From Brigit’s Journal:
Sometimes, I think that image means everything to this family. Substance, real heart, matters very little. I bought my ticket today. Tonight, I break the news. I still have hope I won’t have to use it, but as my hope fades, so does my fear. It’s time I stopped being afraid. There’s no choice but to move forward. I’m not sure I care what happens now. I’m lying, of course, but sometimes, we have to convince ourselves we really believe we’re doing the right thing. Sometimes, it’s the only way we make it through difficult times.
White Deer and I headed next door after I made sure the kids knew where I’d be and were tucked back into bed. The rain pelted down, sparking in the illumination of the streetlights as it hit the sidewalk. I huddled in my coat, wondering if things would ever get back to normal.
White Deer picked up on my mood. “Emerald, this will pass. It always does, and you always come out stronger than before.”
“I know,” I said, “but this time, something feels different. The spirits here are old and rooted deep. And even if Joe manages to buy this lot, what are we going to do? Unless we can put Brigit to rest, she’ll haunt us for the rest of our lives. Not to mention the Will o’ the Wisps. They’re like a nest of hornets. I’m really worried, White Deer. About the kids, about Samantha. Even about whether or not I’ll be able to keep my home. Those things are dangerous!”
White Deer laughed, a throaty, dusky laugh. Her long hair was more salt than pepper and hung down her back in a single, thick braid. She reminded me of a lynx, secretive and observant and mysteriously lovely.
“Good God, Emerald, when are you going to accept that you’re a magnet for this sort of thing? It’s not going to stop, you know. No matter where you go, you’re bound to attract the fringe elements of the world. So you might as well dive in and test the waters. The more you resist, the harder the lessons get.”
I frowned at her, a little irritated by her flippancy. “What about the kids? What about the ghosts playing loose in my house? What about my cat who has apparently transported over to a different… whatever you want to call it. Dimension? Reality? Walked through the veils?”
White Deer reached out and caught my arm, yanking me toward her. “Stop whining! Life isn’t safe. You have to learn that the hard way. It’s up to you to make it as secure as you can without getting paranoid.”
She paused, then shook her head. “Your children are smart, and most important, they listen to you. So yes, you have ghosts running amok in your yard that scare the hell out of you. You’ve met a legendary beast face-to-face. But you’ve handled it all, haven’t you? And Samantha…” With a sigh, she held up her hands. “Samantha got caught in the hands of fate. She’s alive, though. You know it, and I know it. We’ve had this discussion before. When are you going to start trusting your intuition? When are you going to start believing in what your gut is telling you?”
I froze, trying to force a protest out, trying to counter what she was saying, but she was right. I was too afraid of being wrong to trust that I was right. I was afraid of hurting my children by following my instincts. And most of all, I was mourning the lack of normalcy that everyone else seemed to have.
“All my life I’d lived with one foot in the mortal realm and one foot in the spiritual realm,” I said. “Most of the time I love it, but I’ll never be able to go through life without always knowing there’s more out there than meets the eye. Without always being able to sense things other people can’t. Without always being pegged as crazy, or besieged for help by everybody who thinks I can solve their problems. Sometimes the Sight isn’t a gift. Sometimes it’s a curse.”
White Deer stared me down. “Do you really believe you’re the only one in the world with problems? Get a grip. Most people in this world are focused on just surviving until tomorrow. And look at you! You’ve found love, you have wonderful children, you own a comfortable house, and your business is going great. You honestly think that half the population on this planet wouldn’t jump to change places with you, ghosts and all?”
I hung my head, letting the rain pound down around my shoulders. My hair was stringy and wet, and I was numb from the cold, but that didn’t seem to matter. “That doesn’t invalidate my feelings or my fear.”
She backed off, smiling quietly. “No, Emerald, it doesn’t. But you need to put things in perspective. You’re starting to scare yourself and that won’t help. You have the ability to handle whatever it is that’s happening here. You just don’t know how yet.”
I inhaled deeply, then let my breath out in a thin stream. She was right, as much as I hated to admit it. Once again, I’d let fear get the best of me. “Nanna used to say that there’s always a solution. Sometimes you just have to redefine the problem.”
“Your Nanna was a wise woman. I wish I could have met her.”
“Stick around long enough and you might.” I gave her a wry grin.
