SEASON OF THE SERPENT
By: Cara Swann
[� 2000 by Cara Swann; all rights reserved]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
An award-winning journalist can't accept the
unsolved murder of her parents -- and finds the
sudden appearance of a long-lost cousin too
coincidental, thinking he may have had something to
do with her parents' murder. Soon she is pursuing
his past involvement with her father to buy an old
rundown mansion. Upon her visit there, she is slowly
drawn into the strange ghostly haunting in the
mansion -- and attracted to the mysterious man who
lives nearby, and who may be a murderer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
PROLOGUE
Murdered! Both of them...dead, gone forever!
How could this have happened? How could her
parents be dead, when less than a week ago they'd
been alive and well?
Chelsea Seymour stood near the freshly dug graves,
an umbrella protecting her from the softly falling
April rain. She still couldn't believe they were gone.
Even as the minister solemnly spoke his last words;
even as the crowd of bereaved family and friends
began to drift away; even as she saw the two
coffins being lowered into the gaping holes which
would forever prevent her looking upon those two
dear faces again.
People spoke in hushed whispers, condolences
mingled with mixed emotions of anger, shock,
disbelief. Men quietly touched her shoulder; women
embraced her and murmured their offers of help;
everyone asked if there was anything they could do,
any way they could further assist the authorities.
But Chelsea remained wordless, only her tremulous
lips occasionally being wet and clamped tightly
together revealing the inner turmoil of pain,
confusion, rage and ultimately, the horrible
devastation she felt at having been cruelly cheated
by the violent murder of her parents.
Several of her closest female friends, her mother's
sister, Aunt Margaret, and co-workers from the
newspaper remained steadfastly by her side, helping
support her as she walked shakily back to the
waiting car, all the time wondering if she'd ever be
able to cope with what had happened.
It was just as she turned to look once more at the
cemetery, past the budding dogwoods and darkly
wet magnolia limbs, past the slight rise of ground to
the spot where the graves rested atop a knoll, that
Chelsea saw the young man. He was standing
underneath the gnarled magnolia, his boyish face
staring intently at her. She had never seen him
before, but then many of the mourners were
unfamiliar to her.
Aunt Margaret ushered her into the dim interior of
the Limousine, saying, "Dear, we need to be getting
back to the house, there will be mourners arriving."
Chelsea settled back into the seat, still looking out
the window to where the man stood, his gaze now
directed at the graves. She asked, "Who is that
young man by the Magnolia? Do you know him?"
"Let me see..." Aunt Margaret peered through the
smoky glass. "Oh yes, he introduced himself at the
church, said he was Michael Forrest, a distant
cousin of your father's mother's family, related
through the Breaux family somehow or other. You
know I could never keep them all straight, your
paternal grandmother's family being so large. And
after the mansion, Breauxland, burned and the
Seymours both in it...well, they all drifted apart,
went to different states."
"Their home in Louisiana was so beautiful, father
used to tell me about it, and...when his parents died
so suddenly..." Her voice faltered, the realization of
how deeply her father had grieved more vivid now
that she grieved the same way.
Aunt Margaret patted her shoulder, gave her an
understanding hug. "You need time Chelsea dear,
time to come to grips with this tragedy.
"How will I ever be able to get over the rage I feel,
the helplessness, the ugly reality of them being
murdered, killed just because they happened to be
in that convenience store when it was robbed?"
She began sobbing, deep dry sobs of agony, knowing
her life was forever changed because a criminal act
had resulted in not just the everyday common
robbery seen on the nightly news, but that it had
resulted in her parents being shot simply for being in
the wrong place at the wrong time.
They rode silently through the streets of Claymore,
Mississippi and Chelsea looked on the familiar sight
of quiet neighborhoods, the unchanged landscape of
southern peacefulness where law-abiding people
lived in unguarded homes. If only her parents had
never taken the vacation trip to Florida, hadn't
stopped at the convenience store...maybe they'd still
be safely in the comfortable home coming into view.
And the authorities didn't have a clue, not a single
piece of evidence that could solve the crime - a fact
that tortured and frustrated Chelsea.
Cars already lined the wide street where oak and
maple limbs entwined overhead, a steady drizzle
misting the manicured lawns - such a dreary and
dismal day, Chelsea thought.
As they got out, the rain suddenly came down hard,
a fierce straight rain that soaked to the skin,
lightning ripping the gray skyline, rolling thunder
summoning Chelsea into the house where people
were gathered to offer comfort.
But she feared they could never, ever ease the
abysmal loneliness threatening to engulf her on this
brutal day. Nor could well-meaning people ever help
eradicate the anger and rage she felt at knowing a
killer was walking around free out there, smugly
thinking he got away with murder.
It was wrong, unfair and Chelsea vowed to do all
within her power to see justice done.
CHAPTER ONE
Chelsea fought her way through the endlessly long
days of memories, the painfully heart-wrenching
moments when she could not resist looking at the
happy, smiling faces of her parents in framed
photographs throughout their home.
She spent a few nights in their modest, comfortable
two-story house in the historic district of Claymore,
recalling her childhood, how her parents had never
wanted to overly spoil or pamper her as an only
child. She'd always felt loved and cherished, yet not
as though she deserved any special treatment
merely because she had no siblings.
Chelsea recalled her father's insistence on public
schooling, to which her mother initially objected. But
it had been the right decision, all the more so
because in first grade she'd struck up a fast
friendship with Anna Reeves, and their five years of
closeness before Anna's untimely death was a highly
treasured memory - as well as the inspiration for
her career in journalism.
With a fond smile, she remembered the way her
father disliked flaunting their considerable wealth,
instead preferring simple and quiet pleasures of
family life. Her mother was an active volunteer in
several charitable efforts; her father gave
generously to charitable causes. His only vice, as he
called it, was the collection of antiques, but even in
that he often chose battered pieces he could
lovingly restore in his shop.
That two giving, caring individuals had been brutally
murdered with such blatant disregard for human
life only made the tragedy more distressing. What
kind of person killed like that, Chelsea wondered
over and over. Whoever it was had to be found,
stopped...
After a few days of being alone with these tortured
thoughts, Chelsea returned to her small apartment,
and went back to work. Her position as a reporter
at the Claymore Clarion kept her busy meeting daily
deadlines, but she often found herself distracted by
painful emotions, unbidden images of her parents'
murder interrupting her concentration.
All the staff, a group of incredibly compassionate
people, seemed to try and understand. But in the
frantic pace of a newsroom, anyone who failed to
move quickly and attentively toward the ultimate
goal of getting out a newspaper could create
complications.
Chelsea did return many times to the house,
gathering up the small treasures she wished to keep
for herself, and deciding what antique furniture was
to be stored until the day she might wish to use it,
what pieces family members might want and what
pieces could be auctioned. For after the will had
been read, she knew she could not live in the house
where so many, many loving memories would haunt
her constantly. It had to be sold, and she arranged
to put it on the market.
Chelsea felt the acute responsibility of having to
settle all matters regarding her parents' estate. At
the reading of the will, she'd not been surprised by
the size of the trust fund left to her, even though
her share of the shipbuilding business would be
bought by her father's partner, Hammond Garner.
He'd been a loyal, hard-working partner and when
her father had told her of the arrangements in the
will years ago, she'd understood. She really had no
interest in that enterprise since her own career was
so fulfilling.
In late May, at the end of another fast-paced day,
Chelsea rushed to get her story on the city Council
meeting filed so the editor, Don James, could
approve it for the next day's lead. She watched Don
read it on the VDT screen, nodding his approval,
then say, "Good job, as usual."
He leaned back in his chair, studied her over his
glasses and said, "You don't have to work this hard,
we could spare you a few days, you know."
Don, at thirty-five, was only ten years her senior;
but he was an astute editor. One thing she'd always
appreciated at the Clarion was the instructional
guidance - no one would jump down your throat if
you made a couple of mistakes so long as you didn't
let it become a pattern. She'd done her internship
here at the local daily paper, and returned after
graduating from the University of Mississippi at
Oxford largely because of Don's expert guidance.
She smiled, shook her head. "I need to work, keep
myself busy instead of brooding. But..."
"But what?" he asked.
"It's just that I keep wondering why the authorities
haven't found who killed my parents."
He sighed, took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes.
"Those sort of robberies, who knows? Didn't they
question you, and then explain about why there were
no suspects?"
"Yes, an investigator I saw there..." She swallowed
hard, unable to avoid the painful memory of having
to identify her parents' bodies at a morgue. "He said
the surveillance video in the convenience store was
the only evidence they had, and it was impossible to
identify the killer, who wore black clothing, a ski
mask, gloves. It's just so frustrating!"
"Chelsea, are you sure you don't need some time
away from here, a vacation or something?"
She shrugged. "Maybe.
''How about the crime victims' meetings?''
"I've been attending, but I feel like I need to do
more, try and find out something else about the
murder..."
"You are a fine reporter, and the investigative pieces
you've done were good work, but you're too
personally involved in this situation. Besides, Chelsea,
that's what investigators are for, to find these
savage criminals. You could get killed yourself if you
did somehow locate the murderer."
She bit her lips, knowing Don was right, but that
didn't stop her from saying, "I would like a few
weeks off. I need to talk to the investigator again."
"I'd warn you to be careful, but...knowing how
impulsive and persistent you can be, I'd be wasting
my breath." He grinned, put his glasses back on.
"Yes, you can have as long as you need off, a leave
of absence. But I want to stress I consider this time
to deal with your grief, not go chasing after a
killer."
"Thanks. And I will try to be cautious," she said,
knowing he couldn't very well condone her conduct,
but that, as a former reporter himself, he did
understand. She went back to her desk where she
turned off the VDT unit, grabbed her purse and left
the building.
Chelsea walked to her Toyota Camry parked on the
street, and as she started to unlock the door, she
heard a male voice behind her say, "Chelsea, I'm
sorry I didn't get to offer my condolences at the
funeral."
She turned slowly to see a young man standing
nearby, his boyish face warmly sincere. He was
vaguely familiar, and then she remembered seeing
him from a distance at her parents' funeral. Michael
Forrest, her aunt had said, a distant cousin.
Now that he was close, she noticed his good-looks;
he had a short, stout build, and an open, friendly
kind of face, one that made you want to trust him
with confidences. But it was his gray eyes that
connected him to her family, the same pale gray of
her father and uncle's eyes.
He smiled, ran a hand through his brown hair, asked,
"Do I look familiar?"
"Sorry for staring," Chelsea said, "I suppose I was
looking at your family resemblance. You are Michael
Forrest, a long lost cousin of my father's family,
aren't you?"
