The House on Lake Jasper: A Tilton Chartwell Mystery (Tilton Chartwell Mysteries Book 1) (8 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Tilt looks down the barrel of the gun,
the perfectly round black cylinder like the cold eye of Sauron staring back, and all she can think of her are her children, her girls.  They’re kids, eighteen and almost twenty, barely old enough to walk and chew gum.  If she dies now, Peter wins.  They’ll never understand her, never have a chance to realize that she’s not the evil witch their father wants them to think she is.  “Please,” she puts her hands up.  “Don’t.”

“I knew she was here,” says Krystal.  “And I knew you could see her.  It was just a matter of when you were going to let me know.”

“Let you know what?” says Tilt.  “My sister’s out there – put that down or I’ll scream.”  I sound so freaking lame, she thinks. 

“Your sister’s snoring.  I exchanged her pills for something stronger.  So sure, go ahead and scream.  I’ll kill her right after I kill you.”  She fumbles in her pocket and pulls out a plastic zip-tie, the kind Tilt sees the cops use on TV.  She holds it out.  “Put your wrists through here.”

For a split second, Tilt considers lunging at the woman.  But Krystal’s bigger, the gun has a silencer and she can hear Aubrey snoring.  And maybe if she can get outside, in the darkness, she can run away. 

Krystal jerks the wrist-tie tight.  “Now,” she hisses, grabbing Tilt by the back of the collar and spinning her around.  “March.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Krystal shoves the chair out of the way, then shoves Tilt toward the door.  “Open it.  And turn left.”

“Left?” whispers Tilt, afraid for her sister.  Aubrey’s kids are even younger. 

“Left.” 

It turns out there’s a back staircase.  Krystal pulls Tilt by the zip-tie, she slips and they stumble, falling into the back entry way.  Tilt hits her head against the flagstones and sees stars.  She comes to with Krystal jerking her upright.  “Get up,” the woman is saying.  “Get up or I kill you here.”

With every ounce of determination she can summon, Tilt hauls herself up, even though her head is spinning, and the world is shifting on its axis alarmingly.  Krystal jerks her out the back door and down the flagstone path, toward the floating dock, and a pale, shimmering light at the end. 

On the opposite shore of the lake, Tilt can see the flare of other lights, blue and red and white.  It’s not the fourth of July yet, is it, she thinks, momentarily confused, because the light at the end of the dock seems to be growing brighter. 

As they reach the dock, with each step, the figure on the end of the dock becomes clearer and clearer, until Tilt can see her as clearly as if it were day.  She’s a small woman, not any bigger than Tilt.  She’s wearing a cashmere sweater, a pearl necklace, and diamond studs in the earlobes Tilt can see beneath the apparition’s closely clipped dark hair. 

“That’s Olivia Bennett,” she says, more to herself than to Krystal. She halts, right on the edge of the dock, and feels the cold prod of the end of the gun on the back of her neck. 

“Walk,” whispers Krystal. 

“And you’re the one who killed her,” says Tilt, unable to tear her gaze away from the cold angry face of the ghost at the end of the pier. 

“Walk,” says Krystal.  “I’m not telling you again.”

From far away, Tilt hears the sound of sirens.  That kid of Chuck’s she thinks.  What a miscreant.  “Please,” she says instead.  “Why don’t you just leave?  I won’t say a word… I promise.  No one has to know… please… I won’t tell, I promise.”

“You’re goddamn right you’re not telling anyone,” says Krystal, or whatever her name really is. 

Tilt closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, then drops into the cold dark water.  The icy water closes around her like a wet shroud, freezing her to her bones.  She shuts her eyes, holds her breath and moves beneath the dock. 

Above her, she hears Krystal’s frustrated scream, a gunshot, and millions of bubbles as a bullet pierces the surface of the lake.  Tilt treads water, feeling in the dark for the edge of the dock.  The air is burning in her lungs as heavy footsteps suddenly pound down the dock. 

With a gasp she surfaces, in times to see Chuck and two more uniformed police run down the dock, pointing their guns at Kyrstal. 

“Drop that,” roars Chuck.  “Leeann Rittenhouse, you’re under arrest… you’re under arrest for the murder of Olivia Bennett.”

Chapter Eighteen

PUT A BULLET IN YOUR OWN BRAIN BITCH.

That’s what the angry entity is screaming.  Tilt keeps her eyes closed and pulls herself half up on the dock.  The swish and sway of the clammy weeds under the water reluctantly release her, like the arms of the dead beneath the water.    

