The Whispering Hollows (13 page)

Meanwhile, it would be hard to imagine a more modern-looking woman than Joy Martin—slim and polished, tapping at her BlackBerry with manicured thumbs. She had close-cropped blonde hair, a slim figure forever clung to by a pencil skirt. Her delicate feet were pushed into impossibly high heels, her slightly sheer blouse revealed a lacy camisole. Though Joy couldn't be much younger than Eloise, she made Eloise feel like a frump. Eloise heard Amanda's chiding voice,
You could at least wear makeup, Mom.

“Do you have any more information about her?” asked Joy. “Any defining features? Maybe a piece of jewelry?”

Eloise closed her eyes and tried to bring the woman into her mind. She saw the grim, plain face clearly. No moles or birthmarks, no adornments. Was there anything?

“No,” said Eloise. “Not yet.”

Joy wasn't a Listener. But she was a Sensitive, as Agatha called it, someone with a strong intuitive understanding of people and events. She was a valuable resource as a research librarian with an in-depth knowledge of Hollows history. She seemed to have an uncanny way of guiding researchers in the right direction without much to go on. And Eloise had called upon her many times. But this visit looked like it was going to be a bust.

Then Eloise came across a drawing she recognized and stopped to look at it. It featured three women in long black dresses, their hair drawn wild as flames, their eyes as dark and menacing as a tiger's. One wore a wicked smile, the other a grim expression of menace. The third had her mouth open in a scream, her hands clawing at the neck of her dress.

“The Three Sisters,” said Joy.

Eloise was well acquainted with the women and their sad stories. Sarah, Abigail, and Patience Good were Eloise's distant relatives on her mother's side.

“The dresses, black, high-necked,” said Eloise. “Not dissimilar to the one the woman in my house is wearing.”

Joy sat up and looked more closely, then offered a shrug. “It's hard to say from a drawing. But that would be fairly typical garb for a woman of a certain class. She might have been a seamstress or even a teacher or governess in the late sixteen hundreds.”

There was a connection between the woman in the black dress and the Good sisters. Eloise could feel that much, but nothing else.

“Can I check this out of the library?” Eloise said.

“The drawing?” asked Joy. “It's just a copy of the original that's locked in the safe where I keep some of the primary sources. Keep it.”

Joy stood and rolled her neck, as if working out a kink. “In fact, you can have the original drawing if you want. It belongs to you anyway.”

Eloise thought about that for a moment. “I'll take it,” she said. “I'll make sure it gets back to the safe when I'm done with it.”

“I'm sorry,” said Joy. “I should have given it to you back when we did our research into your family history.”

Eloise shook her head, lifted a palm. “I wouldn't have wanted it then.”

Joy offered a solemn nod, pressed her lips together, and gave Eloise a hearty pat on the shoulder. Eloise had shed a lot of tears in The Hollows Historical Society library. She had a feeling she would shed a few more before they were done. Joy disappeared into the back and returned with a manila envelope.

Eloise hesitated a moment. The Three Sisters emitted a powerful, dark energy. Did she want to bring them home? But she finally took the envelope from Joy's outstretched hand.

“You okay?” asked Joy.

“Oh, yes,” said Eloise. She forced a smile. “I'm fine.”

•    •    •

When Eloise got home, there was a dead girl on her porch. She was wet, hair spread about her in a halo of filthy ringlets. She wore a lacy pink bra and panties; her skin was moonstone blue.

Eloise stood over her. Even in hideous death, the girl was a beauty. In Eloise's experience, physical beauty was quite rare. Many people were attractive enough—maybe pretty or stylish or with a nice figure. Maybe even some combination of all of those things. But there was a particular brand of beauty: the union of a perfectly symmetrical face, a lithe, thin, and toned body, a certain kind of flowing hair.

It was the ideal toward which every woman strove, and almost none ever attained. God given, never earned by any means, beauty could be a powerful asset. But to possess it was a dangerous thing. Women despised you; men wanted to own you. A certain type of man raged when you asserted ownership of yourself. True beauty was a prize. And everyone wanted it.