"Yes, and thanks for sparing me that awkward
introduction." He leaned back against the car,
causally crossed his legs one over the other, looking
relaxed in his jeans and knit shirt.
Chelsea said, "I was just on my way to my
apartment. Would you like to come by for a glass of
ice tea, it's really warm this afternoon.
He exclaimed, "Hey, that'd be great! My Blazer's
over there, so I'll be right with you."
As she drove the mile to her apartment, Chelsea
wondered about him, why he'd come here? Surely
not just to extend his condolences.
As he pulled in behind her at the curb, she motioned
for him to join her, led the way up the sidewalk to
the apartment complex in a modern brick building.
Inside, she went to the tiny kitchenette and put on
water to boil, hung the tea bags on the side of the
pot. Then she told him, "I'll just be a sec, need to
get changed out of this dress."
In the bedroom, Chelsea pulled on faded jeans and a
blue oversized blouse, then looked into the mirror.
Her normally healthy rose-tinted skin had a sick
pallor, making her distinctively arched black brows
stand out dramatically, emphasizing her wide-spaced
bright green eyes beneath which the dark smudges
from sleepless nights looked like bruises. She ran a
brush through her thick, wavy shoulder-length
chestnut hair and put red gloss on her overly full
lips, which she'd always hated until recently when
they seemed to be all the rage.
Appraising her petite body in the mirror, she again
wished she could lose about ten pounds; but others
told her the figure she wished to diminish was
alluring in a voluptuous way. It was a very flattering
compliment, and she'd given up on starvation
anyway.
Passing back through the kitchenette, she quickly
made the ice tea and carried two tall frosty glasses
on a tray into the small living room. Michael was
studying the framed articles over her desk, and
whistled low as she entered.
"You are an ace reporter, huh? Winning awards for
these, that's super!"
Chelsea felt her face flush proudly; she'd won an
award for her series of controversial articles about
the potential environmental damage caused by air
pollution from the pulp and paper mills in and around
Claymore, angering various forestry-related
enterprises. And one of her articles featuring
interviews with impoverished blacks, who didn't have
a clean water supply, had also gotten statewide
recognition.
"So, thanks for the tea," he said, taking the glass
and sitting down on the overstuffed sofa. "I really
meant what I said, about your parents."
She sat down opposite him in a wicker armchair.
"Thank you, it was...awful, just awful."
"I don't know what is happening in this country when
two people can't even stop at a store without..." He
broke off, sighed. "Sorry, but...it just seems so
senseless, random, so... I don't know..."
"Yes, it was. And it upsets me the killer got away!"
Chelsea burst out, immediately apologizing, "I'm
sorry, it's just that I feel so helpless."
He nodded, but his mouth thinned into a tense line.
She explained, "I've been going to a group meeting
of crime victims, been a couple of times just to um,
try and...see if my feelings are normal."
Sipping her tea, Chelsea recalled the grim faces
etched with despair and helplessness, some of them
so bitter they could never really be happy again. She
never wanted to end up that way forever, but if the
killer got away with it, still out there free to kill
again...
"Did it help?" he asked, leaning forward, staring at
her curiously.
"A little, but some of the people, they were so grim.
It was a bit more than I could take." She paused,
put her glass on a coaster on the wicker cocktail
table. "But one thing I did learn is that when
something like this happens to you, it suddenly makes
you realize that no one's really safe. If it can
happen to them, it can happen to you. It's as though
some people want to avoid me, because of the
association for themselves; as though they don't
want to be reminded of how vulnerable we all are.
And the terrible part is that victims are just that,
victims. They did nothing to bring on their own
murders, like some people want to think, I guess to
try and distance themselves from such a fate."
"It sounds as though the group did help you. At least
it made you understand why it's painful for others
to face their own vulnerability, and mortality." He
put his glass on a coaster. "And I'm sure people
don't mean to be rude...or avoid you."
"At first, when my friends sort of stayed away,
after the funeral, I figured they just didn't know
what to say, how to console me. But now...even some
of my family here are becoming standoffish."
Chelsea was amazed she'd revealed so much of her
inner pain, and quickly stood, averting her face.
"Hey, I understand. I'm at a loss too, but I thought
if I could talk to you, or just listen, that sometimes
helps."
She glanced back at him. "So how did you hear of
their deaths?"
He got up, moved around restlessly and finally said,
"It's strange, actually. I had been here to see your
father, he was interested in some property I own in
Louisiana, and we were just at the initial stage of
negotiating when this occurred. I'd gotten into town
on Friday, and we had a meeting, then they left on
the vacation. Troy had said he'd seal the deal when
he got back...but now..."
The words hung in the air between them, an
unspoken tragedy having interrupted the final
closing of a promising possibility. She wanted to
know
"Troy was going to buy ForestWillow, renovate it
and either sell it or live there when he retired."
"ForestWillow, a house?" Chelsea now stood facing
him and was staring into his pale gray eyes.
"Yes, it's my family's home, a big old monster that is
in need of some tender loving care. I just don't have
the funds, and it'd be a shame to see the place go to
rot."
"Where is it?" She watched his face brighten, his
eyes light with pride.
"Just outside Camile, Louisiana. In fact not too far
from the scenic Great River Road along the
Mississippi River where all those grand old
plantations have been restored to attract tourist.
Maybe that is what Troy had in mind, but he never
said as much. Restoring ForestWillow for a tourist
attraction, I mean."
He sighed, then went to sit on the sofa. "My mother
isn't well, and I'm the only heir, so it seemed like
the best thing to do, sell and help save the house."
"What is your occupation?" Chelsea asked, moving
back to the armchair and lifting her glass to sip tea.
"You won't believe it, but I'm a writer too."
She laughed suddenly, surprised by the coincidence.
"Ah, writing talent runs in the family!"
"Yes, I suppose it does."
"What kind of writing do you do?" She gazed at him,
surprised they shared this common interest.
"That's another weird thing, I work at a
newspaper!"
"Now that is strange!" Chelsea smiled, then asked,
"Where do you work?"
"I'm a copy reader, part-time staff reporter for
the Camile Gazette. But, let me make this clear, it's
just a small-town weekly, nothing like as large as the
Claymore Clarion."
Chelsea relaxed somewhat, feeling more at ease
with him and glad for the company; the long evenings
were getting unbearably lonely.
He asked, "I was wondering if you might be
interested in investing in the house? Drive down to
Camile, stay for a visit and look ForestWillow over?"
His question took her by surprise and she said
nothing for a moment, instead looking at him closely.
It occurred to her that, knowing her father, he
would have never considered renovating a mansion
for tourist business. On the other hand, he loved
antiques and could have been thinking of turning the
mansion into an outlet for his hobby, a place to sell
antiques when he retired.
"I didn't mean to spring this on you so suddenly, but
I won't be able to stay here long...and it just
seemed like a good idea." Michael shrugged, looked
away from her pointed stare.
"I do have some time off coming, but I plan on
driving to Florida first, talk to an investigator. If I
get through there in time, I might come back to
Camile, drop in."
"That would be fine. I'll be at ForestWillow, or if
I'm not, you can usually find out where I am at the
newspaper in town."
He stood, said, "Thanks for the tea. Hey, it's nice
seeing you again, and if you have time to get out my
way, drop by."
Chelsea rose, asked, "How about giving me
directions, just in case I decide to come by."
He told her the route, even made a rough sketched
map of the side roads to his property.
At the door, he looked into her eyes, said sincerely,
"I'm real sorry about your folks. It's a shame, a
real loss."
"Yes."
"Maybe some time away from here would give you a
chance to sort of recuperate, not be reminded of
memories all around you. If you come by, you're
welcome to stay at ForestWillow as long as you like.
Hey, listen to me...going on and on. I'll go, hope to
see you again."
Chelsea said, "It was nice seeing you again too."
When she closed the door, her confusion deepened.
Why had he come here? Was it only to see if she
might invest in his property?
Then she shook her head, thinking she was getting
paranoid, something she'd have to guard against; the
crime victims' group had discussed that very
tendency. As she went to look through her closet,
start to pack a suitcase for the Florida trip, Chelsea
hoped she could turn up something to work with.
How could she pretend nothing had happened, like
everyone seemed to think she should, forget that a
murderer was running loose? It went against
everything in her nature to ignore such an injustice,
she knew, and folding clothing carefully in the
suitcases, her mind was made up. Whatever the
outcome, she would have to probe into the case,
assure herself that the authorities had done
everything possible.
After soaking in a warm bath, Chelsea got into bed,
lay staring at the ceiling, wondering about Michael
Forrest. How were they related? Did her father
even discuss investing in his Louisiana property? Or
had Michael simply hoped to get her involved by
feigning a prior real estate deal?
The idea that Michael might have heard of her
parents' murder, then hatched this plan for
monetary gain was deplorable - but it wouldn't be
the first time a distant relative had sought to take
advantage of family connections, she thought,
disgusted with her suspicions.
Would this always be her frame of mind? She had a
fine edge of professional skepticism for her work,
but this was going too far, being suspicious of
relatives! It was the trauma, she told herself, the
emotional havoc created by the gruesome murder of
the two people who meant more to her than anyone
else in the world.
Closing her eyes, she felt unshed tears aching to be
released, and adamantly held them back, swallowing
the knot that had risen in her dry throat. "Anna,"
she said aloud, "it all began with you..."
She could clearly remember Anna, the little freckle-
faced, red-headed girl she'd met in first grade, how
shy and introverted Anna had been. Chelsea had
been quick to notice her faded dress, her badly
worn shoes, tattered lunchbox in which she carried a
homemade lunch, and the way other children looked
disdainfully at her, as though they found Anna too
poor to befriend.
But not Chelsea. She'd instantly went to Anna's side,
asked her name and they'd chattered about what
they liked and disliked, finding a lot in common.
Thereafter, though they were from vastly different
backgrounds (Anna was the youngest of six siblings
and her father worked in the local sawmill), they
were inseparable.
The summer after fifth grade, Anna began to get ill,
and Chelsea recalled vividly how quickly she'd
withered away, finally being diagnosed as having a
rare kidney disease. Anna's family had no health
insurance; the mill didn't provide it. They turned to
the community for funds to help provide a
transplant for Anna, and Chelsea had gotten her
father to contribute the remainder when it was
apparent the operation had to be done soon if Anna
was to have a fighting chance to live.
Chelsea still felt the hollow sensation of losing Anna
that next winter, and no matter how much her
parents explained that it was unavoidable, she
hadn't been convinced. Even at that age, she'd been
filled with outrage at the injustice done to Anna, the
mill's lack of proper medical insurance that would
have provided a transplant in time to have saved a
child's life.
