A Ghost to Die For (14 page)

“Andalyn?” I was confused, but nonetheless, I set the Ruby Red file down and picked up the one file I had of accumulated notes and clippings regarding Andalyn. I handed Eric the file.

Carefully he sifted through the papers and pulled out a few of the old newspaper photographs of Andalyn. In each picture she was modeling the latest fashion in bonnets. Eric held up the photos, comparing them one by one to the painting.

“Do you see as I see?” Eric asked.

“Oh. My. Stars. Brilliant, Eric, simply brilliant! Andalyn Dixon is the brunette in the paintings. How did you know?”

Barring scars and horrifying disfigurement, a person’s facial structure never lies. The simple fact that Andalyn Dixon’s hair was red in her profession of modeling bonnets does not detract from her basic bone structure. Women have used henna to color their hair any one of numerous shades of red or auburn since the time of Cleopatra. I suspect that because you are naturally auburn that the coloring aspect was lost on you. And, although these photos are in black and white newsprint, in your mind, you know Andalyn to have red hair. Your mind colored these photos. Is it possible for you to work your computer magic and overlay one of these photos on top of the brunette’s image of either, or both, of the paintings?”

“Yes, indeed, I can work that kind of computer magic. Please sit here beside me and watch as the world of techno-magic unfolds.”

I went to work immediately and in a few minutes I was able to re-size, adjust angles and overlay the photo images onto the painting. The perfection of the match was remarkable.

“Eric, this is absolutely stunning.”

“Yes, it is. I am profoundly pleased to have been of service,” Eric said in a quiet tone.

I watched him study the computer screen. “We make a good team, the two of us,” I said.

He turned to me and smiled and whispered, “I concur. What is the next step?”

“Well, I will meet with a lady tomorrow who knows a great deal about art, especially paintings, I hope she can help me detect more information about the two paintings. Of course, now I have in my possession one of the paintings. I think that will be a huge benefit in getting her assistance. I am hoping she can identify who the artist is.”

“Neither of the paintings has a signature?”

“None that is visible from the front. If the frame has covered the artist’s identity, then I guess I’ll have to have this one, mine, dismantled. I hate to do that.” I stood up and turned the painting over to expose its back. “Look at how beautifully it is covered on the back. I think this heavy ivory brocade fabric is some kind of silk and it’s overlaid on a solid wood backing.”

Eric looked at the back and said, “I’ve seen this technique of covering a painting’s back before, it is exceptional quality and craftsmanship. This material could be silk and silk ages quite well, provided it is not subjected to the elements.”

“I remember a friend of mine, who is a collector of vintage and antique Japanese silk kimonos saying that, too. Anyway, that’s my plan for tomorrow.”

“And a grand plan it is. I shall leave you to it.”

Atlas moseyed in at that moment, he walked right up to Eric and put his big head on Eric’s lap. What a funny sight it was.

“I think he misses Alex. I should give him a dog biscuit treat and get some dinner for myself while I’m at it,” I said. I got up and walked out of the room, at the doorway I looked back. Eric was gone.

Chapter 25

My dinner was uneventful, and in fact, the rest of the evening was almost too quiet. The excitement of the day and my discoveries, especially the painting, had taken its toll on my energy and enthusiasm. After a long soak in a fragrant lavender bubble bath, I felt relaxed enough to go to bed. Yet, something Eric said nagged at me, his phrase
see as I see
was also the phrase on the fortune card from the Marie Laveau automaton. Coincidence? I guess, and yet it nagged at me. My thoughts turned to another coincidence, that of the surname of Sinclair. I decided to look it up in an old dictionary about saints. A quick dash down to the library bookshelf that Rosario kept in the small room off her bedroom rendered the results I hoped for. She had two books about saints; both were hefty tomes of history and trivia. I took both books back to my bedroom, propped up my bed pillows and got into bed to read about Saint Clare of Assisi, Italy.

