Deception at Dark Hall (The Briony Martin Mystery Series) (7 page)

“Only if she’s dead,” Mark answered between tight lips. “Let’s hope that’s not the case. Let’s go, Briony.” He retrieved his car keys from the pocket of his jacket hanging on the peg and tossed them to her. Then he exited the kitchen door, slamming it behind him.

“I shouldn’t have said that.” Mark shook his head. “I don’t wish anyone dead.”

“And I shouldn’t have called that woman a witch,” Paige mumbled.

“It’s been a long and stressful night for all of us,” Briony replied. “Paige, do you need any help this morning? I should have asked you before offering to go with Daniel.”

“No worries. Mark had already requested the day off to help with final preparations. I’m glad you’re going with Daniel. You’ll be able to stay objective when he speaks to Miss Dark. Perhaps you’ll be able to use your newly acquired detective skills and pick up on something that will be helpful to the police.”

“I’ll try. See you both later.”

~ * ~

After Daniel announced their names over the intercom, the sour-faced butler opened the door and escorted them inside Dark Hall. “Wait here.” He disappeared into a room to the right of the foyer.

“That’s the library,” Daniel whispered.

A moment later, the butler stepped out of the room and approached. “Miss Dark will see you.” Keeping pace with his long-legged gait, they followed him across the foyer and entered the library. All four walls were filled with floor to ceiling bookcases stacked with hardbound books. The ceiling was painted with frescos portraying scenes from the Renaissance era, and full-sized marble statues of nude men and women were stationed around the room. A fire crackled in a large stone hearth. The butler bowed and closed the door behind them.

A brilliant smile lit Sharlyn’s pale face when she heard their footfalls cross the wooden floor. She perched on the edge of a settee that was covered in a rich shade of midnight blue suede. An open book was cradled in her palms, which Briony thought odd since she was blind. Her assistant, Lee, sat stiffly beside her dressed in slacks and a man’s button down shirt and bow tie. The aura she emitted was one of suspicion and protection, like a bulldog shielding its owner.

 “Daniel! How wonderful of you to visit. And I understand you’ve brought your friend, Miss Martin, with you as well,” Sharlyn said.

“Hello, Sharlyn.” He cupped her small hand in his and held it a moment.

“Thank you for seeing us on the spur of the moment,” Briony said.

Miss Dark’s bright eyes fused with hers. Like the night they met, her gaze delved deep. Briony’s pulse skipped a beat. The few blind people she’d come into contact with wore sunglasses or they squinted and moved their head around as they spoke. In some cases, their pupils rolled upward in their sockets. Not so with Sharlyn. The ocean blue depths of her eyes were as clear as glass, and her steady gaze held Briony in an iron grip. Most likely, Miss Dark had become blind later in life, as opposed to being born without sight. Even so, her direct gaze was unsettling.

“Please have a seat,” she said, indicating with a wave of her hand the two club chairs positioned across from the settee. Her strawberry blonde hair was fashioned into one side braid and tied with a ribbon at the end. Elegant in a forest green skirt and white cashmere sweater, she was not at all the woman Paige feared was some kind of witch.

Her pink lips lifted into a smile, and her voice teased. “I know you’re watching me, Miss Martin.”

 Briony’s shoulders grew rigid as steel. “How rude of me. I’m sorry.”

Sharlyn chuckled. “Don’t be. It’s natural to be curious as to how a handicapped person functions in daily life. It’s not as bad as you might imagine. When someone has lost one of her senses, all the others become heightened to an almost extrasensory degree. I suppose it’s God’s way of overcompensating for the loss.”

“That makes sense,” Daniel said.

Sharlyn’s head turned toward Lee. Her assistant hadn’t uttered a word, not even a hello. Her tense frame spoke volumes.

“Say hello to our guests, Lee,” Sharlyn said, sweetly.

 “Hello.”

Briony and Daniel exchanged a subtle glance. What was this relationship about? Briony wondered.

“What do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Sharlyn asked. She flipped the book on her lap closed and placed it on a tea table beside the settee.

Daniel spoke up. “I’m afraid we have some—”

“What were you reading?” Briony interrupted. She tossed a knowing glance at him, hoping he’d understand why she’d cut him off. Suddenly, she felt it very important to learn more about the relationship between the two women before her.

“We were reading one of my favorite poems,
The Raven
, by Edgar Allan Poe,” answered Sharlyn. “Many of the classics have been translated into Braille.”

