In the Blink of an Eye (35 page)

“I'll be quick,” Pilar promises. Static crackles on the line. “How is Nan?”

“The same. Asleep. As I was,” he adds irritably, fed up with her intrusions, well-meaning or not. He picks up the mail, flipping through it. “So if that's why you called . . .”

“Rupert, that isn't the only reason I called.”

Rupert puts two utility bills into one pile, and makes another of the junk: store circulars, catalogues, credit card applications. He hesitates when he sees a catalogue addressed to Nan, from Breck's bulb company. She always places an order at this time of year for the bulbs she plants every fall: daffodils, tulips, crocuses.

“I've been feeling my husband's energy around me all day,” Pilar says. “I feel as though he's trying to tell me something. I feel like it has to do with you and Nan, and I'm getting a strong sense of danger, Rupert.”

“Danger?” Rupert echoes. His hand, clutching Nan's gardening catalogue, is trembling. Does it belong with the junk mail? Or with the bills? “What do you mean? What kind of danger?”

“I don't know, Rupert. Just . . . be careful. Please.”

“I'm always careful,” he snaps, the catalogue hovering over the pile destined for the trash can.

“I know you are. It's just that earlier today . . .” Pilar pauses.

She wants to say something else. Whatever it is, she apparently doesn't know how to phrase it—and he doesn't want to hear it.

“I really should be going,” he says, placing the Breck's catalogue neatly beneath the two utility bills. “I can hardly hear you. There's too much static.”

“Yes, that's fine. Good-bye, Rupert. I'm sorry I woke you.”

“It's all right,” he lies.

Hanging up the phone, he picks up the sales flyers and credit card offers and marches over to the trash can. He lifts the lid and deposits the junk mail inside . . .

Right on top of the doll Paine Landry brought over this afternoon.

“
W
HY ARE WE
hiding?” Kent demands, as he and Miranda, lugging their equipment, steal through the trees at the perimeter of the yard at Ten Summer Street.

“Shhh!”

He drops his voice to a whisper. “But I don't get it. Those were the owners getting out of that car. Why don't we want them to see us?”

“Because . . .” She turns guiltily to Kent, cursing the luck that brought the residents home just when the ectoplasm was beginning to take shape. Now she has to come clean to Kent.

Miranda looks through the trees at the house. Lights are going on all over the first floor, and she can see silhouettes in the windows.

“Because why?” Kent slaps at a mosquito buzzing around his ear. “You said they signed the release form. So what's the problem?”

“I lied about that. That's the problem.”

“You lied?” He stares at her. His face is mostly cast in shadow, but what she can see is ominous enough to make her take a step backward. “You mean, they didn't give their permission for us to be on their property?”

Miranda only nods. But her remorse is tinged with exasperation. Irrational exasperation, yes—but she can't help feeling irked with Kent and his rules. He's such a stickler for details. With him, everything always has to be by the book. What harm would it cause if just once, they collected data on private property without permission?

“How could you, Miranda?”

“Because something is going on there, Kent. By that tree. Probably in the house, too. You heard the music on that tape. You saw that ecto just now.”

“That doesn't mean—”

“I wanted to know more about it. I couldn't help myself. And Andy said it wouldn't hurt anything if I checked it out. In fact, he mentioned just yesterday that the guy who lives there doesn't even own the house. His daughter inherited it and he's about to sell it. So—”

“Who's Andy?” Kent asks flatly.

Too late, Miranda remembers that she never told him about that, either.

W
ITH HER OVERNIGHT
bag over her shoulder, Julia stands in the doorway of the smallest bedroom on the second floor of the house at Ten Summer Street.

This, she realizes, is where Dulcie climbed out the window this afternoon. Now she sees that it's closed and locked, the screen propped against the baseboard beneath the sill.

“I'll find some sheets for the bed,” Paine says, behind her.

Julia jumps, startled.

“Sorry.” Paine touches her arm. “You okay?”

“I'm fine. It's just . . . it's been a hell of a day . . . and night.”

“I know. That bat didn't help matters.”

She shudders at the thought of it. When they raced up the stairs to her room, they found Dulcie cowering, her head under the pillow, screaming about something furry landing on her face. Sure enough, a bat was swooping around the room.

It must have gotten in through a hole in the plastic tarp. As Julia wrapped Dulcie in the afghan and whisked her into the next room, Paine tried to hit the winged black creature with a rolled-up newspaper. He missed several times—and then the bat vanished into the hallway. Paine searched for it for almost half an hour before concluding that it could be anywhere—and that Julia should come home with him and Dulcie.

