Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy (7 page)

Why does she keep looking at Mom that way?
Gilda wondered.

E
ugene led Gilda and Mrs. Joyce into a room filled with mismatched objects, ranging from grandfather clocks and rocking chairs to paintings and pottery. A spicy, pungent aroma permeated the air. Gilda felt anxious as she caught a glimpse of herself, Eugene, and her mother in an eye-shaped mirror that seemed to observe the three of them from a corner of the furniture-stuffed room.

“I use most of the space here to restore furniture and keep my extra stock,” Eugene explained. “The main shop is in the antiques district of the city.”

How could we move in here?
Gilda wondered.
There isn't any room for people!

“I realize it looks cluttered,” Eugene said, “but everything here is cataloged. Every artifact belongs in a very specific place in the house.”

Sounds like he's worried that Mom and I might mess up his collections,
Gilda thought.

“Some of these pieces are actually too valuable to sell,” Eugene added. “They've been in this house for generations.”

As if in response to Eugene's comment, the glittery chandelier overhead flickered. The room fell dark for a moment, then the lights flashed on again.

“As you can see, the house has a few electrical problems,” said Eugene. “But that's the norm for an old house in this city.”

“Or it could be evidence of spirit activity,” Gilda suggested. She was curious whether Eugene believed in ghosts. After all, he had taken her mother on a ghost tour.

“Plenty of people in this town would agree with you,” said Eugene. “But as a wise man once told me: ‘There ain't no ghost but the Holy Ghost.' ”

Gilda decided to ignore this comment because she had always found talk of the “Holy Ghost” quite baffling. Didn't the existence of the “Holy Ghost” support the possibility that other, non-holy ghosts might also exist? Her eye suddenly fell on a glass-topped coffee table filled with a collage of interesting objects—spotted conch shells, sand dollars, an old silver cross, and something unusual that gave Gilda a vaguely creepy feeling—a piece of bone that looked very much like part of a human skull.

“Is that real?” she asked. The bone appeared to be a portion of a jawbone, with teeth still attached.

“Course it's real,” said Eugene. “That's a jawbone.”

“I mean—
whose
jaw is it?”

“It's most likely from the skull of a Timucua Indian. Someone found it ages ago when this house was first built here. It's been in this house for generations.”

Gilda had an uneasy feeling. “Shouldn't a human skull bone be buried in a grave somewhere?” she asked.

“Well, sure. But this one belongs to the house.”

But what if the spirit of the person to whom that bone belonged doesn't like having part of his or her head in a coffee table?
Gilda mused.
After all, that bone must have been buried here before the house was built.

Eugene disappeared into the kitchen and emerged with a silver tray of Ritz crackers topped with an unusual fluorescent-green sauce. “You have to try my datil-pepper jelly,” said Eugene. “Making jelly is a hobby of mine, and this is my latest concoction.”

“I don't think Gilda's ever had the opportunity to try datil peppers before,” said Mrs. Joyce, biting into one of the crackers. “We certainly don't have them up in Michigan.”

Eugene explained how the datil pepper was a traditional favorite of the region—a unique hot pepper that “goes with just about everything” and defines the local cuisine. He watched eagerly as Gilda bit into the cracker topped with datil jelly.

“It's good,” said Gilda, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the odd combination of sweet and spicy flavors.
Maybe he should put the datil peppers on a pizza or in a barbecue sauce next time,
she thought.

“Patty-Cakes,” said Eugene, placing a hand on Mrs. Joyce's shoulder, “you should sit down and drink some water; you look dehydrated.”

He talks to Mom as if he's her parent,
Gilda thought, feeling slightly annoyed with both Eugene and her mother. “Mom could probably use some maple syrup while she's at it,” Gilda quipped.

Mrs. Joyce frowned, and Eugene gave Gilda a quizzical look.

“Get it? Syrup for Patty-Cakes?”

“Oh. Very funny, Gilda.” Mrs. Joyce leaned back into the couch pillows, and Eugene simply turned and walked into the kitchen.
I guess he's not big on jokes,
Gilda thought.

“I'll get the water for you, Patty-Cakes,” said Eugene.

Gilda suddenly felt an urgent need to talk to her mother in private. She wanted to tell her about the premonition she had experienced about the house—the way she had pictured it in her mind even before coming to Florida, and the ominous feeling she had when they first walked through the door. She also wanted to complain about Eugene's mustache.

But Eugene returned to the living room carrying a glass of water before Gilda could blurt out her concerns.

“Gilda,” said Eugene, “I'll take your things upstairs to your bedroom and show you where everything is in the house. I just have one rule: Please don't handle anything fragile.”

Gilda felt her spirits lift at the prospect of seeing the rest of the house. With any luck, she'd have an opportunity to do some first-rate snooping.

“There are some vintage clothes up there; you're welcome to try things on as long as you're very careful.”

Gilda's obvious excitement at the invitation to try on clothes must have worried Eugene because he raised a finger in warning: “Again—don't handle anything fragile, okay?”

“Got it,” said Gilda. “Look with your eyes, not your hands.”

“Pardon?”

Mrs. Joyce laughed. “That was a saying Nick and I used to tell the kids when they were little. Whenever we went into a store with breakable objects, Gilda was so curious she always wanted to touch everything.”

Eugene didn't look amused by the anecdote.

He probably doesn't like it when Mom mentions anything about the old days when Dad was alive,
Gilda thought.

 

Upstairs, Gilda followed Eugene down a hallway lined with antique mirrors, paintings, and furniture. She was thrilled when Eugene put her suitcase in the most feminine of the bedrooms: It had a regal-looking four-poster canopy bed, floral wallpaper, a full-length mirror, shelves displaying antique baby dolls dressed in lace, an old rocking horse, a baby buggy, and a vanity table complete with an antique silver comb and brush and some old-fashioned perfume atomizer bottles.

