The House on Lake Jasper: A Tilton Chartwell Mystery (Tilton Chartwell Mysteries Book 1) (3 page)

Chapter Five

“Gosh,” says a tall blonde woman
of a certain age, who steps forward to shake Tilt’s hand.  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Several, I think,” answers Tilt, and everyone gathered beneath the twinkling crystals of the foyer chandelier laughs. 

“I think I saw one, too,” puts in Aubrey.  “Unless there’s some sort of light in the middle of the lake?”

“Oh, my, gosh,” says a young woman wrapped in a hot pink pashmina, “I’ve seen that, too!”

Everyone is lovely. Everyone is cordial.  Everyone – mostly – appears to have the kind of polish only people who summer on the Vineyard and attend a lot of black-tie benefits have.  In other words, the last kind of people Tilt has ever felt comfortable with, the exact kind of people her ex used to court to fund the work of his church.  As they’re relieved of their bags, Tilt is momentarily very conscious that hers, and most of everything in it, comes from thrift stores.

Aubrey, on the other hand, is in her element. 

Tilt lets her sister take the lead as they’re shepherded into the house, relieved of their bags, introduced and settled around a marble-topped coffee table.  Someone hands her a plastic wine glass.  She looks up, and into the arresting green eyes of a man who looks comfortingly ordinary.  He’s wearing a flannel shirt that’s not just faded from many washings, but a bit frayed around the cuffs and collar as well, and t-shirt that looks equally worn under it.  Like his clothing, he gives the impression of someone whose skin fits them like an old slipper.  He looks a bit younger than the other men in the group – no more than forty at most. 

Unexpectedly, Tilt feels the stirrings of an attraction she hasn’t felt in a long time. 

“I’m Chuck McNamara,” he says.  “I’m not sure you caught my name, out in the hallway there.”

“Thanks,” Tilt says, raising the glass.  “You’re the other… the other psychic person, I take it?”

“You must be psychic.”  He winks.  “We’ll chat.  Just wanted to say hi.”  He takes a seat on a pile of cushions beside the empty fireplace.   

She smiles, takes a sniff, and then a sip of the wine.  It is obscenely good.  She takes another sip as she glances around the circle, while Aubrey chats and is charming.  There’s Mike, next to Aubrey, in a wing-chair, every bit as tall, tan and good-looking as his voice implied.  Tilt puts him somewhere between fifty and sixty.  He manages – with his docksiders that are just the perfect amount of worn, his khakis just the right amount of wrinkled, and his windswept gray hair - to give the impression he’s just stepped off his yacht. 

Beside him, at one end of the couch, is Connie Moore, the heiress, the woman who greeted them at the door.  She’s about the same age as Mike, wearing the kind of drape-y knits that Tilt fantasizes about owning every time the J.Jill catalogue arrives.  Connie is wearing a few chunky pieces of fabulous jewelry, too; the most noticeable of which is an enormous hunk of amethyst hanging off long onyx links.  But she’s not wearing any of it well… she’s much too nervous, downright jumpy, even.  She keeps twisting her bracelets around her bony wrists and looking over her shoulder. To Tilton, she looks like someone who has a strong psychic or intuitive ability, and has never been able to either accept or admit it.

Tucked between Connie and her husband, is Norah Thornton-Howell, introduced as Connie’s best friend, younger by as much as a couple decades, dark-haired, dark-eyed and as creamily complected as a magnolia blossom.  She’s a photo-journalist, hoping to get a photograph of any ghosts.  She’s also married to Neale, who’s probably at least a generation or more older than she is.

Neale, an attorney, holds Norah’s hand, clearly smitten with his bride.   Beside Neale, on the cushions, is Chuck.  Slightly behind Chuck, on one of a pair of straight-backed chairs beside the fireplace, is the journalist, Krystal Brix. 

Sitting in the cool evening, the bull frogs croaking in the still night, a small fire already crackling in the enormous hearth, Tilt lets herself relax enough to open up her psychic sense just enough to get a sense of all the people – living or dead - in the room.   

As she expects, there’re a lot.  Everyone living is surrounded – more or less – by auras of varying degrees of shade and brightness.  Nearly everyone has one or more presences hovering around them – a spirit guide, loved one or even an Angelic entity. 

The dead, on the other hand… that’s a different story.   Layers and layers of psychic history reverberate through the room, shadows and whispers of all the men and women who lived and died between its high-ceilinged walls.  Which, Tilt notices, as she gazes around the room, considering the age of the place, are remarkably well-preserved.  The house likes it that way, Tilt senses, or something in it does… something, or someone, or maybe many someones… who lived here had a deep sense of attachment to the property, almost a commitment, that lingered.   

