The House of Memory (Pluto's Snitch Book 2) Page 3

  “Will we be able to visit Camilla at the hospital?” I wasn’t certain what latitude we’d have with a minor.

  “Absolutely. Dr. Abbott has agreed to help me, though he’s skeptical that Camilla’s suffering from a spiritual illness. Well, a bit more than skeptical about what you can accomplish.”

  “What does he believe is wrong with her?”

  “That she has a mental disorder. He disagrees with the psychosurgery. He says it hasn’t been proven to be effective, and the chances for damaging the brain are too great.” She lifted her chin. “Do you think you can help her?”

  “I don’t know,” Reginald said. “We can assess the situation and see. Why do you believe she’s possessed?”

  “My husband is a Catholic, something my family disdains. He believes that Satan or an evil spirit can possess a human vessel. It’s the only explanation for what happened to Camilla. She’s sweet and tender and caring. She wouldn’t harm anyone, much less David.”

  I met Reginald’s gaze; though I was no mind reader, it was clear what he was thinking. “We will try,” I said. “We cannot promise a result, because this isn’t something we know about. If this is a ghost or spirit, we might have an effect. But we make no promises.”

  Zelda grasped Reginald’s hand on the backseat and my shoulder. “Thank you. Now, Mother’s planned a party to introduce you to the town. Tomorrow I want you to meet David and the Grangers.” She gave us a conspiratorial look. “Here’s how I’ve set up your visit: Reginald owns a company developing new pharmaceuticals, and you’re a writer helping him get the word out about his medicines. If you play your cards right, Maude will believe you can help her daughter and give you complete access to Camilla. We’ll travel by train to Tuscaloosa to see her. It’s only a short ride.”

  I knew where Tuscaloosa was on the map but nothing else about it. Nevertheless, we’d travel where the case took us, even if it meant going to a mental institution.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Sayre home was no match in size for Caoin House, my uncle’s Mobile estate, but the six columns across the front created a graceful exterior and a shady gallery for the spillover of guests from the welcome party that Minnie Sayre had arranged for Reginald and me.

  Though Judge Sayre was a prominent member of the judiciary, he was no teetotaler. Prohibition had been voted into effect in January, but those with money could find rum, gin, vodka, or whiskey. Backwoods bootleggers did a booming business. Booze might have been illegal, but it certainly wasn’t invisible.

  At the Sayre home, champagne and wine flowed, and Montgomery society indulged its taste for the juice of the grape. It was a festive party with beverages iced in tubs in the sunroom, where black men in white jackets served with quiet efficiency. The dining table was laden with meats, breads, delicious olives imported from Spain, soft cheeses that spread over the pumpernickel bread, and pies and cakes.

  The women of Montgomery were as fashionable and attractive as any I’d seen in Savannah and Mobile. Minnie Sayre’s grace was unrivaled. Her friends were flawless in their manners. They greeted me as if I were a celebrity.

  Several young women—obviously schoolmates of Zelda, though more conservatively dressed—livened up the party with laughter. I knew Zelda hadn’t told anyone except her parents about our true purpose here, but word of my writing had clearly gotten out.

  “I understand you’ll have a ghost story published soon,” Sherrilyn Wells said. “I love the tales of Edgar Allan Poe.”

  “Tell us,” Bettie McComb said with some urgency. “Do you really see ghosts?”

  And also word of my special talent, it seemed. “I . . . have, on occasion, seen the spirits of departed people.”

  “How does it work? Can you call forth whomever you want? Like Czar Nicholas II? I’m fascinated by the execution of him and his family,” a pretty blonde girl said. “Can you ask him about it?”

  “You are morbid, Francesca,” her friend exclaimed in a shrill voice. “Morbid!” She looked to me. “Can you call up the czar?”

  “No, I can’t call up specific spirits. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Francesca, Luann,” said Zelda, “don’t be a goof. Raissa can’t just dial up the big boneyard in the sky and speak to anyone. By the way, I saw Malcolm Newberry in the library. I didn’t know he was stepping out with Hattie Sanderson.” Zelda pinched me lightly on the wrist as Francesca and Luann screamed their alarm.

