Home Before Dark: A Novel (19 page)

Walt Hibbets’s gold tooth was on full display as he stared openmouthed at the hole in our kitchen ceiling.

“Snakes did all
that
?” he said.

“You should have seen it yesterday,” I replied. “It looked worse then.”

With the help of Elsa Ditmer, Jess and I had spent the previous afternoon cleaning the kitchen. As Petra babysat Maggie, we shoveled debris, swept floors, scrubbed the table and countertops. We were exhausted by the time we were finished, not to mention dirtier than I think we’d ever been in our lives.

Now it was time to patch the formidable hole in the ceiling. For that, I enlisted Hibbs, who brought a boy from town to help because the task was too big for just him alone. Together, they moved the kitchen table out of the way and placed a ladder under the hole. Hibbs climbed it until his head and shoulders vanished into the ceiling.

“Hand me that flashlight,” he said to his helper.

Light in hand, Hibbs swept the beam around the depths of our ceiling.

The rest of us watched, our faces raised. Me, Jess, Hibbs’s helper, and Petra Ditmer, who’d ostensibly dropped by to see if we again needed someone to watch Maggie during the cleanup. It was clear that morbid curiosity had drawn her. She hadn’t checked on Maggie once since her arrival.

I had taken the camera down from the study the day before, snapping a few pictures in case the insurance company needed proof of the damage. That morning, I picked it up and took a shot of Petra and Jess staring at Hibbs on his ladder. Hearing the click of the shutter, Jess looked my way, then at Petra, then back to me. She was about to say something, but Hibbs beat her to it.

“Well, the good news is that there doesn’t seem to be any other damage,” he announced. “Beams look good. Wiring is fine. Looks like there’s still some nest up here, though.”

He swept the remnants of the nest onto the floor. Dust mostly, although I also spotted cobwebs, crinkly strands of dried snakeskin, and, most disturbingly, the bones of a mouse.

“Now that’s strange,” Hibbs said. “There’s something else in here.”

He descended the ladder holding a tin box that looked to be as old as the house itself. He handed it to Jess, who took it to the kitchen table and used a rag to wipe away the dust.

“It’s a biscuit tin,” she said, turning it over in her hands. “Looks like it’s from the late 1800s.”

The tin had seen better days, even before it somehow found its way into our ceiling. A prominent dent marred the lid, and the bottom corners were edged with rust. But the color was nice—dark green accented with golden curlicues.

“Do you think it’s valuable?” Petra asked.

“Not really,” Jess said. “My father sold ones just like it in his shop for five bucks a pop.”

“How do you think it got up there?” I asked.

“Floorboards, most likely,” Hibbs said. “What room is above this one?”

I spun in place, trying to pinpoint our exact location within Baneberry Hall. Since the kitchen ran the width of the house, that meant either the great room or the Indigo Room.

It turned out to be the latter, as Hibbs and I found out when we went upstairs to check. We had been roaming both rooms, tapping the floor with the toes of our shoes, when a section of boards in the Indigo Room made a hollow sound.

Both of us dropped to our hands and knees by the boards, which were partly covered by an Oriental rug placed in the dead center of the room. Together, Hibbs and I rolled the rug out of the way, revealing a section of boards about four feet long and three feet wide that wasn’t connected to the rest of the floor. We each took an end and lifted. Inside was a clear view to the kitchen, where Jess and Petra remained huddled over the biscuit tin.

It explained a lot. Not just how the tin got into the ceiling but also how a snake had gotten into the Indigo Room our first day there. It had somehow slithered up through the loose boards.

Jess, startled to see us leering down at her from the ceiling, said, “Come back down. There’s something inside this tin.”

By the time Hibbs and I returned to the kitchen, the biscuit tin had been opened and its contents laid out on the table. Four envelopes, turned yellow with time.

Jess reached into one and removed a sheet of paper folded into thirds. The page made a crackling noise when she smoothed it out. Like the crunch of leaves in autumn.

“It’s a letter.” She cleared her throat and began to read. “‘My dearest Indigo. I write these words with a heavy heart, having just spoken to your father.’”

Petra grabbed it from her hands, the paper crinkling. “Ho. Ly. Shit,” she said. “These are love letters.”

“It looks like they were sent to Indigo Garson,” Jess said.

