The House of Memory (Pluto's Snitch Book 2) Read online

  “None. Now, assuming he succeeds, what will you need for the séance, Raissa? Do I need to find supplies?”

  “Sharpened pencils, paper, candles . . .” I couldn’t think of anything else. “I’m not an expert at this. And I’m worried that the entity we’re trying to contact won’t behave like a regular ghost. I’m not experienced—”

  “She’ll do fine,” Reginald assured Zelda. “We’ll need you and David and Camilla to be in attendance. We’ll use the energy of all four of us to find out what this spirit wants.”

  As Reginald had said before, we didn’t have another option. I clung to that as David’s train departed and we drove away from the train station. I dropped Reginald downtown, where he could ambush Jefferson Granger at his office when he showed up for work. Zelda was next at the Greystone Hotel, where she would make arrangements for Camilla’s stay.

  Because the trolley didn’t run to my destination, I drove the car to the poorest part of town. The houses were little more than wooden shacks, and in some, daylight could be seen through the cracks in the walls. This was Biggerville, a section of town where only Negroes lived.

  The rutted dirt roads hadn’t seen a grader in months, and the smell made it evident that sewer lines hadn’t been run to the house. Hand pumps in a few front yards told of the lack of running water. Though Biggerville bumped into downtown and two residential areas, it had none of the amenities of the white neighborhoods. No power or telephone lines ran to the unpainted houses with sloping porches and patched roofs.

  There were similar neighborhoods in Savannah and Mobile. I knew about them, but I’d never paid such close attention. John Henry’s death had awakened a moral conscience in me that had slumbered. I was aware of the inequality toward women, but the treatment of the Negro population had slid below my awareness. Now I saw the signs of “White Only.” Some restaurants proclaimed “All White Waiters,” and the division of labor with Negroes, who were allowed to cook the food and not allowed to serve it in fine restaurants, was clear. While Negroes had the legal right to vote, they often couldn’t pay the poll tax or were afraid to register for fear of retribution. What good was the right to vote if Negroes were afraid to use it?

  Following Althea’s directions, I parked in front of Florence’s house, aware of the eyes watching me from all down the quiet street. I’d arrived at her home without asking about her circumstances. Was she married? Did she have children? Like the other white people she served, I knew her only in the narrow capacity as maid to the Grangers. I’d not thought to ask more information, and I doubted Zelda could tell me. I should have asked Althea, the Sayres’ maid, but that thought came too late. I needed to catch Florence before she left for work.

  I rapped on the screen door, which was loosely latched. Florence unlatched it, and though she was normally stoic, she didn’t bother to hide her surprise. “Mrs. James, come in.”

  She’d remembered my name. I hadn’t bothered to ask for her last name. “Thank you, Florence.” I stepped into the sparsely furnished house.

  “I have to leave. I can’t miss the trolley. Mrs. Granger don’t tolerate no late.”

  That was likely an understatement. “I need to speak with you, and I’ll give you a ride to work if that’s okay.”

  She looked out at the car and back at me.

  “I’m a good driver. I promise.”

  For the first time since I’d met her, she smiled. “Okay. Let me get my things.” She picked up her purse and a sack with clean rags in it. I was hardly surprised that Maude would ask her to bring her own cleaning supplies.

  “I’m trying to help Camilla,” I explained as we walked to the car. When she stopped, unsure whether to get in the back or front, I opened the front door for her.

  “Help her how?” Florence asked.

  “Her mother wants Camilla to undergo a very dangerous procedure. I want to stop it.”

  “What does Miss Camilla say she wants?”

  “She doesn’t want to hurt anyone. Florence, do you know why Mrs. Granger is so determined to see her daughter surgically changed?”

  I walked around the car and got behind the wheel before she answered. When the car was moving, Florence finally spoke. “Mrs. Granger, she hate Camilla. I never found out why.”

  “There must be a reason for a mother to hate her only child to the point of wanting to see her harmed.”

