The Haunted Heart: Winter (4 page)

I heard her swallow, heard the little smack
of her lips as she started to speak, but stopped herself. I gave
her time, and she said, keeping her voice low so it wouldn’t
wobble, “We have an agreement, Flynn.”

“I’m not forgetting. Have I ever broken a
promise to you?”

“No.”

“So everything’s okay. I am keeping to my
end of the agreement. Word of honor.”

“Because if you were to go back on that,
Flynn…” Her voice did break then.

“I know. Dirty pool.” My mom’s favorite
euphemism for all nefarious and underhanded doings. “You’re
worrying about nothing. Really. I just need a little time to myself
right now.”

Poor Mom. I had her cornered. I was a
horrible son. I heard the floorboards squeak behind me. I threw a
quick, alarmed look over my shoulder, but it was Kirk. He was
examining the mirror. I’d flown right past it in my haste to the
get to the phone.

I refocused as my mother said, “It’s just
that you’re so isolated there. Your father — we — worry about you
being so much on your own right now. That building is practically
in the middle of nowhere.”

“Chester Connecticut is not the middle of
nowhere. They have a farmer’s market and a Chamber of Commerce and
a cupcakery. Nothing says civilization like a cupcakery,
right?”

“Yes, but you should be with people. People
your own age. There’s only that downstairs tenant and he sounds a
little…”

“There
are
people my age around
here.” My gaze fell on Kirk who now leaned in the open doorway,
listening to our phone conversation with some impatience. “Actually
the guy downstairs is about my age.”

“Math clearly not a strong point,” Kirk
muttered.

I ignored that, listening to her hopeful,
“Oh?”

“And he’s gay too.”

Kirk’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“Aren’t you?” I asked.

“How the hell is that any of your
business?”

“Is he?” I heard that note of cautious
optimism and I winked at Kirk. If possible, he looked more
offended.

“Yeah, he’s kind of nice looking,” I told
her. “In an artistic, brooding, shaggy kind of way.” I added,
“Grooming clearly not a strong point.”

Kirk scowled at me.

“Is he there?” my mother asked, and I
probably should have felt guilty about the relief in her voice.

“Live and in person.”

“What does he do?” my mother asked.

“He’s a writer or something. Definitely not
a musician.”

Kirk opened his mouth but restrained
himself.

“Oh, that’s right. That’s what Mr. McLennon
said. He’s a playwright.”

“A playwright?” I marveled.

Kirk’s face turned red.

“It sounds interesting,” Mom said. “I don’t
think it pays very well, but he seems to be reliable about his
rent.”

“That’s okay. We’ll pawn some of the
antiques and then I can keep him in the style to which he’s clearly
not accustomed.”

She laughed almost sounding like her old
self. “All right. Just keep records of your ill-gotten gains for
tax time.”

“Will do.”

“All right then. Oh. What’s his name
again?”

“Whose?”

“Your playwright.”

“Kirk. Kirk Murdoch.”

“Very Scottish!”

“Yep, he’s a hoot, mon. Er, Mom.”

She made a sound of patient amusement. “I’ll
let you go then.”

“Okay. I’ll —”

She broke in, “Flynn, you’re remembering to
eat and sleep and…everything?”

“Of course.” I made sure she could hear the
smile in my voice. “I’m better. Really. The work is interesting and
that’s what I need right now. And of course there’s, um, Kirk.”

“You’re taking your meds?” Point blank this
time.

“Yeah.”

She exhaled, preparing to let go of the
rope. “Your father sends his love. We both do. And you promise to
call if things get on top of you?”

I looked at Kirk, opened my mouth, but that
was probably taking it too far. “I promise. I love you, Mom. Love
to Dad.”

“Bye, Flynn.”

“Bye-bye.” I put the phone down and turned
to Kirk. “So. How’s our ghost this morning?”

Kirk looked pained. “Look,” he said
awkwardly. “Nothing personal. I’m sure you’re a very nice guy
–”

“Not really.”

“— in your own weird way. But I’m not in the
market.”

I grinned. “Don’t worry. That was strictly
for my mother’s benefit. I’m not in the market either. And even if
I was, you’re not my type.”

He blinked. “Uh…okay.”

