Yesternight (27 page)

Mr. Harkey swallowed and fixed his gaze upon me alone,
which made the muscles stiffen all the more. My chest flared with a suffocating pain that stole the breath from my lungs.
He knows,
I thought.
He knows, he knows, he knows.

“Major Stone did not take kindly to the near-murder of his son,” said Mr. Harkey, still seeming to stare me down, although the light had grown so fragile, I couldn't be sure who was looking at whom. “Nathaniel spent days in bed with a concussion, and when his father heard what happened, he loaded up his shotgun, mounted his horse, and came galloping over from Kansas. He stormed inside this house and shot Cornelia dead.”

I didn't gasp. Or flinch. Or whimper. I took great pride in my composed reaction, as a matter of fact.

“Where did he shoot her?” I asked with the same tone of professionalism I employed whenever quizzing children in schoolhouses.

“Where in the house?” asked Mr. Harkey with a smile. “Or where on her body?”

“Both,” I said.

Our host took another drink before answering. “That's hard to say.” He smacked his lips. “Some people claim a sheriff found her on the staircase. Others say she was killed in her bed, or out on the front porch, or even out by her line of laundry. Most people say that Major Stone shot her in the heart, but others insist that he blasted her straight through her head and her belly.”

“Oh, Al, really,” said his wife, sucking in her breath. “We still need to maintain appetites for dinner.”

“Sorry, Mabel.” He pulled at his collar. “Whatever the specifics, Major Stone ensured that the she-devil no longer breathed. He rode away and left her lying in a sea of her own blood. No one knows if she ever used more than just a hammer to kill her guests.
To this day, no one even knows what she did with all of the bodies, but thirty-eight deaths have been attributed to the woman, including her husband's.”

“No one ever found the bodies?” asked Michael.

Mr. Harkey shook his head. “After the woman's death, authorities dredged the nearby lake, to no avail. They dug up the basement and excavated various other sites around the house, but, still, no one was ever found.” He squeaked his finger around the rim of his glass. “Mabel probably doesn't want me mentioning this either, but cannibalism was suspected. Mrs. Gunderson lacked for food, after all. The darker legends suggest that she burned the bones and dined on her guests when she had trouble maintaining the livestock.”

I felt the pressure of Mrs. Gunderson's eyes, watching us speak of her savagery from her photograph across the room.

“Did . . . did she have a nickname?” I asked, clasping a hand to my stomach.

“A nickname?” asked Mr. Harkey with a lift of his chin.

“Yes. You told me in the car that your grandmother went to school with her in Kansas City. Did she ever go by any pet versions of Cornelia?”

Mr. Harkey shrugged. “I'm not sure. Corn, maybe? Corny?” He chuckled. “I don't know what a nickname for Cornelia would be.”

“Nell?” I asked.

“Maybe.” He smiled. “Yes, Nell sounds about right.”

Michael's leg tensed next to mine.

Mrs. Harkey scooted forward in her chair with a swish of her satin skirt. “Why do you ask, Mrs. Lind? Do you possess information concerning Mrs. Gunderson?”

“No.” I laid my plate of food aside on the settee. “It's just that—” I drew a breath that tasted rotten, like boiled vegetables. Like decay.

“Alice?” asked Michael, folding his right hand over the back of my left one. “Do you think . . . ? Is that what you meant by showing me the bullet hole mark? Did . . . did you know she'd been shot?”

“No, I didn't know a thing about her before coming here today. I didn't even know her name. Or . . . at least . . . I don't believe that I did.” I strained my eyes to see Mrs. Gunderson's photograph through the barriers of darkness and smoke. Candlelight reflected off the glass of the frame, but the face within hid in shadow.

Michael squeezed my hand “Do you truly think . . . ?”

“Do
you
think?” I asked, turning his way again.

“You said you experienced those nightmares . . . that you spoke often of this hotel . . .”

“Do you feel a connection to Cornelia Gunderson?” asked Mr. Harkey, stepping closer. “Are you Spiritualists, after all?”

“Should we tell them?” asked Michael.

“I don't know.” I cradled my forehead in my free hand. “They might not understand . . . n-n-not without knowing what we've learned through Janie.”

“We're reincarnationists, not Spiritualists,” said Michael without any further ado, to my shock. “We've come here to trace Alice's connection to the hotel.”

“You have a connection?” asked Mr. Harkey, eyes shimmering. “Is that what you meant by taking an interest in this place since childhood?”

I shook my head. “I don't want to discuss such a thing if past lives seem ridiculous to you.”

“They don't,” said his wife from the rocking chair. “We entertain guests who believe in just about everything. And when a person spends every single night of her life in the cold and miserable darkness of this house, surrounded by walls that have witnessed unfathomable horrors and violence . . .”

