Adelaide Upset (17 page)

By the time I quit
dawdling around his house it was still early, and having
successfully wrapped up one drama I’d decided to move on to the
next. Nancy Bristow had mentioned some weeks before that the
weeping woman could help me unpuzzle Smith’s story. So I was going
to have to buck up and face Stephen’s mother once and for
all.

I pulled up to their
house, idling at the curb as I worked up the nerve. They lived in a
rancher, the screen door squawking as I opened it to knock. I
wasn’t sure who, if anyone, would answer, but I had a plan, though
it was rather thin. If I was lucky both Stephen and his mother
would be out, the house empty. One could only hope...

But of course the door
swung open, revealing a forty-something woman. When I looked at her
I saw Stephen’s mother, not Smith’s wife. She’d continued to age,
her skin becoming loose and her hips collecting weight. I tried to
see her as Smith’s partner, but couldn’t picture them paired up
together. He was stuck looking young and fit, while she’d become...
old. And her hair, it was that terrible poof, sort of a floating
bubble, a helmet really, that just accentuated her drooping
jaw.

“Can I help you?”

Shit! She’d caught me
staring.

“
Hi,” I said, channeling
the sweetest version of myself I could muster up. “We never
officially met, I’m Adelaide Graves. I work with Stephen at
Sterling’s Motel.”

Her face didn’t actually
sour, but her emotions sure did, her disapproval clouting me hard.
“Yes, I know who you are.”

“
Is he here?” I asked,
playing dumb to her negativity.

She shouldered the door,
blocking the entrance as if I were trying to dive in. “You’re a bit
old to be socializing with my son, don’t you think?”

“Oh, no, this isn’t a social visit. He
borrowed something that belongs to my friend Francesca and I’m just
dropping by to pick it up.”

“Francesca,” she repeated distastefully. “Is
that the dark haired one?”

“
Yes, and I know what
you’re thinking. Francesca can appear quite...”

“
Worldly,” she
accused.

“
I was thinking
sophisticated,” I replied, knowing just how to handle the
situation. “Did you know she’s about to be engaged? Yeah, and I
keep telling Stephen to set his sights elsewhere. I mean, him and
Francesca?” I made a face. “If he paid more attention to girls his
own age then he’d have a chance.”

My disparagement of
Stephen did the trick. She relaxed, her emotions turning less
intense, almost unsure as she thought things through. I’d made it
clear that Francesca and I thought of him as a brother, while
younger girls might not. So then, was it bad that he spent so much
time with us, considering the alternative?

“
Come in,” she said,
pushing the door open to gesture me through. “I’m Amy by the way.
What was it you were looking for?”

“
Uh, it’s a penny. Stephen
thought there was something interesting about it, so Francesca let
him hold on to it. Maybe he left it lying around?”

“A penny?”

“A wheat penny, maybe?” I lied.

“Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.
I’ll go check his room real quick.”

I didn’t take a seat
though as she disappeared down the hall. I wandered the living
room, drinking in pictures. There were many. Stephen through the
various stages of youth: a chubby baby, the tripping toddler, or
more recent, an awkward teen, zits and all. But no Smith. I’d
unconsciously been searching for his face, wanting to see him
alive.

“I found some change in his pockets,” Amy
said as she breezed into the room. “But no wheat pennies.”

“
That’s alright,” I
replied, forcing a smile. “It’s no big deal, I’m sure he’ll bring
it to work with him later.” Before she could usher me out, I
pointed to one of the pictures. “Is that Stephen’s dad?”

I knew it wasn’t. The man
had a thick, wiry black beard, his face tanned and leather dark. He
was holding a small Stephen, nothing more than a wisp in bundled
cloth.

“
No,” Amy said easily. I
feigned the good listener, turning my head and leaning in close,
urging her without words to continue. But she only said, “That was
his friend, Marks.”

Standing so near, it was
easy to gauge her reaction. When I turned her thoughts toward Smith
there was no anger or resentment, no sadness. No nothing. After ten
years or more she had truly moved on.

“
Marks?” I inquired
politely.

