Chapter 23
Thea
Everything about the previous day was unsettling. She couldn’t get Effie’s poem recitation out of her mind, nor could she stop second-guessing the offer to sort through the old asylum records. As much as her spirit yearned to flee the asylum forever, it was as if an unseen hand held on to the hem of her dress and pulled her back. Making her stay. Like Thea recalled wishing she could do as a little girl when her mother’s feet had carried her down the walkway and out of Thea’s life.
During the night, Thea had wandered with restless unease to the window and peered down over the silent street. There was no woman dancing through the fog. No ghosts or visions or spirits. The dead had remained dead last night, even though Thea could hear Mr. Mendelsohn’s troublesome voice deep in her mind.
“A wandering spirit is nothing to bandy about as nonsense.”
The old photographer, with his skinny hands, would drum his fingers on the top of the table and stare across it at Thea. She’d never, in the years spent with him, grown accustomed to the cold superstitions that rested in his eyes.
“A gentleman whose son I photographed after a specific bout with the measles wrote to me later inquiring as to whether I’d seen his son’s spirit in the photograph. Indeed, I had. Floating just up and to the right of his actual dead form. Of course, I denied it, for who was I to encourage the wanderings into the afterlife of a very healthy man? Still, a month later, his wife returned the photograph of the dead child to me. Her husband had taken his life one night after claiming he’d been stoking the fire and had turned around to see his son rise suddenly from a prostrate position on the couch—as if from inside a coffin.”
Thea recalled his stories, spoken with such conviction that she too half believed them to be true. Half believed that Mr. Mendelsohn’s teachings of the afterlife were as logical as the instructions of how to work his camera. But now? Mrs. Amos had indicated her faith in a Creator, with a vested interest in them—in Thea—and that idea was much more welcoming. It would change the concept of the afterlife too. For wouldn’t a Creator have a plan for the dead beyond just allowing their souls to wander aimlessly? That belief made Heaven seem possible, life seem purposeful, and the darkness lift, even if just a little bit, to allow light in.
Now, Thea buttoned her skirt at the side of her waist, inspecting herself and her dress in the mirror. Satisfied, she pinned a simple velvet hat to her hair and snatched her reticule from the desk. When she opened the door, she gasped as Mr. Fritz, the other boardinghouse guest, stood with his hand poised to knock. He blustered and wiped his hand over his mouth as he collected his wits. He seemed as surprised as she was.
“My apologies, Miss Reed. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Thea eyed him as she drew her door shut behind her. “Yes?”
Mr. Fritz shifted his weight and tugged on his coat, regaining his proper confidence. “I was meaning to inquire—about the topic of conversation the other morning. I was hoping you might help me understand a bit more of the story surrounding Kramer Logging and this family, the Coyles.”
Thea narrowed her eyes and took a few steps toward the stairwell that would take her to the front entrance of the boardinghouse. The idea of escaping to Mr. Amos’s studio was growing in its appeal. Not to mention, she wanted to visit him now that Mrs. Amos had sent her last message, with the doctor saying he was “out of the woods.”
Mr. Fritz followed her.
Thea lifted her skirts as she descended the stairs. She answered him over her shoulder. “I don’t believe I will be of much assistance, being new to Pleasant Valley myself.”
And quite unnerved by it all, she might have added. But she didn’t.
She paused at the bottom and turned, leveling a censorious eye on the man. “Why do you wish to know?”
Mr. Fritz offered a small smile. The kind that tried to imply he posed no danger and insinuated he wasn’t nosy—like Mrs. Brummel. He twisted his bowler hat in his hands. “I’ll be frank with you.”
“Please do,” Thea encouraged, her eyes narrowing as she attempted to read beyond Mr. Fritz’s platonic smile into the depths behind his rather normal brown eyes.
“Have you ever heard of Nellie Bly?” he asked.
Thea blinked. “I have not.”
