Late Friday Night, March 31
The Terrace Room—Harrington House Bed-and-Breakfast
River Crest, Ohio
Aubrey Rhodes stood on his room’s terrace at the Harrington House Bed-and-Breakfast, gazing into the cool spring night and puffing on his cigar. It had been a good evening—more than good, an excellent evening—and a successful book launch for his latest novel, Volatile. His social-media maven, a mousy little woman who knew her way around all the platforms, had plastered his face and the party all over the internet—live. He wiggled the fingers on his right hand and flexed. He’d gotten a cramp from signing so many books, and his cheeks were sore from smiling. Running his tongue over his newly capped front teeth, he knew his Hollywood smile had been an excellent investment.
Tracy, his young, blond publicist, had done her job well. The local press and television had been out in force, and he expected to see his picture in the Cincinnati Enquirer on the first page of the Sunday Arts section. The editor of the books section was an old friend from college. And if he were lucky, he’d even get a mention in the Louisville, Cleveland, and Indianapolis papers.
Betty, the old battle-ax owner of the River Crest bookstore, had promoted the hell out of this event, and they’d sold out of his books. Moving the event from Betty’s bookstore to the newly renovated Harrington House was brilliant—his idea, of course. He was, after all, the most famous person from tiny River Crest, Ohio. At first, Betty had been profoundly pissed about the change, but she had still made money. The best thing he had ever done was break up with her during their senior year in high school.
Can’t believe she still holds a grudge after thirty years. He chuckled and took another hit off the cigar.
Aubrey sighed as he remembered the quiet crowd when he stood on the wide oak staircase and read a passage from his novel. And the gasp when he revealed that Harrington House, one of the oldest homes in town, had inspired the house in his novel—and, of course, its secrets. There was barely a dry eye when he said, “I want to personally thank Maggie Harrington for her help in the research for this book. I’ve dedicated the book to her. May she rest in peace.”
He puffed on his cigar and anticipated the reaction to his impending announcement. George, his agent, had felt an inkling that he might be replaced and had asked that they meet after the party. Aubrey had put him off because he had a more pleasant meeting planned. He’d filched a bottle of champagne and a couple of flutes from the cupboard in the butler’s pantry.
A nice touch for our little rendezvous.
Aubrey popped the cork, and champagne foamed onto the blue-and-white tile. He poured himself a glass and set the bottle on the black wrought-iron table. The bubbles tickled his nose as he took a sip. Holding his glass, he ambled to the far corner of the small terrace. He set his champagne on the ledge and sniffed the air.
Smells like rain.
He stared down the gravel lane into the black night, watching for approaching headlights. He hoped his guest would arrive soon, or his little celebration might get a bit soggy.
***
Elnora Harrington lingered around the Terrace Room’s French doors and watched the man prance around the terrace like one of her father’s show horses. She didn’t like how he held his cigar either—another reminder of her father.
“Who does he think he is? Charlie Chaplin?” she asked, knowing he couldn’t hear her. Certain intuitive people could hear her, but he wasn’t one of them. He only heard himself.
In her brief nineteen years of life, and in her long afterlife, the nearly one hundred years she had wandered the halls of her ancestral home, Elnora had loved parties, but there had been so few. During this book celebration, people—mostly women—had touched Aubrey’s sleeve and wanted to talk to him. When they asked him to sign their books, Tracy, a young, blond woman who introduced herself as his publicist, would gently hold the spine open to the title page for him to autograph. By the end of the evening, Elnora wondered if “publicist” was just another term for “servant.”
The man constantly at Aubrey’s elbow was George, his agent, a sweaty, fidgety man who directed Aubrey from one important person to another, like the mayor, or the mayor’s wife, and a local businessman, Brad Metzner—and Elnora got the definite impression that her great-niece, Molly, didn’t like Brad very much. Soon, Elnora realized George was not directing Aubrey toward people but away from a certain well-dressed young man who kept trying to corner Aubrey to discuss what he called “future possibilities.” Aubrey called him Justin.
Oh my goodness. George thinks he’s getting sacked!
Elnora had been so excited at the prospect of this juicy bit of gossip that the table lamps flickered.
“Storm’s coming,” someone said. “It’s getting late.”
“Don’t want to get stuck up on this hill in the rain,” another woman added.
While wandering through the butler’s pantry, Elnora heard the blond publicist on a telephone call confirming the rumor of George’s impending replacement. Elnora sat on the granite counter and listened.
“George is going to be so upset. I almost feel sorry for him,” Tracy whispered into her tiny telephone, not much bigger than a deck of playing cards. Tracy helped herself to a glass of wine while listening to the person on the other end. “I gotta go. Someone’s coming.” Tracy disconnected just as Elnora’s great-niece, Molly, entered the room carrying a tray of dirty wineglasses.
