Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy (19 page)

Darla closed the door behind her and joined Gilda on the porch. “Okay—who is she?”

“Her name is Charlotte Furbo. At least, there's a good reason to think it might be. And she might have been murdered.”

“Is this that story where the bride gets yellow fever and is buried alive on her wedding day or something? Because I don't—”

“I'm not talking about that yellow fever ghost story,” said Gilda. “I had a psychic dream about a girl who looked just like the woman in white, and I recognized her from pictures I'd seen of Charlotte. And here's the scary part: In my dream, Charlotte was murdered by her parents—Mr. and Mrs. Furbo.”

Darla frowned. “I haven't finished reading that
Master Psychic's Handbook
yet, so I'm not sure how I can help.”

“What time do you leave for school?”

“In about half an hour. My mom usually drops me off on her way to the office.”

Gilda glanced into Darla's living-room window. “What's your mom doing now?”

“I think she's in the shower.”

“We have just enough time to do a quick séance. We have to try to communicate with the woman in white.”

“Communicate with her?”

“We need to figure out whether my theory about Charlotte is right. Let's go over to Mr. Pook's house, and—”

“No way. I don't go over to that place—ever.” Darla spoke with a certainty that surprised Gilda.

“I thought you'd feel braver now that you have your guardian angel and everything.”

“Maybe a little braver. Not dumb-brave.”

“Darla, I just slept in that house all night! Are you saying I'm dumb?”

“No, but it sounds like you had a pretty scary dream.”

“I'm
glad
I had that dream. It might be the clue we've been looking for.”

“I still don't want to go over to Mr. Pook's house—especially to do a séance.”

“Then how about here in your house?”

“I guess we can—but we only have a few minutes. And don't tell Mama.”

“I won't.”

“And if anything really weird happens, we stop.”

“Definitely.”

 

Upstairs in Darla's room, Gilda removed a long pearl necklace with a locket pendant from her backpack. “We can use this as a pendulum,” she said. She had taken the necklace from a drawer in Eugene's guest room, thinking that one of the antiques from Eugene's Charlotte's Attic business might pick up some vibration in connection with Charlotte.

“It looks like a necklace,” said Darla.

“It
is
a necklace, but for today, it's also going to work as our pendulum.”

“I read something about pendulums in that book,” said Darla. “You swing it back and forth and ask a question.”

“Kind of,” said Gilda. “But you actually try
not
to swing the pendulum. It's like using a Ouija board. The pendulum will move on its own in response to your questions. You have to try not to force it—and try to be open to either a yes or no answer.”

Gilda told Darla to sit across from her on the carpeted floor.

“Wait,” said Darla, “let me light my candle before we start.” She jumped up, lit her guardian angel candle, and placed it on her dresser. She didn't want to admit it, but the candle made her feel much safer. It was funny how simply deciding to keep a different picture in her mind—the image of her guardian angel—allowed her to slam the door shut on so many of the spirits that often crept into her dreams and thoughts.

“Okay—we need to concentrate on the ghostly woman in white and the name Charlotte Furbo.” Gilda held the pendulum in her outstretched hand so that it hung very still. “For me, the pendulum usually swings from side to side if the answer to a question is no. It swings in a circle if the answer is yes. It can be different for different people, though.”

Gilda took a deep breath. “First, I'll do a test question.” She closed her eyes and concentrated. “Spirit world, please speak to us through this pendulum, and send us the true answers we seek. Is my name Gilda Joyce?”

The pendulum slowly moved in a circle. “Okay, so that definitely shows that a circle means yes,” said Gilda.

“We are seeking the truth about Charlotte Furbo,” said Gilda. “Charlotte Furbo—are you alive?”

The pendulum moved back and forth.

Darla grabbed Gilda's arm and squeezed. “It's okay, Darla,” Gilda whispered. “It's working.”

“Are you dead?” Gilda asked.

The pendulum moved in a circle.

“Are you the spirit we have seen—the woman in the white dress?”

The pendulum moved in a circle.

Wow,
Gilda thought.
I can't believe how well this is working!
She sometimes had mixed and confusing results with the pendulum, but now it seemed to respond quickly and definitively to her questions.

“Charlotte Furbo: Did Mr. Furbo kill you?” Gilda asked.

The pendulum swung in a circle.

Gilda caught her breath. “Did Mrs. Furbo kill you?” she whispered.

Again the pendulum swung in a circle, now moving even faster. Gilda's heart raced. “I knew it!” she whispered.

“Stop!” Darla suddenly knocked the pendulum from Gilda's hand.

“Hey—why did you do that?”

“Sorry.”

“There's nothing to be scared of, Darla. We were getting great answers!”

Darla frowned and shook her head. “It's just—I suddenly
saw
her. I saw the woman in white.”

“You
saw
her?”

“Yes—she was only there for a second, but she stood right there in my doorway. There was something on her dress—like a stain.”

“A bloodstain?”

“I guess.”

“See? That's exactly what I saw in my dream!”

“But she was shaking her head no—telling us we're wrong about something.”