“Tilt, are you okay?”  It is Chuck, and he’s bending over her, snapping the zip-tie off her wrists with one practiced swipe of a tiny blade that materializes out of nowhere. 

But the ghost isn’t stopping…her bellow has turned to an angry assault of strung-together obscenities that makes Tilt shakes her head.  “Olivia’s here… and she’s furious.”

“Cut it out, Olivia,” says Chuck, to Tilt’s shock.  “I told you we’d get her.  I didn’t tell you we’d kill her.”  He’s talking as if the woman is as visible to him as she is to Tilt. 

“You can see her?” asks Tilt, as a woman wearing a rescue-workers vest and carrying a blanket rushes forward. 

“Ma’am, are you okay?” 

Tilt nods and Chuck grabs the blanket and wraps it around.  “She will be,” he says.  “Go with this nice lady,” he says to Tilt.  “Let them check you over.  Get warm and dry.  We’ll… we’ll talk … later.  But…”  He breaks off, waves to someone whose outline resembles the sheriff’s.  “Right now, I have to do some stuff.”  He brushes her cheek with a kiss, and strides off. 

“Wow,” says the woman.  “He’s cute.  Let’s go, honey.  Let’s make sure you’re okay before your hero comes back.”

“He’s not my hero,” says Tilt.  Despite the cold air, despite the water, she can’t help watching him walk up the lawn. 

HE WILL BE, says Olivia, in her mind, before her energy winks out like an extinguished star. 

Aubrey sleeps through all the excitement
, even the late-night pow-wow with Connie and the rest, so Tilt volunteers to get their bags into the car, while the others fill Aubrey in around the breakfast table.   She’s tired, but she can’t keep still, she’s so furious with Chuck. 

If he’d known all along… suspected all along… that her life might have been in danger… why didn’t he tell her to leave?

What kind of person put a totally innocent and unsuspecting person in harm’s way? Not to mention poor Aubrey… her life had been threatened too, but Tilt felt it prudent to leave that part out of her story. 

Chuck shows up, just as she’s carrying her suitcase downstairs.  “Can I help you with that,” he asks.

“I think I’d’ve preferred if you’d kept me from being threatened at gunpoint,” she replies.  “Now I understand why you kept telling me to lock the door.  But if you knew Krsytal was the person who murdered Olivia, why didn’t you arrest her the first night? Why’d you have to wait until she nearly killed me?”

“Because I wasn’t sure she was the person,” he answers.  “And I know how you experience reality is different from the way most people experience it, but psychic evidence still isn’t admitted in court.  I had to have something more to go on than Olivia screaming in my ear.”

“You knew all along it was Olivia?”  Tilt plops her suitcase down on the floor, and fumbles in her pocket for the car keys.  “Why didn’t you tell me… warn me?”

“I told you to lock your door.”  Chuck takes a deep breath.  “Look, I’m sorry.  This is the first time I’ve ever been in this situation – usually I’m the only one who can see the ghosts.  I figured as long I kept Olivia away from you…and I blocked you…you wouldn’t be able to get much.  And you didn’t.  Olivia was just a little harder to control and you… well, you were better than I was expecting.”

Tilt takes a deep breath, considering his apology.  In the morning light, he is clean-shaven, freshly pressed, and seems more of the cop than the psychic.  And he is cute, so very goddamned cute. “So who exactly are you, Chuck McNamara?  What kind of work is it exactly that you do?”

“You want a cup of coffee,” shouts June from the kitchen. 

“Sure,” calls back Chuck.  “Can we sit… how about the porch?”

Tilt hesitates.  She’s not sure she wants to look at the lake, even if, in the bright light of morning, the sparkles on the whitecaps look like diamonds.  

June comes out, hands Chuck a mug.  “Why not come sit in the kitchen, honey?  I think I owe you an apology as much as he does.”

“You knew, too?” 

Chuck takes a deep breath.  “We really didn’t know anything – not for sure, not in the way we needed to know to prove in a court of law Krystal was really Leeann Rittenhouse.”

“And at no time did we think you’d be in danger,” says June. 

“We?” says Tilt, completely confused.  “You mean you were in on it, too? Can we go talk about this before I totally lose my credibility?” 

In the sunny kitchen, June pours both herself and Tilt a cup of coffee.  She places on the checkered oilcloth in front of Tilt, then sits opposite, leaving the bench beside Tilt for Chuck. 

