or I’m calling your chief and filing a citizen’s complaint.”  She meets his eyes directly, then looks at her license.”  “Now.”

Without a word, he gives it back, but she can read the disapproval in his expression.  She puts the car in drive and slowly turns into the driveway of the town garage, just as someone shouts, “Oh my God, I think I see her car!”

It takes her twenty minutes more to find a space.  Of course, Tilt thinks, as she navigates the tight lanes of the parking structure, everyone’s here this morning in front of her office. 

At long last, she finds a space.  Okay, she thinks, as she takes a quick peek at herself in the mirror.  She fluffs her ash-blonde curls, brushes back her bangs, and freshens up her lip gloss.  If she has to be on camera, she might as well look good.  She grabs her bag, as well as her silenced phone, and struts off, holding her head high. 

“Look, that’s her!” 

The shouts start coming the minute Tilt steps out of the garage entrance on her street. 

Heads swivel in her direction, and just as quickly, the town’s entire contingent of on-duty cops raises their hands to hold them back.  Only Peter dares to confront her as she strides down the street, nodding and smiling, determined not to let the catcalls and cries for her salvation affect her. 

“Tilton,” he cries, in his Sunday-sermon voice.  “Tilton Chartwell, I appeal to your mortal soul!”

Tilton pauses with her hand on the key in the lock.  Once upon a time, she might’ve been thrilled to hear him say something like that, but now he just sounds like a pompous fool.  But still, he is the father of their daughters.  She takes a deep breath, and steels herself to turn around.  Immediately cameras get shifted on shoulders, reporters lean forward. 

“Cut it out, Peter,” she says, as she turns to face him, shoulders squared.  “Go home.  Leave me alone.”

“I’m here for your salvation, Tilton.”  Peter’s face is as guileless as a child’s.  Once upon a time, she believed he was, too.  “I’m here for your immortal soul.”

“Everyone, in fact,” says Tilton, raising her voice and looking beyond Peter.  “It’s really great to see you all here.  I’m glad I could be the common ground on which you all meet.  Now go try and solve real problems, okay?” 

As she turns around again, a journalist shouts, “Ms. Chartwell, any thoughts on why all these people are so upset?” 

“Witch-hunting’s been a popular past-time in New England for a long time.” She shoots that off before she can stop herself, then mercifully slams her door shut.  For the first time since she’s moved into her cozy space, she doesn’t bother to open the blinds or the curtains. 

The place feels like a cool dark cave.  Oh, God, she thinks, as she breathes a sigh of relief.  Or Goddess, or whoever. 

She turns the lock in the door and leaves the Open sign turned to Closed.  This is not how she was hoping to start her Monday. 

In the small nook behind the curtains Tilt’s set up to separate it from her reading space, she turns on her computer, her phone, checks her calendar and glances to see if there are any messages.  So far, so good…the two clients haven’t chickened out. 

A cold feeling goes over her, and she wonders if they’ll cancel.  She can’t afford for them to cancel.  There’re so many bills to pay.   

She’s about to check her messages, when she hears that silent whisper in her mind again. 
Don’t let them forget
. 

“Ah, there you are,” says Tilt aloud.  “I promise, I won’t… but won’t you tell me your name?” 

In that very same moment, her phone rings.  She’s at work, so she decides she has to answer.  “Tilton Chartwell,” she says guardedly, aware of the other presence hovering just at the edge of her consciousness.   

“Ms. Chartwell?  This is Amy at the Psychic Referral Network.  I’m not sure you remember us… … you applied to be listed with our service a couple months ago?”

“Oh, yes.” Sure, she remembers.  The process had been fairly rigorous, involving sample readings by phone and in person, and three references.  “I figured you forgot all about me.”

“Oh, gosh, no,” says the girl on the other end of the line.  She sounds all of sixteen, and the image that pops into Tilt’s head isn’t much more than that.  “We’ve actually been checking your references.  And I’m delighted to tell you that you checked out wonderfully – both your sample readings and your clients are very impressed by your skills, and we’re delighted to list you in our network.  In fact, we already have a couple clients I’d like to refer you to.”

“That would be great,” says Tilt. 

“Would you like to pay for your listing in one annual payment of three hundred dollars, or would you like me to split it up into quarterly payments of eighty five each?” she asks, suddenly sounding a couple decades older. 

“Uh…gee,” says Tilt, thinking fast.  A month ago, eighty-five dollars had been perfectly do-able.  But that was before her car needed new brakes and Tabitha materials for her design class. 

“Listen,” says Amy.  “I really do have a couple clients and we haven’t certified that many in your general area yet.  That’s why I called back –“

“Called back?”

“Yeah, I called earlier this morning – we have this one guy who’s called us three times now, in fact, hoping to find someone “trustworthy” as he puts it.  So, look, you checked out great and it was really our mistake we didn’t get back to you before this…we had this dopey intern who misfiled all our paperwork.  If you want to give us a trial… let’s say thirty days…you can decide at the end of the month how you want to pay.  How does that sound?”

As if you’re almost as desperate as I am, thinks Tilt, but she bites her tongue before she says that.  “Well, gee,” she says instead.  “That sounds perfectly fair.”

“Great!” says Amy, audibly relieved.  “Don’t be surprised if you hear from our referrals very soon.”