  “It’s always been that way. That girl works to please her mama. No matter how much she does or tries, it’s never good enough. Mrs. Granger’d get that look in her eye, and I’d know Miss Camilla was gonna suffer.”

  “Did she hit Camilla?”

  “If what I say gets back to her, I’ll never work in this town again. Not for anyone. I need my job.”

  “I only want to help Camilla. Whatever you tell me will never get back to the Grangers. Not a word. I swear it. But I need your help.”

  She considered as the scenery flashed past us. “No, Mrs. Granger never struck Camilla. She’s not one to lift a hand. She sit all morning in her chair, ringing her bell for me to bring her tea or fluff her pillow or find her easy shoes. I bring her the phone, fetch her makeup, brush her hair. She’s not much to move around. It’s words she use to hurt Miss Camilla. Mrs. Granger’s a hateful person. Filled with hate and ugliness. Miss Camilla is filled with light. Maybe that’s why her mama hates her so much. Because no matter how hard Mrs. Granger works to tear Miss Camilla down, she can’t. That girl has a natural light in her.”

  “And Mr. Granger?”

  “That poor man barely alive. He’s afraid to breathe too deep for fear she’ll peck his head in.”

  “Would he stand up for Camilla?”

  She pursed her lips and stared straight ahead as I drove onto a tree-shaded and well-maintained paved road. “He’s got no backbone, but doin’ nothin’ is different than doin’ somethin’. At least to some folks. They don’t see doin’ nothin’ is just as bad.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I let Florence out of the car at the bus stop so she wouldn’t be seen in Zelda’s car. Maude Granger could be malicious, and I didn’t want to jeopardize Florence’s employment. I stopped at the Greystone and sat down in the dining room with Zelda to wait for Reginald to conclude his talk with Jefferson Granger.

  Zelda was quieter than I’d ever seen her. We were both concerned about the plan we’d set in action. We were tampering with Camilla’s health and well-being, her future. A misstep on our part and the consequences could be dire. If we were taking a mentally ill person from a place where she felt secure and safe and exposing her to a house where she felt threatened, we could do irreparable damage.

  “I’m going back to New York by Wednesday at the latest,” Zelda said. “Either Camilla will be cured or she will be altered surgically to the point that I—” She picked up her coffee cup with trembling hands. “I can’t bear to see her like that. Our plan has to work.”

  Reginald joined us before we ordered breakfast; his face was the only sign I needed to realize Jefferson Granger would do nothing to help his daughter. Florence had called it squarely. The man had no backbone.

  “He says his wife has only Camilla’s best interests at heart, and the surgery will return her to the loving daughter she once was.” Reginald sipped the coffee the waiter put before him. “It’s hopeless. There’s no help from that quarter. That household is unsafe for Camilla to return to. Once this is over, she’ll have to find other living arrangements.”

  “He’s as spineless as a grub worm.” Zelda’s voice was quiet, but fury clipped her words. “How a man could be so . . . castrated, I’ll never understand.”

  “I’d hate to walk in his shoes,” Reginald said.

  “Then we move forward with the séance.” There wasn’t another choice that I could see.

  We had to put the Roswell House portion of our plan into action the moment David returned with Camilla. We had very little time before the Grangers would realize that Camilla was gone from Bryce. Once they knew s
he’d fled the hospital, it wouldn’t take them long to figure out where she might be.

  “I know this isn’t what Camilla wants, but I’m going to talk to the minister and have him ready to perform a marriage ceremony.” Zelda’s thoughts paralleled mine—seal the marriage and protect David from charges of kidnapping, should Maude go completely bananas. If Camilla married, she would never have to return to her mother’s supervision.

  “I’d like to go to Roswell House now,” I said. “See if I can learn more about the entity there. If I know what to expect, I can better prepare and protect Camilla.”

  “Is that really necessary?” Zelda appeared uneasy at the prospect. “It would seem the more often you attempt to draw this . . . entity out, the more dangerous it will be for you.”

  “I don’t believe I’m in any danger at all. It’s Camilla who will take the risks. It may save us time and effort this evening, and we may not have much time. Besides, the workmen are there.”