That early tragic loss, Chelsea reflected, had fueled
her endless quest for fair treatment for all, to
learn the real facts, pursue truth and justice
whatever had to be personally sacrificed. She would
always credit having known Anna as the inspiration
for her career in journalism.
And she hoped that same burning desire for truth
and justice would keep her motivated on the trip to
Florida, help her keep relentlessly pursuing the
nameless, faceless killer - however difficult and
dangerous that might prove to be.
CHAPTER TWO
The long trip along the coast of Florida to Tampa
was monotonous, tiring and when Chelsea checked
into the motel, she only wanted to collapse from
exhaustion. However, her first impulse was to phone
the investigator, who told her again that the case
was still open, but that no new evidence had been
uncovered. She could hear the irritation in his
gravely voice when she revealed she was in Tampa,
and wished to come to his office the following
morning.
He did make an appointment, but his words were
blunt, "I'll talk to you, but you're wasting your time
here."
It was dusk now, and she stood watching the last
red-orange tint leave the sky, a deep twilight purple
coloring the darkly moving bay waters beyond her
window. She'd thought of staying at the family
beach condominium in St. Petersburg, but feared the
happy times she'd shared there with her parents
would make it unbearable.
Chelsea called room service, ordered dinner and ate
while watching TV, wondering if this was a waste of
time? After a shower, she fell into bed, emotionally
drained from sheer frustration and physical fatigue
after a day of driving to get to Tampa for a full
night's sleep before confronting the investigator.
And when she awoke the next morning refreshed
and alert, she felt optimistic and determined.
Choosing a two-piece beige linen skirt and jacket
suit, she dressed and pulled her hair back in a tight
bun at the nape of her neck, hoping to achieve a no-
nonsense look.
But when she walked into the familiar precinct
office of the investigators, Chelsea saw they were
not impressed. Two of the younger men simply
ignored her; the lone female gave her a sympathetic
smile. But the senior male investigator of the group
winked at her, his eyes roving her body frankly,
clearly not put off by her severe outfit.
Walking toward Investigator Joseph Means' desk,
she saw him lift his burly shoulders, arrange his
plain-featured face into a bland mask. He got up,
straightened his tie and pulled up a chair, said curtly,
"Sit down Miss Seymour."
Slipping onto the hard chair, she sat stiffly,
clutching her purse. "I know you told me there was
nothing new..."
"Right, and there isn't." He turned his palms up on
the desk, admitted, "We haven't put much more time
in on it."
"But why? A killer is loose out there..."
He held up a hand defensively, said sternly, "Look,
do you have any idea how many murders we have in
this district? See the file cabinet over there? Those
are my cases, many of them unsolved. We have
drug-related slayings, growing gang activities,
and...I'm sorry to have to be so blunt, but the
murder of your parents may never be solved."
Chelsea snapped, "I suppose it doesn't matter to
you."
"Miss Seymour, it definitely does matter to me and
to all of us in this division. But you have to face the
fact that the killer was probably a drug-crazed
addict, and just lost it when he saw two customers
coming up the aisle. Do you have any idea how many
drug addicts there are in this city? Not to mention
that this one wore a perfect disguise..."
"I know the video didn't show anything, but what
about the clerk? Maybe he could remember
something else." Chelsea forced back her own anger,
managed to plead, "Couldn't you give me his address,
let me talk to the boy?"
"Why? We've already interviewed the kid, and he
told us nothing that could help."
"I might learn something though, just by having a
different perspective. Have there been any similar
robberies in this area?"
He stood, straightening his tie again compulsively.
"No, none with that M.O. Look, if the masked perp
strikes again, we might do some stakeouts. But right
now I have a meeting across town. I do understand
your feelings, and I assure you we will continue to
do all we can to find the killer. But I can't give you
false hope; the chances are slim."
Chelsea reluctantly got to her feet. "Thank you for
seeing me. But please give me the address of the
boy. I tried to find out where he lives. He's not at
his sister's place in Tampa, I called her, and she
wouldn't tell me where he is."
"Do you really think you'll learn anything? The boy
was scared to death, saw nothing but the black-
clothed perpetrator and that sawed-off shotgun
rammed in his face. That kind of thing has a way of
making a kid go blank."
"I'd very much like to try, but I won't harass him if
that's what you're worried about." She looked in his
eyes, her great need making her whisper urgently,
"Please?"
Throwing up his hands, he lowered his voice and said,
"Okay, I'll give you the address. I shouldn't, but I
will. You better make sure you don't cause the kid
any more grief, hear?"
She nodded, said sincerely, "Thank you."
After jotting down the address for her, he walked
her out of the building, and they parted on the
street. As she drove away, Chelsea wasn't feeling
disappointed, just resigned to the fact the
investigators were overworked and unable to devote
more time to this case. But she could; that was why
she was here.
She drove expertly through Tampa, having studied
the city map the night before, at last pulling up at
the convenience store. Her eyes focused on the
young boy inside behind the cash register; he wasn't
the same boy who'd witnessed her parents' murder,
but she felt compelled to visit the scene of the
crime, to study it as if it might somehow impart
clues to her.
Parking her car, she got out and walked casually to
the small store, stopping to read the ads plastered
on the lower part of the front window: SANDWICH
MACHINE INSIDE, HOT SOUP, HOT COFFEE,
ICE, COLD BEER.
Pushing open the glass door, a jingling bell
announced her entry; the teenage boy at the
register looked up, his eyes narrowing with
apprehension. She wondered briefly what kind of
world it was that a person couldn't do their job
without rabid fear of being robbed, maybe even
killed?
Chelsea sauntered through the store, going from
aisle to aisle, covering the four quickly, seeing the
restroom sign in the back. Had her parents gotten
gas, then come inside to use the restroom, stumbling
over the robber?
The clerk asked, "Ca..can I help you?"
"No, I was just looking. You don't have what I
need."
She smiled at the boy, who was still staring at her
with a guarded expression, and then went on
outside, hearing the bell ring again upon her exit.
What had she hoped to accomplish by visiting the
place? Had she wanted something unusual to jump
out at her, a real clue as to who had viciously killed
her parents?
As she got in her car, Chelsea chided herself for
such unrealistic hopes, and unfolded the paper to
read the address Investigator Means had written
for her. Maybe this would prove more productive.
In fact, it proved more difficult to find the boy's
home than she'd thought, since he lived in
Clearwater. She stopped and ate lunch at a
McDonalds, then drove around the city, finally
locating the trailer park where his parents lived. The
red-and-white mobile home, near the very end of a
long line of similar manufactured housing, was just
as Investigator Means had described it; she parked
beside a primer-colored Camaro.
Just as she opened her car door, one foot already
on the ground, Jerry Yarbrough bounded out of the
trailer, yelling, "Yeah, and that goes for me too! I'm
outta here, going back to stay with Sandra in
Tampa!"
Chelsea saw him pause, look at her with curiosity,
and start toward the car. She got out, standing and
asking, "Are you Jerry Yarbrough?"
He nodded, walked over and slouched against her
car. "Yeah, you want to see me?"
Chelsea thought he looked younger in person than in
the photos she'd seen. His thin, longish blond hair
was pulled back in a ponytail; an ear-ring caught the
sunlight as he cupped a hand over the cigarette he
was lighting, his face posed in a tough-guy squint -
which only emphasized his youth instead of giving
him the hard edge he probably intended.
She took off her sunglasses, asked, "I was
wondering if we could speak for a moment? That is,
if you don't mind."
He took a deep drag on the cigarette, let smoke
stream out of his nostrils while he looked her over,
then demanded, "Who are you? You ain't another
one of them cops, are you? Because if you are..."
"No," Chelsea quickly assured him, "I'm not. Jerry,
my name is Chelsea Seymour."
"Christ, was that your folks killed in the holdup?" His
blue eyes widened, and he almost choked on the
deep drag he'd just taken off the cigarette.
"Yes, it was. I don't wish to upset you again, but I
really would like to talk to you about what
happened."
"I'm sorry they got killed, I felt terrible about it. I
mean, you know, it's my job and what with all the
nuts out there, I know how dangerous my job is. But
your folks, they just walked in off the street..." He
looked at her, grimacing.
Chelsea could see the horror of what he'd witnessed
still painfully evident in his stricken expression. He
shook his head, tossed the cigarette down and
crushed it beneath his shoe. "I'm sorry as hell, I
sure am. But don't see why you came to me..."
"It was a tragedy, yes, but the investigators don't
seem to be doing anything to find the killer." She
moved forward, touched the boy's arm, and asked
softly, "I was wondering if there's anything you've
remembered, anything that could help identify the
person who committed this crime?"
He pulled away from her touch, smoothed his hands
nervously along his faded, tight jeans. "Nah, I done
told the cops all I remembered."
"Are you sure? I know it must have been horrible,
and you probably don't want to think about it, but I
am determined to try and learn all I can about it. I
might be able to notice something the authorities
overlooked..."
"You gotta be kidding! Lady, you have any idea what
kinda nut the killer could be? These types, they
don't let it go if you finger them. One of my
buddies, he saw a drug deal go down in the projects,
and told the cops. A couple weeks later, this carload
of armed gang bangers ride up to his house, shoot
out the windows, like to of killed his family! I ain't
that stupid."
Chelsea realized she had to convince him she
wouldn't pose a threat to him, moved slightly nearer
and said, "I do understand how violently dangerous
the person is, but I just can't let them get away
with it. I loved my parents, they were good people,
and I plan to do everything in my power to see
justice done."
He gave a nervous laugh, coughed and patted his
shirt pocket, got out a pack of cigarettes. "Look, I
can't help you. Besides, you ought not be doing this,
it's the cops' job."
"But they're not doing it very well, are they?"
"No, damn sure ain't. It's getting so you can't even
work at a service station, a store, no place where I
qualify to work, and be safe. Gangs, addicts..." He
took a Bic lighter out of his jeans pocket, lit the
cigarette as he glanced off at the cloudless horizon
beyond the shabby trailer park. "Man, I'm gonna get
outta this dump one day, get a decent job."
"You're only eighteen, graduated high school last
year, didn't you? Your whole future is ahead of
you," Chelsea encouraged, trying not to let him see
how badly the smoke was bothering her.
"Yeah, but ain't lots of chances for me here so I'm
gonna move on." His eyes drifted back to her.
"Anyways, I gotta go now."
He headed for the Camaro, and Chelsea trailed
after him, asking, "Couldn't you at least tell me
about it?"
He shrugged, stopped close to the Camaro. "What's
to tell? This guy had on black clothing, head to foot,
ski mask..."
"Were my parents coming from the restrooms?" she
prompted, watching his face tense, lips clamp down
on the cigarette.