Eloise sat on the porch and watched the girl for a while.

“I'm sorry for what happened to you,” Eloise said.

Sometimes that was all they wanted, just someone to acknowledge their pain. But Eloise suspected that there was more to this visit. The girl looked very young, maybe in her early twenties. She was petite, wore a silver chain from which hung the broken half of a heart. The girl's toes were painted a sparkly hot pink, pedicured.

Eloise closed her eyes. The wind chimes sang their delicate, discordant little song. The Whispers were loud today. There was a mood.

She was thinking that when she saw local private detective Jones Cooper pull up in front of her house in his maroon SUV. She felt the usual mingling of pleasure and fatigue she always experienced prior to a visit with Jones. They had a long history together. Longer than he even knew.

He climbed out of the vehicle and walked, in that way he had, up her drive. It was a confident amble, manly but somehow humble. He had his hands in the pockets of his barn jacket. He was looking well, thinner. Though he hadn't mentioned it, Eloise knew that he'd been struggling to lose weight since his doctor told him that he was too big, that with his high blood pressure it was a health concern. He had to lose thirty pounds. He'd lost ten, and Eloise figured he'd probably lose about five more. But that was it. The man liked to eat. Junk food was the only drug he had, and he wasn't going to be able to give it up completely.

“How are you?” she called.

She looked down, but the girl was gone.

“I'm okay,” he said, sounding mildly surprised about it. For Jones Cooper, that was a rave.

He came to stand before the three steps that led up to her porch. He toed the loose piece of wood there. He was like that. Always inspecting, figuring out what needed to be fixed. Then he fixed it. That was his way.

“Got a minute?” he asked.

She stood and opened the door for them; it creaked on its hinges. Jones inspected it. She half expected him to pull an oiling can out of his pocket. She walked inside and he followed.

“Are you here about the girl?” she asked, casting him a glance in the hallway mirror as they passed.

He squinted at her, turned up the corners of his mouth. They had a strange relationship. She made him very uncomfortable. He didn't want to believe in her. But he did.

“I'm here about
a
girl,” he said.

They had worked together on and off since Ray had gone traveling to spend time with his kids, to make amends, build the relationships he hadn't when they were small. Ray hadn't closed down the business that he and Eloise shared, but they were taking a hiatus. He was checking messages and emails, keeping in touch with Eloise. They were making referrals to other people who did the kind of work they did. It was a good thing; he was happy. But she missed him. He wanted her to come meet him in San Francisco, see how she liked it out there. She was thinking about it. Finley had taught them how to Skype, which they did a couple of times a week. She dreamed about him a lot.

Jones Cooper's private investigation business occupied the space that Ray Muldune had left. The Hollows didn't like a void. It filled in empty spaces. And it wasn't about to let Eloise off the hook. Not yet.

“You're looking good, Eloise,” Jones said.

He sat at her kitchen table while she brewed some coffee. He meant that she didn't look as if she were on death's door, which is how she'd been looking for a time. She had gained weight, was stronger overall. She was off the various medications she had been taking. Since Ray had gone, and Finley came, she had been working less. The visitors she had now were the first to come in a while. Agatha called it a Breather—a break in the visions, the visits.
Sometimes whatever it is gives you a little time off
,
usually when you're right about at the limit of what you can endure.

Jones laid a photograph out on the table, turned it toward her when she brought the coffee over. It was a professional image—a beauty shot, as they called it—of the girl Eloise had seen on her porch.

Eloise stared awhile, got a little more information. The girl had been a model. Not a runway model, but someone you might see in catalogs or in advertisements. The girl had been disappointed about it, thought she'd be one of the superstars. All her life, she'd been told how gorgeous she was—by her parents, strangers, and, of course, boys. The modeling agencies were the first ones ever to point out her “flaws”—too short,
could
lose ten pounds, face too heart-shaped, breasts too large. Pretty, yes, but in a common way. Nothing special. All those words, they stung, they stayed. She felt like meat—not filet, but chuck.