White Deer held my gaze fast. “Emerald, I love you almost as much as I love Anna, and sometimes you seem just as much my niece as she is. Ever since you became friends all those years ago, I’ve felt a kinship with you. You are her sister, you know. Not by blood, but by spirit. And therefore, you’re my kin.”
I suddenly felt ashamed of my outburst. Here I was, getting advice and comfort from the strongest woman I’d ever met, and I’d been fighting her every step of the way.
“I love you too, White Deer, and so do my kids. And you’re right, I know you are. I’m just frustrated.” We turned in at the driveway and I stared at the empty lot that spread out in front of us. Faint glimpses of the corpse candles flickered in and out, like lightbulbs ready to fail. They were at it again.
She wouldn’t let me off the hook. “Why? What’s bothering you?”
“So many things.” I sighed. “Joe not being able to buy the lot the way he’d planned, and then all this crap going down—more ghosts and more unhappy souls. Who the hell put that girl in the tree? I mean, who would do something like that? And damn it—what about Joe? Will he get tired of all the woo-woo stuff and goblins that take up residence in my life? Hell, I’m going to be thirty-seven years old the day after tomorrow and I’m in love with a man ten years younger than me. Is he still going to love me when I’m approaching fifty?”
“So is that what’s at the bottom of your fear?” White Deer asked.
I clapped my hand over my mouth. What had I just said? Could I really be that worried about the difference in age between Joe and me? I thought I was fine with it. Nobody else seemed to think it was a big deal, but suddenly I could sense the creeping tendrils of doubt. The worry that maybe, in a year, or five, or ten, he’d find someone else. Somebody not always prattling on about the psychic world or… did I dare even think it? Somebody… younger?
White Deer chuckled, her eyes merry. When I flashed a hurt look at her, she said, “Please don’t be mad! I can’t help but laugh. I’m just surprised to hear those words come out of your mouth. Are we all still sixteen under the surface, still so insecure and frightened?”
I plunked myself down on a rock that was jutting out of the ground near the fence leading to my yard, not caring that I was getting wet from the rain that puddled around me. “Maybe we are. I never thought of myself as insecure—at least not lately. I didn’t even realize that I was worried about losing Joe. Maybe it’s just my past. The breakup with Roy still haunts me. How could he do something like that to me? To Randa and Kip? Do we really ever know the people we fall in love with? Or, maybe I really do sense there’s something to worry about, and I just don’t want to face it. What do you think?”
“You mean, do I think you’re having a premonition about you and Joe breaking up?”
I nodded, afraid to speak.
White Deer pulled her hood farther over her eyes. The rain dripped off, forming thin streams that drizzled to the ground. “Emerald, do you want my honest opinion?”
Good question. She didn’t lie, and she seldom gave advice. When she offered to voice her opinion, it would be the real McCoy. I inhaled and watched my breath go drifting off into the night, a thin stream of white mist that dissipated in the darkness. “Okay, let’s hear it.”
She patted my arm. “Joe’s a good match for you. He’ll remain true, as long as you don’t play games with him. He’s honorable, and he’s madly in love with you. Don’t be so quick to think the paranormal irritates him. He’s more interested than you realize.”
I glanced over at her. “Ya think?”
“I think,” she said and I knew that was the end of the discussion. She’d said what she had to say and that was all I was going to get. It was enough.
“Okay then,” I said, hoisting my butt off the rock. “I’ll stop borrowing trouble. Do you want to see the lot?”
White Deer followed me, her hands jammed into the pockets of her white fleece jacket. We entered the lot. Even though the Will o’ the Wisps were mere flickers, I could feel energy oozing around the lot, old fears and worries and tragedy. Almost as if the land were a black hole, sucking up joy and laughter.
White Deer seemed to have the same thought. She took a step closer to me and said, “This land needs cleansing. It’s stagnant, like a pond that’s covered with bracken. If you don’t clear it out, you’ll be courting trouble.”
I showed her around, cautiously navigating the bricks and tendrils and pieces of wood that littered the lot. “I thought you said not to worry?”
“Don’t worry about Samantha or Joe—those issues will take care of themselves. This, on the other hand… isn’t conducive to good health.” I could see the emotions wage war on her face. “I still believe you can handle this, but the energy is a lot darker than I thought. Not evil, but old and tenacious. The very plants are rooted deep in misery.”