“Do you believe you were one of her victims?” asked Mr. Harkey, pressing his mug against his stomach.

“No.” I averted my eyes. “I'm embarrassed to admit this, but in my heart I feel . . .” I clenched my fingers around Michael's sweating palm.

“You're
her
,” said Mr. Harkey. “Aren't you? Is that what you're feeling?”

The fire sputtered with a suddenness that made my heart skip a beat.

“It . . . it would explain so much about me,” I said, and tears soon stung my eyes.

Mr. Harkey trod closer still, his visage a barely visible slip of white. “Do you know where she hid the bodies?”

At that, I gave a short laugh. Somehow, we'd jumped straight from testing the waters for the acceptance of reincarnation to rummaging around in my head for Mrs. Gunderson's secrets. My eyes watered all the more. My temples ached. How desperately I wanted to answer his question, though—how I longed to solve my lifelong riddles and spring back into the car with a sense of completion, just as Janie did at the Rooks' house.

I'm ready,
she had said.

I'm ready.

I swallowed down a bitter taste. “Has anyone ever dug up the vegetable garden?”

Mr. Harkey straightened his neck. “No, not that I know of. Should we?”

“Perhaps. I've loathed the taste and smell of vegetables all of my life. I . . .”

Just eat them, Alice,
Margery had said through her teeth at the Thanksgiving table, and, my, how those green and finger-like pods had reeked of rotted flesh.

My children are watching. They'll wonder why
they
need to eat their vegetables and not you.

What's wrong with you?

What's wrong with you?

Should she die?

Should she live?

How many beatings did she give?

“Yes, perhaps you should check the garden.” I drew my fingers away from Michael's, and a tear leaked out of my inner right eye. “They're in there; they simply must be. As sure as I'm sitting in this room, that's where the bodies are buried. That . . . that . . .” I struggled to catch my breath; Michael pressed a supportive hand against my back. “Yes—that would explain absolutely everything.”

J
ust as the Rooks had led Janie to Violet and Nelson's log cabin, the Harkeys guided me to a back sitting room, where they excavated a collection of fine china from the velveteen depths of an old steamer trunk with dirt caked in the seams of leather straps.

“People say that Mrs. Gunderson feared getting robbed by her guests,” said Mrs. Harkey in a small voice. Upon a table, next to a stack of saucers, she rested a teacup painted in a pattern of rich blue ribbons. “Investigators found this trunk of her belongings buried behind the hotel in one of their searches for . . .” She gulped. “For skeletons.”

Both of the Harkeys added several more heirlooms to the table, and with utmost care, my fingertips caressed each looped handle of the fragile cups, each gilded edge of the white plates. Everyone watched as my hands explored those cold and beautiful portals to the past.

What a relief,
I thought,
to understand that it wasn't I who wreaked havoc upon my own life. These flares of violence that awaken now and then are no more than residual traces of a personality long gone—ashes sprinkled across my memories. Only occasionally do they
smolder with the heat of that old, lethal fire, but it has nothing to do with me as Alice Lind.

What an astronomical relief.

“Thank you,” I said to the Harkeys, with Michael at my side. “This collection helps immensely.”

“Do you feel certain?” asked Michael.

“Yes.” I picked up a pale-pink sugar bowl so fragile, I feared it might crack to pieces in my hands. “I believe I do.”

N
O ONE TOUCHED
the vegetables at dinner. Boiled cauliflowers, pickled beetroots, and mashed turnips—all harvested from the local soil—lay on the far edges of pearl-colored dishes. We all concentrated instead on the breaded mutton chops and roasted venison and brushed aside anything that had risen out of the earth.

“Never in my life,” said Mr. Harkey, with brisk slices of his knife through his mutton, “have I wanted to dig in a vegetable garden so desperately.”

“There's a blizzard, Al,” said his wife. “Don't even think of it until the ground thaws.”

“Snow acts as an insulator to the ground.” Mr. Harkey tilted his left ear toward his plate, as though the china had just whispered that information to him. “As soon as the storm passes, I'd love to shovel the snow aside and test out the softness of the earth. If you're still here, will you help me, Lind?”

From across the table, I eyed Michael for his reaction, to gauge his current state of mind. He focused all of his attention on his food at the moment, but he poked at the meat with his fork more than he consumed it, as though Janie again weighed on his thoughts.

“Mr. Lind?” asked Mr. Harkey.

Michael's head shot up. “How's that?”

“I said, if the blizzard dies down by tomorrow morning, shall we see if your wife's prediction about the vegetable garden leads us to those long-concealed bodies?”

