The House on Lake Jasper: A Tilton Chartwell Mystery (Tilton Chartwell Mysteries Book 1) (4 page)

Chapter Seven

Everyone jumps or screams or both
, and Aubrey’s dirty plates and napkins tumble onto Tilt’s lap.  A heavy-set older woman, with graying dark hair drawn back in a bun, and a white apron, whom Tilt assumes must be June, rushes out of the dining room.   “Did I just hear glass break?”

“Are you okay?”  In the middle of the mayhem, Chuck touches Tilt’s arm. 

She looks up.  Great, she thinks.  The first guy in forever who even tweaks her interest and she has a lap full of trash.  She nods, slowly, watching as Norah and Krystal disappear into the kitchen with June in search of a broom and dustbin, and Mike, Neale, Connie and Aubrey head to investigate the noise.   

“Here, let me help with all that,” he says.  Deftly, he removes the paper plates, the crumbled napkins and offers a clean one to allow her to brush the crumbs off herself. 

Tilt feels as if her head is stuck in a bell jar.  The words and the woman’s angry face are still reverberating through what feels like every cell of her body.  From the foyer, Tilt hears exclamations and a loud “Oh, no!” that sounds like Aubrey. 

“Sounds like they’re going to be a while,” Chuck says.  “How about some water?”

“That’s probably a good idea,” says Tilt.  He heads into the kitchen, and Tilt rests her head back against the cushion.  She closes her eyes and a vision of the angry woman leaps into her mind’s eye.  Back off, she thinks, firmly, even though she can feel the spirit is gone.  She opens her eyes and briefly sees the outlines of two women sitting side by in the straight-backed chairs beside the fire.  The impression immediately passes, but the quality of the air in the room changes.  It feels stuffy, as if a hundred people have suddenly crowded into the room, and cold, as if all the heat in the room has somehow been sucked away. 

That heaviness is back in the atmosphere, too, a kind of pressure.  Whoever these two women were – or are – one or both of them exude a kind of granite implacability.  Feeling slightly overwhelmed, Tilt decides to retreat to the kitchen, which feels empty in comparison.  As she heads through the long dining room, she’s surprised how woozy she feels.  Several times she has to grab for the back of a chair that looks as if it belongs in Downton Abbey. 

“You sure you’re okay?” Chuck asks the minute she appears in the doorway.  He gently propels her toward a long bench beside an ancient metal-topped farm table, then hands her a glass of iced water. 

She sips, nods, then puts the glass down as the world suddenly slides off its axis.   

“Hey.  Sit.”  Gently, Chuck pushes her down.  “I don’t mean to sound clichéd, but you look like you saw a ghost.” 

Tilt glances up and grins back in spite of herself.  “Yeah,” she says.  “Yeah… several. And all of them…really, really strong energy.  I guess I wasn’t expecting…that.”

“Something bad?”

“Something angry.” Tilt picks up the water again, and sips slowly.  She hesitates, not sure how much to share. 
Tell that bitch to get the fuck out of my house.
   How’s she going to tell Connie that not only was her house haunted, but by a very hostile ghost? 

Chuck’s looking at her closely.  “You okay?”

“I will be,” she says.  “It’s not that I haven’t seen angry ghosts before...” she glances up at him.  “It’s just…usually I have an inkling of what I might be dealing with…but this one… she just came at me… out of nowhere…and then….just like that… she was gone.”  Her voice trails off.  She takes a long drink of water.  Where’d she go, Tilt wonders.  “Did you see…or sense anything?”

Chuck takes a deep breath and seems about to say something, when Kyrstal walks into the kitchen.  Immediately, the major part of Chuck’s awareness shifts to the other woman. 

Tilt feels the tiniest twinge of disappointment.  Did every guy who caught her eye have to already have his eye caught by someone else?

Krystal scarcely notices them.  “So did you guys hear what happened?  Someone threw a rock through one of those gorgeous stained-glass panels beside the front door.  Can you believe that?  Neale’s calling the police, Connie’s being sick, and Mike is fit to be tied.  That glass was original…” Her voice trails off when she sees Tilt’s face.  “Hey.  You okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” says Tilt.  “I was just a little rattled…there’re definitely strong energies in this house.”

