The Widow's Walk (23 page)

Constance nodded.

“I only hope that he can help us,” she said. “And like you said before, if he is unable to help, then perhaps he can point us toward someone who can.”

When they entered the building, the halls were filled with students, some of who greeted Garrett. As they went, Constance slipped in behind Garret like she had done at the mall, so as to help avoid running into anyone. At last they found themselves at Jim Baker's door, where a small brass plaque read: D
R
. J
AMES
B
AKER
, P
H
.D., P
ROFESSOR
OF
A
MERICAN
H
ISTORY
. Garrett knocked and soon heard Jim welcome him inside.

As they walked into the office, Garrett held his breath for a moment, wondering if by some chance Jim might sense Constance's presence. When Jim did not, Garrett breathed a little sigh of relief. Walking across the floor, the two men shook hands heartily. After exchanging a few pleasantries, Garrett took the guest seat on Jim's right, and Constance took the other.

Jim's office was larger than Garrett's, with a more spacious window that looked out onto the quad. Garrett had always been envious of his friend's dark-paneled bookcases, hardwood floor, and huge antique mahogany desk.

Dr. Jim Baker was a large and jovial man. He was beloved by his students for his pleasant nature and for not taking himself too seriously. His gray hair was thinning, which he had complemented with a neatly trimmed beard. His glasses, which hung from a string about his neck, were only for reading.

Smiling again, Jim leaned forward and put his palms flat upon his desk.

“Now then,” he said, “what is it that a lowly history professor can do for the famous wunderkind of the architecture department?”

“Truth be known,” Garrett answered, “I'm going to try my hand at writing a novel.”

Jim raised his eyebrows.

“Impressive,” he said. “Architect
and
novelist. And after that you'll compose your first symphony, I suppose? Just kidding, Garrett. But in all honesty, shouldn't you be talking to somebody in the English department?”

“Nope,” Garrett answered. “You're exactly who I need to see.”

“How so?”

“I've gotten it into my head that I want to write a novel about someone who should have died but was instead trapped between life and death for some unknown reason. I was hoping that given your expertise in American mysticism, you might have some knowledge of such things, or could maybe point me toward someone else who might be able to help. What I really need is background information. I know that I've got a lot on my plate right now, and starting a novel is the last thing I need to be doing. But I've got this idea in my head, and I need to get it out and onto paper.”

Jim nodded judiciously.

“Although I've never tried my hand at writing a novel,” he said, “I know the feeling well. It was like that when I wrote my Ph.D. dissertation. I'd get an idea, and I just had to write it down before I lost it.”

“Exactly,” Garrett answered.

“Most people don't know it,” Jim said, “but American history is replete with mysticism, spells, magic, and all manner of weird things. From the witch trials at Salem, to the vampires that once supposedly inhabited New Orleans, and the many esoteric practices of Native Americans, there is literally too much information to absorb. The class I teach about such things barely scratches the surface. But other than vampirism, I can't say that I'm overly familiar with what you're suggesting.”

“Question him more about Salem,” Constance said to Garrett.

At first, Garrett had to fight the inclination to turn and look at her because she had been so quiet until now, and he had almost forgotten that she was there. After shifting a little bit in his chair, he looked back at Jim.

“You mentioned Salem,” Garrett said. “Can you think of anything in that history that you believe could help me?”

“No, but I know someone who might.”

Jim opened his laptop and brought up his contacts list. After searching through the list for a few moments, he came upon the name he wanted and wrote the particulars down on a pad. He tore the page off the pad and handed it to Garrett. Garrett read the information then looked back at Jim questioningly.

“Dr. Brooke Wentworth?” he asked. “Sounds positively regal.”

“I know,” Jim answered with a smile. “Truth be told, Brooke and I were once pretty close, if you know what I mean. Anyway, for my money, she's the foremost authority I know in the kind of things that you're talking about.”