  Reginald didn’t object, though he looked worried.

  “Kuddle’s due to make a report on his investigation into Joanne’s disappearance,” Zelda said. “He might be at the sheriff’s office because he hangs out there all the time. One of us should go there. If he’s found something, we can telephone David at Bryce and tell him. We need all the help we can get in convincing Camilla to leave with him.”

  “You’ll make more headway with Kuddle,” I told Reginald. “I promise I’ll be safe. Nothing bad will happen in broad daylight.” I glanced up and realized that a rainstorm had moved in, blocking the sunlight and coloring the day gray. At least it would cool the paved streets and sidewalks. Any remission from the humidity and heat would be welcome. “With the workmen there we’ll be fine.”

  “Sure thing.” Zelda sounded less than sure, but her set jaw told of her determination. “I’ll drive.”

  We left Reginald in the lobby of the Greystone, which was a lovely and well-appointed hotel. We’d meet up at the Sayre home when we were done with our tasks. As Zelda and I crossed the lobby, I glanced back at Reginald, who looked perfectly at home reading a newspaper while a shoe-shine boy buffed up his wing tips. I borrowed an umbrella from the concierge of the hotel, promising to return it in a few hours, and we were off.

  The pain pelted the hood and roof of the car, but the cooling aspect was so welcome, Zelda and I only laughed at the difficulty of actually seeing the road. We crawled along until the turnoff to Roswell House, the trees still so thick we almost missed it. The rain came down in buckets as we parked and ran across the yard, giggling as we shared the umbrella under the cool rain.

  When we entered the house, I was instantly aware of the silence. The workmen had gone, leaving the house shut up and still. Zelda and I cracked windows to allow some ventilation.

  “At least it’s quiet,” I said. I was more hopeful that an entity might show itself and reveal something of its nature. It wasn’t that I sought connection to the dark force in the house, but I’d be much happier if we could spare Camilla a séance.

  “Must we really subject Camilla to coming here with David?” Zelda asked, almost as if my concerns had rubbed off on her.

  “If I can avoid it, I will, but I believe whatever is here at Roswell is connected to her. While I may feel or see it, I believe only Camilla can understand what it wants.”

  “Why Camilla?”

  “I don’t know.” Zelda had asked the right question. “That’s what we’ll learn at the séance. Twice, this entity has taken control of her. No one was able to speak to it through her. That’s what I’ll do. With Reginald and David here to restrain Camilla, and with your help, we can keep her safe from harming herself or anyone else. If I can’t draw out the spirit on my own, then I will need her to be there. I don’t know any other way.”

  “What can I do to help?” Zelda asked.

  “Move some chairs to the ballroom. And we need a table, but we may have to wait for David and Reginald to help us move that.”

  “Or we could use the parlor,” Zelda suggested. “The dining table’s there under a drop cloth. We can take out a few leaves to make it cozier.”

  “That makes more sense.” If the entity was in the house, it could just as easily manifest in the parlor as the third-floor ballroom.

  “What if you become possessed?” Zelda asked. “What should I do?”

  I’d actually given that some thought. “Get it out of me. Whatever you have to do.” I tried for a cocky smile, and I hoped it was effective. “Take me to Madam Petalungro in New Orleans. She isn’t well enough to travel, but she’ll help.”

  “Okay.” Zelda looked a bit green.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I know,” she said as she walked upstairs. The burden of her decisions and actions seemed to be heavy on her shoulders.

  I went to the kitchen, where the knives had been returned to their place in the drawer. Still, I checked twice to make sure all the blades were there. They were—even the one that had been missing earlier. I removed them and put them in a trunk I’d seen in one of the bedrooms. The trunk had a lock and a key, and I turned the lock and pocketed the key. The wicked blades were safely tucked away, and I was the only one who could open the trunk. We’d search the rest of the house for weapons before the séance. Some of the workmen’s tools could be lethal, and those would also have to be secured.

