THE DARKLING
PEGASUS CRIME
NEW YORK LONDON
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For Debby Porter Pruett, DeWitt Lobrano, David Haines, Boris Karloff, and my crazy, ghost-hunting family.
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1
JULY 7, 1974
A whipping summer gust blasted off the water, sending a paper bag skittering across the parking lot of Beauchamp’s Grocery. I couldn’t see the water from the parked car where I waited with my grandmother, but I could smell it. That tang of salt and fish and a wildness from the marsh grass that made me long to get out and stretch my legs in a brisk walk.
“It won’t be long,” Cora said, patting my leg. “Don’t fidget.”
My grandmother was a social worker for the Department of Pensions and Security, later renamed Human Resources. Annie had come to her attention when she was picked up on the streets of downtown Mobile. At first it was thought she was a teen prostitute, but Cora claimed she was an amnesiac, a girl with a big imagination, a talent for storytelling, and no one to love her, no memory of where she’d come from or what she was meant to be doing. Cora had a soft touch for mistreated children, but she wasn’t in the habit of dragging them home. Annie was different, though. Something about her had tugged at Cora’s heartstrings.
I was already working as a tutor for the three Henderson children—a job I’d held since the previous May. In the short weeks of my employment, I had found my place in the family. I taught lessons, but more than that; I was valued and respected as part of the family.
I went to work the day after my college graduation, eager yet also unsure. Now I’d gained my footing, but the addition of another teen gave me concern. Cora would hear none of my worries.
“She’s a teenager with no place to turn. Give her a chance, Mimi,” Cora said. “You may discover you have things in common.”
The things I’d have in common with her would be that I would have another charge to educate. My life with the Hendersons was nearly perfect—I didn’t see the need to include another child.
Shifting on the car seat to better see my grandmother, I asked, “Why did the Hendersons agree to take her in?” Most families I knew would never consider harboring a strange child, especially a sixteen-year-old girl who had no memory of who she was or where she’d come from. Annie was the only name she’d give.
Grandma, who I’d grown up calling Cora, believed in the power of love. All of my life, she’d told me how love could heal any wound, patch any hole in a person’s soul. Love was her miracle drug.
“The Hendersons have room and plenty of love. Once Annie feels secure, her memory will return. I suspect she’s been through a terrible trauma. The doctors believe her amnesia comes from some shocking event or accident. The Hendersons are the perfect family to help her heal. Belle Fleur is the place for her. You’ll be a part of her healing, Mimi. Perhaps you, too, will find the experience curative.”
I wasn’t certain that was true. Even after thirty years as a social worker, Cora wanted to believe the best of people. I was only twenty-one, just out of college, and I knew better. But I said nothing. Cora was a figure beloved in the Coden community. She’d asked the Hendersons to foster Annie, and so they would.
Cora had gotten me the tutoring job, a full-time position that required me to use my education degree from the University of South Alabama to its maximum potential. I was the compromise between Bob and Berta Henderson. Bob loved old Belle Fleur, the house of his dreams and the perfect project to show his architectural and renovation abilities. He’d bought the property against Berta’s wishes. He’d completed the renovation before she’d consider moving here. Bob wanted the slower pace—and perceived safety—of a small, rural Alabama town to raise his children.
Berta, a California girl through and through, refused to send her children to the Alabama public schools. She was more than a bit horrified by the curriculum, not to mention the prevalence of “portable” classrooms, essentially trailers. Before she’d move from the heavenon-earth of Cambria, California, to Alabama, she negotiated a live-in tutor, four week-long trips to “cities with culture,” an in-home movie theater, and piano and violin lessons for all the children. I was young, unattached, and credentialed in teaching. Though I’d been living with Cora, I also longed for a family, something I found nestled in the brood of blond Hendersons. I felt as if the job had been created especially for me.
The three children, Donald, nine, Erin, twelve, and Margo, sixteen, were not spoiled, but they were willful. Donald quickly became my favorite. Erin charmed me with her energy, and Margo challenged me. How would this new child, this orphan, fit into the mix? I wasn’t sure this was a good idea.
“The bus is late.” Cora frowned. “When I was a young woman like yourself, the bus was the only way to get into Mobile. Folks didn’t have cars like today. We relied on the bus, and it was on time. I know I sound like a fuddy-duddy, but this whole country is going to hell in a handbasket.”
We were only six years past the terrible murder of Dr. Martin Luther King, a man my grandmother revered. His death shook her faith in her fellow countrymen and the basic goodness of America, but she didn’t stop trying or believing. Girls like Annie—the abandoned, the thrown away, the damaged goods—this was where she made her mark. America might have lost its way, but Cora knew the steep and rocky path she was meant to trod.
The bus pulled in front of the grocery store on a belch of black smoke. It looked as old and worn as the setting. I was about to step out of the car when a gust of wind caught the heavy Pontiac door and slammed it with vicious force, almost catching my hand.
When I looked up, Annie was standing beside the car. Dark curls batted about her small, pinched face. She was beautiful, elfin almost, and she looked so lost. The word that came to mind was “stray.” Like a dog or cat hungry for love and attention. I opened the car door, pushing against the wind that tried to keep me safe inside. She simply stood there, as if she didn’t know how to help. At last I got the door open and got out.