“I can’t wait to hear more,” says Krystal. 

“About what?” says June, walking in with a dustbin and broom.  “How about hearing that dinner’s ready and you all should go find a place at the table?”

“Sounds good to me.”  Tilt smiles at Chuck as she walks past.  “Thanks so much for your concern.” 

“My pleasure,” she hears him reply.  But he stays behind to help June and Krystal serve. 

Dinner – which is lasagna, salad, Italian bread
and more wine (this time a robust red) – is delicious.  But other than cursory compliments to June, who joins them, the food is mostly ignored in favor of conversation involving the “offending projectile of questionable origin” as Neale calls it when he joins them after speaking to the local sheriff. 

“It really does seem to me,” says Aubrey, as she levels – shovels – another forkful of lasagna into her mouth, “that your bigger problem are the people who are angry enough to throw a rock through the window…not any ghosts my sister might find.”

“We don’t necessarily think ghosts – if any – are a problem,” says Mike. 

“Unless they’re gruesome,” says Norah.  “We’d rather they weren’t of the headless horseman-blood-spattered lady variety, right?” 

Tilt swallows hard.  The thought of telling Connie about the furious entity with the bullet hole in her head makes Tilt almost physically ill.  She looks down at the lasagna on her plate, and suddenly the noodles and cheese and sauce look less like food and more like what might be left of the back of the woman’s head. 

“Hey, you…” From the other side of the table, Aubrey reaches out and touches Tilt’s plate with the tip of her fork.  “You want the rest of that lasagna?”

Chapter Eight

Tilt’s too happy to pass over the lasagna.
  The sense of oppressive heaviness eases as the coffee and slices of homemade lemon meringue pie get passed around the table.  The angry presence is gone, vanished, as if she’d never existed. 

“Cream?” Chuck holds out the creamer.  It’s an antique china piece, old, almost translucent.  For a split second Tilt has the impression of another hand, veined, sun-spotted, wrinkled, holding the very same creamer. 

“Was that here in the house?”   As soon as she touches it, she knows that it was.  There’s the scent of ironed linen, baking bread, the rustle of starched crinolines, the click of the creamer against the edge of a fragile china cup.  And for a split second, just a second, she catches a glimpse of a woman’s face, the expression imperious, commanding, and then beside it, another face, almost an exact duplicate, but softer, less aggressive.  “Twins,” she blurts.  She looks up, interrupting Neale’s complaint about the lack of police response.  “Twins… there was a set of twin sisters here…mid-19
th
century?”

June puts her fork down.  “Yes.  Emmeline and Harriet.  The Van Ryn sisters… they were quite the gruesome twosome in their day.  Neither of them married, and both lived well into their 90’s.”  She pauses.  “And there are photographs of the two of them at the library.”

“Maybe that’s who I saw at the top of the steps?” asks Norah. 

Tilt nods.  “Yes.”  She pauses.  For some reason, she can’t make the connection.  And then she realizes the problem.  The energies don’t want to connect. 

“Can you tell us anything more, Tilton,” asks Connie.  She leans forward, fingering her amethyst like a talisman. 

She runs her finger around the edge of the creamer and again receives an impression – a slanted window, a flash of blue sky, the scent of lilacs.  ‘Don’t let them forget.’  A chill runs down Tilt’s arms as the phrase suddenly takes on a potentially added meaning.  Don’t let
them
forget.  “This creamer …It
was
here, in the house?”  She looks up. 

Connie shrugs.  “I don’t know…it was here when we got here.  Does that matter?”

Tilt looks around the table.  “Only that I’m picking up impressions from it…and I have to tell you… this isn’t how it usually works for me.  But…” Her voice trails off.   Somehow this insignificant piece of china feels like the only way
in
. 

“Just go with what you see,” says Chuck.  He smiles, encouragingly. 

With tentative fingertips, she touches the delicate fluted sides.  The impressions come fast, tumbling one over the other.  Voices raised in singing hymns, the scratch of pen across paper, the creak of wagon wheels and the quick clap of hoofs, and overwhelming it all, the scent of lilacs and starch. 