As he sits, she catches a whiff of a fragrance… fresh and clean, like pine, tinged with something burnt, something she can’t quite recognize.  Then the image of long waves of grass rippling in the wind flash through her mind.  “Sweet grass,” she blurts.  “Is that how you held Olivia back?”

He holds out a hand.  “I almost feel like we should start over.  I’m Chuck McNamara.  I’m a psychic, and I work for the FBI.” 

“And I work for the FBI, and I’m not a psychic,” says June.  “I’m based out of Albany, and Chuck is more…”

“I freelance,” he says. 

Tilt leans back.  There’s a force, an energy around this man that unnerves her, not to mention the fact his eyes are the most appealing shade of green she’s ever seen.  “The FBI uses psychics?”

“Sometimes,” says Chuck. 

“Not often,” says June. 

“But you’ve heard of the X-Files, right?” says Chuck. 

“That was a TV show,” says Tilt. 

“It was?” says June, softly. 

“Are you trying to tell me you two are a real-life Scully and Mulder?” 

“No,” they say together. 

“I’m based in Albany,” says June. 

“Oh, yeah,” says Tilt.  “You said that.  Okay, so let’s start over.  You’re Chuck McNamara, and you do, what exactly for the FBI?”

“We call Chuck in when there appears to be a supernatural element to a crime,” replies June. 

“I didn’t share the real story with the group, because it would’ve meant I had to open up more than I wanted to, at that point.  It wasn’t a hunting accident that triggered my sixth sensory abilities, as you like to call them.  I was injured in Desert Storm.  I came home a mess – it felt like my brain had been blown wide open and this light – this brilliant, blazing light, was pouring in, along with faces and names and voices and smells and …” he breaks off, shakes his head.  “Anyway, long story short… I learned how to deal with it.”  He grins at Tilt.  “And then I learned I could make a living from it.”

“Wow,” says Tilt. 

“You did great this weekend, Tilt,” says June.  “Setting aside the body in the attic, you kept all the focus off Leeann for us, so we could do what we had to do.  We’re very grateful.”  She gets up.  “I have to call in.  Excuse me, will you?”

Aubrey bursts into the kitchen.  “So this is where you’ve been hiding? Oh, hello, Chuck.”  She grins. 

“I’ll be right there.”

“Sure thing.”  Aubrey winks. 

Tilton gets to her feet.

So does Chuck.  He reaches out, takes her hand.  “I’m sorry.  I’m really sorry you felt you were ever in danger.  I hope you’ll let me make it up to you.” 

Tilt smiles, a little more readily than she knows Aubrey would say she should.  “I think I can do that.” She leans forward to give him a hug, and he surprises her with a kiss meant for her cheek that somehow lands on her lips.  “So sorry,” she murmurs, feeling herself flush.

He smiles down at her.  “Don’t ever apologize for that.”

The late morning light glints on the white caps
the spring breeze is whipping up on Lake Jasper, but the sun doesn’t seem to penetrate any further into its inky depths than ever.  Tilt turns onto the main road leading to the highway with a shudder.   There are more secrets hidden at the bottom… she’s left Connie with a promise to come back for the grand opening of the Inn on Lake Jasper in the late summer or early fall. 

And there’s that card of Chuck’s in her purse, and Connie’s check in her wallet.  She can do this, she thinks.  She can use her psychic abilities and she can make a living.  Somehow even facing down Peter and the whole angry town seems possible. 

“Tilt.” Aubrey breaks into her thoughts.    “You know that thing that’s been on my mind and I didn’t want to tell you?”

Oh, my God, Tilt thinks.  She’s been so absorbed by the ghosts at the house she almost completely forgot that Aubrey’s been keeping something from her.  “Yeah, Aub, of course.  What’s going on?”

“I think Ben’s having an affair… will you come and help me figure out what’s going on?”

Tilt has to remind herself to keep her eyes on the road.  “Ben?” she sputters.  “Your bean-counting Ben?”

Aubrey nods and starts to weep.  “Please?  Please say you will?  I’m so upset… I just don’t know what to do.”

Dismayed and alarmed, Tilt reaches over and squeezes her sister’s hand. At once she has the impression of something bigger, something under the surface that extends out much farther and affects far more people than her sister is aware.  Something… something that feels like it could be almost as dangerous as this. 

But there is Chuck’s card in her pocket, and Olivia’s message burning in her ear.  Maybe he makes house-calls.  Tilt gives Aubrey’s shoulder a reassuring pat, then fixes her attention on the road.  “Of course, I will, honey...of course.”

The End