  “He can’t date that gold digger. We’ll save him,” Luanne declared. They hustled toward the library.

  Zelda took my arm and steered me toward the dining room. “Hurry, let’s find Mother. She’ll protect you.”

  When we found Minnie, Zelda quickly turned me over to her tender mercies.

  My natural shyness was an obstacle as Minnie took me from group to group of partiers, making introductions. Never great at remembering names, I soon gave up. This was another of Reginald’s talents, and I admired his social ease from across the room as he moved among five dozen strangers, making jokes, complimenting women, and including men in asides that made them guffaw as if he’d known them all his life. In this setting, he was the sleek racehorse, and I was the donkey.

  I liked Minnie immensely, and her love for Zelda made me ache with longing for my own mother. Judge Sayre was a stern man who was reputed to be the best jurist in the region. Not a single one of his rulings had ever been reversed on appeal. He had found a corner of the library and sat in a circle of club chairs, speaking with the older men in attendance.

  Minnie and I moved through the room, a glass of gin sweating in my grip. I had no time to sip it as I greeted the social elite of Montgomery. “This is Dr. Fred Abbott, our family physician,” Minnie said. “He’s a wonderful doctor, a man of science and art.”

  “Dr. Abbott,” I said, eager for a word with the tall, distinguished-looking physician. “If you could spare a moment.” I was in the middle of fabricating an excuse when I was saved from lying by Zelda’s arrival.

  “Come out on the porch for some air,” she said to the doctor. “Tallulah can’t make it tonight. She’s coming home on the late train from Birmingham.” She put a hand on his arm. “He adores Tallulah.”

  “I can’t wait to meet her,” I said, happy to follow them outside.

  Several men gathered on the west side of the porch, but Zelda led us into the side yard, away from the chatter of the party. When Dr. Abbott began to protest, she shushed him. “We need a word.”

  “About what?” He looked back at the glowing lights of the house. Around us the heavy scent of roses teased a gentle wind.

  “Raissa’s here to help Camilla.”

  “I told you I would try to help Camilla, but I don’t see what these people can do.”

  Enough light filtered into the yard from the house that I could see the worry in his face.

  “She and Mr. Proctor are detectives. Very special detectives. They’re going to figure out what happened to Camilla and put it to right.”

  I started to protest her declarations, but she stopped me. “Dr. Abbott, please tell her about Camilla.”

  The doctor stepped back. “I can’t do that.”

  “But you must. I’ve hired Raissa and her friend to help. They need to know your diagnosis. You’ve examined Camilla. Do you believe the procedure Mrs. Granger is insisting on will help her?”

  “No. I’m not in favor of that invasive technique, but I’m no longer her doctor, and I have no say-so in her treatment.”

  “You can help Camilla by talking to Raissa. Please, just talk to her.” Zelda had potent appeal when she put her heart into it. “You know Camilla. She isn’t violent or cruel. Something has happened to her from the outside. She has no one willing to help her except me and Tallulah, and now Raissa and Reginald. You might think me mad, but I believe Camilla may be haunted.”

  Dr. Abbott stepped back as if he’d been slapped. “You’re not serious.”

  “I understand your reluctance to entertain the idea,”
I told the doctor calmly. “Science and the supernatural often seem at odds, but they really aren’t. If you believe in a soul, then think of a haunting as a troubled soul. And if you can’t believe in that, please consider that the treatment Reginald and I offer is not permanently damaging or potentially deadly like brain surgery. Give us a chance.”

  Zelda said, “Please, Dr. Abbott. Once Camilla’s brain is surgically altered, there’s no going back.”

  “What do you want to know?” Abbott asked.

  “Can you tell me what you witnessed when you treated Miss Granger?” I spoke firmly but in a quiet voice. “If I had even that small bit of information, it would help. Did she say or do anything unusual?”

  “Aside from the fact she went after the man she loves with a butcher knife and threatened to cut off his head?” Abbott sighed heavily. “I’m sorry. That was unnecessary.”

