Deadly Decision (15 page)

“I can't.”

“You have no right to keep secrets from me. I'm her father.”

“And I'm her husband. If Trina has something to tell you, she will.”

“So she has a secret?”

“Talk to Trina.”

“You should get her out of here. This isn't a good place for her to be.”

Ted looked at me strangely. “Trust me, I've tried.”

That took me by surprise. “I thought you loved this house.”

“There's something about it lately…”

My jaw tightened. Had he seen the demon? “What do you mean?”

“I don't know. Forget it.” Ted shrugged his shoulders and focused on his canvas.

“What, now it's my fault Trina is acting weird?”

“I didn't say that, Bill.”

“No, you said she only started to act this way recently—maybe since I came back? You want me to leave?”

He stared at me, his mouth gaping. “I never said that.”

“Forget it. If something is weird in the house, it isn't my fault.” I stomped toward the garage door. Bumping against the workbench, two paint brushes toppled from a paint-stained jar. Red liquid trickled across the wood surface.

It looked like blood. I shuddered.

 

 

 

 

17

 

My concerns over Trina's odd behavior, knowing I had to face Sandra later that night, and now my argument with Ted left me with little motivation to start a new project. Needing a distraction, but not wanting to plant flowers, I decided to hunt for that hidden drawer in the dining room table.

As I walked through the newly arched doorway, I glanced at my handiwork. An hour ago, I would have been proud of the work. Now nothing mattered except keeping busy.

Walking around the wooden table, I ran my hands along the upper edges, feeling for any inconsistency. None. Next, I moved to the lower frame. Again, nothing felt odd or out of place. Scowling, I wondered if I been wrong about a hidden drawer, or was the table uncooperative?

I hated being wrong.

Figuring years of wear may have smoothed any variation in the texture of the wood; I headed to the kitchen to get a flashlight.

Trina stood at the sink. “You didn't need to do your dishes.”

“It's OK. I'll try to be less of a burden.”

“You're never a burden, Dad.”

I poured myself a cup of cold coffee. Trina looked pale. Her lips were pursed into a tight round ball. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead.

“Are you OK?”

“Something I ate upset my stomach.”

“Maybe you should go lay down.”

“I'm fine.”

“It's all right to rest, you know.”

“Dad, I'm fine.”

“Don't get upset. I just thought…” Her scowl tightened. “I need to borrow that flashlight.”

“It's under the sink. Why do you need it?”

“I'm checking out that table you bought.”

“Looking for your hidden drawer?”

“Yep.” I picked up my coffee cup, and took it and the flashlight back to the dining room. No table was going to get the best of me. I would bet my life on a secret compartment.

Her eyes sparked as I left the kitchen.
That's my girl, can't keep her down
. An internal smile warmed me.

Walking slowly around the table, I moved the beam of light along its edge. Then I walked around it again, feeling, looking. And again. There was nothing unusual.

I grabbed for my coffee and knocked the cup off the table. It landed sideways onto the braided rug. Coffee seeped into the rug, spreading its dark stain under the table. I needed to get a rag and try to soak up the mess, but I stood there and watched the coffee wick into an increasingly larger circle.

The day that had started off bad was getting worse. I had not found the secret drawer; I was going to have to spend the evening schmoozing with people I didn't know; I had angered Ted, and I had no idea why that bothered me, but it did. He may have seen, or felt, the demon. That meant I could no longer keep its presence in the house a secret. And now my coffee was spreading all over Trina's rug in a mad race of destruction all of its own.

Pulling out my handkerchief, I began to sop up some of the brown stain. As I shifted myself under the table to pat at the ugly blotch, my head angled back and my eyes were directed to the underside of the table.

Covering the center of the top, except for about twelve inches along the outer edge, was a raised section of wood.

Could this be what I was looking for? Wiggling out from under the table, I grabbed the flashlight. Crawling back under the table and hitching around on my back, I moved the light across the edges of the insert.

There! One spot looked different, more discolored. I probed it with my fingers.

Nothing moved.

“Did you find it yet?”

Trina's voice startled me. “Looks like you spilled your coffee.”

“Sorry, I'll clean it up, but I did find something. It could be a slab of wood they used for support, but I've never seen a table built like this.”

I manipulated the wood with my fingers, like a doctor examining his patient.

“I admit defeat,” I finally said, pushing myself out from under the table. “No one wants to share secrets with me today.”

“Are you sure?” The twinkle had returned to Trina's eye. She sat down in the chair in front of the section where I had been working and moved her hands under the table. I heard the soft scraping of wood against wood. “Look now.”

A drawer stood open beyond the edge of the table. “How did you…?”

Trina laughed. I found it the night we had Sandra for dinner. I sat here, remember? At dinner, my hands just happened to hit the right spot I guess, and the wood shifted. Later I checked it out and found the drawer.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” I ran my hands along the opened drawer, feeling the hardness of old wood and the smoothness from years of wear.

“And spoil your fun? But guess what else I found?”

“There's more?”

“A diary!”

“What was a diary doing in the silver drawer?”

“Maybe keeping it hidden from her nosy father?”

“I'm not nosy…am I?”

“No, Dad.” Trina chuckled. “I'm just teasing. But the diary—it's awesome! The writing's faded, but it belonged to someone named Isabelle. Haven't found a last name yet; I've only read a couple pages.”

I moved the drawer back into position, observing how the pieces of wood inter-connected and slid against each other to form hidden seams. “I can't believe you found it.”

“I'm glad you finally got around to looking. It's been really hard keeping the secret from you.”

“You don't keep secrets from me?”

“Not usually,” she said, focusing on something outside the window.

“You kept this one.”

