Whispers from the Dead (6 page)

Eric looked at me with an odd expression. “I think the Holts hired a couple of illegals on and off over the years, but as far as I know, they didn’t have anyone working for them when—when they moved.”

Dee Dee shrugged. “Eric would know if anyone would. He’s probably the only one on the block who was ever invited inside the Holts’ house, and that wasn’t even very often, because Mrs. Holt didn’t like Adam to get the house messed up, so Adam didn’t have very many friends. In fact, Eric was probably his only real friend.”

“Don’t make it sound like it’s over and done with. Adam and I are still friends,” Eric snapped.

“Dad said that the Holts got divorced,” I told them. “Does Adam live in Houston?”

Dee Dee shifted on the couch, but Eric said, “Adam had to live with his mother in California.”

“Where in California?”

“It’s a little town—Cedar Creek.” He scowled. “What difference does it make?”

I leaned forward. “Tell me about the Holts. What were they like?”

Dee Dee twisted her fingers together. “The Holts are history. There’s a lot more interesting stuff to talk about.”

Eric studied my face. “Why are you asking so many questions, Sarah? And what’s all this about someone speaking Spanish?”

There was no way I was going to tell them what had
happened to me in this house. I fumbled for an answer. “We’re living in the Holts’ house. It makes me curious. And Dee Dee’s parents have a Spanish-speaking maid, so I just sort of wondered if the Holts had one too.” I didn’t sound convincing, not even to myself.

Dee Dee threw Eric a frantic look, as though she were asking for help. He ignored her, so she jumped to her feet and said, “I’ve really got to go. I’m supposed to baby-sit tonight, and I have to wash my hair and do a lot of stuff.”

Maybe Eric could tell me what I wanted to know. “Eric, you don’t have to go, do you?” The words came out so eagerly, I wished I could take them back. He was going to get the wrong idea. I felt myself blushing.

Dee Dee looked a little surprised, but Eric stood up and stretched, a smug expression on his face. “It’s tough to disappoint you, Sarah, but I never date girls who are taller than I am,” he said.

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. For a few moments Eric glowered at me. “That was rude,” I mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

My apology didn’t help. He was angry, so I was surprised when he said, “There
is
a guy you ought to meet, though. He’s tall, and he likes tall girls. Yeah. The more I think about it, the better I like the idea. I think he would too.”

Dee Dee looked at Eric sharply. “What’s his name?”

“Anthony’s his name, but we call him Tony. Tony Harris.” Eric grinned and added, “You don’t know him.”

“Does he go to Memorial?”

“No, he doesn’t, and it’s none of your business, anyway. He wouldn’t be interested in you.”

“You’re a conceited jerk,” she said.

“And you’re a nerd.”

Trying to head off any more insults, I steered Dee Dee toward the door. “I wish you’d come over tomorrow morning,” I told her. “Have you got a bike? Maybe we could go for a ride and you could show me around the neighborhood.”

“Okay,” Dee Dee said. “If you want to.” She looked at me unhappily, as though there was a lot more on her mind she’d like to say but didn’t know how.

Eric edged past us through the open door. “I’ll get back to you about Tony,” he told me. There was a mischievous, mocking look on his face that bothered me.

Dee Dee watched him walk out of earshot, then turned to me and said, “Sarah, I like you. I’d really like us to be friends. And it’s not my fault. I mean, I hope you can understand, and it really doesn’t matter because—”

I put a hand on her arm, interrupting her. “What are you talking about, Dee Dee?”

She looked down at the ground a moment, then up again, and her pale blue eyes stared into mine. “Don’t mind the way I rattle on. Just promise me, please, that you’ll stop talking about the Holts?”

“If it bothers you so much,” I answered slowly.

“It bothers me a lot,” she said. She backed away, moving toward the lawn. “See you tomorrow. Okay?”

I smiled at her. “Sure. Tomorrow.” As I shut the door the house seemed to sigh as though glad the visitors had gone.

A few hours later Dad arrived home. His face was gray as he called Mom and me into the den. “Sit down,” he said. “Please, sit down. I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Your job!” Mom gasped as she slowly lowered herself into one of the chairs. “They just gave you a promotion. They wouldn’t—”

Dad shook his head impatiently. “No, Dorothy. I haven’t lost my job. It’s something else, and it may or may not turn out to be a problem.”

He tossed a quick, nervous look in my direction before he turned back to Mom.

“I feel as though we’ve been cheated. Legally, she was correct; but ethically, what she did was wrong. And the neighbors—not one of them gave me the facts. I resent that.”

“Ron!” Mom said. “Make sense! What are you talking about?”

Dad took a deep breath. “I’m trying to make excuses for myself,” he said. “I’ll get to the point.” He sat on the edge of the sofa next to me and leaned toward Mom. “Evelyn Pritchard didn’t tell me the reason why this house hadn’t sold, why it was priced so far below market value. I found out today when one of the secretaries in the office recognized our address.”

Dad paused and glanced toward the entry hall as he added, “Just a little over two years ago a murder took place inside this house!”

S
uddenly the vision of the blood on the tiles and the voice calling for help made sense. They were real. They had taken place in this house, and I had picked up on them. I’d seen the aftermath, but what about the murder itself? I shuddered and rubbed my arms, trying to warm them. Why was someone trying to involve me in this?