Starch?  Tilt opens her eyes.  “Was this place a stop on the underground railway?”

“Harriet and Emmeline were rapid abolitionists,” answers June, owl-eyed behind her glasses.  “I think it would be fair to say that the house could’ve been a stop.”

“Wow,” says Norah.

“You’re earning your fee, Ms. Chartwell,” says Neale. 

“Tilton is,” says Mike.  “But the police sure aren’t.  Excuse me, everyone.”

The words aren’t out of his mouth, when there’s a ring and a knock at the front door.    

“I’ll get more coffee,” says June.

“You think they’ll want to talk to all of us?” asks Krystal. 

Tilt thinks that’s an odd question for an investigative journalist to ask. 

So does Aubrey, because she shoots Krystal a look that says the same thing. 

“Hopefully not,” says Connie. 

“Why should they?” asks Norah. 

“Because we’re all here,” says Neale. 

Before anyone else can say anything, Mike leads a craggy looking sheriff into the dining room.  “Connie, everyone, this is Sheriff Allen Murdstone.”

“I’m Attorney Neale Thornton-Howell, Sheriff,” says Neale, shaking his hand and gesturing to the table with the other, “and here’s the offending projectile.”

Sheriff Murdstone glances around the table.  “Mr. Thornton-Howell.  Don’t worry, we’ll get to that.”  He glances around the table.  “Which one of you ladies is Ms. Moore?”

“I am.”  Connie holds out her hand.  “Thanks for coming, Sheriff.”

“You’re welcome.  I understand you’ve been getting harassing calls, as well?” 

Connie nods, looking upset.  “That’s right.  I guess not everyone is happy with our plans.”

Murdstone doesn’t react.  Instead he looks at Chuck.  “McNamara?  You want to come outside with me?  Just a second?”

To Tilt’s surprise, Chuck gets up at once.  “Sure.”  He follows the sheriff out of the room. 

Mike looks at Connie.  “Sheriff seems to think he’s gotten to the bottom of the problem.”

“Really?”

“Already?” says Aubrey. 

Wow, thinks Tilt.  That was fast. 

June comes in with a fresh pot of coffee.   “More, anyone?”

“Not for me,” says Tilt.  She’s starting to feel worn out, as if the house is a giant energy siphon.  For the first time, it occurs to her that maybe spending the night in this house is less than a good idea.  But she’s so tired now, and she doesn’t remember passing any other inns or motels on the dark roads here. 

“I’ll have a cup,” says Aubrey. 

June reaches for Aubrey’s cup, then pauses as Chuck enters the room.  “Tilton,” he says, “could I trouble you to move your car?  I’m going to have to leave for the night, I’m afraid.  But I’ll be back bright and early in the morning.”

Surprised, Tilt gets to her feet, and goes in search of her bag.  Behind her, she can hear Chuck talking in low tones, too low, to really hear what he’s saying, by way of explanation.  She finds her keys as a deep sense of disappointment hits her.  Don’t be ridiculous, she thinks to herself.  Why on earth should it matter if this guy leaves for the night? 

She’s almost to her car when she hears him behind her.  “Hey,” he says, as she reaches for the handle.  “You probably didn’t hear what I said back there.   One reason I accepted this job… my ex-wife and kid live up here… two towns over but just a couple miles away as the crow flies, or a kid can ride a bike.  Murdstone thinks it’s Bobby…Bobby and a bunch of kids he’s starting to run with in the last few months.  I’m going over to his mother’s house, and deal with this tonight, if I can.”

He comes a few steps closer, and she can see the growth of beard on his chin, the shadows under his eyes.  He takes her hand, leans closer.  For a split second, Tilt wonders if he’s going to kiss her.  Don’t be ridiculous, she thinks.   “Just do me a favor,” he says.  His breath tickles her ear.  “Lock your door tonight.”

Tilt pulls back, shocked.  “Lock my door?  Why?”

He gazes down at her, his eyes gentle, kind and dark with as many secrets as the lake.  “I don’t have time right now.  Just promise me you’ll do it.  Please.”

