Watch for the Dead (Relatively Dead Book 4) (28 page)

Ned nodded. “Yes—the economy had tanked, and there were rumblings about war. How did that affect Olivia?”

“It didn’t, directly—although I haven’t seen her bank statements from the era, and I assume there must have been some impact. You have to realize I’m seeing all of this only from Olivia’s perspective, through a handful of letters over time, so I’m kind of guessing to fill in the blanks. At some point Olivia begins mentioning a man named Charles Clarkson in the letters.”

“Why is that name familiar?” Ned asked.

“Charles was the son of Thomas Clarkson, the artist, remember? That painting my mother has?”

“Oh, right. Where does this Charles fit in the story?”

“Well, I gather that Charles initially made contact when he heard that William Flagg had died—he must have known him, or known of him, from Lynn, and William’s death would have been announced there. Charles lived in Lynn most of his life, and it seems unlikely to me that he would have tracked her down in New Jersey, but he did send a card. Of course, we don’t know whether they kept in touch over the next few years, but Olivia’s husband died in 1917, remember. And sometime after that Olivia started visiting the Cape. Say Charles heard from someone that she was summering on the Cape and decided to call upon her—and he brought the painting.”

“Why would he do that?”

“The obvious answer is that it was a gift in commemoration of Olivia’s father’s early support of Charles’s father, decades before. But I think—and this is just a guess—that he was courting her. If you remember, Thomas the artist died in 1892. Charles, it appears, was younger than Olivia by maybe a decade, but that wasn’t really that much. The painting was kind of a nice entrée, don’t you think? I mean, it probably wasn’t worth a whole lot then, and was something that Charles thought Olivia would recognize and enjoy. So it was his calling card, so to speak. And they struck up a friendship that lasted for years. And maybe a bit more than a friendship.”

“You can tell this from the letters?” Ned asked.

“Kind of. Olivia mentions him more and more often, over several years, and he kind of morphed into ‘dear Charles’ who was visiting again. I think it was only a summer thing—he never came to New Jersey.”

“Was Charles married?”

“Obviously I haven’t done the research on that, since I’ve only just learned of him, but no spouse was ever mentioned in the letters. Now, to put this in context, I have a feeling that Olivia’s marriage wasn’t a very happy one, and she was kind of enjoying her own independence after Samuel died—she got involved in more community affairs, and she bought the second house, for example. But maybe she was lonely. Her mother died in 1929. Isabel was married and living in Massachusetts, and she had four little kids, so she was busy. I’m not saying that every woman needs a man to keep her happy, but I think maybe Olivia may have been a bit vulnerable.”

“You’re saying Charles was a gold digger? He wanted to exploit Olivia?”

“No, not at all! I think they were two lonely older people who enjoyed each other’s company, and then maybe it turned into something more. Something they didn’t expect. There was no reason why they couldn’t have married—they were both respectable people of means. Nobody would have raised an eyebrow. And maybe they would have, except . . .” Abby found it hard to go on, and took another sip of wine. And another.

“What happened, Abby?” Ned asked gently.

“The hurricane happened, is what. How much do you know about that?”

“Not a lot. I know it had a major impact on the coastal states, and even as far inland as Springfield.”

“I’ve been reading up on it lately, just out of curiosity, after I saw that binder of news reports at the house, which Daniel’s grandfather put together right after the storm. It was one of the largest and most destructive storms ever to hit New England, and it was devastating. Of course, back in those days the weather service was in its infancy, and predicting was very hit or miss. The forecasters, such as they were, really missed this one. The storm was big and it moved fast, and then it ran into a very unusual combination of circumstances—most storms loop out to sea, toward the east. But there was a stationary high just inland, and a high on the east side, so this storm kind of got channeled right up the middle, and all of its force was concentrated along that path. As soon as the winds kicked up, they took down what telephone and power lines there were, so there was no way to warn anyone that it was coming. People were completely unprepared. They kept saying, ‘there are never hurricanes in New England,’ for all the good it did them.”

“But the Cape house survived intact,” Ned said.