“Nevermore, nevermore,” Daniel crowed, causing Briony to jump. When no one laughed, the tips of his ears grew pink.

“Are you familiar with Poe, Miss Martin?” Sharlyn asked, ignoring Daniel’s silly outburst.

“Please call me Briony. And I am, although he’s not a favorite. Do you often read literature that focuses on the supernatural?”

“Because I’m a medium, do you mean?
The Raven
is often noted for its musicality and stylized language, Briony. Not only for its supernatural atmosphere. It also makes use of a number of folk and classical references.”

“So I understand. Poe claimed to have written the poem logically and methodically, intending to create a piece that would appeal to both the critical and popular tastes of the time.”

She nodded. “Its publication made the author widely popular, even if it didn’t bring him much financial success.”

“Nevertheless, it remains one of the most famous poems ever written.”

Sharlyn clapped her hands like a child, evidently enjoying the banter. “I daresay you’ve studied Poe more than you’d led us to believe, Briony.”

“I said he wasn’t my favorite. I didn’t say I hadn’t thoroughly studied the poem. I know
The Raven’s
theme is one of undying devotion. The narrator experiences a perverse conflict between the desire to forget and the desire to remember. He seems to get some pleasure from focusing on loss. Do you agree with my interpretation, Lee?” Her gaze shifted to the young woman pretending to be a man.

Lee’s gaze snapped up, eyes widened. She looked to Sharlyn, as if requesting permission to speak.

“Go ahead. Answer the question,” Sharlyn urged in a tender voice. “I like when you join in the conversation.”

Lee cleared her throat. “The poem is prophetic.”

“Oh? In what way?” Daniel asked.

Lee’s gaze dropped to her lap. Silence alone could express the emotion of the moment.

Sharlyn’s fingers found her hand. She squeezed it as if to bolster her courage. “Don’t be afraid to voice your opinion, Lee. It’s not often you and I find ourselves involved in a stimulating discussion regarding literature, is it?”

“No, it’s not.” Lee offered a shaky smile and drew a breath into her lungs before expounding on the subject she knew well. “When the raven steps into the narrator’s chamber and the narrator asks his name, the raven’s only answer is: nevermore. The narrator is surprised the bird can talk. Each question he asks the raven after that is responded with that one word: nevermore. As the narrator recalls his lost love, Lenore, to the raven, the air grows denser and he feels the presence of angels. He wonders if God is sending him a sign that he is to forget Lenore. When he asks the bird if he should forget Lenore, the raven again replies in the negative, suggesting that the narrator can never be free of his memories. The narrator then becomes angry, calling the raven a thing of evil and a prophet. He remarks to himself that his friend the raven will soon fly out of his life, just as other friends have flown before, along with his previous hopes. The narrator’s final admission is that his soul is trapped beneath the raven’s shadow and shall be lifted nevermore.”

Lee paused.

“Why do you claim the poem to be prophetic?” Daniel asked.

Her voice lowered. “Some scholars suggest the poem is a type of Ancient Greek or Roman form consisting of the lament of an excluded lover at the sealed door of his beloved. In the end, the narrator becomes regretful and grief-stricken before passing into a frenzy and, finally, madness. In that way it is prophetic.”

For what seemed an eternity, no one spoke. Briony wondered if the prophecy she addressed in her discourse was actually the narrator’s in Poe’s poem or that of the foretelling of her own life.

Sharlyn shook her head in disbelief. Perhaps she’d never heard Lee string so many words together at one time. When at last it seemed her shock had ebbed, she chuckled and patted Lee’s thigh. “That’s quite an intellectual analysis. I didn’t know you knew so much about Poe and his work. Did you study him at Mount Carmel High?”

“Mount Carmel High?” Briony inquired.

“It’s an all boys Catholic high school here in Chicago.”

This was ridiculous! Briony quelled the urge to blurt out that she knew Lee was a woman, not a man. What was the point of their charade? She stared, contemplating. Lee’s burning hot gaze seared two holes straight through her, suggesting a challenge.

Briony found Lee’s speech to be more than an intellectual analysis. Something hinted a deep personal connection between her and the poem. But what exactly did it mean? Her gaze shifted between her and Sharlyn. The two women were obviously close and shared an interest in the supernatural, through literature and séances. Though interesting, Briony wasn’t sure how, or if, the dots connected. And whether any of it made a difference. Maybe she was following a lead that wasn’t a lead at all. Perhaps she’d have to call John again and ask for his advice, after all.