“Thanks for letting me stay here tonight,” Julia tells Paine. “I'll call the exterminator first thing in the morning, before we leave for the memorial service. I couldn't have slept in that house, knowing that thing was lurking somewhere.”

“It's no problem, Julia. I just tucked Dulcie into bed. She's thrilled, of course, that you're here.”

I wish I could say the same thing,
Julia thinks, looking around the room. It's larger than Iris's small study across the hall, but smaller than the other two second-floor bedrooms. There's room for little more than a full-sized iron bed, painted white, a nightstand, and a bookshelf crammed with paperbacks and old magazines.

Julia doesn't want to be here, in this house, after all that has happened.

Yet it's the lesser of two evils. She'd rather spend the night under this roof than under her own tarp, with a wayward bat poised to dive-bomb her bed again.

Paine disappears into the master bedroom, and returns a few minutes later with sheets and a quilt. He starts to make up the bed.

Julia, standing on the opposite side of the mattress, stops him. “I can do that.” She pulls the edge of the fitted sheet and tucks it beneath the corner of the mattress.

“I'll help you.” He slides an elasticized hem over his corner, too.

They work silently until the bed is ready.

Paine looks at her. “Guess you're all set.”

“Guess I am.”

“We never finished our conversation.”

“No, we didn't,” she agrees, reaching up to rub the aching, exhausted spot between her shoulders. She's sore all over, completely weary. All she wants to do is crawl into bed and fall into a dreamless sleep.

“We can talk tomorrow,” Paine tells her. “After Iris's memorial.”

“Can't. I have to do a message service at Inspiration Stump right afterward, and then I want to get to the hospital again while it's still visiting hours, to visit Lorraine.” She told him about her friend's accident in the car on the short drive over to his place.

“Then tomorrow night,” he says. “After my meeting with Howard and Tom Ogden, Edward Shuttleworth's lawyer. Which reminds me . . . would you mind watching Dulcie while I go to that? I was planning to bring her with me, but I'd rather not if I don't have to.”

He trusts her with his daughter again. Julia smiles. “Sure, I'll be glad to watch her.”

“Thanks. Well . . . good night.”

“Good night.”

She changes swiftly into her nightgown, then waits until she hears Paine come out of the bathroom. She hears his footsteps creaking down the hall, hesitating in front of Dulcie's doorway, then retreating to the master bedroom. Only when Julia hears the click that means he's closed his door does she slip out of her room.

In the bathroom, she turns on the light. She has avoided this room ever since she found Iris sprawled in front of the tub.

Now, as she busies herself getting ready for bed, she refuses to look in that direction.

It isn't until she's brushing her teeth at the sink that she feels the electricity in the air.

Someone is here with her.

She can hear the faint murmur of voices. Then a startled, high-pitched scream, abruptly cut off.

Julia turns off the tap and listens intently.

The faucet at the sink isn't even dripping.

Yet she can still hear water splashing.

She turns slowly toward the tub.

It has to be dry. Empty.

The sound has grown louder.

Wild sloshing. Sputtering. Gasping. Choking. It's as though somebody is struggling in the water.

Mesmerized, Julia takes a step closer to the tub. Leaning forward, peering over the edge, she glimpses a face looking up at her.

Iris's terror-filled face, being held underwater by a pair of hands that are clasped tightly around her neck.

I
N HER ROOM
at the Summer Street Inn, Miranda puts the last pair of jeans into her canvas duffel bag and tugs the zipper closed.

There.

All packed.

First thing in the morning, she'll check out and head back to Boston. Alone.

Maybe it's not too late to get a summer waitressing job,
she thinks hopefully, lugging the heavy bag across the floor. Or a share in a beach house.

She places the duffel by the door beside the one that holds her investigative equipment. It's going to be a pain, carrying that bag on board the plane, but she doesn't dare check it with the other one. Her brother Francis once worked for an airline and warned her never to place anything the least bit fragile in checked luggage. Meaning Miranda will probably have to explain the Trifield meter and night scope to a curious airline employee running the security scanner at the airport.

And what if the X-ray machine ruins the film and cassette tapes packed inside the bag?

With a sigh, Miranda realizes her only option is to turn the film and tapes over to Kent, who's driving back.

Which would be a good idea . . . if they were on speaking terms.

But he's so pissed at her that it'll be a miracle if they remain roommates when he gets back in late August from the cross-country trip he's continuing without her.

Walking restlessly back over to the bed, Miranda catches sight of a few things she forgot to pack. Her flashlight and her audio recorder. Terrific. How's she going to fit this stuff into an already crammed bag?

