In the Blink of an Eye (24 page)

Or maybe it was more that she never quite felt comfortable with Rupert, who is a far more intimidating person than his wife. But Nan—well, Nan isn't a medium. She would be less likely to shed light on the issue than Rupert would.

It's now or never
, Julia tells herself, and finds herself blurting, before he can continue on his way, “Rupert, can I speak to you about something, please?”

He's clearly taken aback, puzzled. They have never had more than a polite, distant conversation. “Speak to
me?
About what? Are you all right, Julia?”

“I'm fine, but . . . I've been spending some time in Iris's house these past few days. Far more time than I ever spent there when she was alive. And I've felt a rather troubled soul lingering there. So has Dulcie.”

“Dulcie?” Rupert frowns, as though trying to place the name.

“Paine Landry's little girl. Kristin's daughter.”

Briefly, she explains about the experience in Dulcie's bedroom last night, and about the presence she and Dulcie have encountered on various occasions in the house. She tells him that she got the perception that the name begins with a
K
sound and ends in an
N
sound, but that she doesn't feel that it's attached to Kristin.

“There are lots of words that begin with the letters
K-N”
Rupert points out, almost impatiently. “Know, and Knee, and Knock . . .”

Knock.

Julia frowns. Dulcie and her knock, knock jokes. But what does that have to do with anything?

“I don't think that's it, Rupert. I'm almost certain I was given the letters phonetically. I got a
K
sound. Not just an
N
sound, like Know and Knee . . .”

And knock, knock.

Again, Julia considers it. She sighs. In truth, she is certain of only one thing: the spirit has a compelling reason for making repeated visits.

She goes on, “I thought I would talk to you about it because you lived there for so long, Rupert—and because you're a far more experienced medium than I am. I was wondering if you ever sensed the energy I'm talking about.”

“No, I never felt anything like that.”

She decides not to bring up the Halloween incident. She gets the feeling Rupert finds this a waste of time and is anxious to be on his way.

“I guess that if the spirit wasn't attached to the house when you were there, maybe the person passed more recently. Do you think it might be Kristin? Because for some reason I'm not fully connecting with her, and the energy doesn't feel as familiar as I think it should.”

“It could be her,” he says, looking off down the street, seeming distracted. “Or maybe you're getting something else. As I said, maybe the
K-N
you heard isn't even a name. And if it is, it might be a reference to somebody else. Somebody you've never met.”

“It might be,” she agrees, frustrated as much by the spirit as by Rupert's almost dismissive attitude. “But I can't help feeling like there's a reason the energy is there, a reason that I'm connecting with it regularly now, and so is Dulcie. Somebody is desperately trying to tell us something.”

“Perhaps,” Rupert agrees, looking anxiously at his wristwatch. “I'd be happy to speak more about this with you, Julia, but I'm afraid it can't be right now. I have to get home to Nan.”

“I'm sorry,” Julia says quickly. “Of course you do. Please give her my best I'll bring her some flowers in a day or two. I know how much she must miss her garden, and it was always so beautiful at this time of year.”

“Yes,” Rupert says, “it certainly was.”

She doesn't miss his pointed glance at the tangled bed of weeds on either side of the front steps.

“Iris wasn't much of a gardener,” Julia feels obliged to say, almost apologetically.

“No, she wasn't.”

“I'll help Paine get the beds into shape.”

“I doubt that will be necessary,” Rupert says, with a faint smile. “He's agreed to sell the house back to me. He and his daughter will be leaving Lily Dale by the end of the week.”

C
ONCEALED IN THE
shadows of the lilac hedge behind the porch, Edward goes absolutely still, absorbing the shocking detail.

Paine is going to sell the house back to Rupert? And he's going to do it this week?

That doesn't give you much time,
Edward tells himself, looking up through narrowed eyes at the house where he should have grown up.
Not much time at all.

So intent is he on formulating his accelerated plans that he doesn't notice the small tape recorder propped in the branches above his head, still whirring softly, having recorded every word he just overheard between Rupert Biddle and Julia Garrity.