I led her over to the yew. “Here’s where I found the skeleton.”
As she knelt by the base of the tree a gust swept through, forcing the rain sideways, stinging bullets against our skin. I winced, turning my back to the wind.
White Deer placed her hands on the roots and moaned softly. “Emerald, the spirit who was buried in this tree is still walking the world. She can’t break free, she’s entwined in this realm just like the roots were entwined around the skeleton.” She abruptly pulled her hands away as a loud “pop” echoed through the air. “Damned tree shocked me!”
“Let me see.” I flashed the light on her hands.
She winced. Her palms were singed, covered with a strange sooty substance. I lifted one to my nose and sniffed. The faint scent of ozone—yeah, she’d been zapped all right.
“I think that we’d better leave the tree alone,” I said, a rush of adrenaline racing through my veins. “This afternoon it became apparent to me that it’s alive and sentient, and I’m not quite sure just how much it can react.”
White Deer laughed. “Oh, it’s not going to go marching across the lot, trust me on that one.” She sobered. “But you’re right, there are powerful forces here. I think that we’d better cleanse the lot as soon as possible.”
“We?” I looked at her hopefully. “Does that mean you’re offering to help me?” I could use all the help I could get, considering just how deeply the hauntings were embedded in the ground. They had anchored themselves, growing right along with the brambles and the roots of the tree, coiling out from both Brigit’s bedroom and the shelter of the yew to encompass the whole lot.
White Deer sighed. “I think it’s going to take more than just you or Anna to set this place to rest. Let’s think about the situation for a while. It would help if we can find out more about Brigit.”
As we hurried out of the lot, I wasn’t so sure that even with White Deer’s help we’d be able to exorcise the energies here. They were stronger than we were. I just hoped we didn’t end up making things worse.
After a long talk with Joe on the phone, where he broke the news to me that he’d be away for one more night, I fell into an exhausted sleep. My dreams were a kaleidoscope of images—a red-haired woman crying, Samantha and Mab running side by side through a stark and barren landscape, Will o’ the Wisps darting around the exterior of my house, seeking a way in. When the alarm went off, I felt like I’d been run over by a truck. I dragged myself out of bed, grumbling.
After making breakfast for the kids, I chased them off to school and brewed my mocha, chugging it. I needed my fix as fast as possible. Just as I drained the mug, the phone rang. Murray was on the line.
“White Deer told me about your talk last night. She’s studying up on some possible ways to cleanse the lot.”
“That’s good,” I said, squinting at my mug. The caffeine was barely touching the edges of my fog, eating away at the weariness that ran through my body. One hell of a way to be facing my birthday, all right—worn out and freaked because I’d found out I was living next door to spook-central. “So, have you found out any more about the skeleton or Brigit?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I found out that Brigit never left the States, and nobody knows where she went. She could have disappeared anywhere, but I’m leaning toward the thought that she stayed right here in Chiqetaw. Especially with what Nerissa discovered.”
I perked up. “What? Did she find some way to identify the skeleton?”
Murray let out a low sigh. “I think we can be certain that we’ve found Brigit. I managed to track down Mary Kathryn O’Reilly, a cousin of hers who still lives in the village of Glengarriff.”
“The Mary Kathryn in the journal?”
“One and the same. It seems that Brigit never returned to Ireland. They lost touch with her back in 1955. Brigit had faithfully written a letter to her cousin every two weeks since she moved to the States. Then, one day, they just stopped coming. In her last letter, she’d mentioned she was thinking about returning home, that she had one last thing to do and—if it didn’t turn out as she hoped—she’d be booking passage on a boat. She added that she had a surprise to tell Mary—though not altogether a happy one. And then—silence. No more letters, no post-cards. Nothing.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Joe’s aunt knew her, Mur. Brigit told Margaret that she was thinking of leaving town, and Margaret just assumed she’d left when she disappeared.” I gave her a quick rundown on what Margaret had told me. “So, if she never left, never went home… then…”
“She died right here in Chiqetaw. There’s more. In talking with Mary Kathryn, I asked if Brigit had any identifying characteristics that might show up on the skeleton or in her possessions. Mary remembered two—one physical and one a keepsake. It seems that Brigit was born with six toes on her left foot. The skeleton has six toes on the left foot. And Brigit owned her mother’s wedding ring. According to her cousin, Brigit never took it off. She wore it on her right ring finger. The description matches the ring that was on the skeleton’s finger.”