I extended my hand. “I’m Marie Bosarge. You can call me Mimi,” I told her. “I’m Cora’s granddaughter. I’m the tutor at the Hendersons.”
She shivered in a gust of hot air, and I realized she was nervous. Her too-short dress exposed long legs, lean but shapely. She was sixteen, and she looked starved. She came with only one suitcase, a battered brown thing that had once tried to pass itself off as leather before the surface had been scraped and the cardboard beneath revealed. I picked it up and put it in the spacious trunk.
“Climb in,” Grandma ordered. “The Hendersons are waiting.”
Annie clambered into the back seat, teeth chattering. Cora turned off the air conditioner and away we went, racing down Shore Road ahead of the storm that brewed to the south. The squall had blown in quickly, as marine gales are wont to do. In the summer, we worried about hurricanes, but the Gulf was empty of the whirling tempests that could wreck a coastal town and kill hundreds with high winds and water.
With the air conditioner off, the car was like an oven, and I rolled down my window for a moment of fresh air. Seagulls cried and cawed, circling the marshy shore. The wind seemed to have confused them because they swooped at the car as if they meant to attack. They were curious birds, but not stupid. The erratic behavior puzzled me.
“What’s wrong with the gulls?” Cora asked.
“It’s almost as if they’re disoriented. Maybe something to do with the storm.” I’d spent a bit of time bird-watching, and I’d never seen gulls pursue a car. “Or maybe … blind.” They acted as if they’d lost their ability to see.
“Maybe it’s the car,” Annie said from the backseat. “They’re following us.”
It was true. The birds moved down the road with us. To my complete horror, a gull came straight at the car like a missile. I reached over and honked the horn as Cora applied the brakes.
“Good lord!” she jerked the wheel, sending my head banging into the passenger window. In the backseat, Annie slammed against the door. The bird hit the windshield with a bloody smack as Cora brought the car under control and stopped.
I got out quickly and checked the bird, but it was hopeless. The impact had killed it instantly. The other birds wheeled and cried, circling above me and the car, but they made no attempt to get closer. I moved the carcass to the side of the road. When I got back inside, Cora’s hands shook on the steering wheel.
“I can’t believe that happened,” Cora said. “I’ve driven this road my entire life. I’ve never hit a gull.”
“Something was wrong with it,” I said. In my family, the death of any creature was cause for grief. I was partial to birds and I’d trained as an amateur ornithologist. I wasn’t an expert, but I knew gulls didn’t deliberately dive into the windshields of cars traveling fifty miles an hour.
Cora was shaken but tried not to show it. “It had to have been sick. I’m sorry, Annie. I don’t want that to spoil your arrival here in Coden.”
“I don’t believe in omens. At least it was a quick death,” Annie said. “It didn’t suffer.”
I hated it when people mouthed platitudes. A quick death. What did that mean? Annie had no clue what she was talking about, but I wisely kept quiet. Cora was struggling to regain her composure, and I didn’t want to do anything that would make it harder for her.
She put the car in DRIVE and we started along Shore Road at a more sedate pace. When I glanced back in the side mirror, I saw a dozen other gulls pecking the corpse. They tore at it with a savage frenzy. Gulls were scavengers, but I’d never seen them feast on a freshly dead comrade. My gaze connected with Annie’s in the rearview mirror. She watched me with cool calculation.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. She was so calm, I could only imagine what hardships she’d endured to gain such composure.
“Nothing.” I had no desire to spoil her arrival at Belle Fleur. The Henderson family was waiting, a happy occasion. Cora had planned this for days. The bird’s death was unfortunate, but there was no reason to mar the remainder of the day.
“Wild creatures are unpredictable, don’t you think?” she asked.
“Seagulls are hardly wild creatures.”
Annie broke her gaze from mine. “Will the Hendersons like me?” she asked Cora.
“I’m certain they will. This is a big day for them, too. I’ve told them all about you.”
Out of the corner of my eye I watched Cora put aside her shock and assume her professional demeanor. “All we know,” I added. “There wasn’t a lot to tell since you can’t remember anything about your past.”
“They’ll be charmed by you,” Cora said. “And you will adore them.”
“Will they adopt me?” Annie asked.
Cora hesitated. “We’ve talked about this, Annie. You’re sixteen. That’s a bit old for adoption. They may foster you until it’s time for college. That would be a wonderful outcome for you.”
“Yes,” she said.
I couldn’t see her expression, for her face was hidden behind a blowing strand of dark curls, but her voice sounded less than sure. She merely wanted to be loved, I thought. Who could not love a child so beautiful and damaged?
2
WELCOME, ANNIE
The banner hung in the live oaks that lent the front lawn of Belle Fleur an air of grace and elegance. The house, surrounded by oaks, camellias, azaleas, and other hardy shrubs, faced the road and the water. To me, it looked like a photograph, something captured on film from a bygone time when houses were built with care and attention to detail. As we drew closer, I could see the love Berta had showered on the house in the hanging ferns along the front porch, the freshly painted wicker furniture, the pots of geraniums that bloomed blood-red. Bob had loved the house first, but Berta had grown to love it over the summer.
