The Juliet (26 page)

“What’s down there, Skinner?”

“Nothing good. Broken glass. Rusted bedsprings and horse bones. The trash of Centenary rolls downhill as it does everywhere.”

The girl disappeared again, past the jail cells connected to the rear of the Sheriff’s office.

“Can’t you get that lantern lit, Oliver?”

“Didn’t bring the spark. Look, what if she’s got a crew back there ready to roll us?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Sarah has the sweetest heart.”

“It’s not your sweet Sarah I’m worried about.”

They slowed as they reached the end of the jail wall. At first it seemed that the possessed girl had scampered off, but then there was a dark, huddled void throbbing low to the ground, just a few yards behind the foundation line of the jailhouse.

“Before you ask, that’s no rooting burro.” Skinner led the way, picking through brush and stones, pushing away what he could with his stick. Oliver assisted Rebekah, holding her hand as she used her other to keep her skirts above the rubble.

The girl was on her knees again, this time in an unusually detritus-free patch of dirt, cleared of the usual weeds. Sarah was scratching away in the center, her hair free of the bun and hanging down in sweaty strands to cover her expression. She threw handfuls of dirt behind her.

“My child, what have you found?” Rebekah dropped Oliver’s hand and approached the girl. Sarah paused, panting over her work.

She spoke to the dirt beneath her. “It is me.”

Skinner stepped forward. “Your grave.”

The girl turned her face quickly, letting her hair part over one wild eye to glare at the old man. She seemed angry but calm, as if she’d reached a plateau of meaning. Skinner walked forward and helped the child dig, scraping at the dirt with his walking stick.

“Oliver!” he bellowed. “Go back to the house and fetch a spade. And spark for the lantern, damn it!”

Rebekah added, “And do not tell the house staff. They’ll flee in the night if they knew what we were up to.”

Without question, Oliver obeyed. His rube heart was beating, taking over. Though every moment of the evening had been staged, adrenalin coursed through him.

The finale was coming.

When he reached the hotel, the night man didn’t ask questions. He brought a cold beer and disappeared to find the matches and spade. Oliver recovered in the lounge, drinking his draught in the mercy of man-made light, recalling with fondness a fairground attraction called Norman’s Ghost Show. It was one of the old Orton & Spooner trailers made up to look like a house of bones that promised mysteries and wonders within. Too young to enter, he stood outside staring while all of his friends whooped it up at the arcade tents.

Lovers would go into Norman’s Ghost Show holding hands, lovers would come out, sweaty and clinging. Almost drunk. It was a genuine mystery.

The Skinners thought they were in control. They had never forgiven him. There were no bygones. Perhaps even their financial need had been fabricated. It was all part of a story.

The night man returned with the matches and the spade. It was a small shovel, less than three feet long and designed for use by a woman gardener, not a gravedigger. It would have to do.

Oliver said to the night man, “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

The night man nodded politely.

* * *

Oliver found the Skinners standing on either side of Sarah, who now sat on the ground she’d been scraping up. She seemed exhausted and meditative, with dirt streaks on her face. Oliver relit the small lantern and carried it over, placing it on the ground. As the youngest and most fit male in the party, he assumed the digging work would fall to him.

“I don’t relish digging up bones, Mr. Mayor.”

“We need to know, son.
She
needs to know. Would you have her disinter her own remains?”

Oliver barely suppressed his smirk. The Ghost Show must go on. “Excuse me,” he said to Sarah, coaxing her away from the gouged dirt. She made a little hiss and scrambled backward, sitting at the edge of the inadequate light cast by the skater’s lantern. The soil, such as it was, was friable, with the grains caving in as he lifted out the first shovel-full. He deposited it to the side just beyond what he estimated would be the width of Lily Joy’s coffin.

Soon the chill of the night was just a memory for Oliver, sweating in his coat as he cleared away layers. He limited his digging to where it was softest, assuming that was where the soil was most recently turned. He had only gone two feet down when he hit a surface that chimed when he struck it. It could have been a large piece of quartz, but Oliver suspected otherwise.

Sarah crawled forward, signaling her confirmation of his discovery with a grisly smile. Skinner nodded in the shadows. The boy had done his job.

