The House on Lake Jasper: A Tilton Chartwell Mystery (Tilton Chartwell Mysteries Book 1) (7 page)

Chapter Fourteen

They all crowd in
, instinctively clustering in the patch of sunlight by the window seat. 

“Now what,” asks Aubrey. 

Tilt takes a deep breath.  Whatever Aubrey thinks she might’ve seen, whatever ghosts Norah might’ve photographed, there doesn’t feel like there’s anything in the room at the moment.  “Give me a minute,” she mutters.  “I’ll try and… tune in.”  The entire room has been pervaded by a feeling as solid as granite.  Solid as a tomb.  Death is very close, she thinks.  This was the room that Sarah died in; her husband, too.  She can feel it as surely as she can feel the soft cotton of the sweater Aubrey made for her, wrapped around her like a blanket of love.  

But there’s something else, something more.  Something hidden, that she just can’t seem to locate.

Everyone quiets, except for Mike.  He walks around the room, hands hooked in his belt loops.  He looks at the windows, at the walls, peers outside, steps into the hall. 

“Mike?” calls Connie.  “Are you looking for something?”

He comes back into the room, glances into the closet and then the bathroom.  “There’s just… just something off about the dimensions of this room.  I thought so the last time we looked in here, but now I’m sure of it.”

“What do you mean?” asks Neale. 

“There’s missing square footage,” answers Mike.  “What’s on the blueprints… it doesn’t match.  Whoever drew the plans for the Bennetts…he’s missing a few feet between this room, and the next room… and it’s not accounted for by the bathroom, or the closet, or the room on the other side of this suite.”  He paces around the room, back and forth, then stops to peer at the windows.  “Now here’s another strange thing…from the outside of the house, there’s clearly a row of windows above these…but they aren’t on the blueprints either.”

“How much square footage is missing?” asks Neale.  He joins Mike at the window, craning his neck up.  “You can’t see an extra row of windows from here.  The gingerbread blocks it.”   

Mike whips out a steel measuring tape from his back pocket. “I can tell you exactly.”  He bends down, measures the one wall to the window, and then steps inside the bathroom.  “Here it is.  Look… this wall… this linen closet wall?  It’s longer than you think it is.  Two feet longer, to be exact.  But you don’t notice it, because… well, these are such long shelves.”

Everyone crowds into the bathroom, peering into the secret space. 

“And these shelves…” says Neale.  “Look, they’re on hinges…they swing so someone can get by.  Anyone have a flash light?”

“Here,” says Norah.  “Use my phone.” 

At that very moment, the same tap – tap – tap tapping that both Tilt and Aubrey heard last night begins above their heads. 

“What the hell is that?” asks Neale and Mike in practically the same breath. 

“That’s what I keep hearing,” says Connie.  “All over the house.”

“That’s what I heard last night,” says Tilt.  “It sounds like it’s right over our heads?”

“There’s a staircase back there,” says Norah.  She turns and gestures, then hands the phone to Neale.  “Look, see what I mean? That’s a staircase…a hidden staircase.”

Don’t let them forget. 

It’s the first time Tilt’s heard the voice inside the house.  And for the first time, the real emotion behind the plaintive words punches through… not grief as she thought, but desperation, pure, unadulterated panicked desperation.  The kind of desperation she’s only felt once in her life, when Tabitha managed to get herself lost in a department store one day. 

She remembers the sound of the footsteps that she heard last night, the little patter running across the ceiling of the bathroom.  She feels almost as if she might faint, as if she might suffocate.  There’s a child, she realizes.  That’s what they forgot.  Don’t let them forget.  Tilt feels cold and sick and panicked all at once.     

“Tilton?” asks Chuck. “Are you okay?”

She nods, takes a deep breath and willfully calms herself.  These feelings aren’t mine, she reminds herself.  It all happened a long time ago. 

“What’s wrong, Tilt?” asks Aubrey.  “Is there something in there?”

