The Haunted Heart: Winter (14 page)

His cheeks got that pink tinge again. I
grinned at him. I liked Kirk a lot right then.

He said brusquely, “So why would the lady in
black be haunting the dining room? She didn’t like the food?”

“I don’t know, but this is definitely where
that mirror hung.”

We moved on to the library, pausing to study
the displays of photos, neatly labeled with brief biographical
details. The first series were Civil War era. Young men in
Confederate uniform, women in hoops and high collars, solemn-eyed
children who had died young. Granted, when the size of the average
litter was seven, someone usually survived to carry on the line.
There were photographs of the house and of slaves.

In the next series of photos there were
shots of the gardens, early automobiles, self-conscious young
couples, and more children who had died early. There was a pair of
brothers in World War I uniform. One of the brothers never turned
up in another photo. The other brother married.

“Kirk,” I said urgently. “Look at this.” He
joined me in front of the yellowed wedding portrait. “Is that
her?”

“Is it?”

I peered more closely. “I think so.
Maybe.”

“I don’t recognize her without the mist and
glowing eyes.”

I bit my lip. “Maybe a younger version? A
happier version?”

Kirk shook his head. “Maybe. She looks…”

“Spanish?”

“French?”

“Not like anybody else in this family,
that’s for sure.” The Whitakers were uniformly of the Anglo-Saxon
variety.

I looked below the photo for the
type-written caption. “
Edward Whitaker marries Ines Villars,
1928
. So she’s French.”

“Probably French Creole,” Kirk said. “Given
that we’re a stone’s throw from New Orleans.” His eyes met mine.
“In 1928 that must have been complicated.”

I wasn’t up on my Louisiana history, let
alone Creole history, so I had no comment. I studied the subsequent
photos. There were two of Ines. One looked like some kind of ladies
society gathering. A lot of prune faces and knees pressed tight
together. Not Ines though. Her profile was half-turned from the
camera and she looked ready to get up and walk away. I couldn’t
blame her.

“The local coven,” Kirk said, looking over
my shoulder.

“Ha.” I liked his aftershave. I’d never
noticed it before.

The other photo was of Edward and Ines in
historical costume, as though heading out for a fancy dress
ball.

“Kirk, what do you think of this one?” He
leaned in again. “That black lace mantilla. That’s what I saw that
night.”

I didn’t have to explain which night. We
were neither of us likely to forget.

“Are you sure? Those fancy dress costumes
all look pretty much the same. Even back then.”

“It’s her. I know it.”

He grunted.

I moved along the photo display but there
were no more photos of Edward or Ines.

“What do you think happened to her?” I
asked.

“That’s what we’re here to find out, I
guess.” Kirk added, “It’s not like this is a complete photographic
record. In fact, it’s pretty hit or miss.”

I nodded.

“Do you know anything about Ines Villars?” I
asked Daphne when we returned to the rotunda and the reception
desk.

Daphne made a regretful face. “Not really.
Neither Ines or Edward are what you’d call our stars.”

“They aren’t?”

“Not really no. There just isn’t enough
information to really play them up. Now the Captain, he’s one of
our stars. He’s our biggest star. And his daughter Belle, she’s
another one.
She
was a wild one. Talk about emancipated! She
even wrote her memoirs. Pretty hot stuff for those days, I hear.
And Colonel Jeffery Whitaker. He’s very popular. So sad. He died
just a few days after Lee surrendered.”

“You don’t know anything about Ines
Villars?”

Just that both she and Edward died in 1933.
There was an outbreak of influenza. Edward’s cousin Thomas Whitaker
inherited Bellehaven.”

“Influenza?” Definitely not what I had been
expecting.

“It was a very serious illness in those
days.”

“I know. I was just expecting something
more…” Dramatic. Something that would result in a spirit unable to
lie quiet in her grave. My phone rang. I hastily fished it out and
swore inwardly. “Excuse me,” I said to Daphne.

“There are chairs and tables out on the
veranda. Not that anyone ever uses them.” She smiled. “Just follow
the hallway all the way to the end.”