But of them all, it’s Krystal who draws Tilt’s attention. 

Not because of what she can see.  It’s because of what she can’t.   For one thing, there’s an energy attached to the chair Krystal’s sitting on, something as rigid and hard-backed as the chair itself.  But it’s Krystal herself who holds Tilt’s interest:  there’s an edge around Krystal’s energy, something that makes Tilt’s sixth sensory awareness slide off like a greased pig.  She’s a journalist, Tilt tells herself.  Of course she’s going to hold herself back.   But it’s definitely more than that, Tilt can tell.  It’s none of her business, of course, but if anyone were to ask her, she’d bet the entire thousand dollars she’s going to make this weekend that Krystal is hiding something.  She’s also holding Chuck’s interest…a large part of his energy, Tilt realizes, is focused exclusively on her. 

Well, Tilt thinks, if he likes the zaftig, strawberry-blonde, blue-eyed type, she herself sure wasn’t for him.  Good to know.  And maybe that’s why Krystal’s so guarded.  Solidly-built, balding, green-eyed Irishmen might not be hers. 

“Tilt,” says Aubrey, elbowing her from the depths of the loveseat.  “The envelope?”

With a start, Tilt realizes that Connie is holding out a long white envelope with Tilton’s name in flowing script across the front.  “Oh,” she says.  “Thanks.  Sorry.” She tucks it into the pocket of the red blazer she wore to project some professionalism.  Maybe it’s just the way she’s sitting, but it’s starting to feel too tight under the arms, around the back. 

“No need to apologize.”  Connie finishes her wine in a gulp, then taps Mike’s arm for more.  “That’s what you’re here for.  I want you to tune in…I’m assuming you’re getting some sort of …vibration?  Is that the right word?”

Tilt nods.  “Oh… there’s a lot of activity around here, that’s for sure.  This… this house… has a lot of energy in it.”

“You can tell that already?” asks Norah. 

“That’s almost exactly what Chuck said,” puts in Krystal. 

Chuck glances up at Krystal, smiles, then looks at Tilt.  “Almost word for word.”

Tilt raises her glass and smiles.  “Good to know we’re on the same vibe.”

Chuck raises his glass back.  “Maybe we can compare notes after dinner?”

“I’d love to,” she says.  Their eyes meet and he smiles, but something tells her he has something else on his mind, something he doesn’t want anyone to know either.  We all have our secrets, Tilt thinks, but realizes she finds Chuck’s particularly intriguing. 

“So before you do that,” says Connie, “which is wonderful, by the way, and before we have dinner – which our fabulous new friend June here is catering for us -” Connie glances over her shoulder in the direction of admittedly delicious smells, “let me just fill you in on some background and tell you what we’re hoping for – from both of you.   That’s assuming, of course, you both want background?”

Tilt exchanges glances with Chuck.  “I’m not here to do readings on you all,” she says slowly.  “So I guess if you give me some background about the project…how’d you all decide on this house?  This lake?”  She looks at Chuck.  “That okay with you?”

“Fine with me,” he says.  “I grew up around here….I know the stories.”

“So, good questions,” says Connie.  Mike leans forward and pours more wine all around.  Behind Chuck, Tilt watches Krystal slip away – presumably to the ladies room or kitchen.  But she doesn’t have time to do more than that before she realizes she’s missing Connie’s story.  She tunes back in time to hear Connie say, “…that’s why it took them over a year to find me.”

“I’m sorry.’ Tilt leans forward.  “Who was looking for you?”

“The probate court.  Olivia and I were only very distantly related.  It took them a while to even realize there was a cousin.”

“Who’s Olivia?”

Aubrey elbows her again.  “You’ll have to forgive my sister.  She tunes in and out. It’s part of her – gift.”

Tilt breathes a sign of relief.  At least Aubrey doesn’t disparage her abilities in front of paying clients, no matter what she might really think.  Unlike her ex, Peter, who embarrassed her – and was embarrassed by her - more times than she could count.  “She’s right.” Tilt shrugs, laughs.  “I’m sorry.  I guess I wasn’t paying attention.  Olivia’s the distant cousin who left you the house?”

“Well… Olivia was my distant cousin, yes.  But she didn’t exactly leave me the house,” says Connie.  She looks down, picks at a non-existent thread on her sweater with a ragged fingernail. “She disappeared nearly nine years ago now.  No one knows what happened to her… in fact, maybe that’s something you can tell us?”  She glances at Mike, over whose face flickers frown.

“Please don’t get yourself upset, sweetheart,” says Mike.