Cora stopped the car a dozen yards from the five Hendersons who stood beneath the banner. Bob and Berta wore welcoming smiles. Donald had his typical open friendliness that always made me think of Huck Finn or Tom Sawyer. He was all boy, all adventure, all happy to include a poor waif with no memory. Erin was unsure. Margo was trouble. The instant Annie stepped out of the car, Margo took her measure and a sneer crossed her face. I couldn’t say I blamed her. Annie and Margo were the same age. No matter how hard Berta worked at it, both girls would compete for her love. It was the way of the teenager.
“Annie!” Berta came forward, extending the joyful welcome of a California goddess. Berta was sun and oranges and blue-eyed beauty. She was a perfect match for Bob, who could have played Robert Redford playing Gatsby.
The two of them had produced three children as golden and blond as the loins from which they sprang. Against them, Annie appeared foreign and dark, a dainty child compared to the tall Nordic Hendersons.
Berta engulfed her in an embrace. “Welcome.”
Annie clung to her. Her thin arms circled Berta’s neck and she didn’t let go until Bob offered her an embrace. She almost disappeared in his hug. Donald and Erin seemed amused. Margo rolled her eyes and mouthed the word “baby” at me.
Introductions were made and we went into the house for cake and ice cream, a treat Berta reserved for birthdays and special occasions—sugar wasn’t normally allowed. Berta had brought a head full of crazy California ideas with her. She believed in “healthful” treats like apples and pears, but Annie’s first day with the family was a momentous occasion and would be celebrated as such.
We gathered round the dining table for the welcome fete, and at first, chatter animated the room. Cora sat beside Annie, and she glanced at her often, the guardian of a lost child’s safety. Cora was worried, though she did a good job of hiding it, and I wondered why. Annie seemed okay. She attacked the cake and ice cream as if she were starving, and I had to wonder how long it had been since she’d had enough to eat. While I refilled coffee cups and laughed with the others, I watched Annie. She seemed eager to fit in. Maybe Cora was right—this wouldn’t be a problem, but a joy.
As we relished the delicious pound cake Berta had baked from yard eggs she’d raised, the chatter died and an uneasy quiet settled over the dining room. When Berta offered Annie a second piece of cake, she nodded eagerly.
“Mama made pound cake because she said everyone liked it,” Donald said. “What’s your favorite, Annie?”
For a brief moment she looked like an animal caught in the headlights of a fast-approaching car. “I don’t know. This is delicious.”
“But what’s your favorite?” Donald pressed. “Erin loves chocolate. Margo likes coconut pie. What do you like?”
Annie looked around the room as if she might read the answer from someone’s face. “I don’t remember. Probably pound cake. I could eat the whole thing.”
“And then you can waddle around the house,” Margo said.
Berta shot her a warning look, but Margo ignored it. In the last few weeks, she’d begun to defy Berta. And to a lesser extent, me. She was falling behind on her studies and was often on the phone. The move had been hardest on her, tearing her from her teenage companions. At sixteen, she was legal to drive and wanted to have more of a social life than Coden could provide. Of all the children, she missed California the most. When she was banned from the phone, she wrote endless letters to her old classmates and lately had taken to sneaking out of the house. To what end, I didn’t know. There was nowhere to go and nothing to do in Coden. The town shut down at five o’clock.
Though I’d never been a problem teen, I empathized with Margo and felt she was simply testing her wings for that leap of flight from the nest. Still, she behaved like a brat, and Berta was fed up with her conduct.
“Do you remember anything about your past?” Margo pressed Annie. “I mean, surely someone must be missing a wonderful child like you. Cora has been singing your praises for weeks.” The edge in her tone made Berta push back from the table.
“I know some things,” Annie said. “I get dressed and I know how to read and do math. I think I know how to drive …” she shrugged. “It’s strange because I don’t know what I know until I try it.”
“Do you know how to ride horses?” Erin asked, oblivious to the darker undercurrent between the two older girls.
“Maybe.” Annie’s smile was wan. “I’d know if I tried.”
“But not today,” Berta said with meaning. She stood and began to gather the dishes. “Margo, why don’t you show Annie her room? Mimi, you can give her the books you picked out for her studies.”
Margo’s chair raked the hardwood floor as she pushed back with unnecessary vehemence. She hadn’t touched her cake. Without a word she stalked to the staircase. Ten steps up, she turned. “It was supposed to be my room, you know. Are you coming?” she asked Annie.
Berta carefully put the dishes down on the table. Her blue eyes shot fire at her daughter. “Perhaps if you asked nicely,” she said in a tone that brooked no sass.
“Annie, may I show you to your room?” Margo’s tone was barely civil.
“I can find it myself. I feel as if I know this house already,” Annie said. “Don’t worry, Margo, but thank you. I think I’ll chat with Berta and Bob a little more.”
“And I have to go.” Cora rose from her chair. “Annie, Berta, Bob—call me if you need anything.” She began the ritual search for her purse, and then the search in her purse for her keys. Cora’s mind was razor-sharp, except for keeping up with her glasses or keys or purse.