As she looks at the recorder, she realizes that she might as well listen to the tape she made tonight in the yard at Ten Summer Street. She'll never get to hear it if the airline ruins her tapes.

She rewinds the cassette and lets it run as she continues her nightly routine, removing her makeup with cold cream and changing into her pajamas.

As she's flossing her teeth, she hears Kent's excited whisper caught on tape.

“Miranda, look!”

“What is it?” comes her hushed reply.

“See that ecto?”

A long pause, marred by the sound of crickets . . . and something else.

Frowning, Miranda reaches for the recorder just as Kent's voice announces, “It's taking shape.”

After adjusting the volume, and balance, she presses
REWIND
, and then
PLAY
again.

“See that ecto?”

There it is again.

The music.

“Kathy's Song.”

This time, she can hear more of it than before. The familiar guitar strains are audible on the tape for several seconds, in the background as Kent asks, “See that ecto?”

Miranda keeps listening, sitting absolutely still on the bed, her head tilted in concentration as the tape plays on.

“It's all right,” Kent's voice calls softly. “You can show yourself. We—”

Stunned, Miranda abruptly presses
STOP.

She rewinds the tape briefly.

PLAY.

“
It's all right . . . you can show yourself. We won't hurt you.”

In the midst of Kent's soothing words to the spirit, the music gives way to a sudden, repetitive, scraping sound.

It goes on as the dialogue continues.

Miranda listens intently. She hears Kent crooning to the spirit, “Come closer.”

Then, to her: “Is your tape recorder on?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Maybe we'll get that music again on tape.”

Throughout their conversation, the rhythm continues steadily.

Miranda recognizes the distinct, rasping thud even before she rewinds the tape to listen to the passage again. And again. And again, in growing dread, wondering what it means.

It's the dull sound of metal hitting rock and dirt. The sound that a shovel makes, digging into the ground.

Chapter Thirteen

I
T SEEMS AS
though all of Lily Dale has turned out for Iris Shuttleworth's memorial service at Assembly Hall. Glancing around the packed meeting room, Julia sees plenty of familiar faces, but there are strangers, too.

Iris's stepson, Edward Shuttleworth, is notably absent.

So are Rupert and Nan Biddle. Not a good sign. Julia makes a mental note to stop over there the first chance she gets, to see how Nan is and if there's anything she can do. Paine said the situation is touch and go now.

Julia feels tears welling in her eyes, thinking of Rupert's heartfelt effort to bring his wife home to die in the house where they spent the bulk of their lives together. She wonders whether anybody will ever love her that much.

Her thoughts drift to Paine, still pining away for Kristin. He'll probably never know what really happened to her out on the lake that night.

Or will he?

Julia tries to allay the surge of fear that rises again within her at the thought of somebody killing Kristin . . . and Iris. She tries to persuade herself that what she saw last night in the bathroom was a figment of her imagination, but she knows better.

Most likely, she witnessed Iris's last moments of life. She witnessed Iris dying at the hands of an invisible murderer.

Who?

Who would want her dead?

Julia turns her head, not wanting to stare anymore at the urn containing Iris's ashes.

That's when she glimpses Andy sitting on the opposite end of the room.

How nice that he came.

Then it hits her—

Oh, no. I told Paine that I'd watch Dulcie tonight, but Andy is supposed to take me out on the lake to scatter Iris's ashes.

She'll have to catch up with him after the service and ask him if they can do it on a different night. She wants to spend these last few hours with Dulcie.

Finally, the service is almost over. The congregation chimes in singing one of Iris's favorite songs: “Will the Circle Be Unbroken?” Surprised that the song has been included, Julia glances at Paine.

He smiles at her over Dulcie's bowed head. Leaning toward Julia, he whispers, “I remembered that Kristin once told me her mother loved the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band's recording of this song.”

“That's right. She did.” Touched, Julia fights back a fresh swell of tears. Paine is a sweet man. A far better man than she ever suspected.

Dulcie sniffles loudly between them, her little body quivering with quiet sobs.

Julia presses a tissue into the little girl's hand. “It's okay, Dulcie,” she whispers. “Your grandmother is still with you. She'll always be with you.”

“I know she will, Julia,” Dulcie says, wiping tears from her sightless eyes. “But you won't be.”

Julia says nothing, just puts her arm around Kristin's daughter and holds her close.

R
UPERT CLINGS TO
the telephone receiver, pacing across the kitchen floor to the back door that looks out on the sunny yard, and back again to the counter, where an untouched container of yogurt and a full cup of now-cold tea still sit on a tray.

An instrumental rendition of “Moon River” plays on the line, to his irritation. If he has to be on hold for this goddamn long, he'd rather listen to silence.