“Al, please,” hissed Mrs. Harkey, and she lowered her fork and knife. “Don't use the word
bodies
—not while we're eating. It's Christmas Eve.”

Michael cleared his throat. “Sure. I'll help you dig.”

His words elicited a pleased smile from our host, whose face now flushed with the ruddiness of excitement. “Can you imagine, Mabel”—he leaned toward his wife across the table—“actually announcing to the public that we'd found the victims? The newspapers, the local radio shows, they'd all be scrambling out here for an interview. The publicity would be astounding. And of course”—he looked at me—“we'd have to bring you out here throughout the year, Mrs. Lind. I'd give you free lodging in exchange for your time. You could sit in the parlor and spin stories of your memories as Mrs. Gunderson.”

“But I don't have all that many memories . . .”

“If those”—he glanced briefly at his wife—“
items
in the vegetable garden prove that you were, indeed, our Yesternight Killer, then it wouldn't matter if the memories you shared were real or false.”

“That sounds a little shady,” said Michael under his breath.

“It's advertising,” said Mr. Harkey. “It's what the public wants.”

I opened my mouth to object.

“Mrs. Lind,” he continued before I could make a peep, “people travel for miles and miles in search of even the smallest glimpse of the mysterious, infamous Cornelia Gunderson, and I've given a great deal of thought about why this is.”

“And what have you concluded?” I asked, choosing to hide my psychology credentials until he explained.

He shifted his weight in his chair. “I've realized that people in this country are both terrified and obsessed with death, and yet we're still too repressed a society to admit how we truly feel about it, even in this era of libertines and bright young things. We dress death up in church hymns and ghost stories to make it palatable, but we rarely actually talk about it.”

“You certainly do, Al,” murmured his wife from behind her napkin.

“People like Mrs. Gunderson,” he continued, “they sicken us and fascinate us because they're death incarnate. We could discuss them for hours and hours because they're symbols of the unspeakable emotions buried inside our minds. Death is like sex, in fact: it's part of life; everyone partakes in it at one time or another. But we're all afraid to admit we possess strong feelings about it, so we sit back and make jokes about it while also gawking at it in awe—or else we make ourselves feel guilty for thinking too much about it. We isolate ourselves so terribly because of our guilt and fears, you see, and we do our damnedest to scrounge around for connections to other people through popular culture and legends . . . through these
symbols
of our forbidden obsessions.”

“Hmm.” I resumed cutting my food, impressed by his insights into human nature. “That's an interesting way of looking at the American people.”

“Am I wrong?”

“No.” I slipped a slice of mutton into my mouth.

Mr. Harkey bent forward in his chair with a creak of the wood beneath him. “Will you help us, then? Will you do all you can to
use your beliefs about this past life of yours to assist in making this hotel extraordinary?”

I finished chewing my food and sighed. “Cornelia Gunderson is simply a part of my past that I've been struggling to understand for years, just like any difficult memory. And to be most honest, I'm a practicing psychologist who works with children—one of whom recently demonstrated to me resounding proof of spirit transmigration. I'm interested in reincarnation as a science, not a spectacle, and so is Mr. O—” I stopped myself before saying
O'Daire
. “So is . . . my husband.”

The mood in the room deflated. My bluntness had shrunk Mrs. Harkey's neck into her shoulders, and I'd disappointed her husband, I could tell from his vexed eyebrows. He wanted a show. He wanted tall tales and bursts of feral wildness, perhaps even a dash of blood—something he could photograph and slap onto a promotional poster.

I would not give him that.

A
FTER DINNER,
M
RS.
H
ARKEY
and I bundled ourselves in jackets, scarves, and mittens and braved the blizzard to make the twenty-yard journey to the outhouse. She carried a copper lantern, inside which a weak flame gasped for life, and we clung to each other to keep the wind from smacking us down to the snow.

My hostess graciously allowed me to use the facility first. She hung the lantern on a hook inside the wooden structure and helped me to close the door against the storm. I then embarked upon one of the most terrifying outhouse moments in the whole history of mankind. The weather-chewed boards groaned and swayed and threatened to crack against my skull, and an ice-cold wind blew
through the slats, inflicting pain on every square inch of exposed skin. My backside hovered over the opening in the seat. My knees wobbled as I bunched up my skirts with freezing fingers. I pictured a humiliating death that would involve the gentlemen of our group finding me curled inside the outhouse wreckage with my underwear hanging around my ankles.

Mrs. Harkey went next, which left me huddled against the outer walls in the dark. She was quick about it, however, and we were soon plodding back through the knee-deep snow and yanking the kitchen door open.

The men journeyed out after us, while I washed up at the kitchen sink.