“
Dearest
Indigo,” Petra said, correcting her. “Can I have them?”

I almost told her no. That I wanted to take a look at them first. I was stopped by Jess, who shot me a warning look, reminding me of the promise I’d made.

The past is in the past.

“Pretty please?” Petra said. “I’m, like, obsessed with old stuff like this.”

“I suppose that’s fine,” I replied, eliciting a satisfied nod from Jess. Still, I couldn’t help but add a caveat. “Let me know if there’s anything of historical significance in them.”

Petra gave me a wink. “I promise to tell you if I find anything juicy.”

That night, I dreamed of old envelopes sitting in front of me. Each one I opened contained a snake that slithered into my hands and curled around my fingers. Yet I kept opening envelopes, praying at least one would be empty. None were. By the time the last envelope had been opened, I was covered in snakes. A wriggling, hissing blanket I couldn’t shake off.

I woke up in a cold sweat, just in time to catch a familiar sound fill the house.

Tap.

I looked to Jess, fast asleep beside me.

Tap-tap.

I sat up, listening as the sound made its way up the hallway.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

A flurry of them flew past our bedroom door.

Then it was gone, replaced by music, distant but unmistakable.

“You are sixteen, going on seventeen—”

I sat up in bed, all memories of that awful dream banished from my mind. All I could think about was that song, playing in spite of the fact I had put both the record player and the albums back in the closet.

“Baby, it’s time to think.”

What followed felt like a dream. A recurring one that wouldn’t go away no matter how much I wanted it to.

I got out of bed.

I traversed the hallway, bare feet on hardwood.

I climbed the steps to the third floor, rising into a confounding chill emanating from the study.

The déjà vu continued as I entered the study and saw the record player sitting on the desk, looking as though I had never moved it.

“Better beware, be canny and careful—”

I plucked the needle from the album and turned off the record player. I then stood there, completely still, wondering if it really was a dream and, if so, when it would finally end.

The sign outside the Two Pines Motor Lodge is already aglow when I pull into the parking lot, its neon trees casting a sickly green light that spreads across the asphalt like moss. When I enter the motel office, the clerk doesn’t look up from her magazine. A blessing, considering I’m sweaty, disheveled, and still coated with dust.

“A room is fifty a night,” she says.

I dig out my wallet and place two twenties and a ten on the front desk. I assume this isn’t the kind of place that requires a credit card. Proving me correct, the clerk takes the cash, grabs a key from the rack on the wall next to her, and slides it toward me.

“You’ll be in room four,” she says, still not making eye contact. “Vending machines are at the other end of the building. Checkout is at noon.”

I take the key, and a puff of dirt rises from my sleeve. Because the house was still crawling with cops when I left, I have no fresh change of clothes. Just a bag of travel-size sundries I bought at a convenience store on the way here.

“Um, are there any laundry facilities here?”

“Sorry, no.” The clerk finally looks at me, her expression slanted and bewildered. “But if you rinse all that in the sink now, it might be dry by morning. If not, there’s a hair dryer attached to the wall.”

I thank her and shuffle to my room. As I unlock the door, I wonder if it’s the same one my parents and I stayed in after fleeing Baneberry Hall. If so, I doubt much has changed between stays. The interior looks as though it hasn’t been updated in at least thirty years. Stepping inside feels like entering a time machine and being zapped straight back to the eighties.

I head to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and, still fully dressed, step under the spray. It seems easier than using the sink.

At first, it looks like the shower scene from
Psycho
—stained water circling the drain. When enough grime slides off my clothes for me to deem them salvageable in the short term, I take them off piece by piece.

It’s not until after all the clothes are off and draped over the shower curtain, dripping soapy water, that I plop down in the tub, knees to my chest, and begin to weep.

I end up crying for half an hour, too sad, angry, and confused to do anything else. I cry for Petra, mourning her even though I have no memories of meeting her. I cry for my father, trying to square the man I thought he was with the horrible thing he might have done.

Finally, I cry for all the versions of myself that have existed through the years. Confused five-year-old. Sullen child of divorce. Furious nine-year-old. Inquisitive me. Defiant me. Dutiful me. So many incarnations, each one seeking answers, leading me to right here, to right now, to a potential truth I have no idea how to handle.