“Any sign of You Know Who?”

“No. Everything looks normal.” He glanced
around the room, his gaze lighting on a mummified cat. “For this
place.”

“Perfect. I’ve been thinking of what to do
about this situation, and I think I’ve come up with a
solution.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“I’ll sell the mirror on eBay.”

“You’ll…?”

“Sell it. On eBay. I’ll sell it as a haunted
mirror, of course.”

“Of course.” He was looking at me like I was
crazy. Granted, that was a look I got a lot these days.

“It’s not as far out there as you’re
thinking. People sell all kinds of supposedly haunted crap on eBay.
Mostly dolls. Old dolls are pretty creepy. And toys. I heard about
someone putting her father’s ghost up for auction. In fact, bottled
ghosts have turned up a couple of times. And I remember seeing a
haunted mirror sell a few months ago.”

“For how much?”

“Not much. Maybe a hundred bucks. The point
wouldn’t be to make money, though. Although this is a valuable
antique, and it’s a shame to treat it like this.”

“Is it? Then I guess smashing the glass and
putting the frame in a wood chipper is out?”

I assumed he was kidding.

Kirk said, “If the point isn’t to make
money, why don’t we just take the mirror to the Goodwill? Or the
nearest dump?”

I was relieved he said
we
. Not that I
couldn’t deal with this on my own, but I appreciated having someone
along to split the gas on my road trip to the Twilight Zone. “Maybe
this is going to sound silly to you, but I don’t want this thing
going to someone not prepared to deal with it.”

Kirk said slowly. “No, that doesn’t sound
silly to me.”

“I feel like I’ve got a responsibility here.
If some goofball wants to buy a ghost, that’s totally different.
That’s on their head.”

“I agree. But I don’t think we should wait
around for eBay. I think we should get the mirror out of here as
soon as possible. Why don’t you sell it to a local antique store?
Tell them about the ghost. Human nature being what it is, and if
this piece is as valuable as you seem to think, I’m guessing most
places will be happy to take it off your hands for the right
price.”

I looked at him in surprise. That was a
great idea. If I knew my fellow dealers, he was right about their
willingness to take on the mirror, ghost and all. Plus I agreed
with him about getting the mirror and its occupant out of the
building as soon as possible.

“All right. I’ll make some calls.”

“I’ll be downstairs. Let me know what you
come up with. We can throw it in the back of my pickup and cart it
off to wherever.”

“Great. Thank you, Kirk.”

He departed with a curt nod and a final wary
glance at the mirror.

According to the web, there were eighty-six
antique shops within a ten mile driving distance of Chester. Once
I’d eliminated the clock repairs, the furniture restorations, the
auctioneers, estate appraisers, the places only open by
appointment, the places closed on Mondays, and the places taking a
snow day, I was down to three contenders.

The grandmotherly voice at Lord Wellington’s
informed me they did not purchase items from anyone but their short
list of qualified dealers, sonny, and in any case it was highly
unlikely I had a genuine Regency ormolu mirror on my hands.

According to Poppycock and Peacocks, they
had all the 18th Century mirrors they could handle, thanks very
much.

Mystic Barne was interested. Very. But Mr.
and Mrs. Barne were in danger of being snowed out if they didn’t
head home
right now
. So…maybe try them again tomorrow?

Five minutes later I was
knock-knock-knocking on Kirk’s door. He answered wearing
perspiration soaked gray sweats and his usual scowl.

“It’s no go,” I told him. “We’re stuck with
the damn thing at least for tonight.”

His scowl deepened. “I say we drop it in the
trash bin out back for safe keeping.”

I said apologetically, “It’s easily worth
about ten grand.”

“You’re kidding.”

I shook my head. “This is kind of what I
do.”

“
Really?
”

“Well, not
this
, no. But I work for —
used to work for — a dealer in Woodstock. New York, that is. I was
only an apprentice, but he was going to make me a partner.” Why was
I sharing all that?

I could see Kirk wondering too. He said,
“Okay. So it’s valuable, but I thought you weren’t worried about
making money on the deal.”

“I’m not. It’s not just valuable because of
how much it could be sold for. It’s a piece of history. Guys were
still fighting duels when this mirror was made. Jane Austen was
writing
Pride and Prejudice
. Or one of those books.”