Sorrow, anguish and a deep sense of loss and love and hopelessness wash over her as Tilt points up.  “Upstairs.”  Besieged by a cascade of images and sensations, Tilt sits down, her head spinning.  Oh God, she thinks.  I know…I know what they forgot. 

“Listen,” says Connie.  “The tapping has stopped.  Tilton, do you want a glass of water?”

Tilt shakes her head.  “Norah,” she calls back.  “I’m not sure you want to be the first to go up there.”

“Here,” says Mike.  “Let me.  It’s a squeeze but I think I can fit.”

“Why would they have something like that?” asks Aubrey.  “The underground railroad? Isn’t this a little too far north to have to worry about owners coming after slaves?”

June shakes her head.  “I doubt this has anything to do with the underground railway.”

She’s withdrawn to the window seat, and when Tilt glances in her direction, she can see that Krystal looks pale. 

“Krystal, are you okay?” asks Connie.  “You look like you could use a drink of – well, maybe something stronger than water…”

“Allow me,” says Neale.  He offers a paper cup filled with tap water, one to Tilt, and then to Krystal. 

“Why are you so upset?” asks Aubrey.  “What’s up there?”

Above their heads, they hear a thump, then footsteps – one, two, three.  The footsteps stop, then reverse.  A few seconds later, Mike’s back in the bathroom, dust covered, cobwebbed, and gray-faced.  “Call the Sheriff back,” he says, through tight white lips.   “It’s good you didn’t go look, Norah…. there’s a body up there.”

“Oh my God,” says Aubrey.  She looks at Tilt.  “Is-Is that what you thought they would find?  Did you know that?”

Tilt presses her lips together, but the tears spill over the rim of her eyes and roll down her face.  She nods as Aubrey hands her a box of tissues from one of the nightstands.  “Yeah.  Not until just a few seconds before they went up, though.”  She looks down at her hands, at the rug, but the images are seared into her mind’s eye. 

“A body?” asks Connie, her face haggard.  “You can’t be serious… a body… a real body?  Of a human?”

“A kid… just a kid.  And he’s been there a long time.”  Mike lets out a deep breath.  “A long, long time.”

“I’ll call the police,” says Neale.  He steps out of the room, into the hall, whipping out his cell phone. 

“Oh, my God,” says Norah, sitting down on the bed.  “I can’t believe…there was a body in the house the whole time… like for years?”

“Decades,” answers Mike, sinking down on the desk chair.  Beneath his tan, his face is gray. 

“Who…who do you think it is?” asks Aubrey.  “You said…he?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s a he… a little boy,” says Mike.  “I – it’s the most pathetic sad thing I’ve ever seen.  Maybe that missing twin… the one in the parish records?”

Tilt feels an almost palpable presence beside her.  Every hair on her right arm raises, and goosebumps run up her arm and down her spine.  Even the hair on the back of her neck goes up.  “Sarah?” she says.  The image that steps into her minds’ eye is as acutely detailed and sharp as a camera’s image.  For the first time, the image speaks.

“I… I almost feel I should go,” says Connie, starting toward the secret stair. 

“No,” says Mike, with a hand on her arm.  “No, absolutely not, sweetheart.  Don’t do that to yourself.  You’ll never be able to stay here.  Please.”

Aubrey glances from Mike to Tilt to Chuck.  “What the hell happened upstairs?”

“They forgot him,” says Tilt, tears streaming down her face as the soft voice in her mind fades away.  “Accidentally.  On purpose.”

Chapter Fifteen

The men who bring the small corpse down
from the attic room emerge grim-faced as the sun starts it final descent behind the trees over the lake. 

Tilt and Aubrey and Chuck and Krys all stay as much in the background as possible.  June brings them a tray of brandy and glasses and Tilt sits in one of the high backed wing chairs beside the fire. 

No wonder the house felt like a grave. 

The discovery of the body has somehow shifted the energy of the house.  That sense of oppressiveness from last night, of something occupying the space, is gone.  The house feels lighter, emptier, freer. 