"No, they was at the cooler, I think getting colas,
but...then this nut, he busted in the door, put that
sawed-off in my face, and they heard the
commotion. But before they could do more than just
look scared, this guy starts pumping that shotgun at
them."
Chelsea shuddered, swallowed hard, asked, "Did
they do anything to provoke him?"
"Nah, not that I could see. These idiot robbers, who
knows? Maybe he just didn't like their looks. He had
a good disguise, so it ain't like they could finger
him." Opening the car door, he paused and said,
"Man, that dude looked back at me, told me to get
on the floor and...those cold eyes, damn, real spooky,
kinda silvery, like wolf eyes, sorta weird seeing them
through those holes in the black ski mask."
Slipping into the seat, he looked back at Chelsea,
adding, "I got on the floor, pronto! And while he was
grabbing the cash, I was scared stiff, just knew it
was all over...that he'd shoot me in the back. Don't
know why he didn't, just the breaks I guess."
She realized he was starting the car, and said, "Well
thanks for your time. Nice meeting you, sorry if I
delayed you."
He revved up the engine, a loud muffler rumbling
underneath the car, yelled, "Yeah, nice meeting you.
But you better let the cops handle this stuff."
And then he backed away, revved the engine again,
squealed off down the paved drive, leaving Chelsea
standing there with their conversation ringing in her
ears. She noticed a woman part the curtains in the
trailer window, stare out curiously at her; deciding
not to disturb anyone else, Chelsea turned away.
Hurrying to her Toyoto, she got in and drove off,
pondering Jerry's words. Had she learned anything?
Or had it merely been a recap of all she knew?
As she made her way back into Tampa, Chelsea felt
discouraged and almost defeated. Joseph Means
had been right, she had to quit grasping at straws...
Back at the motel, she packed up and checked out,
deciding to head for New Orleans, spend a few days
with one of her favorite relatives; it would give her
an opportunity to browse through antique shops,
perhaps distract her preoccupation with her
parents' murder. And while there, Chelsea thought
she might be able to learn exactly how she and
Michael Forrest were related; his strange
appearance was still confusing.
* * * *
Afternoon heat waves shimmered off the tar-black
asphalt as Chelsea headed along the serpentine two-
lane highway, having just left Interstate 10 that had
brought her north from New Orleans, where she'd
spent an enjoyable few days.
Abruptly the highway plunged into a hairpin curve
and she slowed her speed, noticing the lush, untamed
foliage on the roadsides, and a junglelike thickness
of cypress trees wrapped in grayish wisps of moss,
enveloping and obscuring the deep pine forest
beyond. It was eerie, giving her a sense of being
suffocated, stifled by the gloomy daylight that
managed to penetrate the dense woods. The farther
she went, the less the light, finally almost seeming to
be dusk as she drove on, absorbed by thoughts of
the past week.
Thinking about her visit with her second cousin,
Marcus Breaux, a widower in his sixties who owned
an antique shop in the French Quarter, Chelsea felt
more perplexed than ever about the mysterious
Michael Forrest.
She and Marcus had gotten along famously,
recalling the many times her father had brought her
to the shop through the years, how he'd loved
collecting rare antiques. Chelsea had offered
Marcus a selection of the pieces she intended to
auction off, and he'd settled on several that her
father had acquired from his shop.
For the three days she stayed, they roamed through
the French Quarter, chatting about the old days.
And she'd had no trouble bringing the conversation
around to Breauxland and the tragic fire that had
destroyed the mansion back in 1954.
Marcus had never lived there, but he had vivid
memories of the loss and how devastated the entire
Breaux family had been. However, when she asked
specifically of family members, he was vague, as
though long years apart had somehow given him
amnesia. Perhaps it was a self-induced amnesia, in
order to prevent reliving memories of a family that
had at one time been close-knit, and was now
permanently separated geographically.
As Chelsea marveled at the unfolding landscape,
getting an occasional glimpse of skyline overhead,
she remembered the blank look on Marcus's face
when she mentioned Michael Forrest. He said he had
never heard of Michael, or of any Breaux relatives
marrying a Forrest. He'd said it was a possibility a
distant female cousin had done so, but the name was
unfamiliar to him.
So it was her skepticism and curiosity, the very
traits that made her an excellent reporter, that
propelled Chelsea onward, down the long winding
blacktop where slow-moving murky river water ran
parallel to the highway, sometimes seen, sometimes
obscured by the dense vegetation tangled and
twisted in snaky coils throughout cypress, willows
and pines.
When Michael had sketched the route, he'd pointed
out that the Mississippi River had many tributary
streams and bayous that fed into it, and some
plantations had been built along these for fear of
flooding by the mighty Mississippi. This road she was
on ran alongside Black River, a sluggish stream
where several mansions had been built in the early
1800s.
After driving about fifteen miles, Chelsea found the
gravel road that Michael had told her about. She
turned off the main highway, and felt growing
anxiety at the deepening gloom of encroaching
moss-draped cypress, the one-lane road so narrow
that the mossy tendrils swiped greedily at her little
Camry, every now and then evoking a sharp
screeching sound as a tree branch scratched the
car.
It seemed a long time on this road, with nothing but
wild overgrowth clutching at her car from both
sides, until she saw wrought-iron gates on the right
side. She braked, sat there staring at the ornate
lacy ironwork atop the elaborate gates, a large
stone replica of a tiny island surrounded by
turbulent waves perched over the word:
INNISFREE.
She shook her head, blinked her eyes; this wasn't
the entrance to the grounds of ForestWillow, but it
sure looked like it led to a grand estate. Curiosity
piqued, she lowered the window on the right side of
her car, slid over and tried to see down the paved
drive past the locked gates.
The dim light only enabled her to get a mere glimmer
of massive white columns surrounding an imposing
classic Creole-style plantation at the end of an oak-
lined lane. She sighed, scooted over and drove on
down the graveled road. Michael had not mentioned
such a house; but perhaps that had been an
oversight.
Within two miles, she saw the rutted dirt road off
to the left that Michael had told her to take; she
pulled over, sat there feeling her skin prickle with
heat and humidity. The narrow dark path through
encroaching woods was no more than a thin ribbon,
almost impassable with sandy ruts so deep she was
afraid her car might get stuck.
Resolutely, she eased along and managed to go at
least a half mile before the path widened, giving a
sensation of opening onto a field, then quickly
narrowed for another half mile. Suddenly there was
an ordered pattern to the trees on either side of
her; pines and willows interspersed, and spaced at
measured intervals, lined the path and at the end of
the quarter mile ahead she saw the house.
Stunned, Chelsea braked so abruptly she lunged
forward, and would have hit her head on the
steering wheel except for the seat belt. What she
saw ahead was a monstrosity of perverted
architecture, a jumbled mixture of Medieval Gothic
and English Tudor so convoluted it almost defied
belief.
Feeling queasy, she had a sense of foreboding that
left her weak and shaken. Her hands gripped the
steering wheel, knuckles going white with tension;
she swallowed hard, trying to overcome the nausea.
Letting off the brake, she eased ahead toward the
shadowy structure that seemed like a macabre
mausoleum in this primeval wilderness setting.
Chelsea saw a squirrel dart into her path, and
braked hard; when it had passed, she hit the gas
pedal, and the car shot forward much too fast just
as she caught a glimpse of someone to the right
dashing out of the woods.
Alarmed, she stomped the brake, heard her tires
slide in the sand, then sat there rigidly staring
straight ahead, her body drenched with perspiration,
moist heat pouring in through the window she'd
forgotten to close.
A husky voice cursed, "Damnit, you almost hit me!"
Nervously, Chelsea glanced to her right, saw a tall,
dark-haired male near the front of the car who
quickly approached the open window and asked,
"Don't you look where you're going?"
"I'm sorry, I...it...I was..."
"It's a good thing I saw you speed up, or I'd of
been run over," he snapped, glaring at her.
Suddenly Chelsea was furious, the past week's
frustration surfacing as she jumped from the car,
confronted the man who stared down at her from
burning black eyes, his angular face tight with anger.
She declared, "Why don't you look where you're
going! I am on a road here, and you ran out in front
of me!"
"That doesn't excuse your lack of attention," he
remarked flatly, standing his ground as she looked
up at him.
"Yes, but you shouldn't have run out in front of me
like that. I mean, I could hardly see you, not coming
out of that heavy wooded area like you did."
He studied her a moment, asked, "Are you lost?
Tourist get off the beaten path, end up on private
property..."
"No, I am a guest of Michael Forrest."
"I see. Fine, just watch where you're going from
now on."
"What are you doing on his property?" she asked
tartly, but got no reply.
As he sprinted off, Chelsea became aware he was
wearing a sweatshirt and jogging shorts, seeing the
smooth, athletic precision of his hard, muscular body
disappearing rapidly back along the path she'd just
driven down.
A voice shouted, "Chelsea, is that you?"
She turned to see Michael walking briskly toward
her, and silently cursed the rude, arrogant stranger
again for ruining her plan to slip up on Michael
unannounced, perhaps even have a private chat with
his mother, if he'd been away.
Michael was waving and shouting, "I heard voices,
thought it might be you. Hey, this is a big surprise,
figured you'd let me know ahead of your arrival.
Welcome to ForestWillow, cuz."
And as Chelsea looked beyond him to the dilapidated
spectacle of what she supposed was once a mansion,
she realized he'd certainly not told her precisely
what a ruin the house was when he'd visited. And she
wondered what other pertinent information he'd
omitted, any other half-truths he'd slid past her
during that brief visit.
Chelsea sensed a haunted aura to the wilderness
surrounding her, wondering if this wretched place
could have possibly interested her father? As
Michael approached, she felt almost sure he had lied
about her father's involvement, and was determined
to find out why.
CHAPTER THREE
Still unnerved by the near disaster with the
stranger, Chelsea said, "There was a man, just came
out of nowhere and I...almost ran him over."
Michael stopped near her, asked, "A handsome
devil?"
"Yes, I suppose. I didn't look at him closely." But
then she vividly recalled his narrow face, the deep-
set, piercing black eyes, an arched eyebrow and
sardonic expression; his dark complexion with inky
close-cut hair, except for one unruly lock falling
onto his forehead; and the last glimpse of his tall,
lithe body moving away with effortless grace.
It was this image that caused her to flush,
reluctantly acknowledging to herself she'd felt an
instant sexual attraction to the stranger; but her
own pent-up frustration and his arrogance had been
a volatile mixture. Insufferable arrogance in anyone
was a trait she had never been able to tolerate.
"It was probably just my neighbor, but let's forget
that, I want to show you around." He opened the car
door for her. "You must be tired, I'll pull the car on
up to the house."