“Can I take Annie to the water and show her how to fish?” Donald asked.
“Maybe another time,” I said. My protectiveness for Donald was instant. Annie, while Cora might vouch for her, was still a stranger. I didn’t want her taking Donald off.
Donald looked at me and then his mother.
“Mimi wants to introduce Annie to her studies, Donald. Besides, I’m sure Annie wants to see her room and settle in.” Berta put her hand on my shoulder. We were a team.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Henderson. I’m not tired. I’d love to see the property. Then I’ll focus on my new books. I promise.” As naturally as if they were siblings, Annie took Donald’s hand. “I’ll tell you a story,” she said as they went to the front door.
“Twenty minutes,” Bob called out. “And don’t leave the front lawn.”
“Sure thing.” Donald pushed open the door and held it for Annie. “You’re gonna love it here,” he said as they left the house.
I glanced at Cora, and I wondered if I had ever seen her happier. She was deeply invested in Annie’s tenure with the Hendersons. Despite the truth that all the years had handed Cora, she still believed in a happy ending.
“Mother, may I go and ride?” Erin stacked her empty saucer on top of the other. She was a fanatical equestrian. She rode every day and thought of little else. It was all I could do to keep her mind on her lessons, but I’d learned to associate countries, cultures, historical facts, and even math with horses. Anything horse-related held her attention.
“You may.”
“Thanks!” Erin bolted from her chair, gave Cora a squeeze, and sprinted from the room. She was slender but solid, and as she pounded up the stairs to her room to change into her riding clothes, I realized she likely weighed more than Annie. One thing for sure, Berta’s cooking would put some meat on Annie’s bones. When the children were gone, Berta sighed. “I don’t know what to do, Cora. Margo is determined to dislike her.”
“Annie is invading her territory.” I understood it clearly. Bob and Berta were dream parents. Margo had no desire to share. “Margo is threatened by Annie. They’re the same age, and now Margo has competition. It’s a hard place for her.”
“That’s unacceptable, Mimi. My children have everything and Annie has nothing. I don’t want them to grow up to be selfish.” Berta picked up the stack of dishes. When Cora moved to help, Berta shooed her away. “You were headed out the door. I can manage this.”
“Your children are exceptional, Berta. That’s why I wanted Annie to come here,” Cora said. “Give them time to adjust. Annie is almost grown, and so is Margo. This will be hardest on them. The younger ones will view Annie as a big sister. Mimi’s right. Margo sees her as competition.”
“I won’t tolerate selfishness.” Berta almost dropped a bowl of melting ice cream, but Bob caught it.
He took the dishes from her hands and put them on the table. “They’re still kids. Children learn to be givers, they don’t pop out that way.” He grabbed Berta’s wrist and pulled her into his lap. He kissed her neck until she laughed. “They’ll get used to Annie and before you know it, she’ll be part of the family. Just like Mimi.”
“Bob’s right,” I said, warmed by his words. I had become part of the family. I picked up the dishes before Berta could. “Annie’s going to stick out like a sore thumb in this family, but everyone will adjust.” I, too, had a darker coloring and was aware of the stares that came my way whenever I was in town with the Henderson brood.
Berta kissed Bob on the forehead and pushed to her feet. “She’s a beautiful girl, Cora. We’ll help her as long as she wants to stay.”
Cora patted Berta’s hand. “I knew I could count on you.” She found her keys in her purse and shook them with a sigh. “I think she’ll be a rare blessing.”
3
After Cora left, I wandered to the front porch. The view never failed to move me, either to joy or melancholy. The front lawn of Belle Fleur slanted gently for a quarter mile down to the bay. Clusters of live oaks contrasted dark green against the bright green August grass. Bob had given me free rein to plant Oxonians and resurrection lilies around one of the oaks as part of a history lesson, and come next spring, my special garden would show life. My gaze wandered down to the edge of the beautifully maintained lawn, where marsh grass danced on the breeze all the way to the water.
The sky, a lighter shade of steel, pressed down on the bay. The storm still hovered out near the barrier islands, a wall of gray so dark it looked almost like night. It was only three o’clock. Far too early for darkness to fall.
At the edge of the water, Donald showed Annie how to cast a lure past the marsh grass. Their antics made me smile. While Berta and the girls still missed California, Donald had adapted to his new home. He loved the freedom to fish and roam. The Hendersons owned a section of land, six hundred and forty acres of pine timber, pastures, sloughs, marshes, natural springs, a creek, and the old dilapidated hotel, a place of legend in Coden. I stepped off the porch and walked down to join Annie and Donald. While Berta was the mother, I shared in the responsibility for the younger children.
Casting a glance over my shoulder, I noticed Margo in the second floor window of her room. She, too, studied Donald and Annie, but if her expression was any indication, her thoughts were far from pleasant.
She saw me staring up at her and pulled her curtains closed. Her window was like a dead eye. The rest of the house, a warm butter yellow with green shutters, was open and inviting. Shaking my head, I changed course and started down the path that led to where the old Desmarais family had planted the original gardens. Local legends said the family arrived from France in the first half of the nineteenth century with the dream of creating flower gardens to make perfume. The subtropical climate of South Alabama allowed a growing season unheard of in the French region where the family originated.
