Blackvine Manor Mystery (5 page)

A
LEXIS AND GEORGE
ARE IN the courtyard when Maxwell pulls up to the curb and jumps out.

“See, the way the fountain is, #203 is the only apartment with a clear view of the bench.” George is pulling Alexis into position to prove his point.

“You’re right, I can’t even see my windows if I stand here, much less if I was sitting on the bench like they were. And can you imagine if the water was on? Such a romantic spot.”

Maxwell catches the last part of their conversation as he walks up. “Oops, sorry to interrupt.”

Alexis laughs and catches him by the sleeve. “No problem. Even you have to admit this would be a very romantic spot if the fountain worked.”

“You and George can tell Barry about his new project. You seem to make a good team,” Maxwell quips and tries to continue on his way inside.

Alexis shrugs at George and tries to catch up with Maxwell. “Are you jealous? I mean I thought you had a thing going with Mrs. Beasley in #104. She is smoking hot for 75.”

She manages to stop him on the front steps, stepping up to see him eye to eye. Noticing his strained look before he avoids meeting her gaze, she puts a hand on his shoulder.

“What’s wrong?’

“Nothing. Seeing my family always puts me in a bad mood.”

Alexis follows him to the small office on the main floor. “Did they find out anything else about Delia?”

He slaps a heavy file down on the desk before flopping into the old chair. “No.”

“It must be hard thinking about Delia again,” Alexis prods gently.

Maxwell smirks. “Heartbreaking.”

Not understanding the joke, Alexis tries a different angle. “I know what it’s like to miss a family member.”

He taps the heavy file and tells her, “I was named after her, you know. Maxwell is her family name. Otto always hated her family even though their money helped him get this place. Their connections helped him rise through the ranks and become police chief.”

Maxwell breaks his gaze away from the file and, leaning back to put his feet up on the desk, turns his attention to Alexis. “So, you and George, huh?”

She makes a face at him. “It’s nice to spend time with someone who doesn’t think I’m crazy.”

The corners of his mouth start to turn up and Alexis feels her cheeks warming. “How’d the ghost hunting go?”

“Very interesting. You know he has solid paranormal evidence.”

Maxwell’s smile turns sardonic. “You know George is the one who hired a psychic medium and hosted a séance here? I suppose I should thank him. That little stunt made the woman in your studio move out.”

Alexis throws back her shoulders. “He doesn’t pull ‘stunts’. Actually, he’s getting some recognition from other researchers.”

“Ghost hunters.”

Now she can feel her cheeks burning with frustration. “How did Delia know Collin Fenton?”

“Excuse me?” He takes one boot at a time off the desk and sits forward.

“I saw Delia and Fenton meeting in the courtyard. It seemed like they were old friends.”

Maxwell looks at her out of the corner of his eyes while scraping a hand over his stubble. “You realize that is a really farfetched claim.”

“Just because you don’t believe in my abilities doesn’t mean I’m crazy!”

“No, beyond your whole ‘psychic’ claim, I mean it is farfetched for you to connect my grandmother with Collin Fenton.”

Alexis runs both hands through her hair before slapping them on her thighs. “But you do know Fenton?”

Maxwell crooks an eyebrow at her. “Local legend, jewel thief, arch-enemy of my grandfather’s precinct. Come on, you’re not seriously telling me that in all the research you did on my grandmother’s murder, you didn’t bother to look him up.”

She stops cold and then leaps away from the hand Maxwell throws out to detain her. “You think I researched Delia? You think I’ve been conning you?”

Alexis slams his office door and makes it upstairs to her studio before burying her face in her hands. She allows herself a few heaving breaths before taking one long inhale. Shoving Maxwell, her growing attraction to him and his infuriating skepticism, out of her mind, Alexis calls up what she sensed in the courtyard.

It is hard for her to believe herself but somehow she saw Delia running around the fountain to greet Fenton with a kiss on the cheek. Focusing on it, she forces the impression to slow down in her memory.