Chapter Ten

O
N
T
UESDAY MORNING,
after checking his voice mail back home and finding no messages from his agent, as usual, Paine takes his first shower in nearly a week. It feels so good, standing beneath the spray of the newly installed shower head, that he lingers there for well over fifteen minutes.

His thoughts wander back to yesterday afternoon, when he sat in on Stan's acting workshop at Chautauqua. It was invigorating, just being in a musical theater environment again after all these years. In California, his career has taken a far different path than he ever anticipated. Back when he was a theater student, learning and honing his craft, he never imagined himself doing commercials and industrials, or being a lowly stand-in on a movie set.

No, he'd always thought he was Broadway bound.

Then he met Kristin. She wanted nothing to do with Broadway. Hollywood was where she was headed.

Whither thou goest, I shall go. . .

He always planned that they would have that Bible passage read at their wedding.

Paine sighs, tilting his head back into the hot spray to rinse the lather of shampoo from his hair.

He planned a lot of things that never came true.

When he finally turns off the water and emerges into the steamy bathroom to towel off, he looks around for a switch that might turn on some kind of fan. There isn't one.

No wonder the yellow floral wallpaper is peeling at the seams, he thinks, glancing at it as he quickly slips into a pair of boxer shorts. Too much humidity.

His first instinct is that he needs to see about having a fan installed—and that it's a job he won't attempt to do himself. The shower head took him until well after midnight last night, and he's certain he kept Dulcie awake with all the noise.

But she's still asleep,
he notes now, hearing nothing but silence in the old house as he leaves the bathroom and makes his way past her room to the top of the stairs.

There, it hits him that he won't have to worry about installing a fan, or doing anything else to fix the place up and capture a buyer's interest.

After all, he's selling it to Rupert Biddle, and he's selling it just as it is.

He hasn't yet broken the news to Dulcie.

He sent her upstairs to work on her bead bracelet while he and Rupert talked. When he told her she could play a tape on her Walkman, it was so that she wouldn't be able to eavesdrop on the conversation. But it wasn't because he wanted to keep the news of the sale from her.

He had no intention of giving in to Rupert's demands when they started talking.

No, he simply figured they were headed for a very vocal disagreement, and he didn't want Dulcie to overhear.

But what Rupert said changed everything.

How can Paine possibly refuse to return the place to an old man who only wants to bring his wife home to die?

On paper, Paine isn't a widower.

In his heart, he is.

He can't help but relate to Rupert Biddle's sorrow. And he won't stand in his way.

Somehow, the tragic reality of Nan Biddle's impending death has diminished Paine's own need to stay in this house, and to find out exactly what happened to Kristin.

Rupert is right.

The sooner he gets Dulcie back home and severs his ties to Lily Dale, the sooner they'll both be able to heal. Staying in this house will only prolong their pain.

Yes, Kristin lived here. And yes, she died here.

But she isn't here now,
Paine reminds himself firmly, trailing his fingertips on the polished wooden banister as he arrives at the foot of the stairs.

P
ILAR POURS STEAMING
coffee into a blue ceramic mug and pauses, standing there beside the counter, to take a sip.

And then another.

Then, knowing she can put it off no longer, she carries the mug into the front room and sets it on the desk that holds the telephone. Beside it is the packet containing her airline tickets for tomorrow morning's flight to New York City.

Too nervous to lower herself into a chair, she stands as she lifts the receiver, holding it to her ear.

There's the dial tone.

How many times did she hear this sound last night, when she was finally alone in the house after she finished her final appointment?

How many times—before she finally sank into bed at midnight—did she stand in this very spot, frozen, until the dial tone gave way to the operator's recorded voice: “If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again. If you need help, hang up and dial your operator”?

Every time that happened, she put the phone down and walked away.

She never got far.

Yet nor did she ever go through with the call when she invariably found her way back to the phone.