“It’s too shallow,” Oliver said.

Skinner held out his hands. “And yet.”

“Go on,” said Rebekah.

Oliver continued to clear away the dirt. The spade tip scraped a smooth surface like a glass or ceramic. They said Lily Joy was buried in pine. They said a lot of things, didn’t they? Rebekah was especially keen, standing near Sarah. Both women seemed to share the same hunger.

What he unearthed was a box made out of brown and cream streaked alabaster. It was only ten inches long and half as wide. Had he not been so specifically directed in his digging, he would have missed it.

Sarah clapped like a feeble minded child when he raised it up.

Oliver asked, “Is this it, then?” A question for the age.

Oliver placed the box on clean, level ground near the lantern. There were stains at certain places on the lid that indicated the presence of a decorative inset that had disintegrated long ago.

He brushed away the dirt. As the digger, it was his privilege to open the box. The piece had been well-crafted, and the lid was seated tightly onto the lip. Oliver grasped the sides and pushed upward with his thumbs. The lid released with a soft
pop
.

There was a pile of black cloth inside the box. It was stiff from age, but Oliver was able to pluck open the top fold.

Sarah fainted. Rebekah gasped. Skinner was a statue.

Oliver laughed.

Two orbs of green glowed on the cloth. There was no setting, but he knew what he was looking at.

“The Juliet.” Oliver tried to sound surprised.

* * *

Oliver was beginning to resent the strenuousness of the evening. He’d come to Centenary expecting an evening of drinks, stories, and parlor tricks, all enjoyed from a comfortable chair. Now he found himself making a second arduous ascent up Penance Lane in the dead of night, this time carrying Sarah, the serving girl, in his arms.

She had regained consciousness as herself, with the spirit Lily Joy somehow satisfied by the discovery of The Juliet. Joy had fled after releasing her hold on the girl and the night, and the party was left with more questions than when they began. Sarah remembered little of what had occurred while she was possessed, but she was so weakened by the experience she could barely walk. And of course the only one strong enough, virile enough, to carry her back was Hobart Oliver.

The Skinners were trying to break him.

Rebekah walked ahead, carrying the alabaster casket with The Juliet inside. The old man brought up the rear. Oliver imagined they resembled a ceremonial procession carved on the wall inside a Pharaoh’s tomb.

Rebekah led them back to Communion Hall where she placed the box next to her cards on the center of the black-draped table. Oliver lowered Sarah onto the first sofa he encountered and instructed the night man to bring her water and a cold cloth. “She’s had a fright,” was all he said.

The night man looked suspicious. He was not accustomed to ministering to teenaged maids, but he did as he was told. Sarah grinned with satisfaction at being served.

The Mayor and his wife stood side by side at the table, staring at the famous stones as if they were beholding their own impossible child. They spoke excitedly to one another in that soft, verb-less language known only to spouses.

Oliver asked, “Well? How do you explain all this?”

Rebekah felt she had pieced it together. “Mr. Oliver, I believe we have found Lily Joy’s final resting spot. I also believe that whoever killed her was in possession of The Juliet. It has been missing for so many years…perhaps this villain stole it. Perhaps Lily knew he had it.”

Oliver sat, feigning fascination. He nodded for his hostess to go on with her deduction.

“Or, it was one of the men who loved her and helped to bury her. However he came to have The Juliet, I suppose it matters little. If he hoped to sell the jewel, he may have found that its fame was inconvenient.” She glanced at her husband for confirmation. “So he held on to the stones as is.”

“And he hid it in the grave,” said Oliver. “Whyn’t he retrieve it then? It’s been more than twenty years. Surely he could have found a buyer in all that time?”

Rebekah blinked at the man. “He perished, I imagine.”

“From the curse?”

Skinner leaned in to speak. “Look around you, man. This whole town has crumbled to ruins in barely a generation. Think of it. Lily Joy is murdered and buried in an unmarked grave. Then her killer buries The Juliet with her.”

Oliver finished the thought. “And almost immediately the town enters a decline from which it never recovers. That is quite a tale.”

“You have doubts, of course,” said Rebekah. “When she has recovered, I will call on the spirit for confirmation. I have a feeling that Lily Joy is much relieved tonight. She has been found and parted from this wicked jewel.”