Repeating over and over that it really happened, she notes the details to herself. “Hair in a bun, white shirt tucked into a long gray skirt, black shoes.”

She lets the image run through her mind again and concentrates on Fenton. “Salt and pepper hair, shorter than Delia, dark suit. She laughs when she sees the pin on his lapel.”

Alexis opens her eyes and leans against the inside of her door for a few breaths before dashing to her computer. The design on the pin is clear in her head: a coat of arms with four corners containing a laurel wreath, a pen, a peacock feather, and a tower. Within minutes she clicks on the website of Belmont Academy and sees the exact same coat of arms.

The phone is ringing before Alexis has even planned what to say. “Good afternoon, Belmont Academy.”

“Hi, ah, yes. I’m calling to inquire about a former student, many years ago. Do I need to talk to records?”

The voice is swift. “Perhaps I can help you. The student’s name?”

Alexis hesitates but takes her chance. “Collin Fenton.”

There is a long pause on the other end. “Belmont Academy has no affiliation with Mr. Fenton past his childhood schooling and we have no statements to make to the press.”

The line is so practiced that Alexis gapes for a moment before trying, “One more inquiry, please? Delia Charles?”

She hears a heavy sigh and quick typing before, “No student of that name here.”

“No, wait, I’m sorry. Delia Maxwell.”

More typing and another pause. “Yes, though I am not at liberty to say anything more.”

“Thanks so much for your time!” Alexis hangs up the phone before charging out the door to find Maxwell.

A
LEXIS LEANS HER SHOULDER
AGAINST the “superintendent” sign, ready to gloat. Maxwell is half slumped over the desk, head propped up with one hand as the other idly thumbs through a stack of papers. The office is sparse, straight out of the 1950s, with the large wooden desk and a metal filing cabinet. Two straight-backed chairs flank a small table against the left wall and one lonely lamp stands sentinel in the corner. Just as she is realizing nothing decorates the cream-colored, paint-peeling walls, Maxwell notices her standing there.

“Hello, beautiful,” he says, hoping to avoid any incendiary topics.

“Do you like being a landlord?”

He glances around the office himself and gives a small smile. “I’m supposed to be studying law like my father or joining the force like my grandfather. This isn’t a job, it’s an additional source of income.”

Alexis pushes off the door and decides to try out one of the straight-backed chairs. “So you’re hiding out here.”

Maxwell tips back in his desk chair and puts his feet up on the desk. “I like it here. I feel like one of those private investigators from an old movie. All I need is a hat rack with a fedora.”

“I could see you as a private investigator.”

He smiles at her wolfishly. “And are you the damsel in distress or the femme fatale?”

Alexis can barely resist his game but instead steers the conversation back towards her original purpose. “Seems like private investigator is somewhere in between being a lawyer and a police officer. Why not go for it?”

Putting his feet back on the floor, he sighs. “I don’t know; I’m just not inspired.”

Taking her opening, Alexis tells him, “You know, I chose a career in advertising because I thought it was all about inspiration. Now I’ve realized the most inspired I’ve ever felt is when I started using my mother’s book on clairvoyance. I’m starting to wonder if we all have callings we just can’t avoid.”

Maxwell is looking at the spread of papers in front of him again. “You’re being called to a carnival side show?”

Alexis balls up a fist but refuses to move. “How about we make a little bet on my side show skills?”

He relaxes, realizing he hasn’t driven her out the door again. “Sure. What do you have in mind?”

“If I can prove a connection between Delia and Fenton based solely on what I sensed in the courtyard, then you have to perform a séance with me.”

He tries to soften her determination by smiling. “You mean us together holding hands by candlelight? I’m in. What could you have ‘sensed’ that no one else did?”

“When I concentrated on Collin Fenton I saw the image of a pin. Delia laughed when she saw it. The pin was a coat of arms that, after a little research, turned out to be from Belmont Academy.”