Now, after a restless night, haunted by Nan's words—
Katherine is coming
—she knows what she must do. It's now or never. She'll be tied up with appointments and message services for the rest of the day.

Clutching the receiver in one hand and the scrap of paper from Rupert's desk in the other, Pilar begins to dial.

What if the phone has been disconnected?

What if that number in Rupert's address book belongs to a different Katherine in the metropolitan New York area?

She holds her breath as the phone rings on the other end.

And exhales it slowly as it rings . . .

And rings . . .

And rings.

No answer.

No machine.

I'll try again,
Pilar decides, carefully putting the scrap of paper back under the heavy crystal heart-shaped paperweight Raul once gave her for their anniversary.

She glances at the open window nearby, where a slight draft flutters the curtains. Then she tucks the paper more securely beneath the weight.
I'll keep trying until I reach Katherine and tell her what she needs to know about her mom.

The sweet smell of flowers drifts into the room on the breeze. Pilar inhales deeply. It's coming from the window box directly outside, the one she filled with aromatic annuals and herbs: purple stock, lavender, and nicotiana.

As she breathes in the delicious fragrance, she is reminded of yesterday, in Nan's bedroom. She forgot to ask Rupert about it when he returned. By then, the scent was gone anyway.

Now, all at once, Pilar recalls which flowers bear that particular fragrance.

The scent couldn't have been coming from something blossoming outside, Pilar realizes.

After all . . . lilacs are only in bloom at the beginning of May.

T
HE TELEPHONE RINGS
just as Rupert is turning off the flame beneath the whistling teakettle. He hurries to answer it, wondering whether it might be his investment broker calling back. Rupert left a message earlier. He's going to have to cash out several funds and take a big loss. But it will be worth it to buy back his house.

Paine said he would speak with the attorney about the sale. He's agreed to allow Rupert and Nan to take immediate occupancy, but it will take some time to sort through the legal paperwork and make the transaction official.

When Rupert lifts the receiver with an eager “Biddle residence,” the answering voice doesn't belong to his broker. The accent—a perfect blend of Texas twang and East Coast aristocrat—is unmistakable.

“Hello, Rupert, this is Virginia Wainwright.”

His heart sinks. “Virginia. How are you?”

“Back from Palm Beach and simply exhausted now that I've spent a full week getting the cottage into order again.”

The cottage, Rupert knows, is a four-tiered lakefront house on the grounds of Chautauqua Institution, where Virginia's late husband, Harrison, was once on the board of trustees. Rupert also knows that Virginia didn't lift a finger getting the place into order again. She employs a full household staff, complete with a part-time nanny for occasions when her three small great-grandchildren visit.

“Rupert, I would like to see you as soon as possible,” Virginia says. “It's been such a long winter and I've missed Harrison. I'm sure he's wondering where I've been.”

“Virginia, we've talked about that. Harrison himself has let you know that he's always with you, wherever you are.”

“Yes, but I've missed our weekly chats. One-sided conversations with him are so frustrating. When can you see me, Rupert?”

He hesitates. He wasn't planning on giving readings this season. At least, not now. Not with Nan so ill.

But one session with Virginia Wainwright, heiress to a Houston oil fortune, will be well worth his while. The woman, a regular summer client for years, always presents an exorbitant “donation” in exchange for Rupert's channeling the late Harrison. It would mean Rupert might not have to touch his retirement investments for a down payment after all.

“I'm busy today and tomorrow,” Rupert informs Virginia. “How about later in the week? Thursday or Friday?”

“Wait until Thursday? That's out of the question, Rupert.”

“Virginia, I'm afraid I can't see you sooner. I'm in the midst of packing up the house and taking care of some real estate business. Nan and I are moving in a few days.”

She gasps. “Please tell me you're not leaving Lily Dale?”

“Of course not. We're just moving back to our old place on Summer Street.”

“Don't frighten me like that, Rupert I don't know what I'd do without you. You're the only person who has ever been able to put me in touch with Harrison.”