She got in, feeling the humidity pressing like a heavy
weight against her skin. "I wasn't sure I was on the
right road."
Michael switched on the motor, eased along the path
as he explained, "Not much of one, but this is it."
The pines and willows swiped at the car, and Chelsea
dodged a limb that poked in her open window. "I just
barely glimpsed the house before that man appeared
out of nowhere."
As they approached, Chelsea was silenced by the
hulking mass rising out of the wild profusion of
mimosa, willow and palmetto; it was a three-story
structure, deteriorated into a bad nightmare. She
stared at the sharply pitched roof, now covered in
rusted sheet metal, and the brick exterior which had
thick wisteria vines climbing it, almost obscuring the
many long shuttered windows. Two chimneys seemed
to sprout from the middle of the roof, and Gothic-
arched windows gaped blankly from the attic. A
gallery stretched across the front lower level, but
ended abruptly at either side, not surrounding the
house like the classic Creole styles.
Michael braked, sat with the car idling. "I know it
must look a wreck to you, but I wanted to point out
some of the unique features, like the brick, which
was virtually non-existent in 1800 Louisiana; it was
all brought here by chartered boat from the north.
And the basement, which you can see is somewhat
above ground level."
She did notice the outline of a basement, the large
grimy oblong windows tightly closed. It looked
dreadful, and she could imagine what a dank, airless
enclosure it must be.
Michael turned to the left, following a path that
wound around to the rear of the house, saying, "It
hasn't been truly cared for, not since the 30s when
my maternal grandparents, Markham and Tabitha
Forrest, redone this wing back here."
Chelsea looked at a two-storied wing that protruded
from the rear of the house, unseen from the front.
She asked, "They worked on it then?"
"Yes, you see they had intended to restore the
whole mansion, but..." He pulled up beside his Blazer,
which was outside a small metal garage. "Well,
that's another story for another time."
Chelsea sighed, feeling weak from the thick humidity.
She said, "It's hot back home, but the humidity here
is enough to kill you."
"It's all the vegetation, trees, the heavy moss...and
of course, the nearby river. Plus, it's hot as Hades
today."
He jumped out, came around and opened the door
for her. "Let's get inside, at least it's cool in there."
She slid out, followed him up a rocked pathway that
was lined with red velvet roses, the bushes drooping
over so heavily that a thorn caught in her white
cotton pants. She exclaimed, "Ouch, I just got
scratched!"
"Sorry, but as you can see, we don't have a
gardener and I've never been able to keep the
grounds in shape."
Chelsea paused a moment, looking around at the
primitive splendor of a yard gone mad with untended
shrubs, crepe myrtle, oleander, sweet olive all
growing far beyond the boundaries of a garden that
once must have been proudly pruned. It was
breathtaking beauty in an enchanting through-the-
looking-glass way, a haunting quality to the massive,
moss-draped cypress trees. But she felt there was
something menacing about the moss, so dry and
sharp in places, the very texture having an amazing
power to shut out light. Beyond the garden, the
mossy tendrils devoured the trees, coming closer
and closer to the house, darkening the grounds as it
advanced slowly from tree to tree...steadily
searching for the house, like a grim reaper of time.
Michael headed up wide stone steps, and unlocked a
heavy wooden door, carved in the pointed arch of
Gothic Revival.
Chelsea trailed him inside, feeling a rush of cool air
as he said, "This two-story wing has eight rooms,
four downstairs, four upstairs, and used to be the
kitchen and servants quarters, but now it's used as
the only livable part of the house."
They entered a hallway, and she saw a steep
staircase at the rear which led to the second floor.
To the left was a doorway, and she saw a big room
furnished with run-down furniture; to the right was
a small kitchen, and it looked like an outdated 30s
edition.
He was talking: "And this is the bathroom, on past
the kitchen, a real old version, claw-foot tub and
all."
She peeked inside; it was tiny, as though an
afterthought, and rust pock-marked the ancient tub,
toilet and sink, but at least it seemed clean, the
plastic-flowered shower curtain spotless and the
room smelling of disinfectant.
"The other room back here, at the end of the hall, is
full of junk. My bedroom is opposite the bath,
across the hall here, but you can have it for now."
He came to a standstill, arms folded across his
chest.
For a second, Chelsea felt unable to breathe; it was
as though the place was closing in on her and she
struggled to hide her discomfort. "No, I couldn't
possibly take your room. Besides, I can't stay the
night."
He unfolded his arms, hung thumbs in jeans pockets,
paced along the echoing hallway. "Surely you can
spend the night? And I'd like you to stay a few
days, let me have a chance to show you around, not
just the house, but also the town and even do some
sightseeing."
"What about your mother? I realize she isn't well,
and I'd hate to disturb her need for rest. I could
get a motel room in town."
At the mention of his mother, Michael got very quiet,
his face draining of color. "Um, Chelsea, about my
mother. You see, she isn't here."
Chelsea studied him a long moment, satisfied she'd
again stumbled over another one of his previous
misleading statements.
He put a hand on her arm. "Please, let me explain."
She grimaced, giving her voice an acid tone, "You
said she wasn't well, and I just assumed that
she...that you took care of her here."
"And I did, for years and years. But just this spring
she got worse, and I had...to...have her put in the
institution."
"Institution?" Chelsea felt a prickle of panic run up
her spine in spite of her resolve to learn about him.
"A nice, quiet place...not that I ever wanted it to
come to that, but she... There were times she was a
danger to herself and I just couldn't cope any
longer."
He hung his head, and she felt a stab of compassion.
"I'm sorry, what was her problem?"
"My mother was diagnosed as a paranoid manic-
depressive when I was just a child. She'd been on
medication since then, but would sometimes quit
taking it. And this last episode, when she...uh, almost
injured herself, well, it convinced me that
institutional care was the only way to keep her
safe."
Chelsea murmured, "I'm so sorry, it must have been
difficult."
"Yes...but I must apologize for not explaining this to
you when I visited. However, when it comes to
mental illness, some people have prejudicial
attitudes."
She stated, "Yes, I suppose you are correct. And I
do understand the pain you must have felt at having
her leave here." The decaying house gave her the
creeps, but she hoped she could endure the gloomy
atmosphere as long as necessary to uncover
anything else Michael might be keeping from her,
learn why he'd contacted her.
"Hey, I should have told you about her. We are
family, you know."
She felt a twinge of quilt about her own suspicions;
he looked so sincere, his boyish face creased by an
honest, open smile. And those clear, gray eyes
reminded her of her uncle's and father's, a genetic
link to the Breaux family.
"Yes, that's true," Chelsea said, as he suddenly
propelled her down the hallway into the large room
that served as the main living area.
"Now that that's settled, we can sit down and relax
before I take you on a tour of the rest of the
house."
"And by the way," he said, giving her a serious look,
"though this place may be a weird combination of
architecture, it is unique and could be made into a
real showplace. Just think of Afton Villa, a pseudo-
Gothic style that unfortunately was lost in a fire
over a decade ago, but had been a big attraction. Or
San Francisco Plantation, the steamboat Gothic
mansion that pulls in a crowd. In the 1850s, around
the time this place was built, modifications in
architecture were due to the invasion of
Victorianism, the twisted charm of it reaching
Louisiana."
Chelsea was impressed by his knowledge; he'd
obviously given a great deal of thought to
restoration of ForestWillow, but there was a bleak
despair about the house, which had come to her at
the first sight of the mansion. And now, as they sat
down on a worn sofa, she surveyed the room of
used, abused furniture, her eyes taking in the
console TV, a big stereo system in one corner, a
window air conditioner unit where faded brocade
curtains were tied back to let in the cool drift of
air. She sighed, leaned back and curled her legs up
underneath her, lifted her damp hair off her neck
and said, "I am exhausted."
"Hey, I'll get us a coke, how's that sound?"
She nodded, eyes closed. Hearing him leave the
room, she opened her eyes to see long, trembling
shadows of approaching twilight angling in the two
tall, narrow windows.
It was a disturbing sight, the shadowy fingers
crawling across the badly worn carpet rug, slowly
inching across the room toward where she sat on
the sofa. She blinked, swallowed hard and began a
ritual study of the room, seeing the yellowed
wallpaper with rose design, the picture of a dark-
haired woman hung over a wood-carved mantle, the
fireplace below filled with soot and ashes.
She got up, walked over to get a closer look at the
picture and saw that the woman was very young,
captured in an unguarded moment of waltz, head
thrown back, arms slightly out to her sides and feet
poised in a delicate, difficult step. Her burgundy
taffeta dress had bubble sleeves, full circle skirt
and enhanced her fragile petite figure; she had on
rhinestone jewelry, elaborate ear-rings and
necklace. But it was the facial features that made
Chelsea peer even closer for the young woman was
incredibly beautiful - black wavy hair, a small, heart-
shaped face with luminous dark eyes that shone with
a rapturous happiness glowing from within.
"So what do you think of my mother?"
"Is this her?" she asked, grateful for the icy coke
he handed her, never taking her eyes off the
portrait.
"Yep, that's my mother, Adriana Forrest. She never
married, Forrest is her maiden name."
He spoke with such a matter-of-fact voice that
Chelsea glanced at him, saw he was looking at her
closely, perhaps gauging her reaction.
"And your father, how did he feel about that?" she
questioned, choosing a direct approach.
"Can't say, never knew him."
"Was that his choice or yours?" Chelsea watched
him, aware he showed no emotion in his face.
"Neither, I suppose. I could say it's mother's choice,
she won't reveal who he was. You see, my mother
was a feminist long before it became fashionable,
she didn't wish to marry. And with the family
inheritance she received, I can understand. It's just
too bad she squandered most of it on living the jet-
set lifestyle."
He sipped his coke, grinned. "Hey, that was long ago,
water under the bridge. I never saw much of that
family money, it was mostly gone before I was born.
At least she had fun before mental illness caught up
with her."
"The photo was made when she was...how old?"
"I'm not sure, probably in her early twenties, at one
of the society whirls in New Orleans, where she
lived before I came along. Playing with the playboys,
traveling and spending the money inherited from her
maternal grandparents. Her mother and father,
Tabitha and Markham, who were my grandparents,
died in an airplane accident when she was just ten,
and she went back to Texas to live with her
grandparents, who by the way were rich devils from
the oil business."
"Well, she is very beautiful." Chelsea went to sit on
the sofa, and he stood staring at the portrait.
"Yes, but she sure could spend the old green stuff,
and if it hadn't been for my inconvenient arrival, I
bet she wouldn't have stopped with any left.
Fortunately, she had enough in a trust fund for us
to live modestly until just recently."
"How exactly are we related?" Chelsea queried,
hoping to catch him off-guard.