Maxwell tents his hands before asking, “What’s Belmont Academy?”

Alexis stands up and approaches the desk. “A prestigious boarding school that has been around since 1898. When I called them they admitted to Collin Fenton being an alumni. They also had records of one Delia Maxwell. They were old friends from school.”

He takes a minute to gather all the papers back into the file folder before wondering aloud, “Why didn’t the police ever make that connection?”

Alexis frowns. “Maybe they did and that’s why they’ve pinned your grandmother’s murder on Fenton.”

“No, there’s nothing about Belmont Academy in the police file.”

She sits on the corner of the desk, reaching out a hand to look at the folder, “And how do you know that?”

Maxwell confesses, “I was at Otto’s this morning to feed his horrible dog. When I was looking around I realized he had old files from work in his study. This one happened to be of interest so I borrowed it.”

She looks at the label. “You stole the file on Fenton from the police chief?”

“I borrowed it from the retired police chief who stole it from work.” Maxwell makes a clear distinction.

Alexis gets up and heads for the door. “Well bring that with.”

“Where are we going?”

“My place, I’ve got candles and you lost the bet.”

* * *

M
axwell is sitting
on the red sofa, peering suspiciously at Alexis over the candles. She’s sitting opposite him on the floor with her mother’s book in her lap.

“I don’t think these things work with non-believers in the room,” he tells her.

“Just try to concentrate, please. I’m going to read from this chapter; it’s just a way to clear our heads and open our minds.”

“That’s what I mean, if I’m close-minded, which I am, you are wasting your time.”

Alexis scowls at him. “Just think about Delia and listen to what I’m reading.”

Maxwell humors her and watches the lopsided candle in the center as he conjures up the image of his grandmother in his head. She is smiling in the sunlight out back of the building by the alley. Against the warm, red brick of the building are strawberries and she’s helping him pick the best ones to eat.

The memory shifts and he is with Delia in the courtyard, except she’s moving fast and he sees her from a distance. She runs up to a man, laughing as she kisses him on the cheek. Maxwell shifts, uncomfortably, as he realizes it is night. He’s confused why he’d be in the courtyard at night. Delia is pulling a folded message out from under the bench.

Maxwell rebels against the memory that isn’t his and he sees a light in a window about the courtyard. A lovely face appears and he calls out.

“What did you see? Are you okay?” Alexis is beside him on the couch, holding his hand.

“Nothing; just some weird memories. And I remembered someone who used to live here, this really nice woman.” He rubs absently at his heart.

Alexis peers up into his eyes. “Did you see Delia in the courtyard? She and Fenton left messages for each other there.”

He shakes off her hands. “I didn’t see anything. They were just memories.”

Maxwell stands up and heads for the door, calling over his shoulder. “I’ll leave the Fenton file for you to look at tonight. That’s a better prize than a failed séance.”

A
LEXIS IS LYING
ON HER red sofa, letting the candles burn out on their own as she reads a chapter from her mother’s book. She is just reading the section on how visions can be differentiated from memories when there is a soft knock on the door.

“Come in,” she calls out, hoping it was a real knock from a real person.

The door swings open slowly and Alexis is about to panic when Maxwell steps forward. He smiles as she quickly swallows her momentary fear.

“I was just heading out for dinner and thought you might like some?”

She settles back on the couch and narrows her eyes at him. “I don’t get it. You all but call me crazy every time we’re together and yet here you are asking me out for dinner?”

He laughs. “Well, it’s not a date or anything. I don’t date crazy people.”

“How about clairvoyants?”

Maxwell scuffs a hand over his mouth to cover a frown. “You’re not sure that’s what you are otherwise you wouldn’t be reading that book all the time. Why not be skeptical together?”

“You’re skeptical; I’m honest. And, honestly, I’m not very hungry.”