Outside, he can hear the usual afternoon sounds: cars rolling through the streets, birds chirping, dogs barking, the distant ripple of children's laughter. The sounds are as garish to Rupert's ears as the Muzak, both of which indicate that beyond this room, this house, everything is status quo. The world is spinning along as usual.

Remarkable.

“Moon River” gives way to “The Girl From Ipanema.”

Rupert clenches his teeth so hard that his jaw hurts. He barely notices.

His thoughts drift back to another sunny afternoon, much hotter than this one . . .

The Bronx was in the throes of a terrible heat wave; open windows and electric fans did little to cool the tiny fourth-floor walk-up. Then, as now, Nan lay in bed in the next room, in agony, as Rupert, beside himself with worry, frantically tried to reach an elusive physician.

But back then, phones didn't have hold buttons.

There was no Muzak. He heard every word the nurse spoke on the other end of the line.

“Oh, good, there you are, Doctor Hayden . . . I have Rupert Biddle on the line. His fiancée is in labor.”

Back then, doctors made house calls. Dr. Hayden arrived just in time to usher Rupert and Nan's daughter into the world, place her in Nan's weary grasp, and announce that it was a girl. The baby was whisked from Nan's arms moments later—

“The Girl From Ipanema” is interrupted by an abrupt click in Rupert's ear, followed by the welcome sound of Dr. Klauber's voice. “Rupert, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. What can I do for you?”

Rupert forces his thoughts back to the present. “Nan seems to be growing much worse, Doctor. She's been asleep since last night, but it isn't a peaceful sleep. She seems to be struggling to catch her breath, even with the oxygen. I . . . I don't know how to help her. You have to come here, Doctor. You have to do something, and I can't possibly get her to your office.”

The doctor is silent for a long moment. Then he says grimly, “I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for her now, Rupert. I'm so sorry. I'm going to give you the phone number of somebody who can help. Call it. Someone will come immediately.”

The bottom has fallen out of Rupert's world. “Who will come?” he asks bleakly, trying to focus on the conversation.

There's nothing I can do for her now, Rupert. I'm so sorry.

“A hospice care worker. Do you have a pen and something to write on?”

“Yes.”

“Good. The number is 555-3323. Did you get that?”

“I got it,” he lies, nothing in his trembling hand but the telephone.

“I wish you well, Rupert,” the doctor says with finality.

Rupert hangs up, numb.

His feet carry him back to the bedroom, where Nan's harsh, shallow breaths are coming rapidly. Her eyes are open, but unfocused.

He read somewhere, once, that the hearing is the last sense to fade. That people have awakened from comas to give verbatim accounts of conversations that took place at their bedsides while they were unconscious.

Rupert clears his throat, swallowing hard over the tight lump that has risen there.

“Nan, darling, can you hear me? I love you. I'm here with you. I won't leave, Nan. I'll be with you. And, Nan, you'll always be with me. Even if you have to go . . .”

A choked sob escapes him. He inhales shakily, holds his breath, exhales with a shudder. He can do this. He can do whatever needs to be done.

“You can go, darling. Whenever you're ready.”

Suddenly, her expression is lucid. Her eyes seem to focus on his.

He gazes down at her, whispering, “I know you've been hanging on, fighting it so hard, but, Nan . . . it's time to rest. Stop fighting.”

She turns her head fitfully on the pillow, her mouth working, as though trying to muster the strength to speak.

“Shh,” he says, taking her clammy hand, squeezing her limp fingers. “It's okay. Don't say it. I know what's holding you back. But, Nan, it's okay. You can go. It's okay to go.”

Her breath makes a horrible gasping sound in her throat.

Rupert steels himself against the flood of tears that threaten to sweep him into hysteria.

A single word spills from Nan's cracked hps. “Can't . . .”

“Yes, Nan. You can. You can let go. Please, darling, I can't bear to see you this way. Everything is all right. Everything has always been all right. I love you.”

“Can't . . .”

“Shhh.”

“Kath . . .”

“Katherine. No, Nan. Don't think about Katherine. It's too late now. Just rest,” he croons, stroking her cheek, tears spilling down his own. “Just rest.”

“
D
ADDY?
I
S THAT
you?”

His arms laden, Paine peeks into his daughter's room. “I'm just bringing some boxes downstairs, Dulcie.”

“Oh.” She sighs. “I wish we didn't have to leave tomorrow morning.”

Paine says nothing. He wishes they could have left
this
morning, right after Julia told him about the nightmarish vision she'd had in the bathroom last night.

If there's anything to it, then Iris was murdered.