"It goes back past my great-great grandparents. In
fact, I can't really trace the line, but mother always
talked of the Breaux family, how her maternal
grandmother loved Breauxland, and how tragic it
was when it burned..." He trailed off, went to look
out at the dimming light filtering in the window.
Chelsea thought this so vague as to be implausible,
but in his glib manner, he'd smoothly dropped in the
beloved Breauxland demise as a reference. How did
he know all this background if he wasn't related?
Could he have done some research?
Nevertheless, she still had serious doubts about why
he'd contacted her, and questions about how he'd
come to know so much about her parents. The
casual way he'd discussed the loss of a fortune he
might have inherited struck Chelsea as false, again
giving rise to her suspicion he'd lied about her
father's plan to buy ForestWillow, that it was an
attempt to ingratiate himself in her life, a sneaky
way to get her to invest. Her mind was whirling with
confusing thoughts, and she needed time to digest
them, so she said, "I'm tired, think I need to
freshen up before I take that tour."
"Actually, it'd be best to wait till morning, the light
would be better and you'd feel rested." He crossed
the room, stopped at the doorway. "I'll get your
luggage."
She was alone in the shadowy darkness of the room,
where the dull light played over the faded wallpaper,
touching the framed portrait of the young woman
frozen forever in a moment of happiness, still
confused by a myriad of conflicting thoughts about
Michael Forrest.
When he returned, he called to her and she followed
him up the creaking stairs, and down a poorly-lit
hallway to the first door on the left. "I'd rather you
take my room, but if not, maybe this won't be too
bad. It's been closed up but just throw open a
window, unlatch the shutters, let in the evening air,
and it'll be better."
He put his hand on the crystal doorknob, then
looked at her and asked, "By the way, did your trip
to Florida turn up anything?"
She picked up a suitcase, avoiding his eyes. "No, and
I don't know why I wasted my time there.
Unfortunately, the killer will probably never be
found."
"That's too bad, I know how frustrated you must
be. But hey, the cops might still get lucky, especially
if that same person continues to rob convenience
stores in that area."
"I'd like to hope so, but...the investigator was very
pessimistic."
She watched him push open the door. "I'll see you in
a little while, then." He started off, stopped and
added, "Please think about staying a few weeks, I'd
enjoy your company."
Chelsea walked into the large, high-ceilinged room,
the feeble light outlining bulky shapes of furniture, a
ponderous four-poster bed with a canopy of gauze
fabric draped over it dominating one wall, where she
deposited the suitcase.
She heard her footsteps sound on the splintery
wood floor as she went over to three long windows,
pushing back yellowed lace curtains, opening the
center window, then unlocking, and flinging open the
outer shutters, breathing deeply of the warm, moist
air, the anemic late-afternoon light casting a long
thin shadow of her across the floor.
Turning back to the room, she was assailed by a
musty, dusty scent that caused her to sneeze, and
she immediately pivoted to the open window, inhaling
the fresh, flower-fragrant air...her eyes falling to
the lush landscape below, a tangled web of blooming
shrubbery and richly verdant-leafed trees.
At length, Chelsea looked around inside: The four-
poster bed was the only genuine antique, the other
furniture being circa 1930, a nondescript wardrobe
and dresser, small desk and chair, all swallowed up
in the spacious interior, an overhead fan suspended
from the high ceiling.
She made her way to the bedside table, flicked on a
lamp with gold-fringed shade, saw how the warm
glow transformed the gloomy decor into a more
pleasing atmosphere. Grabbing her suitcase, she
opened it and took out clothing, hung outfits in the
wardrobe, wondering why she couldn't just accept
Michael as being beyond reproach?
Slumping down on the bed, she fingered the
threadbare coverlet, afraid the grief and anger over
her parents' murder might be driving her crazy with
paranoia. Several people in the crime victims' group
had been consumed with rage and frustration, and
their emotional instability had scared her away more
than once.
She'd always prided herself on being a professional
journalist with a fine edge of skepticism; but finding
fault with Michael's intentions had to be paranoid.
Could the stress and strain of the past few weeks
have brought her to the brink of a complete
emotional breakdown, she wondered.
Mental fatigue overtook her, and she lay down, her
head resting on the pillowsham. A slow, sultry
breeze wafted in through the window, touched her
lightly as she felt her eyelids growing heavy, her
body relaxing...drowsy, so drowsy and tired, she
thought vaguely...
Just as she was on the edge of sleep, there came a
muted, somber sound drifting in through the window.
Chelsea heard it indistinctly, but the solemn sighing
surrounded her, seeping into her consciousness.
* * * *
A piercing cry jerked Chelsea wide awake, her eyes
flew open, and her heart thudded against her ribs.
Sitting up, she listened in the quiet, eerie stillness,
then heard the muffled sound of weeping coming in
the open window, a heart-wrenching, persistent
crying...
She hurried across the room, looked out the window
at the dark magenta shades of skyline beyond the
moss-shrouded cypress and oaks, a dense ground
fog coming from Black River, swirling across the
grounds like a gossamer web.
The weeping came again, a grievous, tortured sound,
and as she strained to hear it better, there was no
mistaking it was the weeping of a woman, not that of
a man or child. It was occasionally mingled with deep
sobs, a soft sniffling, then the disconsolate weeping
would resume.
She had a startling thought: Could the crying woman
be Michael's mother? Was she somewhere out there
on the foggy grounds? Could Michael have lied about
her being in an institution?
Chelsea ran from the room, hurrying along the dark
hallway, hoping to get outside quickly, learn who was
down there crying in the gardens. She was so
preoccupied by the weeping, she didn't notice how
the carpet was ragged near the first stair step,
which tripped her and sent her feet flying out from
under her as she found herself falling, falling...
Strong arms captured her, pulled her up just as she
was about to tumble down the long dangerous length
of steep stairs.
Gasping at her close brush with disaster, she looked
up into the face of the dark stranger, his
penetrating black eyes gleaming with a dangerous
light, his lips curled into a mocking smile. "I see you
didn't take my advice to watch where you're going."
CHAPTER FOUR
Chelsea was helpless in his powerful embrace, his
strong arms pinning her to him, being held closely
against his hard chest, his face very near hers. She
wanted to break loose, but couldn't bring herself to
move, not while he was looking at her with those
mesmerizing eyes. He lowered his head slightly, a
quizzical expression glinting in his ebony eyes, and
for one split second, she thought he was going to
kiss her!
"What are you doing here and...who are you?" she
demanded, her words clipped and defiant.
"You could at least thank me for preventing a nasty
fall, young lady." His low, hypnotic voice was like a
caress, his eyes darkly intense as he studied her
face, his gaze lingering on her lips a moment too
long.
Her knees went suddenly weak, and she could feel
his strong heartbeat thudding against her; it made
her keenly aware of his masculine strength, which
only defined her feminine weakness more
profoundly - a most annoying thought to Chelsea.
She tried to move away from him, demanding hotly,
"Let me go!" realizing his potent virility was almost
irresistible. And the last thing she needed right now
was the complication of feeling sexual attraction to
this arrogant man!
Briefly, he tightened his strong arms around her,
eyes disbelieving, then said curtly, "As you wish."
Abruptly, he set her away from him, and she almost
fell, her legs shaky and refusing to support her. He
put his hands lightly on her shoulders, steadying her
on the first step.
Then he pivoted, went down two steps, looked back
up at her with an arched brow, and questioned in a
lazy drawl, "Are you always so reckless?"
"It's none of your business, and I'd just like to
know why you think you have the right to barge into
a private home! Where I come from, that's known
as breaking and entering."
Chelsea bit off the words, seeing him turn his back
on her, descending the stairs smoothly and then
glancing up at her to command, "Please tell Michael
I was here, and that my father asked me to let him
know he's needed at the newspaper tomorrow."
"But who are you!" she demanded.
"My name is Brant Langston, and I presume you are
Michael's latest conquest, so your name is really
unimportant."
He strode down the hallway, footsteps receding
until he reached the door, opened it, then slammed it
savagely.
Chelsea flinched at his abrupt, angry departure;
what a male chauvinist he was! Just because she
happened to be staying here, he assumed that she
was...a...was one of Michael's...
And the way he looked at her, his dark eyes
smoldering with desire; the aura of sensuality that
surrounded him, tightly reigned passion evident in
every line of his tense, well-muscled body!
Chelsea steadied herself with a hand on the
banister, thinking he looked at her as though he
could ravish her without a moment's concern, as
though he knew his sexual magnetism would weaken
her defenses! Here is a dangerous man, she told
herself.
Unfortunately, she admitted he had momentarily
confused her with his overpowering sexuality; but
she'd recovered quickly and now, hurrying down the
stairs, she tried to put him out of her mind. The
crying she'd heard once again occupied her
thoughts, and she rushed outside, dusk now
darkening the grounds. She stood on the stone
steps, listening, but heard nothing except the
crushing of underbrush as Brant Langston stalked
into the woods, thick fog closing out her view of him.
Just as she noticed Michael's Blazer was gone, she
heard an engine, and saw headlights sweeping around
the house, the Blazer coming into view.
He parked, and jumped out, carrying a white paper
sack. "Hey cuz, were you looking for me? I got us
some dinner here!" Michael yelled, coming up the
walkway and joining her, holding the door open with
his free hand.
She hesitated, but then went inside, deciding not to
mention the peculiar crying she'd heard, since it
might prove more productive to do a thorough
search of the house and grounds for Adriana
Forrest without his knowing of her suspicions.
Instead she said through clenched teeth, "I had
another run in with that brash, antagonistic man,
Brant Langston."
As he went into the kitchen, and put the white paper
sack on the table, Michael said, "It seems you aren't
impressed the rich and powerful Mr. Langston."
"What kind of person goes around intruding on
others, entering their house without knocking, taking
all kinds of liberties? He really has some nerve, if
you ask me."
"Wait a sec, till I get the food out, I'm starving." He
went to a cabinet, took out paper plates, put them
on the table, explaining, "Ran into town, picked up
some hamburgers at The Dutchess Cafe. Good
burgers, not like those fast-food places."
Chelsea slumped into a chair, and stared at him as he
rinsed glasses, poured coke over ice and handed her
a frosty mug, then a burger wrapped in white paper.
"Here, you must be as hungry as I am."
"I was, before the high and mighty Brant Langston
startled me," she said, smelling the delicious burger
and fries. Indeed, she hoped her unease with the
wretched crying she'd heard could be passed off as
a reaction to Brant Langston's rude intrusion.
Michael bit into his burger, chewed and rolled his
eyes, swallowed. "Yummy stuff." Then he wiped his
mouth on a napkin. "Okay, Brant Langston...he lives
on the grounds of that mansion back down the road,
Innisfree. I know you must have seen it?"