He sits down on the arm of the sofa and gazes down at her. Just as she can feel her cheeks warming, he says, “To be honest, I have a lot of memories here. People are always complaining about the building: the lights flicker, there are noises, faucets run and turn off on their own. And people tell me they see things, especially the ghost of a woman.”

Maxwell slides down next to her. “Not just a woman, Delia. My grandmother. I loved her very much. She took care of me while my parents worked and I spent a lot of my childhood here. Until it all disappeared.”

He pauses and scrubs at his frown again. “So I have trouble hearing what people ‘experience’ here because everywhere I look are memories.”

Alexis reaches for his hand. “I’m not trying to tarnish your memories.”

He slaps his thighs and gets up. “And I want to believe you. That’s why I’m letting you see Delia’s apartment.”

She scrambles to her feet. “Really? Isn’t it rented out?”

Maxwell crooks his arm and she takes it. “No. The Maxwells built these apartments so their daughter would have a solid form of income. They never thought much of Otto and his blue-collar work. So they also built her a penthouse apartment. Everyone just assumes the top floor is an attic.”

He unlocks the wide door in the stairwell; the door Alexis assumed was a maintenance closet. Behind it is a curving staircase lit by pale stained glass windows.

“Unless you’re scared and want to wait until morning?” Maxwell jeers at her.

Alexis grabs the flashlight out of his hand and heads up the stairs. At the top is a long gallery-style room with three archways leading to the rest of the apartment. The middle arch is the largest, welcoming guests into an expansive living room crowned with a glass cupola. French doors connect the living room to the dining room, the first archway that overlooks the staircase. Alexis heads to the left, through another set of French doors, into a more intimate parlor. The penthouse is empty and echoing but a sense of comfortable elegance still permeates and she is speechless.

“There are two bedrooms, a nursery, bathroom, and a kitchen all along the back,” Maxwell tells her.

His footsteps are still echoing when he turns and realizes she is not following him. Alexis is drifting in a trance towards the built-in window seat in the parlor. The bay window there overlooks the courtyard and road and her face is lit by the faint glow of the streetlights.

“Alexis?”

“She loved it here. This is where she always sat.”

Maxwell scoffs. “Of course it was, who wouldn’t want to sit there?”

She doesn’t answer as she reaches the window seat. Instead of sitting down she runs a hand along the carved edge of the wood. There’s a metallic click and she opens a small panel. Maxwell shines the light on her hand as it slips inside the secret compartment and comes out with a delicate white envelope.

“What are you doing?” he demands and comes over to snatch the envelope from her hand.

“What? Wait, this opens?” Alexis rubs the back of her head as she tries to remember the last few minutes.

“Please,” he growls, “spare me the act. How did you know these were in there?”

Maxwell starts thumbing through the old photographs. As he studies the worn and obviously cherished photographs he notices his smiling grandparents. Otto is smiling, always smiling when Delia is near him. And his grandmother is radiant; the same soft, glowing smile of his memories. He thumbs through the stack until he sees a group snapshot.

Otto is manning the grill, waving at Delia. She is smiling to him from a checkered blanket near the fountain. A 4th of July picnic they hosted for the residents of Blackvine Manor. Maxwell stares at himself, an eight-year-old boy playing with a patriotic pinwheel. Sitting on the bench behind him is the same woman he suddenly remembered during Alexis’ failed séance.

“My mother,” Alexis says softly, peeking over his arm at the photograph.

“Who?”

She points to the woman he is starting to remember. “My mother. Amelia Tennon. She must have lived here when your grandmother was murdered.”

Maxwell throws down the photographs as if electrified. “What do you think you’re doing? Why are you doing this to me?”

“What?” Alexis stumbles back.

“You set up this whole charade just to jog my memory. Just to get me to remember your mother. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you’re going on and on about figuring out what happened to Delia. Be honest, now, Alexis; you’re doing all this just to find your mother.”

The words choke her but she finally whispers, “Yes, but—”

He leaves her standing alone in the dark and she sees him through the bay window driving away as if chased by a demon.