Though nearly two hundred years had passed since the Desmaraises settled in Coden, many of the plants had survived. Despite my bulb patch, birds, not plants, were my thing. While I couldn’t name the exotic flora that bloomed unexpectedly on the Belle Fleur grounds, I could appreciate the beauty, especially those varieties hardy enough to survive the sweltering south Alabama summer. Shades of yellow and orange peeked out from the tangle of vines as I sauntered toward the old hotel.
Berta had taken an interest in the gardens, and I could see where she’d fought hard to clear some of the beds. If anyone could tame the vegetation, it would be her. She was iron-willed, a trait I appreciated. She demanded respect and obedience from her children, but she tempered her expectations with love. Berta made my job a pleasure, and I had come to believe I was a big help to her. I enjoyed our time in the kitchen, cooking and talking. She missed California, but she wasn’t the kind of person to whine. She had begun to build a new life. I admired that.
The path wound through the dark green forest of trees, undergrowth, vines, and some valuable plants. Twenty minutes later, I came upon the ruins of the old hotel, a plantation-style building with granite columns of a five-foot circumference down the entire front. Above the wide porch were balconies along the second and third floor, though the stairs to the upper levels were gone. A natural hot spring had fed water to private baths and from what I gleaned from local tales, there had been croquet courses, tennis, water-skiing from a natural bayou that was deep enough for large sailboats to dock at the front lawn of the hotel, and then the darker activities of gambling, hard drinking, and sex—the romantic kind and the acts money could buy.
It took little effort to imagine the place in perfect condition and filled with Hollywood royalty. Cora said Lana Turner had been a regular when she was very young. The Andrews Sisters had sung there during the war. Paradise Inn had been a place to splash and play, and also for assignations. There was—and still is—only one road down to this part of the coastline, and no one today or in the past would choose to walk through the marshes in an attempt to gain unauthorized access. Alligators own that marshy land.
Bob had killed one in June when it came up onto the front lawn. The sheriff, Benny Delchamps, had issued the order to execute the reptile because it displayed aggression toward Margo. Or so the girl had said. In my experience, the gators did everything in their power to stay away from humans. Margo had insisted the six-footer had lunged at her as she walked along Shore Road. Bob had shot it with a degree of expertise that surprised me.
Thinking of the gator made me anxious about Donald, so close to the edge of the marsh. Annie wouldn’t know to be alert for the reptiles. I threw a last look at the hotel and turned back. My sense of anxiety grew, though I knew it was unfounded. Still, I pushed from a brisk walk to a jog.
When I came out of the woods and onto the edge of the lawn, I thought my heart might choke me. Donald ran toward the house. His blue eyes were wide with terror, and he ran almost as if he were in a trance. He didn’t see me at all.
“Donald!” I called out to him and ran to intercept him. “What’s wrong?”
He seemed not to hear me.
“Donald!” I reached from him and caught hold of his shirt. “Donald!”
His eyes, blinded by some inner fear, turned toward me.
“Donald!” I shook him lightly.
He drew in a deep breath and for a split second I thought he might cry out, but he stopped himself. It took real effort, I could tell, but he swallowed the scream. Instead, he clung to me, holding me so tight I almost couldn’t breathe.
“You’re okay. Donald, what’s wrong? Where’s Annie?”
He turned to look back at the water. Annie stepped out from behind a tree, concern on her face.
“Donald!” she called out to him. “Are you okay?”
“What happened?” I tried to focus him on me, but he kept twisting to look at Annie. When she was abreast of us, he finally relaxed.
“I’m not afraid,” he said. He eased back from my arms, but he still clung to my hand.
“Afraid of what?” I’d never seen him in such a state.
“Of anything.” He looked at Annie but then dropped his gaze in what seemed embarrassment. “I’m not a baby.”
“Of course you aren’t,” she said, kneeling so that she was eye-level with him. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You aren’t a pantywaist, are you, Donald?”
Her tone was off. It seemed to hold a warning, but of what I couldn’t determine. “Did you see an alligator?” I asked.
“Maybe,” Annie said. “We saw something. Or maybe we just imagined it.” For the first time I noticed the dimple in her cheek. She was stunning when she smiled. “I think Donald and I got carried away with a story. It was just something I made up. I didn’t mean to upset him so much.”
Donald took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m not upset. Annie is a great storyteller.” His smile was genuine.
“Let’s go into the house,” Annie said. She stood and extended her hand. Donald took it without hesitation. As they ran toward the house, they giggled like happy schoolchildren.
I stood for a long moment, tempted to go down to the water and look for myself. Instead, I followed them into the house. Berta would be preparing dinner, and I liked to help her. It gave me a chance to discuss the children’s school progress. It was also our time together, something I had come to value, for Annie was not the only one on the property who was an orphan and wanted to be part of a loving home.
4
The storm broke as we all sat at the table for dinner. The lights flickered, but the power remained on, much to the disappointment of the children. I’d taken care to use the fine china and linen napkins. I was curious about Annie’s table manners. She couldn’t remember a moment of her past, but she seemed at ease in the midst of a new family. She displayed none of the awkwardness of a normal teenager.