“Yes, it did. The canal had just been enlarged and deepened, and in a way that protected the Cape by diverting the storm surge, which is why there was less flooding than in other coastal areas. Plus the storm kind of moved inland, on its way to Canada.”

“And how does this all fit in Olivia’s story?”

Abby drained her glass. “Charles had a sailboat—no surprise, since his father painted so many marine pictures—and he was an experienced sailor. He was going to sail down from Lynn, or maybe Nahant, to Falmouth, to visit Olivia, who had stayed on the Cape, even though it was toward the end of September. Probably so they could spend a little more time together before she went back to New Jersey. And then the storm hit and Charles’s boat went down. His body was found a couple of days later.”

“Good God,” Ned said.

“Yes. I can only imagine how Olivia felt. The last letter to Isabel, or at least the last one Isabel kept, said only, ‘Charles is gone.’ Olivia included a tiny newspaper clipping reporting Charles’s death and the circumstances, although of course it didn’t mention that he had been on his way to visit Olivia. But Isabel would have understood what that meant. And that’s where the story ends. They were both gone within three years.”

“How awful, and how sad.”

“Yes. When Olivia died, Ruth put the house on the market almost immediately and probably sold it at a loss—Daniel told me his grandfather boasted about getting a really good deal on it. So now I see why Olivia was sitting on the porch in the storm—she was waiting for Charles, although she probably knew by then he would never come. Her last chance for a little happiness, and losing him broke something inside her. That’s why we feel her pain, even now. She kept the painting, not because Thomas Clarkson was an important painter, but because Charles had given it to her.”

Ned wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “This seeing the dead business can be a real bitch. I’m sorry you had to run into Olivia under these circumstances.”

“I’m not,” Abby said to his chest. “She loved him. It didn’t matter that they were older—they’d found each other, and they were happy. I know that was real. And that matters. It matters for us, too. Because I’m descended from Olivia, and I can feel what she feels, at least for the important things. So that’s why I wanted to know. I
had
to know.”

“I think I can understand that.” He held her in silence for a few minutes, and Abby wondered if he was sharing her pain, through that contact? Or maybe diluting it, drawing some away from her?

Finally Abby said, “What do we tell Ellie? She felt something in the house too. And then there’s the picture she took. Do you think there really is something in that picture, or am I just projecting? Maybe we should have let Leslie look at it longer—if she didn’t see anything, that would have told us something. But Ellie saw it, in the picture, and we have to say something. I’d hate to have her go off with her camera trying to photograph spirits. Although I have to admit, I’d be curious to see what happens.”

“We can talk to her,” Ned agreed. “I don’t want to go behind Leslie’s back, but if she can’t see the . . . something in that picture, then she’s not going to understand what we’re talking about.”

“I should talk to my mother too. I don’t know how she’s coping with this whole idea of seeing things that aren’t there, or were but only in the past. And she’s got the picture. I can tell her the facts, but I don’t know what that will mean to her. Poor Charles. What a shame. Olivia deserved some happiness with Charles.”

Chapter 29

They ate a patchy dinner and retired early. Abby still felt the pain of Olivia’s loss, but muted now by her new understanding of what had happened. Some people no doubt would tell her she’d strung together a story out of next to nothing, but it made sense to her. Now the sorrow was a compact lump in her chest, but it was not as sore as it had been.

She lay in the dark with her head on Ned’s chest. Warm, breathing—real. Not a phantom from the past, although he had his own links to his ancestors.

“You know, I think I understand why it was always the women who were considered witches,” she said.

“And why is that?” Ned’s voice, slow and drowsy, rumbled in her ear.

“Because we
feel
more. We sense things. I know you
see
people—the ones who are gone, I mean—the way I do, but do you have any idea what they’re feeling when you see them?”

Ned took a moment to answer. “No, I can’t say that I do. But there have been male witches, haven’t there?”