“No.” Mr. Fritz shook his head. “No, I don’t suppose you have. Regardless, I’d like to speak with you further about your impressions of this community. Being new and all. Mrs. Brummel has implied that you’ve become rather—close—to Simeon Coyle. I know they are distantly related to the Fortunes, who own the logging company, who in turn are related to Reginald Kramer, the founder of Valley Heights Asylum.”
Thea watched him pause, seem to collect his thoughts in the same cadence as he collected his breath. She glanced beyond them, toward the main lounge of the boardinghouse. It wouldn’t surprise her if she were to see Mrs. Brummel’s shadow stretched across the floor. Eavesdropping. Collecting hearsay that she could then twist and cajole into interesting stories for the rest of her boarders and town friends.
Mr. Fritz continued. “Nellie Bly is a journalist from New York. About twenty years ago, she committed herself into an asylum with the purpose of bringing to light the—ah—travesties of treatment, so one might put it, that the patients were subjected to.”
Thea had no idea where this was going, but a restlessness inside her made her edge her way toward the door. Toward escape. But Mr. Fritz followed like a horsefly on a hot, muggy day.
Once on the sidewalk, Thea turned to him. “Mr. Fritz, I’m sure I’m not following why you’ve an interest in my opinions—which are merely that. Opinion. I daresay, you would be wise to leave it all alone.”
She didn’t know why she’d added the warning at the end. Whether to mimic Mrs. Brummel’s insistence that indeed an accursed spirit of a murdered woman would haunt him, or more likely because something within her wished to protect Rose—to protect Simeon. Her heart warmed. She blushed. Wishing she hadn’t.
Mr. Fritz noticed, his expression growing shrewd.
“I’m a newspaperman. I’m from Milwaukee and, considering Miss Bly’s exposé, I’m not the first to be inspired to investigate the well-being of the patients at asylums such as Valley Heights. Yet here I find there is a much deeper story, or so it seems.”
Thea wished she were brave enough to be rude, to turn on her heel and walk away. Yet, something held her. Mr. Fritz was as hypnotized by the mysteries of this town and its generational conditions as she was.
Mr. Fritz lowered his voice, glancing all directions before speaking again. “Mrs. Brummel stated you were assisting Mr. Coyle in photographing the patients at the hospital. You have gained access to a very private institution. To areas of the hospital a mere visitor is not allowed to go. I was wondering if I could hire you to . . .” He paused, reading her face as if to determine whether she was even a tiny bit open to listening. What he saw must have encouraged him, for he cleared his throat and continued, “I would like to hire you to report to me the conditions of the patients. Their treatment. The staff’s methods of helping during patient distresses.”
“You wish for me to spy?” Thea was incredulous. The very idea of nosing around the hospital for the purpose of solving whether her own mother had been a patient there already had her in great turmoil. Reporting back to a newspaperman seemed unconscionable. Especially if it implicated Simeon and Rose in the process. By means of simply being the grandchildren—the disowned grandchildren—of Reginald Kramer.
“I wish for you to help me gather the information needed to give Valley Heights a positive report. Mental asylums are not particularly in good standing with most people. Communities are becoming suspicious of abuse and the mishandling of patients. Still, we know these places of care are necessary for certain individuals.”
“Abuse? Mishandling?” Thea echoed.
“Yes.” Mr. Fritz extended his elbow to silently communicate he would escort her to wherever she was headed. Thea tucked her hand in its crook for no other reason than she was uncomfortable discussing it in the middle of the boardwalk on Pleasant Valley’s main street.
She started toward the portrait studio. Mr. Fritz fell into place beside her.
“It’s a delicate subject, really, Miss Reed. And you should know . . . some of it might challenge your sensibilities.”
Thea gave him a sideways glance that probably was more of a sneer. “I take photographs of corpses, Mr. Fritz. If my sensibilities were any more hardened, I’d exhume their bodies and practice surgical science on them. So, please, do continue.”
He had the gallantry to blanch at her boldness. At her mention of the activity of dissecting cadavers to practice medical skills.