We joined hands around the table. Bob and Berta were not religious, but they gave thanks as a family for the blessings of good food and good health. Bob had installed central air and heat in the house, one of the first homes in Coden to have the luxury, but often, like tonight, Berta opened the windows to allow a crossdraft to swirl around us. Belle Fleur was blessed with excellent airflow, and even on the hottest days we opened the windows.
Because it was a celebratory dinner, the official welcome to Annie, I lit candles. Berta prepared a fresh salad, crisp and delicious, from her garden, along with slices of smoked turkey. The weather was too hot for heavy meals.
I watched with interest as Annie shook out her napkin and spread it on her lap. She helped herself to the salad and passed it on, acting without thought, a true indication of manners. Wherever she’d come from, she’d been taught table graces. Bob poured wine for Berta and me, a merlot that Berta loved. He said I had a “natural palate” for wine, and he enjoyed introducing me to new vineyards. He held up his glass and we joined him. “We welcome Annie. I hope your stay here is filled with love and joy. And I hope you remember something about your people, Annie. I know they’re missing you.”
Margo put her iced tea on the table. “Has anyone checked to see if the cops are looking for her? Teenagers don’t just drop out of the sky.”
Bob slowly pushed back his chair. “Please excuse Margo and me for a moment.” He went into the kitchen. When Margo followed, stomping every step of the way, he closed the door. Margo’s voice rose in anger, but she stopped in mid-sentence. Bob’s low voice, unclear but forceful, could be heard.
“Annie told me a story today. It was the best scary story.” Donald spoke too loud. He was a kind-hearted child and was attempting to smooth over Margo’s rudeness.
“What kind of story?” Berta picked up the thread of conversation. In the kitchen, Bob continued to lay down the law to Margo. She’d just gotten her driver’s license, and I had no doubt he would take her keys away.
“About the old hotel and a ghost. A lot of things happened at The Paradise Inn. Annie knows all about the old hotel. Lots of movie stars hung out there. Some of them even died there.”
“Do you know about the Paradise?” I asked Annie. How was it possible she knew my history but not her own?
Her smile was apologetic. “I could see it from the water, the big old columns and all of the vines. It must have been beautiful once.” She signaled me with a wink to let me know she was fibbing. “I told Donald a tale about the ghosts of people who once visited there.”
“A ghost story!” Erin was thrilled. “Tell us! Tell us!”
Donald paled slightly, but he joined in with the demand.
Berta was amused. “I’d like to hear the story, too.”
Annie shrugged. She motioned us all to lean in closer, and I noted that though she was shy, she could manage the limelight. “There was once a beautiful movie star named Madeline who came to the Paradise Inn. She was the most beautiful star in all of Hollywood, but very young. She’d filmed two movies, and she’d come to Coden to meet with a director, a man from Germany who was highly respected.”
Annie might not know her past or her family, but she had a good handle on telling a story. I sipped my wine and leaned back, prepared to enjoy a gothic tale.
“Madeline was a strong swimmer, and each morning she got up and would swim down the bayou and out into the sound to a small buoy with a bell. She would ring the bell and swim back to shore. It became a routine for the first week she was there because the director was delayed in Berlin, something about the war. Finally, on Saturday night, Madeline was told he’d arrive on Sunday.”
I wanted to ask Annie where she’d gone to school. She had a sense of the world unusual for a teenage girl found wandering the streets. I didn’t interrupt. Donald and Erin were enraptured. Even Berta was caught up in the story.
“The morning the director was supposed to arrive, Madeline went for her swim. It was a foggy July morning, and the people in the hotel heard the bell on the buoy ring. At noon, when the director arrived, he went hunting for Madeline. No one could find her.”
A peal of thunder exploded, and everyone around the table jumped. I looked up to see Bob standing in the door. There was no sign of Margo, and I assumed she’d gone up to her room.
Once the giggles subsided, Annie resumed her story. “By the afternoon, people had begun to search for the young star. When night began to fall, search parties with lights went out to check the shoreline.”
“Did they find her?” Erin was on the edge of her seat.
“She was never found,” Annie said. “But to this day, fisherman see a young girl with dark hair floating in the deep pools of the bayou. They say Madeline’s spirit remains near the old hotel, waiting for her chance at a movie.”
“I saw her.” Donald’s eyes were nearly black, only ringed by a thin edge of blue. “She was in the marsh grass.” His chest rose and fell rapidly, and I pushed back from the table and went to him. He was almost rigid with fear.
I turned to Annie. “You’ve frightened him half to death. You shouldn’t do that to a child.”
Annie blushed. “We saw something. In the water. Just a shadow or dark cloud. It wasn’t anything. Donald’s imagination jumped to conclusions.”
Donald leaned forward. “That’s not what I saw. She wasn’t in the water, Annie. She was down the shore, hiding in the marsh grass. She was watching us. A girl with dark hair. Didn’t you see her?”
Annie seemed afraid to breathe. Seconds ticked by in the silence that weighted the room. “It was just a story, Donald,” she said at last.
Berta hesitated. “I don’t like for the children to be frightened.” It wasn’t exactly a warning, but it was a clear direction.