  “I know you’re distressed.” Reginald stepped from the shadows like a man materializing out of thin air. He startled even me. “You’re frustrated that you can’t help Camilla, that she’s out of your reach. You’re worried for her. Believe me—we only want to help. If the supernatural isn’t involved here, we won’t harm her.”

  I thought for a moment Reginald had overstepped himself, but Dr. Abbott slumped in defeat. “I fear the treatment Mrs. Granger is proposing. I’ve told her of my concerns, but she’s determined to ‘break this rebellious streak,’ as she puts it. She believes Camilla is acting insane to have her own way, and this mental break is nothing more than a charade. She’s willing to have her daughter destroyed to prove her point.”

  Dragon was not nearly harsh enough to label this mother; monster was more like it.

  “Could you describe her symptoms, as you witnessed them?” My little notepad and pencil were inside the house, but I would commit what he said to memory.

  “It was half an hour after the episode before I saw her,” Abbott said. “I didn’t witness any violent actions on her part, but I did put five stitches in David’s forearm where she struck him with a blade.”

  A chill passed over me, even though the night was hot and humid. “Please, tell us from the beginning. Reginald and I aren’t aware of any of the events. The smallest detail might prove helpful.”

  Zelda began the story. “David took Camilla to Roswell House to show her the renovations. He’d bought the place with the idea of holding their wedding there and making it their home.”

  “Had she seen the house before?” Reginald asked.

  “We’d all gone there on high school larks,” Zelda explained. “The place was abandoned, but the gardens were still exotic and lovely. It’s an incredibly Southern place, the typical antebellum mansion with the columns and galleries all around.”

  “High school kids used to go there to neck.” Dr. Abbot’s tone had only a hint of disapproval.

  “And more, after a swig of gin,” Zelda added cheekily. “Those who dared. Everyone said it was haunted.”

  “But Camilla hadn’t seen the house since David started the renovations?” Reginald put the conversation back on track.

  “Correct. The house was a surprise gift. He hadn’t told anyone except the men he’d hired to do the work.”

  David Simpson sounded like a pretty good guy to me, but one thing I’d learned in my brief tenure as a detective was not to jump to conclusions—good or bad—about a person. Sometimes men who did all the right things, said all the right words, and professed all the best intentions could be liars. I knew that only too well from personal experience.

  “The attack against Mr. Simpson took place at Roswell.” Reginald was quick to put the pieces together. “He and Camilla were alone there?”

  “Yes.”

  “So we have only his word for what occurred?”

  “That is true,” Dr. Abbott said. “Miss Camilla was unconscious when I saw her. Mr. Simpson said she collapsed, and he took her straight home. Mr. Granger called me to attend her. I went as quickly as I could. She was unresponsive, lying fully clothed in her bedroom when I arrived.”

  Reginald’s face told me his suspicions—David had been alone with Camilla. It was possible he’d initiated the attack or fabricated the whole event. “Did Camilla say or do anything?” I asked.

  “When I was finally able to rouse her, she was delusional and babbling.”

  “It would be helpful if we knew what she said.”

  Dr. Abbott gazed at the ground. “I’m uncomfortable saying any more.”

  “Please,” Zelda begged him. “For Camilla’s sake. In order to save her, we need all the information we can find.”

  “Very well,” the doctor finally agreed. “When I tried to rouse her from her stupor, she became agitated and fought me. She said, ‘I’d do it again. For him.’”

  “And that upsets you? Why?” Reginald asked.

  “It wasn’t what she said. But how she said it. She didn’t speak in Camilla’s voice. This voice was deeper, huskier . . . prouder.”

  The doctor’s words silenced us all. Again my skin danced with a chill beneath the hot July moon. A breeze kicked up, and the fluttering of the large, stiff leaves in a magnolia tree made me start.

  “Her agitation ended as suddenly as it began, and she didn’t remember any of it,” Dr. Abbott continued after a moment. “She had no idea how she’d gotten home or that she’d done anything harmful to David.” He cleared his throat. “I treated her for a fever, though her temperature wasn’t elevated. David convinced me to keep quiet about the incident. She returned to normal by that evening, and everyone agreed to put the bizarre behavior behind them.”