I’d hoped the shower and crying jag would invigorate me—a cleansing blast of catharsis. Instead, it only leaves me weary and prune-fingered. Since I have nothing dry to wear, I wrap myself in a towel and use a comforter from one of the twin beds as a makeshift robe. Then I sit on the edge of the stripped bed and check my phone.

Allie called while I was in the shower. The voicemail she left is jarringly perky.

“Hey, handywoman. It dawned on me today that you’ve sent me exactly zero pictures of the interior of that house. Get on that, girl. I want details. Cornices. Friezes. Wainscoting. Don’t leave a bitch hanging.”

I want to call her back and tell her all that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours. I don’t, because I know exactly what she’ll say. That I should leave. That I should come back to Boston and forget all about Baneberry Hall.

But it’s too late for that. Even if I wanted to leave, I don’t think I can. Chief Alcott will surely have more questions for me. Then there are my own questions—a list a mile long, all of them still unanswered. Until I learn more about what really happened in that house, I’m not going anywhere.

I text Allie back, trying to match her in perk.

Sorry! Been too busy for pictures. I’ll try to send you sexy wainscoting snaps tomorrow.

That task over, I tackle a second—another call to my mother. Unlike the first one, this time I want her to pick up.

My hope is that my mother can shed more light on my father’s association with Petra. Brian Prince was right—the two of them
did
seem close in the Book. That doesn’t mean it’s true. Only my mother knows for sure. Only she’ll be able to assure me that my father is innocent.

For the first time in my life, I need her opinion.

Which is why my heart sinks when the call again goes straight to voicemail.

“Hi, Mom. It’s me. I’m still in Vermont, doing work at Baneberry Hall. And, um, we found something.” I pause, struck by the awfulness of the euphemism. Petra wasn’t a mere something. She was a person.
A vibrant young woman. “We need to talk about it. As soon as possible. Call me back. Please.”

I end the call and survey the room.

It’s a dump.

The wood-paneled wall opposite the room’s sole window has been faded by the sun. A ceiling tile in the corner bears a stain worse than the one that was in Baneberry Hall’s kitchen, which doesn’t engender good thoughts. I look at the carpet. Orange shag.

There’s a knock on the door. Two tentative raps that make me think it’s the desk clerk coming to tell me the state of Vermont has deemed the place a health hazard and ordered the premises vacated. Instead, I open the door to find Dane standing outside.

“I’m sorry I broke your ceiling,” he says sheepishly. “To make up for it, I brought apology gifts.”

He lifts his hands, revealing a bottle of bourbon in one and a six-pack of beer in the other.

“I didn’t know how drunk you needed to get,” he explains.

I grab the bourbon. “Very.”

Dane correctly takes it as an invitation to join me. He steps inside and closes the door behind him. The presence of the alcohol momentarily masked just how damn good he looks. He’s in jeans and a threadbare Rolling Stones T-shirt that fits tight across his chest. There’s a hole in the shirt, right where his heart is located, revealing a patch of tanned skin.

“Nice shirt,” I say when Dane catches me staring.

“I’ve had it since I was a teenager.”

“It shows.”

“Nice blanket,” Dane says.

I twirl a corner of the comforter. “I’m pretending it’s a caftan.”

Dane uncaps a beer. I open the bourbon. There aren’t any glasses in the room—it’s not that kind of hotel—so I swig directly from the bottle. The first swallow does nothing but burn the back of my throat.
The second proves to be a repeat of the first. The third gulp is the charm. Only then do I start to feel that welcome numbness creep over me.

“How did you find me?” I say.

“Process of elimination.” Dane takes a sip of beer. “I went to the house first. The police were still there, which meant you were staying somewhere else. Which in Bartleby means here.”

“Lucky me,” I say before two more swigs of bourbon.

The two of us fall into a comfortable silence, Dane on one bed, me on the other, content with simply drinking and staring at the Red Sox game flickering on the twenty-year-old television.

“Do you really think it was Petra Ditmer in the ceiling?” Dane eventually says.

“Yeah, I do.”

“God, her poor mother.”

“Did you know her?” I ask.

“I might have met her one of the times I was here visiting my grandparents. But if I did, I don’t remember it.”

“You said you talked to my father when he came to the house each year,” I say. “What did you talk about?”

Dane sips his beer a moment, thinking. “The house. The grounds. If anything had needed fixing.”

“That’s all? Basic maintenance stuff?”