“Yes, ma’am.” Annie looked as if she’d been kicked. “It won’t happen again.”
Oblivious to the mood around the table, Bob refilled his wine glass and Berta’s. I shook my head when he tipped the bottle in my direction. I’d learned something interesting. Annie was facile with a tall tale, and she was a quick study with local landmarks. It troubled me. I’d heard plenty of tales about the Paradise, but none about a drowned actress. “I should take Donald up to his room. The multiplication tables are calling his name,” I said. “Annie, I left your books on the desk in your room.”
“Annie’s story has piqued my imagination.” Berta twined her fingers through Bob’s. “I think the Paradise Inn might make an interesting topic for research, especially since my husband is determined to bring it back to life. If the ghost of Madeline is there, we should know.”
“I’ve lived here my entire life and never heard of Madeline.”
“Maybe we can research the story of Madeline.” Erin was suddenly eager.
Berta stood and put a hand on Erin’s head. “Enough ghost stories. Let’s clear the table. How about a game of Crazy Eights? Erin? Mimi beat the socks off all of us the last time we played. I think we deserve a rematch.”
“I want to watch Sanford and Son,” Erin said. “Margo loves that show.”
“No television for Margo,” Bob said. “She needs to reflect on her behavior, and some time alone in her room will do her good.”
Dinner was over. As we carried the dishes into the kitchen, I noticed Annie staring out the windows at the front of the house. She stood, a small, solitary figure, enthralled by something in the night.
5
My suite of rooms occupied a portion of the second floor. Night had fallen, and for a moment I went to the door that gave onto a set of exterior stairs that also went to the third-floor room Annie now used. The staircase allowed me to come and go as I pleased. Bob and Berta wanted me to have my independence—not to seek permission for social activities. So far, though, I’d had no late dates or occasions to come home and slip inside unseen. I loved my rooms and had everything I desired at Belle Fleur.
Bob’s renovations included a lovely old clawfoot tub, marble inlays in the bathroom, a spacious bed, and antique mahogany furniture. Cora had turned Berta on to a stash of antiques Bob bought for a pittance because “they might have really been in Belle Fleur.”
He’d also added a huge walk-in closet. Since I had no living expenses, I could indulge my fashion wants—hip-hugger jeans, knit tops, sandals, shorts, and lots of prints with hippie influence. But I wasn’t a girl who advocated drugs, sex, and rock and roll. My longing for family and acceptance undercut any rebellious need to express my independence in negative ways. I yearned for Bob and Berta’s approval, therefore my wardrobe was simple, and I was careful not to go beyond a certain boundary because I feared I would influence Margo toward too-revealing clothing. She already had a penchant for short shorts and halter tops.
Some of the local teenagers had discovered marijuana and rock and roll back when I was in high school. A couple of boys I knew ran a business selling homegrown weed. The woods around Coden offered good soil, seclusion, and not much interference from the law. Drugs never interested me. I’d gone to college. I’d had other ambitions, and sometimes I’d been mocked for that. Mimi the Mouse was one nickname, because I was quiet.
The last laugh was mine; I now had probably the best job in town—room, board, a very generous salary, and the pleasure of being with the Hendersons. I also had the advantage of knowing which kids to guide Margo away from, though I wasn’t always successful. She was sixteen and determined to prove she was grown.
The house settled into a soft quiet. I thought to stop by Margo’s room and speak with her. I knew she was sore about the dressing-down Bob must have given her. While I didn’t approve of her conduct, I did understand that sharing is something that doesn’t come easily when love is at stake. To Margo, Annie was an unnecessary interloper who sucked up the air and the love and the attention. In a way, I agreed with that thought. But no matter, Annie was here and Berta meant for us to be kind to her.
I crept down the hallway, listening to the sighs and whispers of the house as the timber contracted in the cooling night. At times, I would have sworn the house had a consciousness. It sheltered the Hendersons, holding them close.
Margo and Erin shared a room large enough to include two desks and chairs, beds, their own private bath, and a game table as well as dressers and vanities. There wasn’t a sound from the sisters. I cracked the door and peeked in. Both girls had agreed upon the blue-checked bedspreads and décor, but Margo had outgrown the childish frills. Each daughter was bundled under her checked spread, sound asleep. I eased the door closed.
Part of Margo’s anger at Annie’s arrival involved the third floor. It had been promised to Margo once Bob finished the renovation. Now Annie was installed there and Margo was stuck with her kid sister.
Farther down near the stairs and across the hall from me was Donald’s bedroom, a true boy’s paradise of model planes, erector set creations, toy soldiers, and a train that ran around the entire room. Often, in the middle of the night, if I heard him stirring, I went to his room and told him stories until he fell asleep. It wasn’t part of my job, but I enjoyed those times when it was just the two of us. Donald was an intuitive child. I thought he was Berta’s favorite, and he was certainly mine.
Moving downstairs, I paused outside Bob and Berta’s master suite. Berta had wisely chosen the bedroom that controlled the stairs and the front door. Even the best children are prone to mischief. It also gave the adults a bit of privacy, since the master suite was accessed only from a hallway that ended in the bedroom.