“Ed Marks.”

“
He certainly looks like a
father figure,” I said, well aware that I was pushing it. “Is he
still around?”

“
No. He and Stephen’s
father argued and there was a falling out,” she said vaguely. I
felt Amy’s momentary distraction, her thoughts pulled to the past.
An emotion slithered forth, something like... disgust, but not so
strong, just a hint of something wrong or dirty, as if she was
repelled by her own thoughts. Vanishing in an instant, the emotion
was gone. A nice trick, one I had yet to master. It suggested
repression, an ability to bury painful things and in her case, to
will away the past. Maybe she hadn’t moved on after all.

Amy Smith believed that
her husband left her. What woman wouldn’t want to forget a thing
like that? But that sour taste of her emotion was still tart on my
tongue, begging the question: What if that feeling sprung up for
another reason? What if Amy had something— No. I wouldn’t get
paranoid. I was trying to help Smith, help Stephen. Suspecting her
was no help at all.

“I was on my way out before you dropped by,”
Amy hinted.

She was wearing a saggy
cotton blouse and paisley slacks, an outfit which could loosely be
interpreted as business casual. Stephen had mentioned in passing
that she worked at the visitor center. I’d caught her leaving for
work, how convenient.

“
I won’t keep you then,” I
said, heading for the door. Amy grabbed her purse and keys as she
followed in my wake. “It was good to finally meet you,” I added in
parting when she opened the door.

“
You too,” she replied,
not really meaning it. I may have thwarted her hostility, but she
was by no means a fan.

As she locked up the
house, giving me her back to do so, I was quickly forgotten. Amy
was preoccupied, thoughts of work and life keeping her company as
she went about her daily habits. I walked to the curb,
surreptitiously monitoring her as I rummaged through my bag,
pretending to search for my car keys, buying time. Amy walked the
length of the awning, slipping under the carport before ducking
into her van. I gave her a little wave as she backed out of the
driveway, pretending to unlock my car. She didn’t notice, cutting
the wheel to be on her way.

I waited until her
taillights disappeared before returning to the house. I’d dropped
Stephen off enough times to know that when he needed the spare key
he always reached behind one of the decorative shutters. It was
there, balanced precariously on a thin piece of slanted wood. I
accidently knocked it off with my blind grasping, but was quick to
pick it up and sneak through the door.

Unsure of Stephen’s
whereabouts, I had to hurry. I would do a quick run through of the
house and be gone before he returned. Remembering Smith’s mention
of a tape I honed in on the entertainment center, poking through
movies and games, but all were in disc form. If the tape he’d
mentioned
was
a VHS, then it had likely been thrown out at the turn of the
century along with the rest of them.

I skimmed through each
room, pausing briefly when I saw Stephen’s, but forced myself to
move on. I wasn’t here to snoop. Well, I sort of was, but not on
him. I went into the master bedroom, glancing through Amy’s closet,
but finding only a woman’s things. I checked her drawers, did a
sweep under her bed (craft junk, baskets, etc.) and investigated
her private bathroom. Not a trace of Smith. Had I really expected
her to hold on to his belongings after he supposedly abandoned
their life together? But they’d had a kid; surely she would’ve
saved
something
for Stephen to have. But where?

Dangling down in the
hallway, between the two bedrooms, I suddenly noticed a thin white
string. Out of sight and out of mind—
the attic
. I lunged for the
cord, grabbing the plastic end and dragging it down. The folded
steps erupted from the ceiling, dropping waves of dust and bits of
insulation for me to choke on. I swatted the air, coughing until it
cleared, then began my ascent.

The light up there was
dim, trickling in through the large vent, a massive fan covering
the slats, spinning in lazy circles. The ceiling was slanted,
insulation sprouting from the rafters. It was wedged in every
corner, only a narrow walkway of creaking floorboards kept me from
touching the stuff. The pinched passage extended from one side of
the house to the other, and I took mincing steps, moving around
baby toys and holiday decorations. Shoved all the way to one side
was a medium size box, the flaps half open. The cardboard made a
soft shushing sound as I dragged it to the vent, scraping trails in
the dust.