“Pretty much,” Dane says. “Sometimes we’d talk about the Red Sox or the weather.”

“Did he ever mention Petra Ditmer?”

“He asked me about Elsa and Hannah. How they were doing. If they needed money.”

An odd question to ask someone. I want to think it was my father being charitable. But I suspect it might have been something else—like a guilt-prompted desire to pay them off.

I gulp down more bourbon, hoping it will stop me from thinking
this way. I should be certain of my father’s innocence. Instead, I’m the opposite. Waffling and unsure.

“Do you think it’s possible to believe two things at once?” I ask Dane.

“It depends on if those things cancel each other out,” he says. “For example, I believe Tom Brady is the greatest quarterback to ever play the game. I also believe he’s an asshole. One belief does not negate the other. They can exist at the same time.”

“I was talking about something more personal.”

“You’re in New England. The Patriots
are
personal.”

On one hand, I’m grateful for the way Dane is trying to take my mind off things with the booze and the banter, but it’s also frustrating—the same kind of avoidance tactics my parents used.

“You know what I’m talking about,” I say. “I truly believe my father wasn’t capable of killing anyone, let alone a sixteen-year-old girl. He was never violent. Never raised a hand to hurt me. Plus, I knew him. He was doting and decent and kind.”

“You also think he was a liar,” Dane says, as if I need reminding.

“He was,” I say. “Which is why I can’t stop thinking that maybe he
did
do something. That if the Book was a lie, then maybe everything about him was. The things he said. The way he acted. His entire life. Maybe no one really knew him. Not even me.”

“You really think he killed Petra?”

“No,” I say.

“Then you think he’s innocent.”

“I didn’t say that, either.”

The truth is that I don’t know what I think. Even though all signs point to his being involved in Petra’s death, I’m having a hard time seeing my father as a killer. Equally difficult is thinking he’s completely innocent. He lied to me literally until the end of his life. And people don’t lie unless they’re hiding something.

Or want to spare someone the truth.

Whatever that truth is, I know Petra’s death was part of it.

“One thing is clear,” Dane says, interrupting my thoughts. “Your reason for coming here has changed. Big-time.”

My plans for the house have, that’s for certain. Even if the police let me back into Baneberry Hall to renovate it, I’m not sure I still want to. From a brutally practical standpoint, it’s foolish. That house will sell for a wisp of what it’s worth, if it can be sold at all after this new tragic development.

But I look at the project through a more human lens. Petra Ditmer had spent more than two decades rotting inside Baneberry Hall. A horrible fate. When I think about it that way, it’s easy to agree with Chief Alcott. Baneberry Hall should be reduced to rubble.

“I came here to learn the truth,” I tell Dane. “That’s still my goal. Even if I might not like what that truth turns out to be.”

“And the house?”

“I’ll be back there tomorrow.” I throw my arms open, gesturing to the sun-bleached wall and stained ceiling and shag carpet that smells of mildew. “But tonight, I get to live in the lap of luxury.”

Dane shifts on the edge of his bed until we’re facing each other, our knees almost touching. The mood in the room has changed. An electricity passes between us, tinged with heat. Only then do I realize my arms-wide gesture has thrown the blanket from my shoulders, leaving me sitting in just a towel.

“I can stay here with you,” Dane says, his voice husky. “If you want me to.”

God, it’s tempting. Especially with a quarter bottle of bourbon in me and Dane looking the way he does. My gaze keeps returning to that hole in his shirt and its tantalizing glimpse of flesh. It makes me want to see what he looks like without the shirt. It would be easy to make that happen. One tug of this towel is all it would take.

And then what? All my conflicting emotions and confusion will still be there in the morning, this time complicated further by the
mixing of work and pleasure. Once you tie the two of them together, it’s nearly impossible to untangle them again.

“You should go,” I say as I pull the blanket back around my shoulders.

Dane nods once. No asking me if I’m absolutely, positively sure. No turning on the charm in the hope I’ll change my mind.

“See you tomorrow, then,” he says.

He takes the beer but leaves the bourbon. Another unwise companion to spend the night with. I want to finish off the bottle and pass out into sweet, drunken oblivion. Like sleeping with Dane, it would hurt more than help. So, with great reluctance, I tighten the blanket around me and take the bottle to the bathroom to pour the rest down the sink.