Garrett looked back down at the piece of paper Jim had given him. It listed the woman's name and phone number.
It's not much,
he thought,
but at least it's a place to start.

“Brooke, huh?” Garrett asked, half to himself.

“Yep,” Jim answered. “As best I know, she's the world authority.”

“Okay, then,” Garrett said. “And just where do I find her?”

Jim smiled and leaned forward a little more.

“Why, in Salem, my friend,” he answered. “Where else?”

Chapter 24

The following morning was dark and rainy, causing Garrett to drive carefully as he and Constance headed north to keep their appointment with Dr. Wentworth. Under normal conditions the drive from New Bedford would run about two hours, but because of the heavy rain he expected it to take longer. Despite Dr. Wentworth's Ph.D., Garrett remained skeptical about whether she could help them. But she was their only remaining lead, and to ignore her would be foolish.

As Garrett drove, he and Constance talked of many things. He never tired of hearing about her life. While the windshield wipers slapped back and forth and the Jeep's knobby tires sang upon the road, at last they came to the heart of Salem. The weather had cleared, and the sun had begun drying the rain-soaked buildings and streets.

Garrett had always thought Salem an interesting place. Much of Salem's current identity was still reflected in its role as the location of the Salem witch trials of 1692. The police cars were adorned with witch logos, a local public school was known as Witchcraft Heights Elementary, and several Salem high school athletic teams were named “The Witches.” Gallows Hill, a site of numerous hangings, was currently used as a sports field. Today's tourists knew Salem as a weird mix of historical sites, New Age Wiccan boutiques, kitschy Halloween celebrations, and a vibrant downtown that boasted more than sixty restaurants, cafés and coffee shops.

About twenty minutes later the GPS system said that they had arrived at their destination. Garrett stopped the Jeep and looked out his window incredulously. The home standing before them was nothing like they had expected. They were parked before a walled mansion, with a huge wrought-iron gate that bore the single word
FAIRLAWN
. Fairlawn lay about fifty yards ahead, serenely basking in the Massachusetts sunlight. Still wet with rain, manicured lawns seemed to stretch into infinity on either side of the drive.

Built entirely of stone, the mansion stood three stories tall, reminding Garrett of those huge, English country estates one sees in the movies. He always wondered how anyone afforded to maintain them, much less navigate their mazelike interiors. Ornate windows with leaded panes graced all three floors, their glasswork glinting prettily in the sunlight. Ivy had long ago conquered much of the facade, adding a welcome splash of color to what would have otherwise been a monotonous shade of gray.

“Hardly what I was expecting . . .” Garrett said wryly.

“I daresay not,” Constance answered. “I understand nothing about the device that let us here, but are you quite sure that it is correct?”

Garrett turned and again looked toward the mansion.

“There's only one way to find out,” he answered.

Garrett inched the Jeep toward the speaker setup standing near the gate. He pressed the button and waited.

“May I be of service?” a rather imperious sounding voice asked.

“Dr. Garrett Richmond to see Dr. Wentworth,” Garrett answered. “I have a three o'clock appointment.”

“One moment, sir,” the speaker voice answered.

After about twenty seconds of silence, the speaker crackled again.

“Thank you, Dr. Richmond. You may proceed.”

The twin gates soon parted, allowing them access. The circular drive before the mansion was wide, and Garrett pulled the Jeep off to one side before shutting down the engine. He and Constance walked the short distance to the massive front doors, where Garrett rang the doorbell.

After a few more moments passed, one of the great wooden doors opened to reveal a butler standing there, dressed in full formal livery. He looked to be in his late fifties, with balding gray hair and an expansive midsection.

“Dr. Richmond?” he asked politely.

“Yes. And you are . . . ?”

“William,” the butler answered. Despite how long his tenure in America might have already been, it had done little to blunt his English accent. “This way, please.”

Garrett and Constance followed William into the grand foyer. For several nervous moments they each wondered whether William could see Constance, but if he did, he gave no appearance of it. While breathing quick sighs of relief, Garrett and Constance took a moment to look around.