I nodded, already walking.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, as I stepped out onto the
wide veranda. Dead leaves from the previous fall crunched
underfoot. “What’s up?” I really did love my mom, but could her
timing have been worse?

My briskness flustered her, but Mom had
cracked tougher nuts than me, and she regrouped fast. “Flynn,
honey. I just wanted to say hello and hear how things are
going.”

This was the moment to fess up and let the
parental units know where I was and what I was up to — or at least
offer the abridged version, minus the French-speaking ghostly
possession parts. I considered the truth, and instinctively
rejected it.

“Mom, there’s a Royal Vienna cabinet plate
signed by Knoellez. I think Uncle Winston was using it for his
supper.”

“Oh my.”

“There’s a set of cordial glasses here that
might be vintage Saint Louis.”

“That’s exciting. Flynn, Dr. Kirsch phoned
and said you haven’t been in contact with him since you left for
Connecticut.”

I didn’t have to fake my surprise. “Dr.
Kirsch? Dr. Kirsch isn’t part of the agreement.”

“Honey.” I could hear how careful she was
being. “Dr. Kirsch is your psychiatrist. Part of the agreement —
the
other
agreement — was that he would continue to oversee
your treatment. You’re supposed to check in with him once a week.
Dr. Kirsch said he hasn’t heard from any of the local doctors on
the referral list either.”

I sat down on the little wrought iron bench.
I couldn’t seem to think of anything to say.

My mother asked in that unhappy, tentative
tone so unlike her usual one, “Flynn, honey, have you contacted any
of those therapists yet? Have you made an appointment to see
someone?”

“No.”

“Oh,
honey
.”

I tried to think of something to say.

“Flynn.” The too-quiet note in her voice
dried my mouth. “Dr. Kirsch has been checking your pharmacy records
and he says you haven’t refilled any of your prescriptions. You
promised me that you were taking your medications.”

“I didn’t promise.” I stopped.

“Flynn, the medication isn’t optional. You
have
to take it. You know that.”

My heart began to thump against my ribs. “I
don’t — didn’t realize…” I heard how breathy and unsteady I sounded
and closed my mouth. I closed my eyes too.

My mother said nothing.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Oh fuck you, Kirsch. Dirty
pool, you arrogant, busybody asshole. You don’t know everything.
You don’t know me.

Still nothing from my mother. What happened
now? Were they going to flip out and insist I come home? Or worse,
much worse, head for Connecticut — and then discover I wasn’t
there, which would undoubtedly precipitate widespread panic and
revoking of parole?

My mother’s too-long silence was suddenly
broken by my father’s crisp voice.

“Flynn?”

I squinched my face so tight I was afraid
I’d pop my cheekbones. I managed a gruff, “Sir?”

He asked gently, “Okay, son?”

For one really horrifying moment I feared I
was going to break down. “Yeah,” I got out. “I guess I didn’t…” I
forced myself onward. “…understand that I was still…” I saw motion
out of the corner of my eye. Kirk was walking toward me. I jumped
up and started in the opposite direction.

I didn’t want Kirk to hear this.
I
didn’t want to hear it. I wanted to believe that was all behind me
now. It felt like it was behind me. Maybe that was the payoff for
all the spooky craziness. It forced the other craziness into the
background.

“Of course you’re not,” my father said with
absolute and reassuring certainty. “But even if this is just a
formality, there’s a process in place, and it’s going to cause less
wear and tear on everybody’s nerves if we stick to the plan.”

“Yes.” I swallowed hard. “Agreed.”

“You have to take the meds.”

“Dad, I feel better without them. Really. I
don’t think they’re right for me.”

“Then that’s something to talk over with Dr.
Kirsch when you see him next month. Until then, you need to take
your medication. Understood?”

I said humbly, “Yes, sir.”

He said in an easy, perfectly ordinary tone,
“Other than forgetting to make those appointments, how are things
going up there?”

And just like that everything was back in
perspective. I wasn’t going to be locked up or dragged home. I
wasn’t getting busted down to private. I was still an autonomous
adult.

“It’s a hell of a lot of work, which is what
I want. And need.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. Just remember to
stop and eat once in a while.”