The moment Eugene left, Gilda felt like a young child in a toy store as she began to explore the room. She opened a trunk that resembled a treasure chest and discovered a collection of silk gloves and petticoats inside. A hand-painted jewelry box contained a long pearl necklace, clip-on earrings, and a butterfly brooch. Gilda sat down at the vanity table and tried on the necklace.

Gazing into the mirror, she spied something interesting in the room that she hadn't noticed before—a dollhouse. She turned and walked over to investigate it more closely: It was an amazingly detailed miniature world containing lamps that actually turned on and off, beds with pillows and blankets, and tiny pieces of furniture carved from real wood. The “Southern belle” doll standing on the balcony of the house had soft brown hair curled in tight ringlets. She wore a petticoat of stiff lace and a hat decorated with silk flowers. Her eyes opened and shut to reveal glass irises. She was clearly a doll meant for display rather than the sticky hands of a young child.

Next to the dollhouse, Gilda spotted two doll figurines with pitch-black faces; their eyes and mouths were gaping white circles. When she picked them up to look more closely, Gilda realized they weren't dolls. They were actually salt-and-pepper shakers. Something about their cartoonlike black faces struck Gilda as more racist than whimsical. She felt certain that many people she knew back home in Detroit would be offended by them. Did Eugene keep them because they were historically interesting relics from an era of racial segregation, or did he actually think they were cute?

It was a woman's voice. The sudden sound startled Gilda. Had it come from inside the house?

Gilda froze, listening. Her mother and Eugene were downstairs, but it didn't sound like either of them. “Hello?” Gilda called.

Gilda sucked in her breath. It was definitely a woman's voice, but it sounded strangely muffled and hollow.

“Mom?” Gilda walked into the hallway, past the mirrors and other antiques. Was someone calling from the kitchen downstairs? Gilda had the bizarre impression that the house itself was talking.

“Mom? Eugene?” Gilda peered down the stairwell, but nobody answered.

Gilda went downstairs. Through the front window, she glimpsed Eugene heading down the front path toward his car, but her mother was not in sight.

Gilda walked to the kitchen, where she found her mother. Mrs. Joyce stood as motionless as a statue in the middle of the floor, staring out the window.

As Gilda approached her mother she felt the air around her cooling, as if she had just opened a refrigerator door.
How strange!
she thought, remembering how her
Master Psychic's Handbook
had explained that “cold spots may be signs of spirit activity.”

Something wasn't right. Standing with her back turned to Gilda, Mrs. Joyce seemed transfixed by something invisible.

“Mom?”

Mrs. Joyce remained silent.

“I heard something—someone calling for help.” Gilda approached, trying to see her mother's face. “Mom—are you okay?”

Now Gilda felt a tremor of fear because she saw that her mother's face looked
different
: Her mother's freckled skin had turned pale; her hazel eyes looked dark with fear. It was still her mother's face, but Gilda had the disconcerting feeling that
someone else
was staring at her through her mother's eyes.

I
hope you brought your umbrella, Patty-Cakes, because it's spittin' rain out there.” The screen door slammed behind Eugene, who entered the house with rosy cheeks, his mustache dappled with raindrops. “Here—I found your purse in the car.”

Eugene's sudden entrance seemed to shake Gilda's mother from her trance. She rubbed her hands against her temples, as if suffering from a bad headache. “Oh—thank you, Eugene.”

Gilda stared at her mother. She heard Eugene rummaging through a coat closet in the next room.

“Are you okay, Mom?”

“Of course. I'm fine.” She walked to the sink and turned on the faucet.

“Mom—what is your deal?!”

“Please don't talk to me with that tone of voice, Gilda.”

“Mom—do you realize you were completely zoned out a minute ago?”

Mrs. Joyce rubbed her arms. “It's so cold in here!”

“You're always cold, Patty-Cakes.” Eugene walked into the kitchen and placed a crocheted shawl around Mrs. Joyce's shoulders.

“Mr. Pook,” Gilda ventured, “we just had a strange incident here.”

Gilda noticed that her mother's eyes flashed.
She doesn't want me to say anything because she's scared,
Gilda thought.
I bet she doesn't understand what just happened any more than I do.

“What kind of incident?” A shadow crossed Eugene's face.

“Don't worry; we didn't break anything,” said Gilda hastily, “but we did hear something strange. It sounded like a voice calling for help. And I think it scared my mom—”

“I didn't hear anything,” Mrs. Joyce interrupted.

“Are you sure, Mom? I heard it very clearly.”

“You know,” said Eugene, staring down at the floorboards, “these old houses make all kinds of noises. Why, with these old houses and the wind blowing through the palms outside when it rains, people think they hear all kinds of things—children crying, people talking, you name it.” He looked at Gilda pointedly. “Of course, that explanation probably isn't as interesting as believing in ghosts.”

“I didn't say it was necessarily a ghost,” said Gilda, making a mental note that Eugene had independently introduced the idea of ghosts. “But I definitely heard a person's voice.”

“All I know,” said Mrs. Joyce, “is that I was resting there on the couch, and the next thing I knew, I was standing here in the kitchen, but I don't remember getting up to come in here. And I felt so dizzy. . . .”

“You probably just need a good night's sleep after your trip,” said Eugene. “And speaking of ghosts”—Eugene grinned as if he were about to reveal a big secret—“how would you like to do some ghost hunting tonight, Gilda?”

The offer surprised Gilda. “I thought you said you don't believe in ghosts.”

“I don't,” he said, “but a little bird told me that ghost hunting is one of
your
favorite hobbies.”

Gilda guessed it wasn't worth trying to explain to Eugene that her investigations were far more than “hobbies,” and that she had already solved several mysteries, including one of national importance.