The Strangers on Montagu Street (37 page)
Read The Strangers on Montagu Street Online
Authors: Karen White
Tags: #Romance, #Psychological, #Contemporary, #Fiction
“Nola?” My mother flipped on the overhead light, then sat on the bed next to Nola. She then held the sleeping girl’s head still while she put her other hand on Nola’s forehead. Turning to me, she said, “She’s burning up. Go get a glass of water from the bathroom.”
When I returned my foot accidentally nudged Bonnie’s guitar from its precarious position against the chair, making it wobble. For the last few nights, I’d heard Nola strumming on it, very quietly, as if she didn’t want anybody to hear. I’d recognized the first few measures of the song that seemed to constantly be playing in the back of my mind, but she always stopped early, as if she didn’t remember what came next. I’d also recognized what sounded a lot like “Dancing Queen,” but decided to keep that to myself.
I placed the water on the nightstand as my mother gently rubbed Nola’s back, using a soothing voice to awaken her. “Open your eyes, Nola. It’s just a bad dream. Open your eyes and they’ll go away.”
Nola’s eyes shot open, the pupils so dilated that it was hard to see them in the ocean of dark blue. “Stop her,” she said, her voice hoarse. “They want me to stop her.”
I handed my mother the water glass and watched as she held it to Nola’s lips. “Drink this. It will help wake you up and then we can talk.”
Nola sat up and blinked as if trying to focus, then took two big gulps of water. My mother moved the glass away as Nola raised her hands to her face and smoothed back the damp hair that stuck to her skin. “What happened?” she asked, her gaze darting back and forth between my mother and me as if she were just now registering our presence.
“You had another bad dream,” my mother said. “You screamed and Mellie and I came to see what was wrong.”
I took a step forward and something hard and rigid cracked under my foot. Lifting my foot, I saw the dollhouse figure of William Manigault prone on the floor, his head bent at the now familiar, yet unnatural angle. “Dang it,” I said. “I stepped on one of the dolls and broke it. Don’t worry; I’ll fix it—I’ve become quite the pro with glue. But you shouldn’t leave them on the floor.”
Nola’s eyes were wide. “I didn’t.”
I met my mother’s eyes for a brief moment. “Where did you leave it?”
“Downstairs. In the dollhouse. And I know that for sure because yesterday, when Alston was here, we were redecorating all the rooms again and had all the figures set up doing their own thing. William was on the piano in the living room.”
My mother tucked a strand of hair behind Nola’s ear. “Can you remember what the dream was about?
Nola shook her head. “No. I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”
“Here, hold my hand. It’ll make it easier.”
Tentatively, Nola slid her hand into my mother’s, grabbing it tightly as they both closed their eyes.
“Tell us what you see,” my mother said, her voice strained as she struggled to hold her hand steady.
“It was . . . William. William and his father. They don’t like each other very much. William was playing the piano, but it made his father angry. I don’t know why. It sounded . . . It was beautiful. It doesn’t make sense. . . .”
Nola opened her eyes, but my mother squeezed her hand. “Keep going,” my mother commanded gently.
Nola closed her eyes again and I watched as her eyes moved back and forth under her eyelids. “Then they were at the house—not the dollhouse, but the real one, on Montagu Street. They weren’t dolls, either, but real people. And Miss Julia was there looking like she does now—really old. They were waiting outside the door to that creepy Santa room as if they weren’t allowed to go in, or maybe they just didn’t like it. But they wanted her to hear them, so they were shouting really, really loudly and they were saying, ‘Stop it. Stop it now.’ She was either ignoring them or really couldn’t see them or hear them, because she acted like they weren’t there. And then . . .”
She began to shake and my mother placed her arm around Nola’s shoulders. “Shh. You don’t have to say anything more.”
Nola swallowed, her eyes still closed. “I have to. It’s important, I think. And it’s the part that scared me the most.”
My gaze met my mother’s again and I could tell that she already knew what Nola was going to say. Not wanting to be left out, I prompted, “What happened next, Nola?”
“They weren’t talking to Miss Julia.” Her eyes popped open, her gaze panicked. “They were talking to me. In the dream, I was lying here in my bed and they were standing next to me, yelling at me. Telling me to stop her.” Nola began to cry. “I didn’t know what they were talking about, but I was too scared to tell them. I think that must have been when I screamed, because I don’t remember anything else after that.”
I was no longer looking at Nola. My gaze had traveled to the bedside table, where her cell phone and an open copy of
Seventeen
magazine lay, the facing page dog-eared in the corner. But what caught my attention was the dollhouse figure of Harold Manigault, who stood on the corner of the table, facing Nola’s bed.
Seventeen
magazine lay, the facing page dog-eared in the corner. But what caught my attention was the dollhouse figure of Harold Manigault, who stood on the corner of the table, facing Nola’s bed.
“Let me guess. You left Mr. Manigault in the dollhouse, too?”
Nola nodded. “In the library at his desk.”
I thought for only a moment before I picked up her iPhone from the table. “Can I borrow this for a second?”
“Sure. What for?”
I said it out loud before I could talk myself out of it. “I’m going to call your father. I think he and I need to pay another visit to Miss Julia. Since they’re now involving you, this has suddenly become very personal.”
Jack drove like a bat out of hell from Legare Street to Montagu Street, making me wish that I’d taken my own car and met him there. But I hadn’t wanted to get there early to face alone any of the house’s residents—dead or alive; nor did I want to arrive after Jack. I knew he’d never get violent with a woman, but since this whole matter involved his daughter, I had no idea what to expect. At the very least, I didn’t want to have to pay to replace a dozen smashed ceramic Santa Clauses.
