Dark Corners READY FOR PRC (11 page)

“Ella. Can I call you Ella?”

I nodded not caring what he called me. I wasn't crazy.

"Be serious. It's much worse that someone was in your home. It could be the same person who killed your husband. You need to start locking your doors.”

“Why would it steal food?” I wondered aloud not really listening to him.

Detective Troy was silent for a second. “Maybe someone’s trying to make you think you're insane, and trying to convince other people of it too. Isolating you.”

“They're doing a damn good job.”

Detective Troy looked at his watch and started for the door. “I'll do some digging, see if there are any incidents involving the house, see if anyone leaps out at me as possibly having a motive to try to get you to leave. Do you have any enemies? Crazed fans?”

“Haven't we been through all of this before?” I snapped, then reminded myself that he was helping me and I should try to be nicer. “Not really. No enemies or stalkers that I know about—oh, hey, before I forget. . . . Do you call my house and hang up often?”

“What?”

“Like this morning.”

“No. That was the first time—and I didn’t hang up.  My call was disconnected.”

“Okay.”  Before I could retreat again, I pushed on. “Thank you … for everything, Detective Troy.”

“Call me Gabriel—and I'll be by later to do another walk through.”

“Okay, see you. . . .”After Detective Troy left I felt much better. I actually felt like writing. I sat down at my desk and turned on the computer for the first time in almost a year. Staring at the screen I had no idea where to start my story. When in doubt, I thought, research! I didn't need to wait for Detective Troy to look into the house. I could go to the library and do it myself. I called a cab and got ready to go. I was motivated, which was more than I’d been in ages.

The building looked like a large old house. Inside it had a musty book smell and a crowded feel. I half expected the librarian to be a tiny, bespectacled old woman with her hair in a bun, shushing people, but instead a twenty-something man in khakis stood behind the counter. He stared at me as I walked through the door, his mouth slightly agape. I stopped by the desk and asked, “Where are your records and archives?”

“I know who you are,” he said with wonder in his voice.

“Yes, well, it is nice to meet you. Records and archives?”

“Did you really kill your husband?”

“What?”

“Did you . . .”

“No, no, that was rhetorical, as in I can’t believe you would ask me that, you asshole.” I turned and headed back towards the door.

“Upstairs and to the left,” he called behind me.

“Too late.”

I left the library, all my fragile good intentions crushed like a bug on a window. I decided to pick up groceries, then head home. My self-inflicted seclusion was much better than being judged by everyone around me. Walking through the grocery store was terrible. People watched every step I took, noted every item I put in my cart. I knew what a caged animal must feel like. I went through the store as quickly as possible, avoiding eye contact and unwanted conversation with anyone there.

After I made it home, I put my groceries away and lounged on my couch. I was sad that my good mood and attempt at being productive failed miserably. I was about to take a nap when it occurred to me that I was living in the past. I had a computer.  I had the Internet.  What the hell did I need a library with snotty employees for? I had Google! I searched the official name of the house, Magnolia Hill, with the name of the state and town and was surprised to find several hits. The house had a much more sordid past than Danny had led me to believe.

During the Civil War, it had been used as a hospital. Danny’s great, great, great, great grandfather, Jonah Reynolds, had built the house about twenty years before the war for his young bride. After the war started, both of their sons went into the military. It was the same old story; one fought for the North and the other for the South.  It tore the family apart. Mr. Reynolds died a few years after the war of unknown causes. One of the sons died during the war, but the other one came back to Magnolia Hill. It was said that he was a bit strange and addled always talking to his dead brother, though he did go on to marry the daughter of a neighboring farmer. Tragically, she died after giving birth to a son.

This third Mr. Reynolds also grew up to be reclusive and only came out of the house on rare occasions. However, he managed to marry and father his own son, Justin Reynolds—a child who, by all accounts, was personable and friendly. The members of the town adopted him as their golden child. He was bright and charismatic with a wonderful future ahead of him. He studied at Harvard, but he still came back to Montgomery. He became the longest running mayor in the history of the city. He had six children and raised them in a house closer to town, visiting Magnolia Hill only periodically.

However, after his wife passed and he retired, he moved back to Magnolia Hill and followed in his ancestors’ footsteps, becoming reclusive.  He left the house to his oldest son, Danny’s grandfather, Arthur Reynolds.

Nothing was written about Arthur or his wife Edith and from what Danny told me, his grandparents had lived in the house happily until they died in a car crash. All of Arthur's siblings were childless and died before forty from a variety of reasons: heart attack, street car accident, illness, war, and shot in a mugging.

I had no idea that Danny’s family had such a long and tragic past, they seemed destined to die young. While I was trying to save my research, the computer developed a mind of its own.  First it froze. Then the screen started flashing. After that it went sort of matrix on me, and a series of numbers rolled past filling up the screen. Finally it turned itself off completely.