“Can I get something for you?” Molly asked.
“No, just taking a break,” Tracy said. “Great party.”
Ha! Elnora thought as Tracy finished her wine and set the glass on the tray before returning to the party.
If anything, Elnora was observant. She didn’t miss much—not one furtive glance or clandestine touch—but she didn’t know whom Aubrey had invited back to his room. Even she couldn’t be everywhere. That’s when she had decided to hang around and see who showed up for this after-hours tête-à-tête. To Elnora, it had become a game.
When dealing with eternity, one does what one can to amuse oneself.
The visitor had to be important, because after the house was quiet, Aubrey had sneaked down the stairs and had the audacity to steal champagne from the fancy icebox with the freezing compartment that made its own ice cubes.
Upon returning to his room, he had stepped on the creaky floorboard at the top of the stairs. Elnora noticed that the door across the hall opened enough for a brown eye to peek through the crack.
What was her name? Lucy? Lory? Lindsay, that’s it!
The girl reminded Elnora of a teacher from that horrid young ladies’ finishing school her parents had sent her to. Aubrey called her his “social-media maven.” Elnora didn’t know what that was but thought it might mean “nosy.”
Elnora’s mother had always said, “Put your nose where it doesn’t belong, and you might get it cut off.” Her mother had all kinds of sayings.
Elnora returned her attention to Aubrey’s visitor and began listing the party’s most beautiful and influential women. Not the bookstore owner…maybe the mayor’s wife, or one of those giggly women. Surely not her beautiful niece Vanessa. Elnora would be so disappointed in her if it were.
But wait a minute, she mused. Perhaps this visitor is a man. She remembered the handsome young man in a tailored suit—that Justin person. Aubrey had spent a lot of time talking to him in the parlor.
The headlights of the approaching motor car illuminated Aubrey’s face. He squinted and muttered, “Finally.”
Elnora gasped as he stuffed his cigar butt into the potted plant.
“Heathen!” she called to his back, levitating to avoid him walking through her—not usually a pleasant experience.
Perching on the upstairs railing, Elnora watched Aubrey carefully open the front door. The night light wavered across the inlaid beveled glass as he ushered in his guest. The visitor was a surprise—not whom Elnora expected. Aubrey peeked into the darkened parlor, checking to ensure no one had come downstairs, Elnora assumed.
When Elnora returned to the Terrace Room, Aubrey and his guest were in deep conversation. The visitor sipped champagne from a crystal flute while Aubrey paced about the terrace carrying one of his books. Then Aubrey laughed—a loud, sneering cackle.
“What are you talking about?” he asked. “Do you think I’m a fool?”
When Aubrey turned his back, he continued his rant of insults and curse words directed at the visitor, who set the flute on the table. It toppled onto the floor and shattered on the blue-and-white tiles. Picking up the champagne bottle at the neck, the visitor swung, hitting Aubrey in the head. The champagne splashed onto the tiles. Aubrey staggered around, a shocked look on his face, before tumbling against the terrace’s brick wall and falling to the floor.
Flying to his side, Elnora cried out, “What have you done?”
The visitor set the nearly empty bottle on the table and, with a slight hesitation but without another look at Aubrey, exited the terrace, peeked out the bedroom door, and then left. Elnora bent over Aubrey and watched his eyelids flutter as he slipped into unconsciousness.
Immediately, Elnora was behind the visitor on the stairs.
“You have to tell someone!” Elnora shouted. “You can’t just leave him there. He’s dying!” But, of course, the visitor couldn’t hear her, no matter how loudly she screamed.
At the bottom of the staircase, the visitor glanced to either side, quickly stepped across the foyer, and quietly slipped out the front door. Elnora floated back to Aubrey’s side, but it was too late. She felt his life force trickling away. Deciding to wait for him, she sat on the wrought-iron chair. It wouldn’t be long.
“Who are you?” Aubrey said as he rolled into a seated position.
“Elnora Harrington.”
He stood and stretched his neck. “Elnora? Impossible. She’s dead.”
Elnora stood and pointed at him. “So are you.”
He laughed and patted his chest. “You can’t be serious. I feel great.”
“Look.” Elnora directed his attention to his physical body lying on the floor, dark blood spreading across the white tile. He leaned forward as if to verify the identity and then looked back at Elnora, wide-eyed and bewildered.
A lightning bolt crashed across the sky, and immediately, the atmosphere felt different—close and foreboding.
“Oh no,” Elnora cried as she levitated. “I have to go.” She’d felt like this before. The darkness was coming.
“Don’t leave. I don’t know what’s happening,” he pleaded.
“I’m sorry, but you won’t like what happens next.”
Moments later, Elnora sat in the attic with her hands over her ears. She couldn’t stand his screams.