“What?” asked Jones, interrupting her thoughts.

“She was disappointed,” said Eloise. She touched the photograph. “Unhappy.”

He gave her that look he had, a kind of annoyed puzzling. He ran a hand over his brown hair, which was rapidly growing gray.

“Depression,” said Jones with a conceding nod of his head. “She suffered from an anxiety disorder.”

Yes, Eloise could feel that. “Who's the client?”

“Her father,” said Jones. “He said that the man who killed her got away with it. The father has been tracking the suspect for a year, and it led him to The Hollows.”

“What does he want?” asked Eloise. She always asked that question. Because people wanted all sorts of things, not always what you might expect.

Jones was looking at the water stain on her ceiling.

“He says that he's spent the last year gathering evidence,” said Jones. “Apparently there's a detective and a prosecutor who both want the guy for it, they just don't have anything on him. There's no physical evidence tying him to the crime. The father—Roger Asher—wants me to tail the suspect.”

Help him
, said the voice that wasn't a voice.

“It sounds pretty straightforward,” said Eloise. “What's your hesitation?”

Jones wouldn't be sitting at Eloise's kitchen table if there weren't a problem. He only came to her when something was bothering him.

“The father sounds,” said Jones, pausing, searching for the right words, “consumed. Consumed to the point of being unstable.”

Eloise considered this.

“Would you not be consumed if you were looking for justice for your murdered child?”

He nodded his head musingly, looked off into the distance.

“Yeah,” he said. “I would. But there's something off.”

Eloise remembered all too well how consumed she'd been with seeing the man who'd killed Emily and Alfie brought to justice. She'd been able to think of little else. Night after night, she'd lain awake, thinking the darkest thoughts, imagining the most heinous fates for Barney Croft. In the end, she'd found her way to forgiveness. And Barney Croft had been sent to prison. But what if he'd gotten away with it? Who would she be today?

“I'm worried that he wants something other than justice,” said Jones. “I'm worried that he wants revenge.”

“Help him,” said Eloise.

“Help him get revenge?” asked Jones with a frown.

Eloise locked Jones in a look that she hoped properly conveyed her annoyance. But Jones just smiled at her in the sheepish way he had. He was a charming man—when he wanted to be.

“Just help him,” said Eloise.

Jones held her eyes a moment, then looked away. He wasn't stupid or an oaf. But like most men she'd known (not Alfie), he was slow to understand some of the finer points, the more delicate layers.

“Why did you come to me?” she asked.

Jones looked down at his cup, clinked his gold wedding band on the rim. He didn't want to answer.

Then, “I just had this feeling that I should come talk to you.”

Now it was her turn to smile. When they'd first met years ago, he'd politely kicked her out of his house, basically telling her that he thought she was a crackpot or a fraud. He'd come a long way since then.

He took something out of his pocket and set it on the table with a soft
click
. It was a silver necklace. Dangling from the chain was a small broken half heart. It was cheap, the kind worn by teenagers, a trinket that best friends or a boyfriend and girlfriend might exchange. She picked it up and felt a terrible rush of sadness. She put it back down quickly.

“This belonged to her?” asked Eloise. As if she had to ask.

Jones nodded. “Her name was Michelle Asher. They pulled her body from the East River. She was wearing this.”

They both stared at it a minute.

“Will you help?” he asked. “Do you want to?”

He was always respectful that way. Ray always just assumed that she was in for whatever came his way.

“I'll help,” she said.

He smiled briefly, then it vanished from his face. Back to that impassive, hard-to-read expression that was his default.

“I'll split the fee,” he said. “As usual.”

They didn't usually talk about money.

“You started billing?” she asked. She knew he didn't like taking payment for what he did. He didn't need the money. He had his retirement pension from The Hollows Police Department. And his wife was a successful therapist. Accepting money cheapened the work for him. It also made him beholden to the client. And Jones Cooper was not a man who liked being beholden to anyone.