I stared at the table, my muscles twitching. That cinched it. We’d found the mysterious Brigit. Poor girl, unmourned and forgotten for all these years. Except, perhaps, for the murderer. Had Brent been responsible for her death? Was there any way to find out?
“And you say her death was no accident?”
“She had a skull fracture on the front right temple. Though we can’t be sure what caused the break, it seems to fit with a heavy blow from a blunt object.” Murray sighed. “I hate this shit. It’s hard enough to solve a murder that’s recent, let alone one that took place fifty years ago. Whoever stuffed that girl’s body in the tree didn’t want her to be found. They just hid her out of sight like a bag of old rags. Bastards.”
“So, what’s our next step?”
“We interview Irena. Want to come? You can talk to her about Brent and the lot while we’re there.”
“Will that be okay?” I asked, knowing that Murray had already pushed the envelope by letting me tag along to see Brent.
“Yeah, don’t sweat it. I can always think of something to tell Bonner if he bitches, but with this case being so old, he’s not really paying much attention. Cold cases like this seldom ever find resolution. Luckily, the crime rate in town the past few weeks has been pretty sparse, so I’ve got some leeway.”
We agreed that she’d swing by to pick me up around noon. I glanced at the clock. 9:00 A.M. Time enough to run a few errands before she got here. I pushed back my chair, grabbed my keys, and headed out the door.
A quick stop at the shop reminded me just how much I missed being back at work. Monday was looking better and better, and I could hardly wait for things to get back to normal. I made sure Cinnamon and Lana had everything under control and then headed out to the animal shelter. Never ignore the practical, even when hoping the magical would work. The charm could bring Sammy home in a number of ways—the neighbors might spot her, or animal control might find her, or maybe she’d saunter home on her own.
Once again, my heart fell as I made my way back to the cats’ room, where at least fifteen felines of varying ages waited behind bars, their expressions mixtures of desperation and hope, of fear and weariness. How I wanted to take them all home. But even if I had the space, by tomorrow, the cages would be full again. I hurriedly glanced through, but Samantha wasn’t anywhere in sight. I forced myself out of the building as fast as I could, unable to handle the loneliness that emanated from the very building itself.
A quick stop at the grocery store took my mind off the shelter. Until I stocked up on cat food, that is. After depositing our brood’s favorites in the cart, I stared at the shelves for a moment, then hoisted two twenty-pound bags of dry food on top of everything else. Before I headed home, I dropped in at the shelter and donated the food. Maybe I could only feed a few mouths, but at least I would know that the cats were getting a good meal.
Once I got home, I slipped out of my jeans and into a calf-length brown rayon skirt and a burgundy turtleneck sweater, then zipped up my tan suede boots. If things went right, maybe I could persuade Irena to sell Joe the lot now that she couldn’t use Brent as an excuse anymore.
I finished putting away the last of the groceries when the doorbell rang. Mur was dressed, once again, in a fancier-than-usual suit, but she looked no-nonsense. She strode in, gave me an approving glance.
“Ready?” She glanced at her watch.
I nodded and gathered my purse and keys. As I slipped into her truck, I looked at her. “Do you think Irena had something to do with Brigit’s death?”
Mur grimaced. “I have no idea. Whatever happened, it was a long time ago. Irena seems awfully cagey, but maybe she’s just worried about word getting out that Brent’s been stuck in an institution all these years. She’s a schmoozer, runs in high society right up there with and above Harlow. Some of those folks take a dim view of oddball relatives. I think that was especially true back in the fifties when she first got married. On the other hand, maybe Brent did it and she knows and has been trying to protect him all these years.”
Both thoughts made sense to me. And if she knew he’d killed Brigit, it might account for her trying to keep things undercover. Maybe she was protecting him but felt guilty about it. If people heard about him, they might ask why he was there and bring up unpleasant questions. We passed through the west side of Chiqetaw, where the lawyers and doctors congregated their practices, into one of the garden suburbs. Chiqetaw might be small, but it had its neighborhood districts. Or cliques, should I say.