He was teasing and I didn’t have to force a
smile into my voice, my relief genuine. “I will. I am.”

“I love you, son. Your mother too.”

That was Dr. Kirsch’s influence. I had grown
up never doubting for a second that I was loved, but now every
phone call ended with declarations. Even from my dad. But…I didn’t
really mind.

“I know. Love you, Dad,” I said. “Love to
Mom. I’ll talk to you in a couple of days.” It took me two tries to
disconnect; my hands were still shaky. I started back to meet
Kirk.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Nothing. My parents checking in. They know
I don’t like it when they stay out past their curfew.”

He studied my face. “Right. So is that it?
Have you seen enough here?”

I looked back at the silent, shuttered
house. “I don’t know. It feels like it’s a dead end.”

“Yeah. That’s because it is a dead end. All
we really learned here is Ines died a long time ago, and we already
knew that.”

“Now we know
how
she died.”

“And that helps us how?”

I shook my head. “The more we know, the more
chance of figuring out what she wants, right?”

“It depends on the quality of information.
So far, I don’t think we’ve found anything particularly
earthshaking.”

“Well, something’s keeping her up at
night.”

“True. But I don’t think we’re going to find
an answer here. I think this trip is a waste of time and money. But
it’s your time and your money.”

I laughed without humor. “See, that’s what I
like about you, Kirk. You don’t pull your punches.”

He asked seriously, “Do you want me to pull
my punches?”

I didn’t have to think about it. “No. I
don’t.”

He gave me a grim smile. “And that’s what I
like about
you
, Flynn.”

“T
here has to be
some kind of historical society around here,” I said as we started
back down the hillside. A pair of crows, blue-black wings shining
in the fitful light, skimmed overhead, laughing raucously. “This
entire parish has made a going concern out of the past.
And
we can still see about getting the video translated.”

“I guess.”

“I admit I figured the way she died would
probably explain everything. That’s how it works in the ghost
stories. Someone dies a terrible, violent death. Or they’ve left
some quest unfulfilled. Or the person doesn’t realize they’re
dead.”

“I think she knows she’s dead.”

That was an interesting idea.
Did
Ines know she was dead? “So then maybe it’s one of the other
reasons. Maybe she left some quest unfulfilled?”

Kirk made an exasperated sound.

I said, “A ghost has to have a reason to
hang around.”

“Says who?”

“Think about how angry she — it — seemed. It
was ranting. Raving.”

“The flu makes everyone cranky.”

“I’m serious.”

“There must be a college or a junior college
nearby,” Kirk said finally. “We’ll contact their language arts
department. I’m sure we can find someone to help us out.”

“But we have to be careful about who we show
that video to,” I couldn’t help adding.

Kirk slanted a look my way. “I wasn’t
planning to schedule it for the fall season lineup.”

“I know. I’m paranoid.”

“Yeah?”

“Actually, no.” I nerved myself. “But since
we’re on the subject, can I ask you exactly what my parents told
you about me?”

Kirk’s gaze was direct, his tone easy.
“Sure. You’re suffering from depression and they’re concerned.
However, they both assured me they trusted you to keep to the terms
of your agreement. You are a man of your word.”

“Did they tell you what the agreement was?”
I asked warily.

“No. I think the real reason your mother
phoned was because she believed that I was naturally smitten with
your boyish charms and she wanted to warn me not to try to jump
your bones, however irresistible. I got the impression that if I so
much as bruised your feelings she’d cut off my balls and serve them
to me for breakfast with my hash browns.”

Horror kept me silent. Somehow I kept
walking, putting one foot in front of the other.

“She put it more elegantly, of course,” Kirk
said. “But I read her loud and clear.”

“I-I don’t know what to say.”

Kirk made a noise of acrid amusement. “Your
father’s concern is that the house is a death trap and you might
try to fix the wiring yourself. Apparently your handyman skills are
limited.”

“Once,” I said indignantly. “
Once
I
crossed a couple of wires with the garage door opener. You’d think
I blew up the neighborhood!”

“Okay, Thomas Edison. Don’t shoot the
messenger.”