But who the hell could possibly have wanted an eccentric old woman dead?

Hey, bub, who are you calling old?

Paine has to grin. That's exactly what Iris would have said. She clung fiercely to her youth, keeping her hair long and straight, and cramming her oversize figure into tie dye long before—and after—the retro look was in fashion again. She was nothing but an overgrown flower child who still listened to the Nitty Gritty Dirt band and the Grateful Dead, and whose VW remains covered with two eras' worth of bumper stickers for a variety of causes.

Well, at least the memorial service did her justice, Paine thinks. Iris would have been pleased at the turnout, and at the beautiful eulogy that captured her in all her quirky glory.

“What time is Julia coming back, Daddy?” Dulcie calls after Paine as he heads down the hall toward the stairway with the boxes.

“Not until later, sweetie. After supper.”

“Can she come earlier?”

Paine musters as much patience as possible to reply, “No, she's busy this afternoon.”

They've been over this several times already in the past few hours since they returned from Assembly Hall. He certainly has his work cut out for him after they leave here. Dulcie won't soon get over missing Julia.

Paine descends the stairs gingerly, unable to see his feet on the treads in front of him. The boxes are heavy, filled with old family photo albums he discovered in the attic. Dulcie might never be able to see them for herself, but he can't leave behind the pictures of Kristin's birth, and her childhood, even a couple of faded snapshots of Iris and Anson's wedding day.

Paine recalls Kristin once telling him that her parents were married barefoot on the shore of Lake Erie by some kind of hippie holy man. Now he has evidence. The happy bride wore a headband across her forehead, a psychedelic-print minidress, and strands of beads. The groom wore vertically striped purple and orange bell-bottoms and sideburns that reached his chin.

As Paine sets the box carefully beside the front door next to the one containing Kristin's baby clothes, he wonders whether he should load the stuff into the car tonight before his meeting, or come back and do it afterward.

He wants to get an early start in the morning and put as much distance between Dulcie and Lily Dale as possible.

One thing is certain: no matter what happens at that meeting with the lawyers later, they're leaving here in less than twenty-four hours, and they're never coming back.

Even Julia agrees that is the safest thing to do.

If it's true that somebody killed Iris—and Kristin—nobody is safe in Lily Dale. Especially not in this house.

Which is why Julia is picking up Dulcie later and bringing her over to Julia's place until Paine gets home. She called a little while ago from a pay phone at the hospital to report that the exterminator caught the bat, and the roofers have sealed the gaps in the tarp. She invited Paine and Dulcie to sleep at her place tonight, just to be safe.

So this is it. In a few hours, he'll be done packing, and Julia will be here. The last day here, in this house, will draw to an end.

If I leave now, I'll probably never know what really happened to Kristin and Iris,
Paine realizes.

But if he doesn't leave now . . .

He shakes his head, thinking of Dulcie.

All that really matters is keeping her safe.

A
T LAST,
M
IRANDA
spots Andy hurrying toward the auditorium, where he's scheduled to begin a lecture in five minutes. He's not alone. Nor is he with Julia.

At his side is a pretty brunette with a spectacular figure. She's wearing strappy sandals and a black tank top tucked into white shorts.

Miranda, clad in sneakers and an untucked polo shirt over longish khaki walking shorts meant to hide her lumpy thighs, hesitates. Yes, she's been trying to track down Andy all day. But does she really want him to see her in such an unflattering getup, especially when he's with a woman who could have stepped out of J. Crew's summer catalogue?

What does it matter?

She's leaving Lily Dale. If she'd been able to get a flight first thing as planned, she'd already be gone. Good thing she thought to call the airline before leaving here earlier. It turned out the flight she planned on taking was canceled. She was able to go back to bed and get a few more hours of much-needed sleep. The emotional turmoil of the last few days has finally caught up with her.

Well, soon enough, she'll be back home with nothing to do
but
rest. A cab will be here within the hour to take her and her luggage to the Buffalo airport for a six o'clock flight back to Boston.

But she couldn't leave without seeing Andy one last time. Taking a deep breath, she calls his name.

He looks up, startled, glancing around.

“Andy!” She waves at him.

Is he frowning, or just squinting into the sun despite his ever-present sunglasses?

It's hard to tell from here. Miranda walks toward him, watching him say something in the brunette's ear. She looks disappointed, but heads into the auditorium, casting a look over her shoulder.

Miranda ignores her.

“Hi, Mandy. What are you doing here?” Andy is clearly surprised, but perhaps not pleasantly so. “I got your voice mail message last night.”

“You didn't call me back,” she says, hating the accusing tone in her voice but unable to extinguish her emotions.