“Great. Thanks a lot,” I said to God, the ghost or no one in particular.

I picked up a notebook; it looked like I was going to have to do this old school. I flopped down on the couch. If the house wanted to stop me from using the computer, I would write the story by hand. But again, I was stuck.  

After a few minutes of free association, however, the words finally began to flow.  Mingling facts with the fiction, I let my mind weave its web into a tale of family curses and certain death. The afternoon went by in a flash, and I was so into my work that I barely heard the phone ring, managing to answer it just before the answering machine picked up.

“Hello?”

“How do you feel about Chinese food?”

I was caught off guard. “I don’t. Who is this?”

“Gabriel. What do you mean you don’t?”

“I have no feelings about Chinese food.”

“You seem . . . different.”

“How?”

“You made a joke.”

I laughed.  “And what? That’s a police matter?”

Gabriel gave surprised sounding snort that might have been a bit of a laugh too.

“I've had the strangest day,” I admitted.  “It’s been . . . odd and active, which in itself is odd.”

“You can tell me about it when I get there. I'm going to pick up Chinese food and I’ll tell you what I dug up today.”

“Okay.”

“Is your door locked?”

It struck me with weird glee that I wasn’t actually sure—I hadn’t been obsessing, for for once. “Um, I don’t know.  I can’t remember if I locked it when I came home.”

“Make sure it's locked.  I'll be there in a few minutes.”

“Yeah, okay.”

As soon as I was off the phone, I went back to writing. I was so happy to be back at it.  Every long pent up creative impulse poured out of me. I had no idea if what I was writing was good, and I didn’t care.  Everything seemed better, brighter and less creepy, as if a haze were lifting. . . .

“You didn’t lock the door,” a voice said behind me.

I jumped and let out a few choice words. “Holy crap. Don’t you knock?”

“You were supposed to lock the door.”

“But you were on your way over.”

Gabriel shook his head. “What have you been up to today?”

“Writing.”

“Really? A new book?”

“That’s a bit unclear right now, but hopefully.”

“That’s great. I brought garlic chicken.”

“I’ll get plates.” I walked into the kitchen, but kept talking. “It’s nice to be writing again. It's like a weight’s lifted.”

“Did you write all day?”

“No.” I returned to the living room and handed him a plate.  “I went to the library to do my own research, but I couldn’t handle it. Then I went to the grocery store where everyone stared at me. I came home in a fairly bad mood.”

“You couldn’t handle
the library
?” he asked incredulously.

“The librarian was mean.”

“All librarians are mean. It's in their genetic makeup. And who cares, it's a librarian.”

I moved my hand dismissively. “It isn’t important because I realized that I have a computer. I did some googling and found some interesting history about the house and Danny’s family. Naturally, I started writing about them. What did you find out?”

“Well … nothing. As far as I can tell, there was never anything reported while Danny’s grandparents lived here.”

“I thought you had something to tell me.”

“I do. Be patient. Your neighbor, Mr. Sexton, made several attempts to buy this house after Danny’s grandparents died. He filed petition after petition with the city trying to hassle you into selling.”

“Petitions about what?”

“The grass being mowed, the upkeep, normal stuff.”

“Why haven’t I heard about this before?”

“I don’t know. I imagine your husband would have known. Basically, it means he wants the property.”

“Well, he can have the damn thing for all I care. Hopefully he bulldozes it.” Just as I said it, the window slammed shut.

Gabriel was at the window instantly, checking it out. I stayed seated, watching him react to the unexplainable. “Spooky,” he said.

I laughed—he really had no idea—and continued to eat my garlic chicken, hungrier than I had been in weeks.

“Does this window close often?”

“This one, that one, every one—and oh, don’t forget the doors and the lights.”

“Have you had the wiring checked? Sometimes the way these old houses settle makes it hard for the doors to stay open.”

“I know all the excuses. Danny told me them as well. How about you live with this every day, then tell me that it is all just ‘old house’ stuff.”

“Was that an invitation?”

“No, but feel free to buy it after I leave.”

There was an awkward silence that grew more uncomfortable with each second that followed. I finally felt guilty.

“Now you see why I don’t have many friends. I can’t take a joke.”

He shook his head. “It was a bad joke.”

We spent the rest of the evening chatting and watching television. It was the most relaxing evening I had in quite some time—and it was kind of a miracle: two nights of human company in a row.  I felt more at ease with Gabriel than I did with Susan, though, because it didn't feel like he was judging me—or maybe it was the opposite.  He had judged me and found me innocent.  After all, his investigation left no stone unturned . . . and I was grateful, even if those stones were my life.