Sometimes, late at night, if I went to the kitchen for a glass of milk or an apple, I would pause outside their door and listen to them giggling like children. I wasn’t really spying, but I couldn’t help my fascination with their marriage. I’d seen Bob work his magic on Berta when she was in a bad mood. A whisper, a kiss, a tickle—he had a way with her. If I ever married, I wanted a man just like Bob. Tonight, though, they’d fallen asleep, judging from the lack of sound. It seemed I was the only person up and about.
Feeling like a sneak, I cut a big chunk of pound cake and headed back to my room. I was almost at my door when I heard footsteps behind me. I glanced back, but there was no one there. Still, the steps had sounded distinctive. I walked to the stairs and looked down and then up to the third floor. Nothing. I took a bite of the cake and listened. The house was quiet.
Back in my room, the cake consumed, I picked up my guitar and went out on the balcony. Perhaps I’d heard Annie on the exterior stairs, but it didn’t matter. I might teach her, but I hadn’t been charged with babysitting her.
The earlier storm had dropped the temperature, if not the humidity, and while my windows faced the old gardens and the place where Bob had built Erin a stables and riding facilities, I still caught some of the salt tang from the Sound.
My guitar skills were minimal, but I enjoyed picking and strumming the tunes of Bob Dylan, Jesse Winchester, John Prine, Simon and Garfunkel, and Arlo Guthrie, the poets of my generation. Coden was a place with few opportunities for young men, so a number of older boys I’d known in school had died in the humid jungles of Vietnam. While I kept my political opinions out of my job, I had strong feelings. Paul Dubois, a boy I met in college, left medical school to go into the Marines, one of the last to join the fight. He felt a civic duty to serve his country. And he had died in that faraway place. I could still see him so clearly, his dark hair and eyes. Funny that his image was etched in such detail when other things had slipped away.
“Mimi?” Donald stood at the threshold of my room.
I put aside the guitar and went to him. He wore pajamas covered in Casper the Ghost. “What is it?”
“I can’t sleep. I heard someone in the house.”
“I’m not surprised you’re having bad dreams.” I tousled his hair. “Stories about dead starlets aren’t good for sleeping.” I couldn’t stop myself. “Donald, what did you really see? Annie said there was a shadow in the water, but you said you saw someone in the marsh grass.”
He took my hand and we walked back to his room. “I saw a girl. Dark and pretty, like Annie. She stared at me like she wanted something. Are ghosts real?”
It was a question without an easy answer. I wasn’t certain what I believed. There had been times when I was positive I’d seen my parents in the shade of an old tree or standing in a dark corner of Cora’s house. But were they ghosts, or were they manifestations of my desperation? I couldn’t say for certain, because to be honest, I couldn’t remember what they looked like. They’d died a long time ago. Cora said it was better for me not to remember, that the fire had been a terrible tragedy and only the quick actions of a neighbor had saved me.
“Are they real?” he pressed, dragging me from my memories.
“I think Annie is a marvelous storyteller, Donald, but she made that story up. She doesn’t know anything about the Paradise Inn or Coden or anywhere else. She’d never even heard of those places until she got here today. She’s a lonely girl with a big imagination.”
He climbed beneath the sheets I held up for him. As I tucked them around him I could see he was still disturbed.
“I didn’t imagine the girl I saw. She was there, watching me.”
“Even if ghosts are real, they can’t hurt you.” I kissed his forehead.
He looked toward the window. He was so pale, so agitated that I put a hand on his cheek. He was cool to the touch.
“Annie told me about Madeline while we were fishing. Only she told me different things.” He hesitated. “Madeline was a slut.”
I couldn’t have been more shocked had he slapped me. “Do you know what that word means?”
His blue eyes were wide. He knew he’d upset me. “It’s a bad girl. A girl who does bad things.”
“Yes, it is. Who told you that?”
He closed his eyes, long dark lashes fanning out on his cheeks. “I don’t remember.”
“Did Annie tell you Madeline was a slut?” I had no idea where Annie had been or what hard things she’d endured in her brief life, but it was inappropriate to use such language with a child. I would have a talk with her first thing tomorrow.
“No. I don’t remember. Don’t be angry.”
I hadn’t the heart to be too hard. “I’m not angry, but words can hurt. And that’s a word you shouldn’t know and certainly shouldn’t use.”
“Okay.” He turned to look toward the window. His room gave onto the Sound side of the house. With the windows open, the rush and kiss of the water could easily be heard.
“This girl you saw, what did she look like? Maybe it was Margo messing around.”
He shook his head, his china gaze riveted into mine. “No. It wasn’t Margo. She wore a white dress. She was really sad, and I think she was lost. I think she belongs here, at Belle Fleur.”
Fear prickled along my arms and neck. “Annie’s story has upset us both. Our imaginations are excited. Tomorrow, we’ll look for evidence of this mysterious girl. I suspect it’s a trick of the light or a very active imagination. We’ll get Annie to help us look.” I also intended to tell her that she was to share no more ghost stories. Donald was too impressionable.
“She already knows someone was there,” Donald said. “She saw her too but she won’t admit it.”
6