Mom’s eyes sparked with anger, and her words were as clipped and sharp as if they were burning her tongue. “Evelyn Pritchard should have told you about the murder, Ron. Or one of the neighbors should have spoken up.” She stood and paced to the door and back, then suddenly dropped into her chair again, her fingertips white as she gripped the chair arms. “Today I was very pointedly told that Evelyn is a wonderful friend and neighbor. The people on this block were shielding her, and that’s not fair!”

“It was more than that,” Dad explained, bitterness in
his voice. “The empty house hurt everyone’s property values.”

“I thought our neighbors were going to be nice people. I’d hoped they’d be friends.” Mom reached over to take Dad’s hand and asked, “Oh, Ron, what are we going to do?”

Dad sighed. “I’ve already spoken to an attorney. Legally, what Evelyn did was acceptable. All we can do is try to sell the house.” He added, “If that’s our decision.”

“If?” Mom asked.

“We have to face facts, Dorothy. Look how long this house was on the market before we bought it. We can’t afford to rent or buy another place to live in while we wait to see if someone wants to buy this. And when we tell them the situation …” He said quietly, “We’d have to. We couldn’t do what Evelyn did.”

“No,” Mom said. “We couldn’t.” They both glanced toward me as though the thought had struck them at the same time.

“Sarah,” Mom said, “something about the house frightened you when you first set foot in it. What was it? You didn’t—” She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “That strange feeling didn’t come back, did it?”

“No, it didn’t. It’s never coming back.” What else could I tell them? Dad had just pointed out that we couldn’t afford to make two monthly house payments. They were both watching me, waiting for more of an answer, so I tried to choose my words carefully and said, “Didn’t you ever walk in on two people who’d just had an argument? You can feel the tension in the air. That’s the best way to explain what I felt.”

Mom’s expression was so dubious that I smiled and added, “Remember when we went to visit your cousin Linda and her husband? You said later you knew the minute you set foot in their house that they’d been having a terrible argument. You told us you could feel it in the air.”

“That was different,” Mom said.

I just smiled again and shrugged. That desperate cry for help still gripped me, and I ached for the poor terrified woman. I had said I would help her, and I keep my promises, so there was nothing more I could tell my parents.

“Mom turned to Dad. “Are you sure there isn’t some way to get out of this contract?”

“I’m positive.” Dad let out an unhappy sigh. “I made a stupid mistake in buying this house,” he said. “I was feeling so proud of myself, so glad to get such a bargain. I should have questioned why the house was so much below market value.”

Both Mom and Dad looked so miserable that I felt guilty. If they weren’t so worried about me … I tried to sound as matter-of-fact as I could, and said, “People don’t tear down houses just because someone’s been murdered in them. Other people buy those houses and live in them.”

They stared at me, surprised, and I went on. “This is the nicest house we’ve ever lived in. Let’s enjoy it. The murder is over and done with. Mom, you didn’t feel anything unusual in this house. Neither did Dad. It didn’t bother you before you learned about the murder, so why get upset about it now?”

“Well …” Mom hesitated. “It’s just knowing that …”

“Sarah is probably right,” Dad said. He actually began to look hopeful.

Mom glanced at the windows. “Maybe we should have burglar bars installed on all the windows. If it was someone on drugs who broke in, looking for something to steal, it could happen again.”

“It wasn’t like that.” Dad shook his head.

“What did happen?” I asked Dad. “The people who told you about the murder must have given you the whole story.”

“Are you sure you want to know?” Dad’s face sagged. He looked terrible.

“Yes,” I answered. “We’re going to hear it sooner or later. We’d rather hear it from you.”

Dad glanced at Mom for confirmation, and she gave a slight nod, so he said, “I remember reading something about the murder in our Missouri newspaper, but at the time I didn’t pay much attention, so when I arranged to buy the house, the address and the name Holt didn’t mean anything.”

“You met the Holts when you signed the papers for the house, didn’t you?” Mom asked.

“I met the father of the family—Martin Holt. He was a pleasant enough fellow, but his name still meant nothing to me.”

“Was it his wife who was murdered?” Mom whispered. “Or his son?”

“Neither.” Dad took a deep breath and continued. “A woman who lives on Fair Oaks Drive called a nearby
Pizza Express and ordered a pizza. It was around one o’clock in the afternoon. She called a couple of times later complaining that her order hadn’t been delivered. The girl who had been hired to deliver pizzas hadn’t come back to the restaurant for the next order, so around two-thirty the manager went looking for her. The boy who had taken the phone order had scribbled something on the order blank that looked like Fair Oaks Lane, instead of Drive.”

“Fair Oaks Lane. Our street,” Mom said.

Dad continued, his voice flat with the horror of what he had to tell. “The manager found the Pizza Express delivery car parked about a block away on a side street. There was no sign of the girl, so he called the police. During their investigation they went to this address on Fair Oaks Lane. No one was home, but the side door to our garage—
the
garage—was standing open, and they could see a crumpled box from Pizza Express. On the garage floor, tossed next to the trash can, were a rag with stains that looked like blood and a pair of bloodstained tennis shoes.”

Mom shuddered, hugging her arms and rubbing them as though she were cold. “Don’t mind me,” she said as Dad paused. “Go on.”

“The police on the scene called in for a search warrant,” Dad told us, “and in the meantime some other police officers and a film crew from a television station arrived. Some of the neighbors who were home came out to see what was going on. At this point Adam Holt—the teenage son—drove into the street, saw the cars and people at his house, and did a U-turn, trying to get away.
But a neighbor had seen him and pointed him out, so the police chased him for a few blocks and caught him.