The two-story foyer was huge and built from solid mahogany. Its inlaid hardwood floors sparkled with cleanliness. The vast room was beautifully furnished with exquisite sofas, tables and chairs, none of which looked like they had been used a day in their lives. A great marble fireplace stood in the wall on the opposite side of the room and was adorned with flying cupids that, although continuously trying to reach each other, were doomed to perpetual failure.

Over the fireplace hung a huge portrait of an elderly man. Behind him was a scene showing several factories, each one unapologetically belching dark smoke into the air. The great portrait appeared old, and although the man seemed familiar to Garrett, he could not place the name. Given Garrett's great love of architecture, he could have gladly spent an entire month respectfully admiring this majestic house.

William then led them down a spacious hallway and into yet another great room, one nearly as large as the foyer, and decorated just as beautifully. The right-hand wall held a line of twelve French doors that looked out over but one portion of Fairlawn's spacious grounds. Because the day was unusually warm, each door stood partly open to accept the afternoon breeze, which bothered the curtains pleasantly and carried with it the familiar smell of wet leaves. Here too there was a massive marble fireplace adorned with angels. Like the foyer, this room was decorated with upholstered furniture, Oriental rugs, and numerous oil paintings.

At the far end of the room, Dr. Brooke Wentworth sat behind a massive Louis Quatorze desk. Rather than acknowledge their presence, she remained riveted to something she was reading. When William beckoned Garrett to sit in one of several upholstered chairs opposite the desk he did so, silently followed by Constance. For several moments Garrett and Constance simply sat there, with William standing guard next to them like some obedient gun dog awaiting his master's next command.

“Thank you, William,” Dr. Wentworth said at last, her attention still riveted upon her work. “You may leave us now. Please tell Millicent that I would like a full tea service sent in. And have her include some of those lovely blueberry scones, should we have any left.”

“Yes, madam,” he answered. “Will there be anything else?”

“Just a few quiet moments with my visitor,” she answered.

“Very good, madam.”

With near military precision the large man turned briskly on his heel, left the room, and closed the sliding doors behind him.

Even now, Dr. Wentworth did not look at Garrett. Realizing that silence was in order, he wisely remained quiet.

While waiting, Garrett took a few moments to regard her. She was a trim and astute-looking woman who appeared to be somewhere in her midfifties. Her face was attractive, and she was impeccably dressed. Her graying auburn hair was cut rather short. She wore a ruby necklace overtop a well-tailored pink suit, accompanied by matching ruby earrings. Tortoiseshell reading glasses lay perched near the end of her nose, allowing her to gaze over them when needed. Taken as a whole, she seemed every inch a highly intelligent, extremely wealthy, and very capable woman.

Garrett smirked a little
. Jim Baker never gave me a heads-up about any of this. Just like him to send me into the lion's den without any warning, the bastard . . .

After a few more moments, Dr. Wentworth finally removed her reading glasses and looked into Garrett's eyes.

“You told me on the phone that you would be coming alone, Dr. Richmond,” she said.

Her words stunned him.

“But I am alone, Dr. Wentworth,” he finally answered.

“No, you're not,” she said. “And before we go any further, I need a promise from you that there will be no more lies.”

Garrett was at complete loss, as was Constance. Until now, they had been quite certain that he was the only person in the world who could see and hear Constance. Completely stymied, he realized he had no choice but to come clean.

“You're right,” he answered apologetically, “and I'm sorry for misleading you. There is a woman with me, but I thought I was the only one who could recognize her presence.”

“I can't ‘see' her, per se,” Dr. Wentworth answered. “But I know that she is sitting beside you, just as surely as I know that the sun rose this morning. I can detect her aura, and from that I already know she is female. I cannot, however, converse with her. I can only assume that it is her presence in your life that has brought the two of you here. If you wish to have my help, you must tell me everything.”