“And I'll be happy to do so . . . on
Thursday,
Virginia.”

After a few more attempts to change his mind, Virginia grudgingly agrees to the appointment later in the week.

Rupert hangs up the phone, satisfied. Cash is on the way. Everything has fallen into place.

He returns to the kitchen, where he quickly finishes making a cup of herbal tea for Nan. He places it on a tray, and, as an afterthought, adds a container of yogurt with a spoon. It's plain vanilla. Maybe it will appeal to her more than the fruited flavors do. She hasn't eaten much of anything in days. She isn't thirsty, either, though Rupert has gently insisted on spooning cool water and warm tea to moisten her parched lips and mouth.

Carrying the tray into the bedroom, he finds her asleep, just as she was when he left the room fifteen minutes earlier. He notices a fragrant floral aroma that seems to come and go in this room and absently wonders where it's coming from.

The puzzling thought vanishes as he realizes that Nan's breathing is irregular again. That keeps happening. Sometimes, her respiration speeds up, so that her breaths are almost coming in pants. Other times, it's so slow and faint that Rupert can barely hear it, and he has to keep checking her in dread.

Now Nan stirs, as though the movement in the room has disturbed her slumber.

“Nan, I've brought you some tea and a light snack, sweetheart,” Rupert says gently as he sets the tray on the bedside table beside numerous orange plastic prescription bottles and the stacked paperback novels Pilar placed there yesterday.

There is no response from his wife, yet she turns her head away from him, her eyes still closed.

“Nan, sweetheart, wake up.” Rupert bends toward her, stroking her head.

She mutters something incoherent.

Her arms, elbows bent, are on top of the quilt in the warm room. Suddenly, her hands come together, thumb on her right hand to pinky on her left, palms upward, fingers curled as though they've closed around something.

The handle of a shovel.

Her arms begin to move in familiar rhythm.

She's digging again.

“You're in your garden again, sweetheart,” he says softly. “Aren't you? You're in your garden.”

He swallows hard, watching her.

T
HE AIR IN
the basement beneath Iris's house must be twenty degrees cooler than the sunny yard, Julia thinks as she descends the creaky stairs. Something brushes across her face. She lets out a little cry.

Ick.

Cobwebs everywhere.

At the foot of the steps, she eyes the old bureau, wondering if she can possibly move it up to the yard herself. Paine has gone back to Chautauqua to sit in on another acting class. Dulcie—happily settled with her beads on a blanket on the grass just outside the basement door—certainly can't help Julia carry this ancient thing.

For the moment, she has no choice but to work on it down here.

She opens the bag containing the furniture-stripping solution Paine bought for her, taking it out and reading the label carefully.

“Julia?” Dulcie's voice carries down through the open doorway.

“Yes, Dulcie?”

“Are you sure I can't come down there with you?”

“It's really dirty down here, Dulcie, and the stairway is too steep. I won't stay here long. I just want to get started on the dresser . . .”

Before your dad tells Rupert he can have it along with the rest of Iris's stuff he's selling with the house.

Paine said that was part of the agreement he made with Rupert. If the Biddles can't wait to move in, they'll have to dispose of Iris's belongings themselves. He said Rupert readily agreed.

Julia sighs, opening the plastic lid covering the nozzle on the rectangular metal can.

Paine and Dulcie really are leaving Lily Dale in just a few days, after the memorial service for Iris on Thursday. Howard Menkin will handle the details of the real estate sale. Paine said Julia can have Iris's old VW Bug if she wants, to keep or sell.

She'll keep it, of course. For sentimental reasons.

Part of her thinks that Paine has done the noble thing, turning over the house to Rupert for immediate occupancy so that he can bring Nan home before she dies.

Part of her thinks it's a cop-out.

Didn't Paine tell her that he was determined to find out what happened to Kristin here? Didn't he say he wanted Julia to help Dulcie deal with her clairvoyance? Well, not in so many words. But they both know what Dulcie is dealing with. They both know Julia is in a position to help the little girl.