“How could those two women have done that?” asks Aubrey of no one in particular, as they watch the police and the medical examiner bring the small body bag down the steps and secure it into the back of the ambulance. 

Tilt shrugs, shakes her head.  “It’s very strange, but I get this sense that they felt it was the right thing to do, somehow…to let the poor kid die.”

“Are you serious?” Norah asks. 

Neale answers, “I’m afraid Tilton’s on the right track, sweetheart.  Just because the Van Ryn twins happened to be enlightened about slavery, doesn’t meant they had progressive ideas about anything else.  And for many people in the 19
th
century… people with disabilities weren’t seen as quite human.”  He looks around the room.  “Am I right?”

“But Sarah didn’t see him that way,” Tilt says, amidst the general agreement.  “She loved him…she took care of him…until she couldn’t.”

“The place is set up like a nursery,” says Chuck.  “There’s even a secret little play area on the roof, hidden between the turrets, so the kid could get some fresh air.”

“You mean they kept him upstairs, and never let him out?” Aubrey asks. 

Chuck nods.  “That’s exactly what they did.  It’s not uncommon, actually….this isn’t the first secret room I’ve seen built to hide a disabled occupant.  Before World War 2, what facilities there were to care for the disabled were pretty horrendous places.  So people who loved their kids, or their relatives, kept them at home… in secret…never talked about, never mentioned, kept away. There was a certain amount of shame in a family that produced a child who wasn’t “right” – it was sometimes seen as reflecting badly somehow, on the family.”  He pauses.  “But this is first one I’ve ever seen where the occupant was… left to die.”

“That’s what the medical examiner was saying,” says Connie, walking into the room.  The afternoon air isn’t cool but she’s hugging herself.  “June’s bringing in refreshments... Tilt, are you all right?  Chuck?  This was all a bit more than we ever expected, let me tell you.”

The others shuffle in, in varying degrees of shock.  Neale pours the brandy and offers one to Connie.  “I think we need something stronger than tea.”

It’s not that funny, but they all laugh, gratefully, thinks Tilt. 

As June brings in a tea cart, laden with all sorts of tiny cakes and sandwiches, Connie looks at Tilt.  “So you think that tapping that’s been driving me crazy was the kid?”

“I think so,” says Tilt.  “That’s the sound the kid made… when he wanted something.  His mother…then his father… always came.  But then they were gone.  And he tapped in vain.”

“Until he died.”  Aubrey shakes her head.  “Poor, poor baby.”

“What are you going to do with the body,” asks Krystal.  She skirts the group, reaching around the rest for cup of steaming tea. 

“Bury it,” says Connie.  “I wonder if we can find Sarah’s grave and maybe inter him in hers?”

“That’s a great idea,” says Chuck.  “Krys, you know where the Van Ryn plot in the cemetery is?  I’d love to check it out.”

“I do,” she says.  She seems antsy, thinks Tilt, and maybe anxious to get back to wherever she’s staying and start writing? 

The afternoon sun is slanting behind the trees, and the light is already beginning to fade.  At least, Tilt thinks, the clients are happy.  Tilt glances out the window.  At the end of the dock, she thinks she sees a light glimmer, a single light.  Then it winks out.  Tomorrow, she thinks.  Before I leave.  I’ll figure you out tomorrow. 

Right now she’s too tired to care which bitch the angry ghost might want out of the house.  She picks up her glass filled with more obscenely good wine, ready to toast to a successful weekend, when the light at the end of the dock coalesces in the shape of a woman, misty but very distinct.  Tilt can’t see exactly what she’s wearing, but her clothes seem more modern than the people who died in the 18
th
century disaster. 

Tilt’s psychic sense aroused, she reaches out to the entity, but it even as she does so, it fades out again, like a flame extinguished.  It leaves the mental image of a woman about the same age as Tilt and a lingering whisper. 

You’re next. 

Chapter Sixteen

But she doesn’t have a chance to wonder
what that could possibly mean, because suddenly Krystal stands up, and announces she’s leaving. 