“Well then. Aside from rough-handling and the like, some hospitals have taken to . . .” He sidestepped horse droppings as they crossed the road to the other side. They hurried in front of a logger’s wagon that was clambering toward them, the massive horses in front, the logger perched high on his seat. Riding along in the wagon bed sat a few more loggers. All of the men were covered in flannel and denim, on their way to Kramer Logging for a day’s work.
Once they reached the other side of the road, Mr. Fritz went on with what he was saying. “Sterilization,” he said in a rush.
Thea stopped on the sidewalk. “Pardon?”
Mr. Fritz shifted his feet. “Some doctors have subscribed to the practice of sterilizing their patients to avoid any reproduction of the genetic abnormalities.”
Thea’s heart pounded, and her breaths quickened. But she quickly composed herself. It had never occurred to her that a hospital committed to caring for those with troubled minds would resort to such inhumane care. Let alone . . . her imagination went wild. What exactly was sterilization anyway? She had no desire to ask Mr. Fritz to expound on it.
“Is that all?” she demanded.
Mr. Fritz ran his fingers over the brim of his hat, which he’d set on his head when they’d begun their walk. “No. There are other atrocities. I’m doubtful with a hospital as small as Valley Heights that they’d be applying experimental treatments to the patients’ brains; however, in larger hospitals, this is a somewhat frequent practice. Accepted as well. But I find it—”
“Appalling.” Thea’s response was slightly louder than a whisper. She glanced toward the door of the portrait studio that they now stood facing. While she couldn’t see through the door or through the walls to the river beyond, her mind could conjure the imagery there. The forest, the serene brick hospital set a ways off in the darkness, alone. And the small graveyard . . .
Mr. Fritz’s declarations brought an entirely different story to her mind. A troubling one. One of a mother struggling, leaving her daughter behind, entering a facility claiming to be devoted to her care, and then . . . experimentation.
If indeed what Mr. Fritz said was true, where did Valley Heights fall on the scale of good and bad? Were Rose and Simeon aware of any mistreatment? Had Simeon buried the evidence of abuse under the silent covering of the woods?
“Yes.” Thea heard the word escape her mouth before she could ponder further. Mr. Fritz’s gaze flew to meet hers.
“You will assist me, then?”
Thea nodded, though her stomach felt sick at the idea. “Yes, but if—if there’s anything untoward happening there . . .” She hesitated. But, no. It was a tale that must be told, if there was any truth to it. “Then I will tell you.”
Mr. Fritz’s mouth thinned into a smile that wasn’t victorious or elated. More resigned. “Thank you, Miss Reed. My hopes are that you will indeed find nothing amiss.”
“I have one condition,” Thea added.
Mr. Fritz raised his brows. “Condition?”
“If you uncover more of the story of the Coyles—of Misty Wayfair, of Kramer Logging—you will tell me first.”
Mr. Fritz cocked his head, suspicious. “Why? What interests you so about the Coyles?”
Thea’s chest tightened. With emotion, perhaps, or trepidation. Or both. “I sense that both Simeon and his sister, Rose, are merely pawns in a line of unfortunate events. They are both employed at the hospital, and if something were to be exposed there, and more was brought to light of their family history, I feel it only a kindness to know of it and to—”
“To protect them?” Mr. Fritz supplied.
Perhaps, yes, that was what she was hoping. Thea nodded.
The newspaperman eyed her for a moment, then gave a short nod. “Very well. However, I’m still uncertain as to why you have such a vested and loyal interest in them. They’re of no consequence to you.”
He was right.
But even though Simeon wasn’t beside her, Thea could feel the depths of Simeon’s shadowy eyes on her. The way his very frame drew her to him. As if, somehow, and for some reason, they were bound together, and they just didn’t know why.
After a day at the studio, Thea determined to visit Mr. Amos. He would be pleased—she hoped—that she’d successfully completed a sitting with Mr. Fortune. The man had returned, quite wary, and with an air of being offended Mr. Amos had dared to have a heart attack. Even so, Mr. Fortune settled, and Thea had finally taken a photograph.