Gilda thought for a moment. She was proud of her psychic “little sister” for being brave enough to help with the séance, but she also felt confused. Suddenly, Darla had poked a hole in her theory about what happened to Charlotte. Gilda knew that it was possible to get a “false positive” from reading the pendulum—especially if you had some stake in wanting a yes or no answer.
Did I want the pendulum to confirm my dream more than I realized?
Gilda wondered. “Here,” she said, picking up the pendulum and handing it to Darla, “maybe you should take a turn.”

“Okay, I guess.” Darla held the pendulum the way Gilda showed her. “Charlotte—” she said in a voice as soft as a breeze, “are you here with us in this room?”

The lights flickered.
Yes,
the pendulum answered. Darla caught her breath.

“Go on,” Gilda whispered, “ask another question. You're doing great.”

“Charlotte—did Mr. Funbo kill you?”

“His name is Mr. Furbo not Mr. Funbo,” Gilda interjected.

“Sorry. Did Mr. Furbo kill you?”

The pendulum suddenly swung back and forth very quickly. “NO!” it seemed to shout.

Darla was about to ask another question when the pendulum suddenly flung itself across the room with startling violence. Both girls stared, shocked.

“I guess she doesn't like the pendulum,” said Gilda, attempting to lighten the mood, since Darla was obviously shaken by the experience.

“Darla?” Darla's mother knocked on the bedroom door. “What are you up to in there? It's time to leave for school!” Darla's mother opened the door and looked surprised to discover Gilda in her daughter's room. “Oh! Hi, Gilda—great costume! If I didn't know better, I'd think that the two of you were up to some kind of spooky Halloween game.”

“I was just tutoring Darla on her spelling,” Gilda fibbed. “But I'd better be going now.” She jumped to her feet and adjusted her wig. “Good luck, Darla, and try not to forget that ‘i before e' rule I taught you.”

“Got it,” said Darla, quickly blowing out her guardian angel candle and hiding it under her bed so her mother wouldn't ask questions about it.

 

As she walked down the path toward Mr. Pook's house, Gilda reflected that although the séance had cast a shadow of doubt over her theory that the Furbos might have murdered their own daughter, it had nevertheless left her all the more certain that Charlotte Furbo was actually dead.

But what makes this mystery so strange and confusing,
Gilda thought,
is that we have a ghost without actually having a dead body.
In fact, Charlotte Furbo has never even been reported missing! As far as everyone seems to know, Charlotte is alive and well somewhere in Europe.

So why do Darla and I keep seeing Charlotte's ghost? What is the woman in white trying to tell us? !

G
ilda kicked off her shoes and then headed into the kitchen to get a drink of water. She gazed out the window, reflecting that her mother and Eugene would soon return from picking up Stephen at the airport. This meant that she would probably be forced to help with last-minute wedding preparations rather than focusing on her investigation, which she would strongly prefer.

I can't believe Mom is actually getting married tomorrow morning,
Gilda thought. She guessed the rest of her day might be filled with things like arranging flowers and planning hairdos.
Of course, Stephen will find a way to escape the flower arranging in order to go sightseeing around the city,
Gilda thought.
Unless there's some way I can get him interested in this mystery. . . .

Gilda turned from the kitchen window and caught her breath. Something in the room had changed. An old schoolhouse chalkboard that had previously displayed a list of items to prepare for the wedding now revealed a new cryptic message that had been mysteriously etched in a layer of chalk dust:

Gilda froze. Staring at the message, she felt a prickly sensation on the back of her neck.
Don't panic!
she reminded herself.
Think!
She was certain that the last time she had seen the chalkboard, the wedding list had still been there, written clearly in chalk. Surely her mother and Eugene wouldn't leave a message scrawled with a finger in the dust with no other explanation?

It's a message from a ghost,
she thought. But what does it mean?

Look in what well? Where? Eugene had certainly never mentioned anything about a well on the property, had he?
Of course,
Gilda thought,
the old house and its large yard probably contained many secrets.

Outside Eugene's house, salamanders skittered around Gilda's feet as she hoisted up the heavy petticoats of her Civil War–era costume, pushing through ferns and shuffling along sandy footpaths in search of a well in Eugene's yard.

Do I even know what I'm looking for?
Gilda wondered. The truth was, she wasn't at all sure how to look for a well. She knew it would have to be some type of deep hole in the ground, but she was also aware that a very old well might be covered with topsoil and completely hidden from view.

I just hope I don't fall into it out here,
she thought. At this thought, Gilda hesitated.
The last thing I need is to be stuck underground in some well.

Just then Gilda heard the approach of Eugene's car in front of the house.
Stephen's here,
she thought.
Maybe I can get him to help me investigate this
.

It wouldn't be easy to convince Stephen that looking for a well was more important than going to the beach or visiting the Ripley's Believe It Or Not! museum, but she would have to try.

G
ilda and Stephen passed through the city gates and walked down St. George Street, where they joined the crowds of people dressed in zany Halloween costumes: sparkly bumblebee antennae, neon-colored makeup, glitter, and wigs, mixed together with the traditional colonial garb of Spanish settlers—capes, knickers, hats, and bonnets.

“So,” said Gilda as she attempted to walk without bumping into people with her wide petticoats, “what do you think of our new stepdad?”

“Mr. Pook?” Stephen paused, searching for words. “I don't know. He's okay, I guess.” It was Stephen's typical response to subjects that involved uncertainty and troubling emotions—a response that irked Gilda.