Chapter Nine

Tilt watches the lights of the little orange beetle
fade into the night.  She feels alone, for some reason, almost bereft.  The darkness settles around her like a soft cloak, the night air heavy with the mist drifting across the lake now in wide swaths.  The only light is from the windows, dim rectangles of dull gold light lying across the spring green lawn.  The house crouches behind her, less like an old lady than a gargoyle. 

Don’t let them forget
. 

Sarah.  Tilt looks up, around.  Is that you? 

The air is colder now, dank with the scent of water and rotting leaves.  The mist gathers, taking on form, shape and substance. 
Don’t let them forget.
 

The whisper fades and the mist dissipates as the front door opens.  “Tilton?”  Aubrey’s peering outside, wrapping her arms around herself.  “Are you still out here?”

“Yes,” Tilt calls back. 

“What are you doing out here?” 

“Looking for ghosts, I guess.”  Tilt’s shoes crunch on the gravel as she walks slowly back to the porch.  The closer she gets to the house the drier the air feels, but just as heavy…if not even heavier… than nearer the water.  She pauses, on the lowest step, and looks out across the lake. 

For a split second, she thinks she sees a flash at the end of what looks like it could be a dock, extending out from the shore. 

“Find any?” 

“Did you see anything out there just now?”  Tilt points toward the end of the dock. 

“No,” says Aubrey emphatically.  “And I don’t think I want to.  This place is starting to creep me out, Tilt.  And I’m not sure why.”

Tilt smiles, then shrugs.  “Welcome to my world, little sis.” 

“I guess that means you did?  See something?  Just now?”

Tilt sighs, nods slowly.  “I thought I saw I flash of light at the end of the dock.  And I know I heard Sarah… if that’s what her name really is…I know I heard her out here again.”  She hesitates, gazing into the silent dark.  Where are you, she wonders silently.  Why won’t you come closer?  Tell me what not to forget?   

“Tilt?” 

“It’s almost like…” Tilt turns to look up at Aubrey, under the blazing porch light, and stops.  Clearly outlined in the door, are two dark shapes standing shoulder to shoulder, one slightly shorter than the other, their full hoop skirts and enormous sleeves spreading out to block almost the entire opening.  “Oh, my.” 

“Tilt?”

“I think they’re keeping her out,” Tilt replies, more to herself.  “I think that’s why I don’t feel her in the house…that’s why no one feels her in the house.”  She bounds up the steps, grabs her sister’s arm and turns to look at the doorway.  The energy is still palpable but the vision has faded.  “Yes, I think that’s it.  They’re keeping her out… but now the question is… why?”

Before Aubrey can answer, Neale, Mike, Connie and the sheriff emerge from the direction of the living room.  June produces a piece of cardboard and some duct tape to temporarily fill in the gaping hole in the beautiful glass.   

“So we’re pretty certain that’s who the perpetrators are, folks,” the sheriff is saying, “and we’re pretty certain there won’t be any more problems like this.  And if there are… well, you know where to find us.”  

“We’ve heard some rumors, Sheriff,” says Connie.  “June tells us there’s a fair amount of anti-development sentiment around the lake… stories about letting the dead rest, all that sort of thing.”

“Well, Ms. Moore, you’re always going to find anti-development folks just about anywhere someone wants to come in and develop, right? Listen, and June, you tell me if I’m wrong… you get a business going here, bring in some tourists, start providing a few jobs, a few opportunities for others, and the anti-development sentiment will be drowned out by far more sensible voices.”  Murdstone pauses and looks at Neale, then Mike.  “Am I right?”

Mike shrugs.  “Pretty much.  Thanks for coming out, Sheriff.  We appreciate it.”

“Now I guess we just have to hope Chuck knows how to put the fear of God into his kid,” says Norah, as she straightens up. 

“Oh, he knows how to do that, all right,” says June.  “No worries there.”

“Well, then,” says Neale, “sounds like we can all rest easily tonight.”

Tilt looks up the winding staircase, where it disappears into the shadowy floor above.  Somehow, she thinks, that’s the last thing any of them are going to do.