“It is upsetting,” says Connie.  She takes another sip of wine and looks at Tilt.  “We don’t know if she’s dead or not. No one’s ever found a body – they trolled the lake, but this is the part where the underground aquifer exploded out of the mine…no one knows how deep this part goes.  If she’s alive, she disappeared without a trace.  So after seven years, she was declared legally dead… but since she died without a will, and without children or close family, it took a while to track me down.” 

“Got it.”  Tilt glances around. “And yes, how upsetting.”  Another mystery, on top of all the others.  Despite the fact lamps blaze in every corner, the room seems darker than it should be.  Maybe it’s the age of the yellowing shades or the dust on the ancient bulbs, but it seems that the light can’t quite penetrate the shadows.   

“So that’s how this house came to me,” Connie continues.  “Olivia and her husband bought it a few years before he died and she disappeared.  One of my dreams has always been to own an inn, and , when I got the letter from the court, telling me that I’d inherited this property by default, I decided it was time to try to make my dream come true.”  She pauses, drinks.  “And then I got here and… I’ve just seen… and heard… so many things… and I… well, Mike has a great idea, but…I have to know what’s here.”  She wraps both arms around herself and glances around the room.  Then she smiles at Tilt.  “So that’s why you’re here.”

“We see a lot of potential,” adds Neale. 

“Sounds like a great dream,” murmurs Aubrey.

“Thanks,” says Connie.  “But it’s not going to be easy.  As if dealing with a ghost isn’t bad enough, there’s a contingent of locals who are doing their best to keep us from moving forward.  They’ve raised all sorts of issues… created all sorts of challenges… from zoning to –“

“Sounds like you need a lawyer,” says Aubrey. 

“That’s where I come in.”  Neale raises his glass. 

“But where you come in, Tilton – you and Chuck – is that there’s a lot of …well.  You called it energy.  Mike calls it history.  I call it haunted.  I know I’ve heard things, I know I’ve seen things out of the corner of my eye.  Should we tell you what we’ve experienced? Chuck didn’t want to hear about it… do you?”

Tilt shakes her head.  “No…not yet.  I’d like to settle in tonight…take my time and tune in slowly.  If I get any impressions, I’ll let you know.  After I get a sense of what’s going on here, and maybe have a few experiences of my own, we’ll compare notes.  Okay?”

Connie looks dubious but she’s looked dubious all night.  Her lips twitch and Tilt realizes it’s a smile.  “Okay.”

“But what we are sure of,” says Mike, “is that this house has a long and documented history of unexplained experiences.  Krys’s done research and June, along with being an amazing cook and caterer extraordinaire, is also a local history buff.  Krys-“   Mike peers around Connie, looking at the chair in which Krystal had been sitting.  “Where’d you go? Krys?”

“I’m here.” 

Tilt looks up, over Connie’s shoulder, to Krystal, who stands with a tray of something that appears to be crudité or maybe antipasto.  But it’s the pale outlines of two figures standing behind Krystal that make her gasp.  

Chapter Six

“You see something?”
asks Chuck. 

“In the corner…” answers Tilt.  “Over there.  Behind Krystal.  Two figures… standing side by side.  But they’re gone now.”  The feeling in the air is suddenly more oppressive and Tilt’s not sure they really are gone. 

“Where?” asks Connie, twisting to look.

“I told you I saw two people standing side by side at the top of the steps,” Norah exclaims.

“June’s putting the salad together now,” says Krystal.  She seems to be completely oblivious to what Tilt’s just said.  “She sent this out for us to nibble on.” Krys circles around to the other side of Connie and places the tray filled with olives, cut up veggies, raw shrimp, small pieces of cheese, crackers and dip in the center of the coffee table. 

“Yum,” says Aubrey, reaching for a cocktail napkin and plate.  No one ever has to tell Aubrey twice to eat, but there’s a pressure on Tilt’s chest that makes the thought of eating generally unappealing. 

“Tell us more about what you saw,” says Connie.  “And then tell us more about you.”

Tilt takes a deep breath, trying to shake the feeling of a weight pushing at her chest.  “When I got out of the car, I thought I saw two faces looking down at us.  And just now… all I can really tell you so far… is that…”  She pauses, cocks her head, and closes her eyes, trying to get through this feeling that’s so tangible it feels as if it should have weight and mass.  She opens her eyes, a kind of desperation starting to creep over her.  This is bad, she thinks.   Why does everything feel… blank? 

“Tilt?”  Aubrey touches her arm gently. 

Tilt takes a deep breath and tries again.   “I’m sorry.  I’m still getting my bearings…there are clearly the two in here… but I guess what’s confusing me…is that there’s definitely a presence… a ghost… on the porch.  And I’ve been hearing from her since the day Mike called. ‘Don’t let them forget.’  That’s what I’ve been hearing her say, over and over.”  She pauses, looks around.  “Have any of you heard that?  Sensed that?”