Mrs. Amos opened the door at Thea’s knock, and a smile met her faded blue eyes.
“Oh, dear me. You’ve come for a visit! Bless you!”
Thea slipped inside the house, the warmth of the front room almost suffocating her. While her elders must be chilled, Thea missed the fresh air that had been shut out behind her.
“How is he?” she inquired politely.
Mrs. Amos looked over her shoulder, her lace cap dangling around her ears, with white wisps of hair framing her face as she returned her attention to Thea. “He’s restless, to be sure. He wants to return to the studio and keeps grouching that he has appointments to fulfill. Whatever those may be. I ask”—Mrs. Amos put a conspiratorial hand on Thea’s arm—“how many photographs can one man take in a town this size? I’ve no idea. He doesn’t realize that if our children didn’t wire us funds, we’d be most destitute.”
Thea gave an empathetic smile to the old woman, not for the last time wondering what inspired Mr. Amos to stay in Pleasant Valley when it seemed his family had long left the town behind them.
“Come.” Mrs. Amos led her through the front room to a bedroom in the back of the small two-story house. A well-worn carpet runner, which had seen better days, lined the hall.
The door to the bedroom stood open and was quite narrow, revealing a bed, wide enough for only one person, against the far wall. Thea also noted a single window with lace curtains, a small bureau cluttered with knickknacks, and an end table with a stack of books on top. Mr. Amos, propped against pillows, greeted her with a cranky frown.
“What are you doing here?” he grumbled.
His wife flustered around him, straightening his blankets, tugging on his shirtsleeve to pull it down to his wrist.
Mr. Amos gave her hand a light slap. “Stop your mollycoddling! I’m not dead.”
“You were dead enough to see the Lord himself, I daresay,” Mrs. Amos shot back, though her wrinkled face was still wreathed in a patient smile. “Dear Simeon brought you back to the land of the living.”
Mr. Amos glowered at her. “I’ve not been resurrected. You exaggerate, old woman.”
“And you grumble too much, old man.” She gave him a pat on the shoulder and sidled past Thea. She gave a wink and whispered, “Enjoy yourself, my dear.” Mrs. Amos then disappeared down the hall, leaving Thea standing there in the doorway.
“Well, now that you’re here.” Mr. Amos speared her with a look. “What is it you want?”
Thea drew a deep breath and entered the room, standing awkwardly over him until he pointed to a chair in the corner. She slid it over toward the bed and lowered herself onto it. Taking out Mr. Fortune’s newly developed photograph, she handed it to him.
Mr. Amos took it from her, his eyes glossing over the picture. “He came back, eh?”
Thea nodded. “I’m quite proud of the photograph. He cooperated and didn’t show me any disdain.” She’d expected Mr. Fortune wouldn’t want a woman photographing him. Mr. Amos raised an irritable brow. “I’d have denied him services if I had the resources to afford it. Can’t stand the Fortunes. Highfalutin ninnies in a town of lessers, they are. So they think anyway.” He handed the photograph back to her. “You should be proud of it. Figurin’ as you take pictures of the dead, a live one is bound to look a lot better.”
Thea bit back a smile. After years of following Mr. Mendelsohn around and always feeling rather assaulted under his elderly gaze that lingered too long, she thought Mr. Amos a welcome relief. He was grumpy. A harmless grump with an edge of grandfatherly fondness that laced his words by way of soft eyes.
“I want you to know, Mr. Amos, I’ve been keeping up with your appointments. All of them.” Thea made sure she emphasized the word all. She didn’t think he’d want her mentioning the asylum out loud.
Mr. Amos frowned. “Whaddya mean?”
“Well,” Thea explained further, folding her hands in her lap, “you will have no lost revenue from the appointments in your books. I will be sure to keep them and develop the photographs for you. As well as your—your other ventures.”
“What other ventures? What’re you talkin’ about?”