Daniel’s voice broke into her thoughts. “This has been fascinating, but our purpose for coming today is not so pleasant, Sharlyn. I’m afraid we have some bad news.”

“Oh?”

“It has to do with your sister, Shelby.”

“Shelby? How on earth do you know about her?” The color seemed to drain from her angelic face.

In a nutshell, Daniel explained how he and Briony had met Shelby. Then he told her about the man named Andrew Whealdon who’d been found shot in Shelby’s brownstone, and how Shelby appears to be missing. He ended by showing her the back of his head. “Someone tried to kill me, too.”

She uttered a sharp cry and seemed genuinely concerned. Oddly, she didn’t ask why Daniel had gone to Shelby’s brownstone in the first place.

“When we had our private talks, why didn’t you mention your twin?” he asked her.

Briony may have imagined it, but she thought she saw Lee flinch.

“I saw no need,” Sharlyn answered. Her hand fluttered at her chest. “My sister and I haven’t seen each other in nearly six months. We’re as different as day and night. We have nothing in common. I don’t approve of her lifestyle. She abuses alcohol and drugs, and men, among other things.”

If that statement surprised Daniel, he didn’t let on.

“Apparently, she doesn’t approve of yours, either,” Briony said, remembering how Shelby had called Sharlyn’s profession hocus pocus and voodoo.

“I gave up caring what my sister thought about me or anyone else a long time ago,” Sharlyn replied. “She suffers from emotional problems. It’s sad and I’m sorry to air our dirty laundry, but the truth is the truth.”

Lee nodded her head, though ever so slightly as to not be observed by anyone but Briony’s keen eye.

“Do you know this man, Andrew Whealdon?” Daniel asked.

Sharlyn’s hesitation spoke for her.

“How do you know him?” he pressed.

She folded her hands in her lap. “He was Shelby’s boyfriend. I suppose that’s one way of describing him and their relationship. Frankly, they behaved more like dogs in heat when they were together. Disgusting. Andrew was one in a long line of men Shelby used and then disposed of when she tired of them.”

Briony’s ears perked. “Was? Did Shelby break up with him?”

“Yes. Andrew came by Dark Hall to cry on my shoulder. He said he couldn’t live without her or some such nonsense. He begged me to talk to her.”

“When was this?”

“Two weeks ago. I told him I had no idea where she was keeping herself. Besides, I’d tried to warn him before he got involved with her, but he didn’t listen. None of them ever did. Shelby seems to cast a spell over men. They became putty in her hands.”

Briony cast a glance at Daniel. He’d fallen under Shelby’s hypnotic spell, too. Look how that had turned out. At least he wasn’t dead, though it had been a close call.

She wondered if Andrew Whealdon
had
committed suicide when Shelby refused him once again. But if he had, where was the gun he’d used? Her mind spun with possible scenarios.

It seemed most likely that Shelby had answered the door thinking it was Daniel. Andrew had burst in and, when she wouldn’t agree to get back together, he killed himself in front of her. Perhaps she’d panicked and touched the gun before realizing her fingerprints would be found on it. Someone might have heard the gunshot, she’d reason. So she knew she didn’t have much time before police arrived.

Maybe she’d taken the weapon to another part of the house to clean her fingerprints off. When she heard Daniel enter the brownstone and call out her name, she didn’t know how she’d explain the situation. Without thinking, she crept up behind him and hit him on the head, not intending to seriously hurt him, and fled the brownstone with the gun. Now she was in hiding.

It made sense, in a way. But why not call the police herself and explain that Andrew had committed suicide in front of her? If his prints, and his alone, were found on a gun registered in his name, she wouldn’t have been charged with any crime. Did she have something else to hide? Something she didn’t want the police, or anyone else, to know?

“Shelby hasn’t contacted you in the past fifteen or so hours?” Daniel asked Sharlyn.

“No. If she does, what should I do?”

“Convince her to tell you where she is. Or talk her into coming to Dark Hall. I suggest you contact the police department and tell them you’re her sister. Show them you’re willing to cooperate. Shelby may not have done anything wrong, but a man died in her house. They need to question her. If she’s not guilty of a crime, she has nothing to fear.”