It was true that Sinclair is a variant spelling for a surname associated to Saint Clare, and that this variant spelling is found most often in Anglicized names, from the British Islands and into North America. I had to wonder, could Audrey and Harriet’s family have anything to do with the founding of the church where Audrey’s funeral will be held? Does my curiosity about this aspect have a connection to the mystery? I pondered these questions for several minutes and then decided they probably have no connection to the case. Then, what about Saint Clare, herself? A little more reading and I learned that Saint Clare is the patron saint of vision, especially sore eyes and eye disorders. Additionally, she is the patron to various occupations that require intense eye-detailed work, including writers. And she is known to light the way, to illuminate the darkness. Both books showed several artistic drawings of her. In all the illustrations, Saint Clare stood cloaked in dark fabric, with one arm outstretched, holding a lit lantern. Saint Clare’s facial and body expression seemed to say, follow me.

In history there have been numerous affirmations from people all over the world that declared Saint Clare had shown them the way, the way to enlightenment, the path to clearly see their life’s purpose, and so on. In one situation, two young children were lost in the mountains of California during a winter blizzard, and they claimed that Saint Clare saved them by showing them the way to a cave that sheltered them from the storm. The biographies on Saint Clare ended with samples of prayers and affirmations that were directed to Saint Clare: With your guiding spirit, allow me to see clearly the path I should take. And, I seek your insight and path of knowledge. But it was the last affirmation that struck me as one I might use,
Allow me to see as you see
.

“That’s the one, Atlas,” I said to the dog curled up on the rug beside my bed. “I want Saint Clare to allow me to see as you see.” Atlas sat up and gave me his ‘huh?’ look. “No, not you. But since you are up, how about we get ready for lights out?” Atlas liked that suggestion, he jumped up on the bed, and curled up at the foot of the covers. I set aside the books on the bedside table and switched off the light. “Good night, Atlas.” My words fell on deaf ears; Atlas was snoring.

I awoke to Atlas standing beside my bed, whining. I looked at the alarm clock, it was only twenty after two, in the early morning. I switched on the light. “What’s wrong big guy?”

Atlas panted and pawed at my covers. This was peculiar behavior for him. “Do you need to go out?” He answered me by pushing open my bedroom door and padding down the stairs.

I put on my robe and slippers and followed. I found him standing at the back door in the kitchen, he wagged his tail and looked up at me expectantly. “Atlas, is Alex out there?”

Atlas barked and grew impatient. He pawed at the door. Uh-oh, what if Alex is out there and he is hurt or...or what, I could not imagine. I grabbed the flashlight that Rosario keeps by the kitchen door, flicked it on and opened the door, half-expecting Atlas to charge out onto the porch. But he didn’t. Atlas cautiously stepped out onto the porch, and then I did too. If I was going to gander about in the dark of night, in my robe and slippers, I wanted to be as close to Atlas as possible. I reached down and held onto his collar. “What is it?” I asked him. He barked, only once, strong and clear. He turned his head to the left, in the direction of the back gate. I pointed the beam of my flashlight in that direction. The gate was open and standing there was a large dog with a vague resemblance to a black and white Saint Bernard. The dog’s tail wagged in circles. Atlas was enchanted, and he wanted to go to the dog. Atlas stepped forward and made a beeline for the dog, he pulled me off the porch stairs and tugged me along.

“Whoa, Atlas, that dog may be your newly found best friend, or enemy. I realize you outsize him, but let’s proceed slowly.” Atlas could care less and the closer we got to the stray dog, the more obvious it was to me that the stray was friendly. I thought, at the very least I can close the gate and see if the stray dog wants to stay the night in the backyard. My mind raced with how to take care of a stray. Get some water for him, maybe put out a little kibble and then leave Atlas in the kitchen to watch over the dog. Okay, it sounds like a plan to me. Ah, well, what is that saying about best-laid plans going astray? Astray, indeed.