Thea hesitated. Simeon had said he was working with Mr. Amos, hadn’t he? Yes. It was Mr. Amos’s camera equipment. The photo album of patients in the back room.
“I’m working with Simeon,” she admitted, lowering her voice.
Mr. Amos’s eyes widened. He braced himself on either side, his hands pressed against the mattress, raising himself into a sitting position. “Now, you listen here . . .” He glanced toward the door, as if someone might be standing there, listening. Thea looked too. There was no one. “You leave Simeon alone.” Mr. Amos wagged his finger at her.
Thea tipped her head in correction. “Simeon requested I help him. It was at his behest.”
Mr. Amos’s scowl deepened. “Then he’s just as crazy as—missy, that place ain’t—you just best not,” he struggled to finish his command.
“Whyever not?” she couldn’t help but ask.
Mr. Amos eyed her. For a long moment, he said not a word. Finally he opened his mouth, bordered by unshaven gray whiskers that covered some of the gauntness in his cheeks. “I said I’d photograph the patients. Not more than a few weeks ago. The missus and I . . . well, money has been scarce lately.”
Thea waited.
Mr. Amos adjusted the blanket around his waist.
“I’ve had a fondness for Simeon,” he continued. “For years. The boy always shadowed my shop—back in the day when things were a bit brighter here in Pleasant Valley. Before . . . before Simeon’s parents passed, and the darkness of those rumors started up again. But that place? That place isn’t a place for you. You stay away from it. From Simeon. From the Coyles, you hear?”
“But why?” Thea pressed. Simeon was almost as timid as a man could be, and Rose was ethereal and lost in her grief, but fulfilled by her work at the hospital.
Mr. Amos shook his head. “You trust me, Miss Reed. Nothin’ good comes from befriending a Coyle.”
It wasn’t the first time she’d heard that.
“I don’t believe it,” Thea argued.
Mr. Amos skewered her with a stern glare. “Believe it. There’s more to that family than meets the eye. The Kramers. The Coyles. Misty Wayfair.”
“Do you know what it is?” Thea ventured, holding her breath.
Mr. Amos stared at her, then turned his head to look out the window.
“Seems strange, don’t it, that a dead woman wouldn’t lie in peace? That she’d haunt a family—a town—like a vengeful spirit?”
“If you believe that sort of thing,” Thea responded. Mr. Mendelsohn’s devoted superstitions quickened her heart.
“I don’t believe that sort of thing!” Mr. Amos turned back to her. His eyes were direct. Firm. Convicted. “Yet, it keeps happenin’. Someone keeps taking them. One by one. There’s no explanation for the Coyles dying, and their passings are too coincidental in my book. First their father, Mathilda Coyle herself, their mother, and now Mary? No. No, I don’t believe that sort of thing. But there’s got to be an explanation. God knows, as a man of faith, our eternal destination isn’t limbo. I know where I’m going when I die, by the grace of God himself. And I know that Misty Wayfair is as dead now as she was fifty-odd years ago. So, if it’s not Misty Wayfair, then who is it? I ain’t never heard of that many people in one family passing away in such strange ways, you know?”
A coldness settled over Thea. She swallowed, but it seemed apprehension had lodged in her throat. Suddenly the concept of Misty Wayfair became far less ghostly, and far more human.
Mr. Amos nodded slowly. “Someone murdered Misty Wayfair way back when. They’re all connected. And there are only two Coyles left, ya hear? Whoever wants to avenge Misty Wayfair all these years later? I don’t think they’re gonna stop with Mary. And if you’re with them—”
“Then I’m just in the way,” Thea finished.
Mr. Amos patted his heart. “This malady may be God’s way of tellin’ me to back off before they take me too. Poor Simeon and Rose. Thought I could help. Thought I could keep them safe, but—it’s comin’ for them.” He met Thea’s eyes. “And, whoever it is, they ain’t going to stop until every Coyle is buried in the cold, hard ground.”