By thin ribbons of light I
dug through the box’s contents, squinting to see. There was a
pocket knife, golden cufflinks, and a delicate Bible with a variant
of David’s surname filigreed under the front cover, a family
heirloom maybe? Hadn’t Stephen mentioned something about a family
heirloom? A watch? I got distracted by the pictures, half a dozen,
each featuring Smith. I held them up to the light, eager to see,
but my hands sort of floundered in the air. It was an eerie feeling
I got, the feeling of being watched. And then I saw it, the figure
of a man, large and dark, standing just over the ladder.

How long had he been watching me?

I was hindered by my
position on the floor, kneeling over the box and unable to run.
Twisting to the side I groped around for a weapon, and when I
turned back to face the attic entrance I had a brittle cedar shoe
rack in my hand. Only the man was gone.

As I whirled about,
shifting in panic, my knee slipped off the floorboard and into a
springy bed of insulation. I lost my balance and tipped to the
side, sprawling into a fluff of pink. Before I could so much as
blink I was pulled upright and propped to stand on my own two feet.
Smith’s fingers were still latched on to my upper arms, his murky
hazel eyes glossy in the dark.

“You!”

He released me, ghosting back a step with
fluid grace, his body dissolving. He disappeared into the dark; his
see-through shape a living shadow, cutting through the float of
dust motes.

“
Are you insane?” I asked,
plunging my hand back into the box. I felt around, muttering in
Smith’s direction. “I drew the line at creepy, and you crossed it,
so I’m buying you a bell, I’m perfectly serious, and you’re going
to wear it, at least around the house. Or when you’re stalking me.”
I pulled my hand out of the box, having finished up my inventory.
“I can’t find the tape. It’s not here.”

I peered through the dark, head spinning
back and forth, but Smith might as well have been invisible, or
maybe he’d just left the attic.

“
I’m going downstairs,” I
called out loudly. “Meet me there or I swear, I’ll burn some sage
and smoke you out.” The threat was getting old. I’d surfed the
internet at work a while back, reading up on ghosts. I didn’t have
a clue if that little nugget was legit, but I often brought it up,
swearing to banish him whenever it suited my needs.

After climbing down the
ladder I forced the stiff wood to fold over and close up. It
snapped into the ceiling with a satisfying thunk. My dip into the
fiberglass had left my fingers feeling itchy. So I washed my hands,
waiting for Smith to appear.

When it came to the
details of his death, he could be cagey, often nipping off before I
could squeeze him for answers. But up in the attic his emotions had
been blunt, almost silent. He hadn’t been surprised or angry to
find me poking around the house, which I took for a good
sign.

I dried off my hands,
calling his name as I walked through the house. He was in the
living room, staring at pictures, much the same way as I had a few
minutes before.

“
I talked to Amy, and if
you can believe it, she hates me slightly less than before I spoke
to her. I know, it’s totally a first. But I didn’t find the
tape.”

He turned around, his
blinking fade tapering off as he willed himself solid. I followed
him through the house as he led me into the master bedroom, then
Amy’s bathroom.

“I already checked here, there’s
nothing.”

He cocked a hip, one leg
planted firmly on the ground, the other swinging out. His boot
would have struck along the molding, but instead it swept through,
making not a sound.

I knelt down, inspecting
the baseboard. The wood had been painted white a few times, but not
recently as the last coat had turned slightly yellow. I knocked
here and there, searching for a hollow section like they do on TV,
listening for a difference in tone.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Nothing. And I
felt stupid for trying, especially with Smith standing over me. I
sat back, tempted to blame him for my failure, but then I noticed
something. The entire strip of molding was loose, nails not pressed
flush. I wedged my finger into the tiny gap, pulling it away from
the wall. It slipped free easily, exposing four inches of
plasterboard. Bingo. There was a very small section along the floor
that had been punched away; jagged pieces of crumbling white, the
mouth of a tiny cave. I pressed my face to the floor, curiosity
spurring me on. No bugs, just dust and the glint of something
metallic wedged in tight.