“Now that you know, I can keep reading the diary! I was afraid you would catch me or that I would get excited and talk about it, and then I would have to explain. “

Trina was rambling. That could only mean one thing. She had a secret, and keeping it was hard. Why suddenly didn't my daughter want to share her life with me?

Her eyes widened, and she bolted up the staircase. The sound of retching and gagging reached me as I stood at the bottom of the stairs. I wondered if I should go up and offer help, or go get Ted. Before I could decide, the toilet flushed and Trina reappeared at the top of the stairs.

I stared at my daughter's ashen face. All the excitement over the hidden drawer became inconsequential compared to my concern for Trina.

 



 

I walked the four blocks to Sandra's and arrived fifteen minutes late. Lights were strung across the small yard from a tall pole in the center, creating a tent-like appearance. A dozen or so people sat around tables talking and smiling. More people filled their plates at a round table covered with silver serving dishes. I could smell barbeque.

Too many people
.

I tugged at the collar of my shirt. Why had I agreed to come? Sandra would never miss me if I simply headed back to the house. This was a yearly event she had held since before her husband died. Trina told me Sandra had thought of cancelling because of Jimmy, but decided to hold it, thinking the distraction would be good for everyone.

“Bill! Come meet some people,” Sandra called from across the yard. “You'll know most of them; they're from the church.”

Sandra's soft hand wrapped around mine.

After meeting people whose names I immediately forgot, I drifted to the side of the yard. The minister, Steve Morgan, clinging to a glass of iced tea, headed my way.

“Quite a party, but I need to get away for a while. My wife's energized by crowds, but quite honestly, things like this drain me.”

“Isn't that strange for a minister?”

“Probably.” He chuckled. “Now that you know my deep dark secret, what do I need to know about you?”

“My guess is Trina's already filled you in. I lost my wife to breast cancer when Trina was ten. I'm here for the summer to help her and Ted repair the house so they can start a bed and breakfast.”

“A bed and breakfast? Good idea.” Grinning, he added, “What else would you do with all those bedrooms? Start a brothel?”

I looked at him and he laughed.

“OK, now you know two deep dark secrets.” He sipped his tea. “I imagine the house needs a lot of work.”

“It does, but we've got a lot done already. You should stop by some time and see it.” I wanted to grab the words and pull them back. What had possessed me to say that? All I needed was a preacher snooping around with a demon hiding inside somewhere. Hard to tell what would happen.

“How are you dealing with the heat in the house?”

“It doesn't get too hot.”

“I imagine that big oak out front helps. How about the attic?”

“We don't go up to the attic much,” I mumbled. “Probably need to put in ridge vents someday.”

The condensation from my glass seeped around my fingers. Voices blended. I could make out an occasional word, and the laughter of the woman with the red hair, but mostly the hum represented a social connectedness to which I was an outsider.

Sandra glanced my way and waved. I smiled back, marveling at her emotional strength. I could never have hosted a party this soon after Nancy died.

At my side, the pastor stared into the crowd, a hint of a smile turning his lips.
Should I ask him?
If he knew, he would position himself on the opposite side of the proverbial fence from where I now stood. Why ask him when it would probably end in a disagreement? But the words came out. “Ever hear of the house being haunted?”

Steve laughed. “Yeah, someone told me about your adventure. You know how the rumor mill is in a small town. Word is you saw the ghost of Jimmy.”

I skimmed my hand across the top of my head. I hadn't considered that anyone else would know outside of Ted and Trina, and Sandra of course. The thought that half the town might be talking about it was embarrassing. My face heated; I was grateful we stood in shadows.

“As kids, we used to think the house was full of ghosts,” Steve added. “Mr. Barnett—the man who lived there—he must have been a hundred years old when I was a kid. He didn't get out much, so you can imagine the tales we kids made up.”

“Seriously, have you ever heard legitimate stories of the house being haunted?”

“No, can't say I have. Nothing credible anyway.”

As much as I ached to talk to someone about my supernatural experience, this was not the person. A man of God would never allow his mind to be open enough to accept alternate possibilities. And then Barbara had made everything worse. I wished my sister would talk about it with me instead of jumping to her own narrow-minded conclusions.

“If I tell you something,” I heard myself say, “will you promise to keep it to yourself?”

“Sure, unless it's against the law.”

“It's not against the law, but it may be against your religion.” I continued to stare at the activity in front of me. I could have been at a theater, the scene in front of me a performance. I filled the role of spectator more than participant. From the corner of my eye, I could see the pastor turn toward me.

“You know about me seeing the ghost of Jimmy,” I said. “But I didn't tell the police about the other ghost.”
Why am I telling him this?
The story gushed out of me like an unstoppable flood.

“My sister in Ohio has a picture of him hanging on her wall. The picture belonged to my grandfather. He didn't know who the boy was, but thought he was an early relative.”

I could feel Pastor Steve staring at me.

“I'm not sure how Jimmy and my ancestor got together. None of my family has ever lived in the south, and according to Sandra, none of hers has ever gone north.”

A mosquito buzzed around me ear, and I swatted at empty air. The voices from the party faded into the background, like the music in a department store that no one hears. The world contained only me and the preacher.

His opinion felt urgent. I stiffened as I continued, expecting any moment he would interrupt me like Betsy had, make excused and leave me for safer party entertainment.

“I have my own thoughts on what I saw,” I finally said, “but I would like to hear yours.”

The preacher was quiet for so long I began to wonder if he had decided not to answer.

Why had I told him about the other ghost? It had been unplanned, for sure. Trina hadn't mentioned that the preacher would be there, nor had I anticipated sharing my evening with a man of God. Uncomfortable, I tried to think of a way to escape.

I had come to the party like I promised. No one said I had to stay forever. But the only way out of the yard meant I had to pass through its center. Going through the light felt as unpleasant as staying.