Connie seems surprised.  “You are?” she asks, as Krystal gets to her feet.  “You’re won’t stay for dinner at least?”

“You know I’d love to,” answers Krystal.  “But I just got an email from my editor… my deadline’s been moved up to midnight, and if I don’t leave now there’s no way I can meet it.  But I’ll be in touch… you know I will.”

Tilton can’t help watching Chuck’s face as the other woman says her good-byes. She expects that he’ll walk her out to say good-bye, and is surprised that he doesn’t.  But just as June announces dinner is ready, Chuck says he has to leave, too. 

“I’m not going to be able to stick around.” He gets to his feet, and puts his cell phone back in his pocket.  “My son… my miscreant son… seems to have forgotten how sorry he was this morning.”

“Sounds like the typical bid for attention to me,” says Neale.  “Maybe it’s too much that Dad’s in the area and not paying attention to him?” 

“Probably,” replies Chuck.  “That’s as plausible an explanation as any… or he’s heard about how wonderful June’s cooking is and if he can’t have some, I shouldn’t either.”  He glances around the table.  “It was really wonderful to meet you all.  You know where to find me if you have any questions, right, Connie?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she says.  “You know I still want to try and find out what happened to my cousin… no matter how bad an idea some people think that is.  Mike, shall we walk Chuck out?”

“I was hoping for a last word with Ms. Tilton, if you don’t mind?”  His eyes meet hers, and for a split second, she feels a little click, as if something has slotted into place. 

“Sure,” says Tilt.  It feels good, really good, for just a minute, and then she remembers Krystal, and wonders if Chuck is going to meet his son, or Krystal.  That’s none of your business, she tells herself.  And yet, somehow, she feels it should be. 

On the porch, Chuck pauses.  “You know, I’m really sorry we haven’t been able to spend more time together.” 

“Me, too,” says Tilt, surprised by how quickly the words tumble off her lips.  There was something about this man that made her feel so comfortable she forgets to measure her words.

“You did a great job today,” says Chuck.  “I’d like to hear more about some of those experiences you’ve had.”  He pauses.  “You don’t think I mean it, but I do.”  He looks down at her, and Tilt feels herself flush.  He pulls out his wallet, fumbles through it, and then hands her a card.  To her surprise, it’s just a plain piece of cardstock, with his name and a telephone number.  “My work takes me all over.  I get up to Boston now and again.  Let’s have dinner next time I do, ok?”

He leans over to kiss her cheek, squeezes her hand, and walks away, leaving Tilt feeling slightly stunned.  The only thing that she can think is so he’s not interested in Krystal?  Of course dinner doesn’t necessarily imply anything beyond friendship but still, as Aubrey will be quick to point out, it’s not coffee.  It’s not lunch. 

She watches the orange beetle drive away into the night and disappear with a wink of red tail lights and the fading toot of a horn. 

But he seemed so interested in Krystal, thinks Tilt.  She shakes her head, pockets the card, and walks inside to find everyone ready to toast a successful day.

“Gosh, I’m beat,”
says Aubrey the minute they get to their own room.  The secret door in the bathroom has been shut, but she glances into the darkened space and shudders visibly.  “I’m taking a sleeping pill tonight.  If I start to snore, you’re in trouble.”

Tilt removes Chuck’s card from her pocket and puts it carefully into her purse, but not before Aubrey notices. 

“What’s that?”

“This?” Tilt shrugs.  “Chuck’s card.”

“Chuck’s card?”  Aubrey’s expression reminds Tilt of a golden retriever’s on the hunt.  “As in Chuck’s telephone number?  Did he tell you to call him? Is he going to call you?”

Tilt shrugs again, refusing to buy into her sister’s enthusiasm.  “He wants to take me to dinner.”

“Dinner? Whoa.”  Aubrey plops down on the bed.  “I told you he liked you.  So when?  Where?  Enquiring minds want to know!”

“It’s not that big of a deal.  Seriously.  He said he comes up to Boston for work.  When he’s in the neighborhood he’ll let me know.”

“How?”