In spite of her upset, Chelsea felt her appetite
returning and began unwrapping the burger, nodding
and taking a small bite of the tasty concoction.
"His mom and dad still live there too, but Brant has
a separate place on the grounds. Anyhow, his dad,
Hugh Langston, owns the Camile Gazette..."
"That reminds me, he said to tell you that his father
wanted you to come into work tomorrow, but
couldn't he have phoned?"
"Darn it!" He took a sip of coke, cleared his throat.
"I was hoping to have Friday off, show you around
some... No, I don't have a phone, one less expense."
Chelsea thought that odd, but was glad he'd be
away, giving her a chance to look around freely. She
said, "That's okay about having to work, I
understand. Is Brant involved in the newspaper?"
"He occasionally helps at the newspaper, but mostly
he now runs their off-shore oil businesses, which
Hugh was in charge of until he retired a few years
ago and bought the Gazette."
"Hmm, I guess that explains him dropping by, but I
still think it was rude, an invasion of privacy to come
in the house uninvited." Chelsea ate a few more
bites, sipped her coke and silently warned herself
against getting too comfortable with Michael, even if
he was being charming and attentive. And perhaps
she'd over-reacted with Brant; after all, first she'd
almost ran over him with her car, and then he'd
saved her from a bad fall - and neither time had she
shown a reasonable, mature attitude. It was
difficult to deal rationally with him though, when his
very presence overwhelmed her senses, causing her
to go on the defensive, she reflected.
"Brant does come and go here freely. Our property
borders theirs, and he is the kind to roam around all
the time. I don't particularly like it, but then what
can I say? He is, technically speaking, my employer."
Michael was finished with his burger, and began
unwrapping another.
"Do you know what he said to me? He said, 'I
presume you are one of Michael's latest
conquests.'"
Michael chuckled, wiping his mouth again. "Yeah, he is
often presumptuous."
"From the way he said it, I gather you have your
share of the girls, huh?" She looked at him,
presented a mischievous grin, hoping the growing
informality between them would allow him to open
up more.
"Nah, not really. I have dated most of the girls
around here, but there's not that many to choose
from...not in a small town like Camile." He drained his
coke, leaned back in the chair and said, "I'm equally
sure you have been wined and dined by many men."
She finished the burger, and drank most of her coke
before replying, "Hardly. Oh sure, I had boyfriends
in high school, and in college...even got engaged to my
high school sweetheart, when I returned home from
college. But, it just didn't work out; we'd drifted
apart, grown in different ways, so we wisely
separated on good terms." She'd learned through
interviewing that sometimes the best approach was
to reveal something personal about yourself, put the
other person at ease.
"You take Brant Langston, now there's a strange
bird."
"What do you mean?" Chelsea asked, disappointed
the technique apparently didn't work on him.
"His wife, Lenore Gilham, was killed in a car
accident, and Brant was driving. She was thrown
from the car, didn't have on her seat belt, but he
did and only got minor injuries. That was seven
years ago, and Brant's about thirty-three now,
doesn't seem interested in marrying again, rarely
sees any woman. Very weird, him not wanting to
marry and produce an heir. It's kinda strange too,
that accident. The town gossips had it that Lenore
was deliberately killed, her seat belt removed by
him...but you know how people invent wild stories. It
may be because Lenore was from an old money
family here, one that had lost all their wealth, sort
of like my situation." He paused, then began to clear
the table.
She helped, asking, "Why was that?"
"Well, one reason for the rumors was that the
Langstons aren't approved of by the old moneyed
families. See, his mother is Cuban, Mariana Estevez,
who apparently met Hugh shortly after arriving here
in 1958 to escape Castro's new regime, which would
have confiscated her parents' sugar and banana
plantations. She was sent here, a fortune in her
name; later, her parents were killed trying to
escape. Hugh was only an oil-rig laborer when they
met, but with the help of her money, he built up a
vast empire in off-shore oil enterprises. It was
socially unacceptable during those days, that Cuban
blood and a poor boy making good, so to speak."
He paused, then continued thoughtfully, "The
generational rich can be snobbish, you know.
Anyhow, what made it worse, of course, was when
they bought the old Dequeant mansion, which was a
shambles, and restored it, then renamed it -- an
unforgivable sin. When Lenore married Brant, it was
also rumored she did so for money only. The tales
we do tell in small towns."
Fascinated by this information, Chelsea said, "But
that's so interesting. You seem to know all the local
history, every family, all the gossip..."
"Hey, I'm a part-time reporter, remember? It's my
job to know all those things, and I cultivate it, as a
personal curiosity and as a means of knowing people,
making contacts, getting the best angle for articles.
At a small-town weekly, you have to concentrate on
local history, local happenings, even just the social
visitations, club news, etc. We're not a city daily, like
you're used to."
"Cultivate a cozy familiarity in print, is that what
you're getting at?"
"Yes, in a way. Anyhow, I'm going to watch some TV,
then turn in. Want to join me?"
Chelsea followed him across the hall into the living
room, saying, "I'm tired, may just go on up to my
room." She wanted to be alone, think about what
she'd just learned - and the longer she was around
Michael, the more she was beginning to like and
trust him, which dismayed her.
He stood near the dark window, looked at her.
"Sure, fine by me. I wish you'd take my room, where
it's cooler, but if not, then leave the overhead fan
on and if you need it, there's a smaller fan in the
closet."
"Thanks, and good night. See you in the morning."
As she turned to go, he said, "I may be gone by
seven, so if I am, just make yourself at home. You
can look around at the rest of the house, but please
be careful; there are unsafe places in the mansion,
rotted wood, loose stairs, stuff that could cause an
accident. I'll be back by noon if you want to wait
for a guided tour."
Chelsea thought his invitation to look around was
more than she'd hoped for, that she'd certainly take
advantage of it, see if Adriana Forrest was
anywhere on the grounds.
As she climbed the stairs, she paused at the top
step, remembering the intimate closeness of Brant
Langston holding her in his arms; she flushed,
worried about the fiery attraction he held for her.
Not only was he an arrogant, domineering male, but
possibly a murderer as well! She told herself to
avoid him and never, but never allow him to get her
alone.
After a quick shower, she got into the big four-
poster bed, pulled the gauzy material closed around
her and listened to the chorus of night creatures
serenading her through the open windows.
Chel
an interesting diversion, she told herself. Even if the
creepy house was moldering with decay; even if
Michael was starting to seem likable; even if Adriana
was sequestered on the grounds...even if another
possible murderer was prowling around. It all
presented an intriguing unsolved mystery, which
provoked her instincts to solve. And besides, she
wanted to learn if there was the slightest clue
somewhere here about Michael's reasons for coming
to her, if he'd honestly had a prior deal with her
father or not. And perhaps in the process, she could
rid herself of the obsession to find her parents'
murderer, since it was plain that was an impossibility.
Regretfully, she admitted it still seemed unlikely
that the easy-going, friendly young man eager for
her company was being deceptive. She had less
trouble picturing Brant as a murderer, with his
brooding dark looks, his ruthless arrogance...yes, he
seemed a man who thought he could get away with
murder.
Had it been coincidence Brant had appeared
immediately after she'd heard the crying woman? If
he'd heard it, wouldn't he have mentioned that to
her, she wondered?
Then a terrible thought struck her: Maybe she had
only imagined she heard that crying? Again, panic
raced through her, making her break out in a cold
sweat, doubting her sanity. Was the stress, the grief
over losing her parents shattering her sanity?
Causing her to have symptoms of hallucination?
And then, unbidden memories of her happy
childhood, of her devoted, loving, adoring parents
flooded back; she'd kept them at bay during the
activity of the day, but now she felt tears swimming
in her eyes.
She lay there, sadly staring at the moonlight
streaming through the windows, hearing the scraping
of the slow-turning overhead fan, praying sleep
would come soon. Her mother's face, with the kind
green eyes, filled her mind. Again she heard her
mother's disappointment when she'd canceled going
with them to Florida at the last minute...
Chelsea suddenly sat up, stunned it had not occurred
to her that she might have been killed too! Could her
abrupt change of plans have inadvertently saved her
life?
She stifled a sob, forced herself to settle back on
the bed. Why hadn't this occurred to her before
now? Maybe it was just the tremendous loss she'd
suffered that had prevented her considering she
might have been spared by some twist of fate?
Again, she recalled the reason she'd stayed behind:
One of her co-workers at the newspaper had
become suddenly ill, and begged Chelsea to fill in for
him, so she had.
Then she pondered how strange it was that the
robber had not slain the clerk in that store. Why kill
her parents, when they couldn't identify him either?
Initially, Investigator Means had told her they found
it baffling, but as time went by, they dismissed it as
being nothing other than the irrational behavior of a
drug addict...
Chelsea sighed, the convoluted maze of never-ending
questions leading her into an exhausted state, relief
coming only when the oblivion of sleep overtook her.
CHAPTER FIVE
As Chelsea came awake slowly, she felt teasing air
from the overhead fan; early morning was much
cooler. She turned her head to look out the window,
and saw only white swirls of foggy mist outside.
Yawning, then stretching luxuriously, she slipped out
of bed, pulled on her robe and went across the
floor, the wood cool beneath her bare feet. At the
window, she pulled the lacy curtains aside, saw there
was a slow drizzle falling, misting the vibrantly
green palmettos, willows, the shrubs and flowers
with a glistening dampness. The grounds shimmered
with an ethereal beauty, like an Impressionist
painting with edges blurred, outlines smudged and
only a hazy suggestion of what lay out there, what
might be just beyond sight.
She glanced at the bedside clock; it was already
past seven, so Michael was probably gone. As she
stood listening, the house was utterly quiet, matching
the stillness outside the window, not even any birds
chattering. Shivering at the eerie atmosphere, she
started across the room to get dressed.
Just as she pulled open the door of the wardrobe,
Chelsea heard a piercing squeal; she stopped, her
heart pounding. Then it came again, the shrieking
now a familiar sound: blue jays!
Feeling foolish about her nervousness, she told
herself that from now on, she would not be so
jumpy. Carelessly, she chose black leggings and
black-checked tunic, dressed and brushed out her
wavy hair.
Grabbing her small makeup case, she went out into
the hall, stared down the long narrow passage. From
the dim light of an overhead lamp, she could make
out three closed doors, and wondered vaguely what
the rooms were like, hoping to find out shortly.
As she walked along the badly worn carpeting, she
cautiously edged around the ripped area near the
top step, then hurried down to the bathroom, where
she brushed her teeth, splashed cold water on her
face, and applied only a hint of makeup.