Blank faces greet her around the table.  Oh, no, thinks Tilt with a sinking sensation in her stomach.  Suddenly she’s very aware of the envelope in her pocket.  Why can’t she get a sense of that young woman?  She’s clearly connected to the house somehow.  Tilt takes another deep breath as the pressure around her throat intensifies a degree or two.  She remembers her impressions in the shower, the sense of old photographs.  “I feel like there’s a photograph …”

“There are lots of photographs,” says June.  “At the library.  The family who built the house was here for generations.”

“I can tell you some of the other things she’s showed me… a little boy…my sense is she died young…” Tilt closes her eyes, and takes another deep breath, pushing back against something concentrates on the memories, even as she starts to feel a definite tickle in her throat.  She clears her throat and tries again.  “I want to say... late 19
th
century?’  The tickle is back, worse.  She coughs this time, and accepts a sip of Aubrey’s water. 

“Hm,” says June.  “In the family plot, there’s the grave of a young woman who died in her early thirties in 1892.  Her name was Mary… no, that’s not right… Sarah… Sarah Van Ryn.”

A wave of dizziness sweeps over Tilt and she reaches for Aubrey’s water once more. 

“Hey,” says Aubrey.  “You okay?”

“Van Ryn?”  Norah’s asking. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“They were the old family around here,” answers Chuck from his pillow.  “Everything within a certain radius is Van Ryn something.  Van Ryn Avenue… Van Ryn Estates… Van Ryn Bank and Trust.”

“That’s right,” says June.  “The first Van Ryns were one of the original settlers of New Amsterdam… back in the 17
th
century.  They owned a ton of land around here and it got sold off or given away or inherited by different parts of the family.  The branch that built and owned this house for something like seven generations ended when Niall Van Ryn died here in… oh, I don’t know… 1989 or so.”

“My cousin and her husband bought it in ’95,” says Connie.  “The house sat vacant for a few years then, too.”

“That’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?” says Krys with a little laugh. 

“That the same thing’s happened now?” asks Norah.  “How long has the house been empty since Olivia Bennett disappeared?”

“Almost nine years now,” answers Mike. 

“You know,” says Connie, leaning forward, “outside of anything else…one of the strange things about this place is how well this house held together, given that no one was really looking after it.  Isn’t that right, Mike?  Weren’t we both surprised…how tight, how solid it all felt?  It was even… clean, way cleaner than I expected it to be…hardly any dust, not even any cobwebs.”

“It does feel solid,” says Tilt slowly, cautiously.  “And it sure is interesting the house has had two periods of being empty…two protracted periods, from what it sounds like, since the family died.”

“Geesh,” said Aubrey, with a mock shiver.  “You think maybe the house likes that way?”

In almost the same tone of voice, both Chuck and Tilt say, “I do.”

Tilt and Chuck exchange a glance.  Their eyes meet again, this time, hold for more than an instant.  Tilt feels a sense of connection, of understanding that’s rare.  That sense of confirmation, of shared affirmation feels so good, so refreshing, she lets herself relax, just a little.  For the first time, she wonders if the energy of the house is affecting her somehow – if the oppressive sense of order, of right and wrong, so much like Peter now she thinks of it – was getting in the way of her ability to read. 

“You came highly recommended,” Mike says.  “Tell us how you got started?”

“She got her period,” laughs Aubrey.  “Right? Isn’t that the short answer?” 

Tilt nods and tries to smile.  It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate Aubrey’s attempts to lighten the atmosphere, but she can’t shake off the sense that something else has entered the room, something with equal energy to the most dominant of ghosts.  But people are looking at her, clearly waiting for her to say something, and so manages to nod and smile.  “That’s right.  The hormones turned on and wow, so did my sixth sense.”  She looks at Chuck.  “How about you?”

“Well, I didn’t get my period.”

Everyone laughs, and Chuck launches into a story of a best friend and a motorcycle accident. 

With all the attention off her, Tilt tries to push the black hole of the block she can feel with leaden clarity.  Sarah?  Tilt asks silently.  Is that your name?  Are you there?  Are you afraid of something… of someone?  Is something keeping you away?   

But the face that pops into her field of vision isn’t Sarah’s…at least not the Sarah she expects to see.  This face is as distinct as Sarah’s was shadowy, and the expression the entity is wearing is as enraged as Sarah’s seemed sad.     

Sarah?  Tilt draws back instinctively, pulling her energy into the circle of warmth and light generated by the living.  But the face only gets closer, and closer until Tilt can clearly see the bullet hole in the middle of the woman’s forehead.   

TELL THAT BITCH TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE. 

As the words explode in Tilt’s head, from the foyer comes the sound of shattering glass.