“And now it’s yours. I suppose you’ll put it on display here at the hotel.”

“You said yourself, we have two ghosts and a redhead. And now we have The Juliet. I cannot imagine a more spiritually charged destination for the curious traveler.”

“My checkbook already feels a little lighter,” said Oliver. “How do you expect to protect yourself against the curse?”

Rebekah said, “Lily Joy, Mollina Grease, and I make quite a powerful team, I think. I’ve learned some strategies, both from the indigenous population and from the gypsies of my youth. Now that we know what we’re up against, I fully expect that we can exorcise The Juliet. Or, at the very least, contain her potential.”

“That sounds risky, ma’am.”

“I suppose it does. But what else can we do? Someone has to take responsibility.”

“Won’t the owners want The Juliet returned? The famous little Stieg girls are women now with families of their own, I expect.”

Skinner was too ready for the question. “They might, if they didn’t care for their own safety. Even if they reclaimed her, we still have the story.”

“Quite true.” Oliver leaned back. “I advise you to invest in a good replica, in any case. I know some excellent craftsmen who might do the job.”

Skinner liked the sound of that. “Does that mean we have your support, Mr. Oliver?”

“It means I’m impressed, Mr. Skinner. I suppose there is more to discuss,” he said. “Gentleman to gentleman.”

Skinner called for brandy. “I believe the ladies are ready to retire, after such an evening.”

Rebekah acquiesced. “I suppose the hour is late.” She stood and Oliver rushed over to kiss her hand in the antique fashion. He was mocking her, of course, but no one needed to know that.

* * *

They played cards in the lounge. They used red, gold, and blue chips.

“Hobart, I hope your accommodations are satisfactory?”

“Indeed. You’ve converted the loges with ingenuity and panache.” In truth the apartments were overly stuffed with art and furnishings. “The bed is enormous, and the decorations are extravagant. Should I stumble tonight I will never reach the floor.”

“Excellent. You have no complaint, then.”

“None other than I am drunk and cash poor.” Oliver surveyed the chip piles, chuckling at his meager gains. “Perhaps this game is over.”

Skinner automatically dismissed the night man after ordering him to refill their glasses.

When the servant was gone, Oliver said, “The Juliet, eh?” He raised his tumbler and tilted it to catch the light. “Gems and jewelry have always been an interest of mine. And Morecambe, he was a great one.”

Skinner lowered his last hand of cards. “Was he? I’m unschooled in such things. I had heard the setting was overwhelming.”

“You mean grotesque.” Oliver set his glass down and tapped the tabletop. “Maybe I’m sentimental. I grew up in the city, and I remember we used to stand in front of jewelry stores for hours staring at the displays. You’re from back east, Mr. Mayor. Have you ever done that, linger in front of fancy shops and stare at everything that was going on inside?”

Skinner maintained a bland expression. “My father kept me busy.”

“Ah, that is too bad. Boys need to dream. My father made a point of telling me stories, stoking my imagination. He’d take me to Morecambe’s every Christmas. You can see where I’m headed, right?”

Skinner was silent.

“Those little girls in their furs, like princesses… Anyway, Pop had a pal that worked at Morecambe’s, a guy they called Lucky because he was specifically hired to guard The Juliet. See, his name was Lucien, and we all thought he would be struck down by the curse, but it never happened. So you know, he was
Lucky
.”

Skinner’s eyes deadened with each detail. “You have seen The Juliet before.”

Oliver grinned, “Well, to be honest, Lucky would sometimes let us in the store after hours. I actually played with the thing. What you see as grotesque, I see as a treasure from my childhood.” He leaned forward. “But when Morecambe passed, The Juliet went missing again, and so did Lucky. We all assumed the temptation got to him. You remember all that?”

The Mayor said, “I suppose so. I’m not the enthusiast you seem to be. The stones have quite a colorful and sometimes confusing history.”

Oliver reached over and picked up the deck of playing cards. “Maybe one more hand.” He shuffled for a good long while before dealing a hand, and the play was slow. He said, “A couple of years ago I went looking for Lucky. And I found him.”