  Much of Montgomery had electric power, and David was paying to have a line run to Roswell House. Camilla should arrive while we still had daylight, but I put candles around the parlor with matches beside them. If the séance went longer than I anticipated, I didn’t want to break the mood to hunt for sources of light.

  Once the candles were in place, I looked around the room. The fourteen-foot ceilings allowed the room to cool. Windows as tall as doors yielded onto the front gallery, and I opened a few to allow ventilation. The workmen had closed them to keep rain from blowing in, but the house would quickly grow stifling since the storm had passed. Rain was almost an everyday occurrence in July—and a welcome one—but the high heat and humidity made it difficult for the painters and plasterers to work.

  I scanned the front yard as I unlocked the last set of windows. The yard crew had made progress. More and more of the once-landscaped lawn had been reclaimed. I could see the pattern of camellias, liberated now from vines and underbrush. A beautifully intricate gazebo had also been freed from the encroaching woods. There was an air of fantasy about it, as if it had been created for a fairy-tale princess. The dark memory of the woman in the upstairs window, the wicked stepmother who ruled the flies, forced its way into my mind. The entity was here, in the house. It was aware of me. Would it come forward and allow me to spare Camilla? Certainly not if that was what I requested. This was not a spirit seeking help or release. It sought control. I pushed my thoughts away and studied the gazebo.

  Once it had been repainted and patched, it would make a lovely place for trysts for Camilla and David, or perhaps a playhouse for the children they might have. I focused on a happy future for Roswell House and the couple who would live here. I visualized a family, laughter in the halls, and the footsteps of children.

  It took me a moment to realize the laughter I heard was not just in my mind. Someone was chuckling softly. The hair on my nape stood up. This was not the happy laughter of my imaginings. This was dark, cunning, cruel.

  Movement on the front lawn caught my attention. The twins were there. “Run,” they told me. “Run!”

  And they did, into the underbrush, disappearing. I wanted to run, too, but I didn’t. “Who are you?” I asked.

  The knife drawer in the kitchen opened, then slammed with great force.

  “You okay in there?” Zelda called.

  “I’m fine.” I didn’t want her down on the first floor. I needed to communicate with the spirit if possible. “What do you want?” I asked quietly. “Show yourself.”

  A swarm of flies buzzed around me so suddenly that I let out a startled cry. They pelted my skin,
driven mad by whatever force compelled them. They flew at my eyes and nose and mouth, blinding and choking me. Normally merely annoying, these flies were malevolent. I swatted and spun, finally losing my balance and falling against the wall beside one of the windows.

  “What the hell?” Zelda came across the room at a dead run. She flapped her arms at the bombarding flies and then picked up a dust cloth from a chair and tried to swat them. As suddenly as they’d arrived, they fell to the floor. The wood around my feet was black with the still-buzzing and dying insects.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  “Something really doesn’t want us here,” I said, shaking the dead flies from my blouse and hair.

  “Why does it only happen to you?” she asked. “I don’t see anything. Neither does Reginald. The minute we leave you alone, you’re attacked.”

  I didn’t have an answer, only a suspicion. “Maybe because I’m the person who can help Camilla. It wants to frighten me away.” Saying the words out loud firmed my resolve to see this through.

  “We should leave. We need Reginald and David here. I’m no believer that men are the answer to everything, but if we have to drag you out of the house, they could be useful.”

  She was right about that. “I’ve learned something here today. Tonight we have to be prepared for the worst. We need water, bandages, smelling salts.” A weapon of any kind would be pointless and might be turned against us. “Dr. Abbott should be alerted that his services may be needed.”

  Whatever we faced at Roswell House, it was powerful. And determined. But not more so than I was. With each new thing I learned, it became more and more clear that Camilla’s mental issues stemmed from Roswell House. Here was where it had to end.

  “Who do you think is here?” Zelda asked quietly.

  “I don’t know. I saw the figure of a woman in the window, but Madam Petalungro warned me not to trust all spirits. Some are liars, just as some living people lie for their own purposes.” A thought occurred. “May I borrow your car?”

  “Of course. Why?”