Irena’s house was buttressed up against the Chiqetaw Links Country Club & Golf Course. Harlow had been offered a membership, but she turned it down with a quick and icy “no.” The club was known for its subtle racism and Harl refused to take part in any such discrimination. She’d made her displeasure known around town, but only a few of the members tried to strike back. Her philanthropy and substantial wealth buffeted her from criticism.
We slipped out of the truck and headed up the walk. Apparently Irena had her housekeeper waiting for us because she opened the door before we had the chance to ring the bell. Murray introduced us, and the maid led us into a long foyer, then off to the right into a formal living room. As she withdrew, closing the double doors behind her, I glanced around nervously. The furniture looked like it cost more than my entire house.
“Jeez, just don’t spill anything,” I said.
Mur grinned at me with a wry smile. “I don’t drink on the job, luckily.” She rubbed her foot on the white carpet. “Who in the hell buys white carpeting? It has to be a status symbol, especially in areas like this where we get so much rain. Rain equals mud, you know.”
I was about to agree when the door opened and a woman who looked to be in her mid-sixties stepped through. Irena. She and Brent bore a resemblance to one another, but it was obvious that Irena had been under the knife a few times; since they were twins, therefore, she had to be seventy-one, the same as Brent. She had that taut, overstretched look that some stars get when they’ve had a little too much plastic surgery.
“Detective Murray, it’s nice to meet you.” She held out her hand, smiling, although her expression said she was anything but happy to see us. Murray introduced me. Irena peered at me for a moment, then said, “Oh yes, the fireman’s girlfriend. You own the tea shop. You have a quaint and charming store, my dear.”
I forced myself to bite my tongue. I’d dealt with her type before. Dazzlingly polite and aloof, she’d already negated any worth I might have, categorizing me as “Joe’s girlfriend” which meant I wasn’t worth bothering with.
Murray indicated the black leather sofa. “Shall we sit down? I have some questions I need to ask you.”
Irena took a seat in the wingback, while Murray and I gingerly sat on the overstuffed leather couch. I felt dwarfed—the thing had been made for giants.
“I can’t imagine how I can help you, but ask away.” She fidgeted in her seat and I noticed her hands were in constant motion, twisting her handkerchief. My guess was that Irena wasn’t the best poker player in town.
Murray sighed. “Why don’t we start with your brother? All these years, you’ve told people he’s been living overseas and yet, all this time he’s been at the Fairhaven Psychiatric Hospital. Would you tell me why you’ve kept up this charade, and why Brent was committed?”
Irena winced. “Committed is such a harsh word, Detective. Brent was a danger to himself. Even as a child, he wasn’t very stable, he was always so emotional and passionate about life. He was an artist, you know, but our father was only proud of him when Brent made the football team. Father thought it might snap Brent out of what he considered his ‘sissy ways’, but all it did was point out how different he was from the other boys. He spent a year at Yale, failed miserably, and had to come home.”
Mur regarded her quietly. “How old was he, and what happened when he returned?” She was jotting notes as quickly as Irena gave them to her.
“Brent was nineteen when he came back. He stayed home for a year, trying to regroup. Father insisted he give it another shot—he’d pulled some strings, gotten Brent back into school on conditional acceptance. Before he was supposed to leave, something just snapped. He collapsed into his own little world. The doctor recommended shock treatment. That was routine back then, and so our parents signed the papers and committed him to Fairhaven.”
Up until then, she’d been telling the truth. I could hear it in her voice, see it in her aura. But she’d glossed over something with the last—left something unsaid. Not a lie, really, but an omission.
Murray’s gaze flickered toward Irena and I knew she’d picked up on the shift, too. She nodded, though her expression remained passive. “I see. Can you tell me why your parents, and later on you, lied about his whereabouts?”
Irena shrugged, a bitter expression crossing her face. “Detective, you weren’t even alive at that time. You have no idea of how easily any hint of mental illness could ostracize a family. My parents were high on the social ladder, not only here, but in Seattle and on the east coast. They were only thinking of me. It was better to have people think that Brent ran off to Europe, if I were to have any hope for a normal life. They told me never to talk about his problem, so I did as they asked. And the lie became habit, and then—in its own way—the truth. Brent really is in a foreign country, but one that exists within the confines of his own mind. Why, even my husband doesn’t know that Brent is living at Fairhaven. After all these years, I’ve never told him.”