“You seem quite ordinary for a person who lived such a terrifying past life,” said Mrs. Harkey, and she handed me a dishtowel printed in bright-red cherries. “You seem so . . .
normal
.”

“Do I?” I took the towel and dried my hands and face. “I believe that's the first time anyone's ever said that of me.”

She tittered. “I'm relieved you don't seem wicked.”

“Oh, please, don't be frightened of me. In the short time I've spent exploring reincarnation, I've learned that the personalities of the past often fade over time. The person standing before you today was shaped far more by her present life than by any experiences as Cornelia Gunderson.” I blotted my cheeks. “I'm just not sure my family will be too keen to hear about my discovery. I'm certainly not going to dash off any letters over the holidays, informing them of what I've found.”

“Oh, that reminds me.” Mrs. Harkey went over to a kitchen table that housed cookbooks and envelopes. “Someone sent you a telegram before we even knew you were coming.”

“Oh . . . yes . . .” I lowered the towel to my chin. “Your husband told me as much when I telephoned. Are you sure it's for me? No one knew that Michael and I would be coming here.”

“Oh, it definitely says ‘Alice Lind.'” She rifled through the envelopes. “It was so strange. I almost returned it to the telegraph office, thinking it was a mistake, but then Al told me you'd telephoned and made a reservation. Here it is.” She brought an envelope my way, studying the words upon it as she went. “It says ‘Miss Alice Lind,' but perhaps the ‘Miss' is a mistake.”

“Yes.” I took it from her. “As I said, we're newlyweds. Didn't I say that? The sender probably forgot . . . it's an easy mistake to make when one is newly married.” I sweated, despite just having climbed out of a blizzard.

Mrs. Harkey offered a small nod, her round cheeks pinking up. “Well . . . I'll let you read it in private. I need to clear the dishes.”

“Thank you for remembering that you had this. I forgot Mr. Harkey's mention of it.”

She smiled and left the kitchen.

The moment her footsteps reached the dining room, I ripped the envelope open, now worried that some unspeakable tragedy had befallen Mother or Father, or one of Margery's children, and that Bea had thought to find me here. I'd spent so much time fretting over the O'Daires . . . fussing over myself . . .

I tugged the telegram out of the envelope, and yes indeed, the name B
EATRICE
L
IND
jumped out at me as the sender. My gaze dropped to her message.

            
I FEAR YOU'VE GONE TO YESTERNIGHT TO FIND OUT WHO YOU ARE, BUT I WAS THE ONE WHO
TOLD YOU ABOUT YESTERNIGHT WHEN WE WERE CHILDREN, ALICE. I BROUGHT HOME A BOOK ABOUT CORNELIA GUNDERSON. I READ IT TO YOU WHEN WE WERE BOTH TOO YOUNG FOR SUCH THINGS. WE PLAYED THAT WE WERE MURDEROUS MRS. GUNDERSON FOR FUN BUT ONE DAY YOU TOOK IT TOO FAR. I FELT GUILTY AND NEVER TOLD MOTHER. I'M SORRY. PLEASE STOP LOOKING TO FIND OUT WHO YOU ARE. YOU'RE ALICE LIND, A BRIGHT YOUNG WOMAN WHO SIMPLY HAD A HARD TIME OF THINGS TWO AND A HALF YEARS AGO. IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT YOU LOST THE BABY. NOTHING IS WRONG WITH YOU ASIDE FROM SOME ROTTEN LUCK WITH MEN AND A SISTER WHO SHOULD HAVE TAKEN CARE NOT TO DARKEN YOUR YOUNG MIND.

ALL MY LOVE

BEA

My mouth stretched open. It gelled into a horrified, rounded, silent scream of an expression that made my lower jaw pop and ache. I thought of Mr. Harkey offering free boarding and a regular stay in exchange for my knowledge of the hotel; the kindness of his wife; Michael's reassuring hand on my back; his support of my claims; my fingers rifling through Mrs. Gunderson's belongings. I had convinced myself so thoroughly. No . . . I
had
to have been “Nell” Gunderson. Alice Lind did not beat former lovers over the head until they collapsed to their knees on the ground. Alice Lind was not paranoid for no good reason. Alice Lind had always pre
vented the personal struggles in her adult life from unraveling her completely.

            
YOU'RE ALICE LIND A BRIGHT YOUNG WOMAN WHO HAD A HARD TIME OF THINGS TWO AND A HALF YEARS AGO.

I crumpled the paper into a ball, not caring at all for the implication that an overactive imagination and the loss of my baby had led to all of this. It was just a late and painful menstrual period; that was all. A bit of blood. Some cramping. A minor inconvenience. I felt nothing afterward.
Nothing.

Voices neared the back door—the return of the men.

I darted out of the kitchen and bolted upstairs.