  “How did she end up at Bryce Hospital?” I asked.

  Zelda answered my question. “There was a second episode. She tried to cut David again. When we told her what she’d done, she asked to be taken to the mental hospital. Now she says she’ll do whatever’s necessary to be cured. She knows her mother is pushing for the experimental surgery, and she says she won’t fight it.” Zelda had lost the edge of energy and spunk. “She’ll let them do the operation if we don’t stop her. She loves David that much.”

  “Perhaps,” said Reginald, “Camilla was exposed to something—a plant or drink or substance . . .” He let the sentence run down.

  The doctor raised his eyebrows. “You’re thinking she may have taken opium or something of that nature, which produced vivid dreams, delusions.”

  Reginald shrugged. “Perhaps unintentionally. I think it’s worth looking into.”

  “I agree,” Dr. Abbott said. “I’ve known Camilla all her life, and it never occurred to me that someone else may have given her something. This is a possibility. Will you keep me informed? It’s possible I can be of help.”

  “Of course we will,” I said. “If we find anything at all, we’ll be in touch with you.”

  “Then we should return to the party,” Zelda said. Minnie Sayre opened the back door and peered into the yard. “Mother’s looking for me.”

  I wondered how many times Minnie had anxiously waited for her daughter to return home. Zelda would have been a trial on any mother’s nerves. Her brains and her beauty give her a license that could easily lead to trouble.

  “Give your parents my regards,” Dr. Abbott said. “I need to make rounds at the hospital.”

  “Thank you for coming.” Zelda impulsively gave the doctor a hug.

  He looked to Reginald and me. “I pray you’re successful. The girl faces a terrible future otherwise.” He walked away into the night.

  “Zelda!” Minnie called from the stoop. “Come inside.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Zelda sang out and ran to the back door, leaving Reginald and me to make our way to the front and enter without fuss. An hour later, I left Reginald gabbing with a handful of party malingerers, mostly young people. The house had cleared, and Judge Sayre and Minnie had retired. The long day had taken a toll on me, too, and I slipped away to my room. I wanted to jot down the things I’d witnessed and heard regarding Camilla Granger before I went
to sleep.

  The maid had turned down my bed, and I shrugged out of my clothes and into a nightgown, then slid between the crisp sheets. As I picked up my journal and pen, I realized how much I missed my typewriter. And to think I’d almost thrown it out. Uncle Brett’s cooler head had prevailed, thank goodness. When I got home, I could type up my scattered notes into a more comprehensible form. For now the ink pen would have to do.

  Outside my window, a mockingbird and a crow bickered. The normal sounds of a Southern night calmed me, and I put my pen aside and pulled up the light sheet. The night was hot. The earlier breeze had abandoned Montgomery, leaving a stillness that felt like a heavy hand pressed upon my forehead. The heat was like a drug, tugging me under the tide of sleep.

  A noise outside my window dragged me back from the void of slumber. I forced my eyelids open, only to close them again and slide back toward unconsciousness.

  “Help me.”

  I sat up, fully awake.

  The crow ruled the night, cawing in a pecan tree only a few feet from my bedroom, but it wasn’t the crow that had awakened me.

  “Help me, please.” The words, so desperate and afraid, came from outside.

  I threw back the sheet and rushed to the window. The moon cast enough light to make shadows, and I searched among them for a female. She had to be close to the house—I heard her clearly.

  Shadow upon shadow slumped in the night, but the yard was empty. I must have been dreaming. I was turning away when I saw her. She stood beside a large camellia. Moonlight glistened off the waxy greenness of the dense leaves. She stepped forward, aware that I could see her. There was something terribly wrong with her head, as if a hank of hair had been yanked out by the roots. One eye wandered.

  “Please,” she said, “help me.”

  I couldn’t move. My limbs felt paralyzed. I was helpless as she came closer, not walking but floating across the lawn. When she reached a pool of moonlight, I realized she was transparent. Blood dripped down her face, sliding down her bosom and dripping on the ground. Bruises bloomed on her neck, dark and angry.