Our conversation in the car was stilted and awkward, as I tried to pretend that everything was the same between us as it always had been, and Jack didn’t even try. I kept giving him surreptitious glances from the corner of my eye as we careened around corners, trying vainly to remember the time before he was a part of my life.
He wore what I secretly referred to as his “casual writer” uniform of loafers without socks, khaki pants, and a light blue button-down oxford-cloth shirt rolled up at the sleeves. It was before noon, but he was clean shaven and had his shirt tucked in and wore a belt. I couldn’t help but wonder whom he was trying to impress, knowing with all certainty that it wasn’t me.
He wasn’t smiling behind his sunglasses as he held open my door before sprinting across the street and up the porch steps to ring the antique doorbell of Julia’s house. Dee Davenport was already pulling open the door by the time I made it to the bottom step.
She smiled brightly when she spotted Jack, dimples showing in both chubby cheeks, until she spotted me and her expression quickly changed into a frown. “Did you have an appointment?”
Jack took a step forward, his hand resting on the door so she couldn’t close it. “Hello, Dee. How are you this morning? That shade of pink sure suits your fine coloring.” He turned back to me. “Have you ever seen such a peaches-and-cream complexion as Miss Dee has?”
I stepped up on the porch to stand behind Jack, smiling and nodding in agreement. “One of a kind,” I said.
Jack turned back to Dee. “I’m sorry that we didn’t call first, but I was really hoping we could have a few moments of Miss Julia’s time to discuss something very important.”
Dee hesitated. “She’s not ready for visitors right now, but if you want to come back later . . .”
Jack took a step closer so that he was now standing in the door’s threshold. “Actually, later might not work. I know my daughter is scheduled for her lesson at one o’clock, and I’m afraid I can’t let her come if I don’t speak with Miss Julia first.”
I could almost see the weighted scale moving up and down in Dee’s head, measuring Julia’s wrath against Jack’s charm. Apparently, Jack’s charm won out, as Dee stepped backward, allowing us into the dim foyer. “I’ll go see if she’s ready. . . .”
“We’ll follow you,” Jack insisted with a bright smile aimed at Dee.
With her forehead creased with worry, she led us down the now familiar route to the back of the house. Tapping on the door, she said. “Miss Julia? Are you decent? I’ve got Mr. Trenholm and Miss Middleton here, and they say they need to see you right away.”
Jack reached around Dee and knocked more loudly. “If you don’t let us speak with you now, I’m going to leave and get the dollhouse and bring it back here and let you deal with the unhappy spirits you tried to get rid of seventy years ago.”
There was no response from inside as Jack and I shared a glance, and I had visions of the Bates Motel and a long-dead woman in a wheelchair. I jerked back at the sound of the latch turning, the door swinging inward.
Julia Manigault, with her white hair out of its tight bun and now unfurled down to her waist, glared at us from the door opening. Even stooped over and wearing a high-necked nightgown with a gray shawl around her neck, she still appeared formidable enough to make me take a step back.
“Didn’t Miss Davenport tell you I wasn’t available? I never take callers before noon, and I resent this intrusion.”
“And I do apologize, Miss Julia,” Jack said with appropriate contriteness. “But Melanie had a conversation with William that we thought you should know about.”
I looked at him in surprise, having expected him to strong-arm his way into a conversation and not move the focus to me.
Julia stepped back and I saw that she leaned on a heavy-knobbed cane. It was definitely a man’s cane, with a large silver eagle’s head at the top, and I realized it had probably been her father’s. As we walked into the room, I noticed that the sofa had been made into a bed with a pillow and blankets, leading me to believe she spent all of her time in this peculiar room. I remembered her telling me that her father didn’t like the room and would never go inside, and wondered whether that was the reason she rarely left it.
We sat down in the same uncomfortable horsehair chairs that we’d sat in before, and faced Julia, whom Dee had settled into her wheelchair with a blanket thrown around her knees. “So what did William tell you?” she demanded, her dark eyes boring into mine.
I glanced at Jack to be sure he really wanted me to lead this discussion and was answered with only his raised eyebrows. Clearing my throat, I turned to Julia. “Please understand that when I speak with spirits, it’s rarely completely clear what they are trying to say. We can only try to interpret what we hear to make sense of it.”
She leaned forward. “So what did he say?” she asked again, as if I hadn’t spoken.
“He said, ‘Stop her.’ And that misery would follow if you didn’t stop. Does that mean anything to you?”
She shook her head but didn’t meet my eyes.
“Are you sure?” Jack asked, his voice gentle.
This time she met his eyes and shook her head. Turning back to me, she said, “Is there anything else?”
“Not exactly . . .”
Julia leaned forward, her dull eyes brightening with hope. “What was it?”
“Actually, it wasn’t anything he said.” I paused. “His head . . .” I tried to think of a tactful way to say it. “His head was bent at an odd angle, with lots of bruising on the neck. Like his neck was broken.”
She blinked several times but didn’t say anything.
I pressed on. “Could your father have hurt him? Hurt him accidentally, even, but enough to kill him?”
She shook her head vehemently. “No. I know my father didn’t kill William.” She looked at us, her eyes defiant. “I have proof.”
“The letter in the box?” It was only a guess, but the surprise in her expression told me I was right.
“How did you know about that? Did William tell you?”
I figured my source wasn’t as important as the content, so instead of answering, I said, “William told me that the note was proof of innocence where there is none. Does that make sense to you?”
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