The dog was mostly white with a black head that had a dividing line of white from its forehead to its nose. And it did resemble a Saint Bernard, but smaller, about the size of a retriever. Atlas nosed right up to the stray and after a few get-ta-know-ya face licks, all was happy. I noticed that dog had a shortened front leg, it was missing a paw, and its tail appeared to have suffered a similar fate, it was shy by a couple of inches. Nonetheless, the stray could not have been bothered by his shortcomings. And before I could stop him and Atlas, I was dragged through the gate and behind the property. Except this did not look like my neighborhood, at all. I looked back at Blackthorne House; it was not there. I grabbed hold of Atlas, “Where are we?”

Atlas looked up at me and blinked twice. He barked and looked forward, down a groomed dirt path. There in the distance I saw a cloaked figure, one arm outstretched, holding a lit lantern. Atlas pulled ahead and I followed. Our new best friend, whom I decided to call Bernard, for obvious reasons, took the lead, trotting a few steps ahead of Atlas. I looked up at the cloaked figure and took measured deep breaths to try and calm myself as we approached the person. Within   twelve feet of the person I could see a face, as we came closer I was sure of the identity, and it was not Saint Clare.

We stepped up to her and she leaned down to Bernard, petting his head. “I knew I could call on you,” She said to the dog. Then she looked me in the face and said, “The dog’s name is Bum.”

Chapter 26

“Andalyn?”

She did not utter a word; instead she gestured with her hand for me to follow. She stepped ahead of me and made an effort to always stay in front by three to four feet in distance. Holding tight to Atlas, I attempted to catch up with her and yet I could not. Every time I closed in, she advanced that many more steps ahead of me. If this ghost was, indeed, Andalyn Dixon, she had no desire for a face-to-face conversation. The dog she called Bum stayed by her side. Together, they seemed quite ordinary, given her time and place was the late-1800s. Andalyn wore a hooded cloak of a dark purple fabric and the glimpse I caught of her apparel made me think she was dressed in the custom for a woman of her times, not unlike the photos I had seen of her. The ghosts of Andalyn Dixon and her dog Bum glided effortlessly and without a sound in front of us. I counted our steps by the soft click of my shoes, and noted that Andalyn and Bum’s footsteps were silent. The quick pace allowed little opportunity for me to stop and look around. Only once I chanced a glimpse to the side and realized I was not in my own neighborhood. Where was I? Without warning Andalyn halted in her stride. I caught my breath and grabbed hold of Atlas at his collar, jerking him to a stop. I waited for Andalyn to turn around.

Andalyn faced me, but in doing so, she pulled the hood closer around her face, obscuring my view, or any chance of direct eye contact. Holding the lantern she pointed to my right side, I turned and found myself looking into an old-fashioned shop window. Huh? Where am I? What is this? I looked down, I was standing on a cobblestone walk, and then I looked up the street and could see that all the other storefronts were dark, cl
osed up. Leaning out a bit and looking up, I read the hand-painted sign above the storefront:

Angelique’s Golden Needle.

Expertise in Frocks, Ball Gowns, Bridal, and Masquerade.

It’s a dress shop, I surmised, or rather a custom seamstress shop, since in the 1800s, very few clothes were available ready-made. I turned to query Andalyn, and she was gone. The dog named Bum remained, sitting patiently on the cobblestone walk, he ignored Atlas and myself. He watched the scene inside the shop. I, too, turned my attention to the interior of the store. Andalyn stood at the counter, conversing with another person, another ghost? The other person was an older woman, I guessed it must be Angelique and she chatted quite animatedly with her hands. She gestured for Andalyn to go through the curtained doorway. Andalyn disappeared through the curtains.

What do I do now? Leave, try to find my way back, call for Eric? These possibilities cluttered my thoughts, and then Bum barked. I looked at him, he was wagging his tail with great enthusiasm, as he stared through the window, to the interior of the shop. I followed his example and turned my attention to the interior of the shop. I was stunned to see that Andalyn had reappeared. She was dressed in an exquisite costume that I recognized immediately. Andalyn had transformed into the ill-fated French Queen, Marie Antoinette. She turned in front of a large full-view dressing mirror and giggled with delight. Costumed in an elaborate ball gown of rich gold and light blue brocade and wearing a high-fashioned platinum white wig, Andalyn looked the part of the eighteenth century noblewoman.