“Do you ever go see him?” I asked.
Irena gazed at me quietly. “Once a month. I tell my husband I’m going to have lunch in Bellingham, and I go sit with Brent for the afternoon. He never seems to care, but I do it anyway.”
I liked her a little better, and forced a smile to my lips, which she gently returned.
Murray let her breath out in a slow stream. “All right. What can you tell me about Brigit O’Reilly? She was your maid, was she not?”
Irena nodded. “Yes, lovely girl, around my own age. She was quite competent, and we were sorry to lose her but she wanted to go back home to Ireland. I think she missed her family.”
There—again the omission. I nudged Murray ever so slightly.
Murray’s eyes flickered and I knew that once again, she’d caught the shift in energy. “When did she leave?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I was in and out of the house that summer getting ready for my wedding. I really don’t remember,” Irena said. She paused for a moment, as if thinking, then shrugged. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
Murray sat her notebook and pen down on the coffee table. “Mrs. Finch, what would you say if I told you that Brigit never left Chiqetaw? That the skeleton we discovered on your lot is hers? We’ve confirmed it, for all intents and purposes.”
Irena gasped, delicately fluttering a hand to her throat. “Oh my! You can’t be serious?” She gave Murray a wide-eyed correct-me-if-you-dare look. Murray returned it with her own icy stare.
“I don’t joke about death. Brigit’s remains were found stuffed in a hole beneath the yew tree on the back of your lot. We found her diary, her suitcases, and her clothing hidden away in a basement room. We think she may have been murdered, and we want some straight answers. I might remind you that there’s no statute of limitations regarding murder.”
I was suddenly glad that I wasn’t on the receiving end of Murray’s interrogation. Irena sniffed; I could feel her waver. Then she let out a loud sigh.
“I’d help you if I could,” she said, “but I simply don’t know what happened. As I explained, I was heavily involved with wedding plans and at that age, wasn’t thinking too clearly about anyone or anything else.”
Murray flipped her notebook shut. “I see. Thank you for your cooperation.”
I piped up. “Mrs. Finch, on a different subject, may I ask why you don’t want to sell the lot to Joe? I’ve spoken with your brother and he’s given his permission.” I held up the paper he’d signed and she paled as she looked at the signature.
“Yes, I’m also curious to hear your answer,” Mur said. “Why didn’t you want to sell the land, Mrs. Finch? Could it be that you knew the skeleton was there all along?”
I watched Irena wage war with herself. Finally she motioned for me to wait while she picked up the phone, hitting number five on speed dial. After a moment, she said, “Williams? This is Irena. Put through the sale of the lot that fireman wanted. Files. Yes, I said put it through. We have permission from my brother. Yes, from my brother. In writing.”
She replaced the receiver on the cradle. “You made your point. I’ll need a copy of that note for my lawyer. He’ll confirm it with the doctor. You can mail it to him—George Williams. He’s in the book.”
Turning to Murray, she added, “I had no ulterior motives in keeping the land away from Mr. Files. I simply didn’t think my brother was capable of giving the permission needed, but apparently it seems that you and Ms. O’Brien … she flashed me a searching look, “have taken care of that little problem.”
We stood to go. Murray said, “Mrs. Finch, one last question, if you would. Do you know why your brother might feel like he’d done something terrible to Brigit? While we were at the hospital, he broke down and began begging for her forgiveness.”
Irena froze. I could see her throat muscles contract as she breathed. Slowly inhale, slow exhale. After a moment she shook her head. “I can’t think of anything. They barely ever spoke. I’m surprised he even remembers her name.” She blinked and the reserved matriarch was back. “You have to understand something about my brother’s condition. Schizophrenia often includes both paranoia and delusions. Whatever he’s concocted in his mind about Brigit exists only within his own tormented imagination.” She gestured to the door. “And now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have a meeting to attend.”
Murray nodded. “Thank you for your time.”
“I trust you’ll be as discreet as possible about my brother’s information? I’d rather not have it come out now that he’s been locked away all those years.”
I couldn’t read the look on her face, but it wasn’t a good one. We took our leave and headed out for the truck, mulling over what Irena had told us. No concrete answers, and so much unsaid. I wondered if we’d ever find out the truth of the matter. That is, if anybody knew, after all these years.