“Yes. Well, at least in fiction—I’m not convinced that witches really exist, beyond serving as other people’s way of pinning a name on something they don’t understand. But think about the male witches and mages and magicians in traditional literature. They’re mostly about power, not helping other people. Sure, there are evil female witches, but I’d guess that most women who earned the label of witch were more likely competent herbalists who tried to heal others, and sometimes actually succeeded. Or they were more sensitive to and observant of symptoms and troubles in other people. People often distrust what they don’t understand, and it scares them so they lash out. Does that make sense?

“But these male witches just wanted to make trouble?” Ned asked.

“You’re mocking me.”

“No, I’m not. I’m trying to understand the mythology that’s grown up around them. And that persists today—look at popular literature. A lot of currently successful books borrow heavily from the Middle Ages and then throw in some individuals with mystical superpowers. Or a dragon or two. Readers eat the books up.”

“I know. And then there are zombies and werewolves and fairies and who knows what,” Abby agreed. “People like to read about them. But they don’t really expect to meet one on the street, do they?”

“People like reading or watching movies about horror because it makes them feel safer in their ordinary lives. Do they believe? I doubt it. But if you and I have learned anything recently, it’s that we should never say never.” He was silent for a few moments. “Can you handle it? Dealing with these leftover emotions? From people who aren’t even around anymore?”

She considered. “I think so. I don’t know what I’d do if I ran into an ancestor who was a raving lunatic or an axe murderer, but so far it’s been manageable. I do feel I know Olivia better now. Isn’t that odd? I first saw her almost a year ago—she’s been part of my life for that long. And her family. And I keep adding more people. Dead ones, I mean. Fewer living ones, like Ellie, but I don’t think we’re done with that. Do you?”

“No.” He hesitated. “Abby, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

Abby reared up so she could look at his face, even in the dark. “Is it bad?”

“No, I don’t think so. You know I’ve been working hard the last couple of months?”

“I guess, although I don’t really know how hard you worked before I showed up.”

“Trust me, I’m not usually this driven. But I had a reason. I was trying to clear the decks at work so that I could launch something new. I want to take a scientific look at this phenomenon.”

That she hadn’t expected. Suddenly she had a whole flock of questions. “Can you do that? Well, of course you can—it’s your company, so let me rephrase that. Can you do that without losing credibility among your clients and your colleagues in the scientific community?”

“That’s going to be tricky, I admit. I don’t want to come across as a quack, but I do want to know if there is something tangible about this that can be identified.”

“Wouldn’t that mean you’d have to find more people like us? Who see?”

“Yes, and that won’t be easy either. Look, I don’t have anything approaching a plan, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot. You just raised the questions I worry about, and I’m hoping you can help. I have no idea how to go about recruiting people, and we do need a statistical sample of sufficient size to make any investigation valid.”

Abby tried to think, but it had been a long, taxing day. “Thank you for telling me—I was beginning to worry that you were working too hard. As for the concept—do we have to make a decision right away? Can we think about it? Kick around some ideas? Let me dig into what’s already been done?”

“Of course. Abby, I want—no, I need you to be part of this. And you can help with the genealogy side of things, and then you can evaluate candidates.”

“What, lay hands on them and see if I get a psychic tingle?”

“Whatever it takes. But we’re in this together, I promise.”

“Good.”

• • •

The next morning Abby woke early and left Ned sleeping while she tiptoed downstairs to make breakfast. It was getting too cold to go barefoot—not that she enjoyed that much since the floor was usually gritty with construction debris and even some leftover cat litter that had gotten tracked around. Once coffee was made, she took her toast into the dining room and booted up her laptop. She was surprised to see an email from Ellie—she hadn’t even known that Ellie had an email address. But it seemed that everybody did these days. She clicked on it to open it.

“Dear Abby,” it began. “Mommy said I could use the computer to email you, when my homework was done. I figured out how to put pictures on it. I took some more pictures of Olivia. I think she likes it here. She even sat on Mommy’s lap last night and Mommy let her. I will send pictures of her soon, but I wanted to send this one so you could see it. I had to go to that place where Hannah is. Please don’t tell Mommy I went. I won’t do it again, but I wanted to take my camera. Write back to me please. Ellie.”