“Great,” says Tilt, as she clicks off.  

Don’t let them forget.
  This time the mental whisper is accompanied by the scent of lilacs. 

Maybe Amy at the Psychic Referral Network really does have clients to refer. 

God knows, Tilt could use some.  She reluctantly turns her attention to the bills.    Three months ago, despite the derision of her ex and the open trepidation of her daughters, she decided to take a small inheritance, quit her job as a medical coding clerk, and open her own practice as an intuitive medium.  She’s been reading tarot cards for people for over ten years on weekends, at parties, and in the evenings.  So far, she’s come close to breaking even a few weeks.  But unless she can find a way to increase the number of readings she does regularly a week, she has no hope of ever making anything close to a real living. 

Maybe the Psychic Referral Network will be a good thing. 

Tilt is struggling with the vagaries of QuickBooks when the telephone rings.  “This is Tilton Chartwell.” 

“This is Mike Cahill.”  Startled, Tilt sits straighter.  The voice on the other end has that cigar and aged-whiskey quality that does her in every time.  It reminds her of her ex, with his pipes polished for the pulpit, and reminds her just how many months it’s been since she said yes to a date.  “I need to know if you make house-calls.”

“Uh…”  Tilt hesitates.  “Sure… on occasion…”  Maybe to
your
house, she adds silently.  “How – I mean… what… I mean where… I mean…” Stop babbling, she tells herself.  “How can I help you, Mr. Cahill?”

“I’m an architect working on a project about ninety minutes from you…on a small lake…Lake Jasper, ever hear of it?”

“No.”  His voice has totally unnerved her and she realizes she sounds brusque.  Easy, Tilt, he’s going to think you don’t want a job. 

Don’t let them forget.

Tilt almost gasps aloud as she realizes that this call is what the sad woman spirit’s appearance in the bathroom this morning anticipated.  A chill goes down her spine again.  Then she realizes she’s missing a lot of what Mike Cahill is saying.   “I’m sorry, Mr. Cahill…what was that again? You’re representing who?” 

“A group of investors….looking into the possibilities of turning this particular property into a bed and breakfast.  The house is quite large and the grounds are quite extensive, not to mention it comes with rights to nearly half the lake.   My girlfriend’s inherited the place unexpectedly, and the two of us have stayed there, and well… I have to tell you.  Even I’ve seen and heard some things I can’t explain.”

“Okay.” Tilt’s trying to pay attention through flashes of a huge, rambling Victorian, with turrets and towers and gingerbread that are tumbling through her mind like snatches of old photographs.  “So how can I help you?”

“We’d like you to come check the place out…because – well, first of all, Connie’s freaked out, and among other things, a couple of us think that one way to differentiate ourselves from all the other B&B’s on all the other lakes up here is to appeal to the ghost-hunting crowd.” 

“I’m just a medium, Mr. Cahill… I’m not a ghost-hunter, and I don’t have a team.”

“I understand that.  We’re not looking for a team.  Connie just wants a psychic to come in and give us … I’m not sure what you call it… an assessment, I guess.   We don’t mind a ghost or two…we just don’t want surprises.  I think we could be on to something… something lucrative.  There’s even a rhyme about this place… like the one about Lizzie Borden?  Something like… Jasper, Jasper, dark and deep, how many bodies do you keep?  Ever hear of it?”

“Um…no, can’t say I have.”  But I’ll bet my bottom dollar there’re ghosts, Tilt thinks, as another
Don’t let them forget
echoes through her mind.     

“So what do you say, Ms. Chartwell?” 

The whisper fades away, and Tilt realizes she’s missed the rest of his offer.  She reaches across her desk as the pile of bills topples over onto the floor.  “How-how much did you say you were willing to pay?”

“A thousand dollars for your time and trouble…. Friday evening to Sunday afternoon.  All expenses paid…food, lodging, gas money to get here.   We don’t expect you to do anything about the ghosts.  All we want is your professional opinion.” 

“Who’s we?  Are all the investors going to be there?”

“Yes, there’s four of us, plus another expert like yourself.  I have a journalist coming because she’s writing a book on the area and we’re hoping we can keep the press on our side.  There’s a few old timers up there who aren’t so happy to hear about the development plans.  And we’ve got a local history buff who also happens to be an amazing caterer.  So that’s it…We put you up, feed you, you can even bring a guest if you like.  What do you say?”

“Well…”  Tilt rolls a pen between her fingers, chews the nub at the end.  She feels cold all over and that’s usually not a good sign.  Why are danger bells going off all over?  It just doesn’t make any sense… he doesn’t sound crazy, the offer sounds reasonable, the fee sounds heaven-sent.  Why does she feel so reluctant to say yes; almost, in fact, as if she should say no?

To her surprise, he laughs.  “You want to think it over?  I don’t blame you.  It’s two o’clock.  Can you let me know by seven? If you say no, I need to find someone else.  I’ll email you some information about me, about us… about the project, I mean.  We’re not looking for a murder victim, Ms. Chartwell… just a psychic who can tell us if the ghost who haunts Lake House is one.”

“It does sound tantalizing,” answers Tilt. An offer of a thousand dollars just doesn’t along every day.  She owes it to herself to consider it.  And it provides an opportunity to get out of Dodge, so to speak. “Send me the information, please.”