“Jane Austen?” he repeated doubtfully.

“Yeah.”

He shook his head. “Okay. Well, we don’t
want to upset Jane Austen. We’ve already got our share of peevish
lady ghosts to deal with.”

“And that’s my other point. What if
destroying the mirror doesn’t get rid of her? What if it just frees
her? Or majorly pisses her off? Or both?”

Kirk’s frown deepened as he thought this
over. “Why don’t we wrap a sheet around it and put it in my truck.
Pretty appropriate when you think about it.”

“A mirror in your truck?”

“A sheet for a ghost.”

“Oh right. Well, there’s a basement in the
building, right? We could stick it down there for the time
being.”

“The
basement
?”

“I know what you’re thinking.
Don’t go
down to the basement!
But it would keep the mirror safe and
keep it away from us.”

“That’s not what I was thinking.” Kirk
mopped his sweaty face on his sleeve, and nodded. “But okay. You
want to lock it in the basement, I’ve got no objection.”

“The only thing is, I’ve got dozens of keys
upstairs, but nothing specifically marked basement. Do you happen
to have one?”

He stopped drying his face and lowered his
arm. “Have you not been down to the basement yet?”

“Not yet, no.”

His mouth curved into an evil sort of smirk.
“No? Well, hang on. I’ll find a key. I want to be there to see your
face when you open that door.”

CHAPTER FIVE

I
t took Kirk about
five minutes to find the basement key.

I waited in the entrance hall, staring out
the tall mullioned windows and watching the snow drift down in
lazy, silent swirls. It was coming down more heavily now. The
leaden clouds had split open and miniature clouds were floating
down, landing on sagging fence posts and peeling window sills.

If I closed my eyes I could remember
snowflakes in Alan’s eyelashes and his breath warm against my
face…

“Found ‘em,” Kirk said cheerfully behind me.
I turned and he dangled a couple of old fashioned keys on a key
chain in front of my nose.

“So what’s down there?” I asked. “Besides a
decrepit washer and dryer.”

“No washer and dryer,” Kirk said. “And even
if there was, I’d stick to using the Laundromat.”

Laundry was something I probably ought to
give some thought to. I would be down to my last clean pair of
briefs any day now. Now
that
was scary.

“Afraid of the dark?” I asked.

“Afraid of spiders.” Kirk’s expression was
bland. “Okay. Follow me. We’ll see if we can make enough room down
there to stuff in one more family heirloom.”

A single flickering light bulb buzzed
overhead as we headed down to the basement. The wooden stairway was
narrow and steep, its steps designed for smaller feet than mine or
Kirk’s. The railing was loose.

“It’s a lot colder down here,” I said. Cold
and cramped. The water stains on the walls and ceiling formed
mysterious shapes, like the outlines of alien and dangerous
continents on an ancient, fading map.

“Yeah, watch your step.”

It wasn’t going to be fun lugging that heavy
old mirror down this gauntlet of rickety and unsafe stairs. And if
we dropped it? What kind of bad luck could we expect? Would it
solve our problem or unleash a worse one?

“So what is your type?” Kirk asked
suddenly.

“Huh?”

“You said I’m not your type. What’s your
type?”

I thought of Alan.

“Gainfully employed for starters.”

“Hey! I’m gainfully employed.” He added,
“I’m employed anyway.”

“But you’re not in the market.”

“Very true.”

I laughed.

We reached the bottom and Kirk led the way
down a short and even darker hall, past some kind of a furnace room
to another room with an ugly brown door. He fitted one of the keys
into the old fashioned lock and turned it.

“Stand back.”

I took a step back and he cautiously opened
the door. Something heavy thumped against its surface, and I
jumped. Kirk seemed to be expecting this, though. He craned his
head around the edge and then threw the door the rest of the way
open with the air of a magician yanking the drapes off a levitating
lady.

My jaw dropped.

Kirk laughed.

It looked like the inside of one of those
cartoon closets where the door opens to a landslide of tennis
rackets and shoes and umbrellas and mousetraps and life preservers
and Christmas ornaments and rubber duckies and everything else you
could possibly imagine.