Tilt blinks.  “How what?”

“How’s he going to find you?  You don’t live around here.  Did you give him your info like I told him to?  Did you have one of your cards handy?”

Tilt flushes.  “No.”

Aubrey shakes her head.  “Then how’s he going to find you? Is he that psychic?”  She rolls her eyes.  “Geesh.  How are we going to find you a nice guy?”

“What makes you think Chuck’s a nice guy?”

“He’s a very nice guy,” says Aubrey, as she turns on the light in the bathroom.  “I can tell.”  She begins to shut the door, then stops.  “And I can’t begin to tell you how creeped out I am that that poor baby was upstairs all that time… last night, even, while we slept.  It just…gives me the shivers.”  She shudders again and shuts the door.

Tilt takes a deep breath.  Yeah, she wonders.  Chuck gave her his card.  He didn’t ask her for hers.  But maybe, in this age of the Internet, he didn’t think he’d have any trouble finding her.  But how would he know where to look?

It was a quandary she could easily remedy with a text message, she reminds herself.  Silly.  Things are so different now, she thinks.  A whole new world.  The rules… if there ever were any… had all changed. 

Hopefully, she’d be able to keep up.  As she’s sorting through her suitcase for her clothes for tomorrow, she remembers Chuck’s last warning.  Don’t forget to lock your door. 

He must’ve thought her a complete idiot, standing there holding his card, grinning like a fool.  Why hadn’t she thought to ask why?

Aubrey comes out of the bathroom as Tilt is looking for the key.  “What are you looking for?”

“The key to the room,” says Tilt.  “It seems to have disappeared…it was in the dish here, on the dresser.  And now it’s not.”

“There were people in and out of here all afternoon,” says Aubrey.  “Connie probably grabbed it… don’t you think?”

Tilt hesitates, considering.  “Maybe.”  For a moment she wonders if she should wedge a chair under the door knob, but decides there’s no reason to be so silly.  The only person who’d tried the door was gone – hours gone.  So why was Chuck suggesting she be so cautious? 

You’re next. 

Aubrey gets into bed.  “What’s wrong?”

Tilt shakes her head, wraps her arms around herself.  “I don’t know.  Something doesn’t feel right.  I’m feeling like something is telling me to leave.”

“Leave?  Leave the house?”

Tilt nods. 

“It’s the middle of the night – well, not the middle – it’s after ten, though.  Where are you suggesting we go?”

Tilt shrugs.  “I don’t know.  I just feel… uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable how?”

“Chuck told me to lock the door.  Twice now.”

“He did?”

Tilt nods, feeling as foolish as a love-struck teenager. 

“You didn’t ask him why? And that’s why you’re looking for the key?”  Aubrey jumps out of bed, drags a chair from the desk, and wedges it under the door knob.  “There.  You feel better now?”

Tilt nods, feeling slightly foolish. 

“I thought you said the house felt … cleaner and clearer at dinner.”  Aubrey climbs back into bed, and pulls the covers up to her chin.  “I left my pills in the bathroom.  Maybe you should take one.  You look like you could use a good night’s sleep.”

“Well…” Tilt hesitates.  “I’m not sure that’s necessary.”

In the bathroom she can feel something – someone - pushing through her consciousness. 
Get out.  You’re next
. 

Come talk to me, Tilt implores, as she brushes her teeth, spits and rinses. 

But the energy fades.  Come see me in my dream, thinks Tilt.  She gazes into the mirror and for a split second, thinks she sees a bullet hole in the center of her own forehead. 
Tell that bitch to get the fuck out of my house. 
The words echo through her mind.

So that’s who this is, realizes Tilt.  But where she’s been all this time?  “Who are you?” Tilt whispers aloud.  “Come and talk to me… I won’t be afraid.  Tell me who you are… what you want… what bitch do you want out of your house?  And why am I next?”

From behind Tilt, in the mirror, she can see the secret door open, and Krystal Brix steps out, holding a gun.  “Because I’m going to kill you, you fucking freak.”