Then she went to the kitchen, saw a note propped on
the table, eagerly read it:
Hey cuz, Had to rush off before you got up.
There's milk and cereal for breakfast in the fridge.
See you around noon! Michael
Chelsea looked in the small refrigerator and took
out milk, got the cereal, a bowl, and then sat down
to eat. There was only the steady drip of rain off
the roof, the hushed quietness of morning as she
thought about the day ahead. It seemed ages since
she'd left Claymore, but it was in fact only four
days ago, one day in Tampa, three in New Orleans.
She glanced at a wall calendar, Friday June
5th...and she had four weeks leave of absence!
Three more to be spent here; that is, she thought,
unless I can either prove or disprove the theory of
Michael's having never had a deal with my father,
unravel the puzzling circumstances.
After rinsing out the bowl, she crossed over to the
living room and went to peer out the window, seeing
the rainy drizzle. Gloomy mist still hung over the
grounds, wisps rising up into the moss-draped
cypress trees, muffling the sound of bird calls as if
they were far off in the distance.
But she could see cardinals and sparrows nearby
dipping and diving, perching occasionally on a stone
birdbath. And then her eyes widened as white birds
came flying through the woods beyond the garden,
swooping soundlessly over the yard, some coming
close enough that she was able to identify them as
doves.
It was a rare, enchanting sight, and she impulsively
rushed out of the room, along the hall and then
eased open the door, going out to stand at the top
of the steps, oblivious to the misting rain. The white
doves were a glorious sight to behold, and she
stared with awe and wonder.
Some were dropping down, gently landing on the
ground in search of food...their soft calls similar to
that of cooing pigeons, she thought, amazed to see
more arriving. Only these were pigeons, exotic white
fantailed pigeons that were so tame they began
landing, and heading straight for her, obviously
expecting a treat.
Chelsea had nothing in hand, and regretted it; she
stood there, surrounded by the pigeons and doves,
then slowly ventured out into the yard, walking
softly among them, avoiding the wet rose bushes,
azaleas, oleanders...whispering soothing words,
transfixed by the naturally serene beauty of this
moment.
Holding out an arm, hand extended experimentally,
she was completely motionless; the doves studied
her, and finally a pigeon flew off the roof to settle
on her outstretched hand. She realized the rain had
ended, but the birds were quite wet, the shrubs
soggy... Yet none of this mattered, for she was lost
in the sheer joy and appreciation of the unspoiled
environment, the precious wildlife surrounding her.
A crushing noise in the woods startled the pigeon; it
flew, and others followed suit, some flying into the
trees, others perching on sharp corners of the high
rooftop.
"I see you are enjoying my birds," spoke a husky
voice, catching Chelsea off-guard.
She whirled around to see Brant Langston emerging
from the woods, tramping unceremoniously through
the tangled bushes, halting a few feet from her. He
was different somehow, and she finally realized the
warm, friendly smile transformed his sharply
angular features into a milder, less intimidating
appearance.
But his sudden arrival disturbed her, especially since
she'd vowed not to be trapped alone with him. Yet
here he stood, staring at her with what she now saw
was a laughing light in his dark eyes.
Hoping to make the best of it, she said, "Yes, I'm
enjoying them...but I didn't know these beautiful
birds were yours," slowly turning to face him
squarely and meeting his direct gaze unflinchingly.
She feigned a coolness she was far from feeling,
deliberately moving her gaze over him, head to foot.
He was wearing a brown polo shirt and white chino
pants, a light tan windbreaker and cream-colored
safari hat tilted down rakishly over his black eyes,
which still had a glint of amusement.
Brant was similarly studying her, and when their
eyes met again, he put a finger up to tip his hat
back. "We meet again, Miss."
"Yes, and I must offer you an apology for my...uh,
rude remarks last night and yesterday afternoon.
I'm afraid you frightened me, I didn't know that
you are a regular visitor here."
"Apology accepted. I trust you have become more
cautious?" He smiled again, but it was a slight twist
of the lips, mocking and superior.
"Perhaps, although I've always been impulsive." She
took a step backwards, growing uncomfortably
aware of his masculine nearness, the tangy scent of
his aftershave, the mingling of woodsy pine and
something she couldn't identify.
He asked politely, "And your name?"
"I thought that was unimportant!" she retorted, and
could have bitten her tongue off for that stupid
error, because now a knowing grin crept across his
face, his black eyes roaming suggestively over her
body.
He said smoothly, "I can understand why Michael
finds you appealing, you are a very attractive young
woman." He advanced toward her, causing the doves
and pigeons to loudly burst upward, the grayish sky
filling with them as they soared up, up and swept
away into the darkened forest.
"Oh! You've frightened them away!" Chelsea
exclaimed, avoiding him as she spun around and
walked briskly across the yard, up the wide stone
steps, pausing at the door.
She looked back over her shoulder, saw he was still
staring at her intently as he said, "I have pigeonniers
on the grounds of Innisfree, you're welcome to visit
any time, enjoy the birds."
"Thank you. I may do that," Chelsea said, anxious to
get away from him; his presence was much too
disturbing, too dangerously appealing, wrecking her
self-control.
"And your name?" He removed his hat, wiped the
moisture off, then looked at her.
She saw his raven hair was mussed, an unruly lock
falling onto his forehead. "Chelsea Seymour, I'm
related to Michael."
"So that is why you are visiting him?" The mocking
smile had creased his face again, dark eyes fixed on
her.
"As a matter of fact, I may purchase ForestWillow
for renovation," she said, turning to face him and
see if she'd piqued his interest.
"You can't be serious," he stated bluntly, coming
closer, standing at the foot of the steps. "This place
is a wreck, the foundation is probably weak, it
is...quite frankly, it's dangerous to even be living in,
and I've made Michael a significant offer for the
property. Why he doesn't take it, I'll never know.
But surely you can see this house is impossible to
salvage?"
Why hadn't Michael mentioned that Brant Langston
wished to buy the property? She felt elated, having
hit on another of Michael's omissions, but quickly
assumed an irritable edge to her voice: "I do not! It
is very distinctive architecture and with the right
amount of effort, might be restored..."
He laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that shook her
badly, seeing a glacial light enter his eyes. "You must
be joking! It's a vulgarity...and even if it could be
restored, it would never be considered a true
masterpiece. Besides, with all the past tragedies that
are associated with the place, I'd think no one would
be interested in saving this house.
His words made her cringe; she had wondered if
there hadn't been some deep, dark mysterious
occurrences in the past history of the creepy house,
and wished she knew what they were. She would not
give him the satisfaction of asking though, and said
flatly, "If you'll excuse me, I have things to do
today."
"I see. Well, nice to chat with you, Miss Seymour."
He bowed rather curtly, tipped his hat, smiled a
smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, and then
turned, striding quickly across the soggy yard, off
into the wet woods.
Chelsea entered the hallway, slammed the door
behind her and fell back against it, her heart
hammering. The man was insufferable! He...why, he
acted as though he knew the power he had over
women, as though he was irresistible... And while she
admitted to herself it was true that Brant
possessed a lion's share of physical and sexual
magnetism, woe be unto the woman who fell in love
with him! She'd met his kind before, all self-assured
machismo and arrogant confidence they could
master a female, bend her to their will... He
infuriated her!
But as Chelsea headed up the stairs, she recalled
Michael saying Brant had not shown any interest in
marrying since his wife's death. And that made her
wonder about his male prowess: Was he perhaps
feeling too guilty over that accidental death - if it
was accidental?
In her room, Chelsea made the bed, pulling the
faded lacy coverlet up neatly, still perplexed by
Brant Langston's behavior. The way he seemed to
appear without warning, the way he would look at
her, his dark eyes smoldering with desire...or was it
something else she saw in those black depths?
Maybe a murderous deception...the smug
satisfaction of a calculating killer who'd murdered
his wife and gotten away with it?
Shivering at the evil thought, she went to find a
dustcloth in the downstairs closet, hurried back to
the bedroom and began dusting off the furniture.
Then she placed her makeup and perfume on the
dresser, glancing at her wildly wavy hair in the
mirror; the moisture had made it crimp and crinkle,
seeming to float around her in a cloud of soft
chestnut color.
She ran a brush through it, thinking that Michael's
speculation about Brant's wife's death was
beginning to plague her too. After all, it was only
gossip, she reminded herself.
Anxious to explore the house, Chelsea went out into
the hall and was heading down the stairs when she
heard a knock at the door. "Darn!" she said aloud,
stifling her frustration. "First Brant, now who?" At
this rate, she wondered if she'd get to look at any
rooms before Michael returned.
Downstairs, she opened the door and saw a
flamboyant blonde standing there, hands on her
slender hips, skin-tight black spandex shorts hugging
her curvaceous figure like a glove.
Chelsea asked, "Can I help you? I'm afraid Michael
is out just now, but I'm his..."
"Yes, I know, Mike told me when I ran into him at
the newspaper." The woman lifted one hand, self-
consciously smoothing her bleached hair that was
permed into a stylish chin-length frizz. "Is Brantly
here? I was just over at Innisfree, and his mother
said he'd gone off through the woods."
"He was here briefly, but left a little while ago."
Chelsea noticed a flashy red Corvette parked near
her Toyota.
"We were suppose to go jogging." She narrowed her
brown eyes at Chelsea, asked, "Do you know where
he went?"
"Last I seen of him, he was going toward the woods.
But no, I don't know where he was heading."
The woman studied her through narrowed eyes,
running a long red fingernail over her bottom lip,
saying, "I'm Muriel Gilham, Brantly's sister-in-law."
"Nice to meet you." Reluctantly, Chelsea added,
"Would you like to come in?"
"No, I haven't the time." She turned, looked around
at the grounds, brought her eyes back to Chelsea's
face. "God, this place has deteriorated, a real
wreck. Mike says you plan to purchase it, do some
renovation?"
"Maybe." Chelsea walked out to stand near her,
suddenly realizing this was an opportunity to get
more information. "Are you a friend of Michael's?"
"We work together at the newspaper." Muriel went
down the steps, stood on the rock walkway and then
turned back to Chelsea. "I'd be careful of Brantly;
he's dangerous."
"Oh, how so?" Chelsea asked, looking at the woman
smirk.
"He can be a wolf, loves to chase pretty young
things, like yourself. My sister, Lenore, he...drove her
to drink." Her lips thinned, brown eyes glinting with
hatred. "I'd like to prove the bastard killed her, but
he was just a bit too clever."
"I'm sorry," Chelsea said, moving down one step.
"Michael said it was an accident."
"Right, and fish can fly too." Muriel gave her a cool
smile, said in a tight voice, "Just be careful of him.
He can be charming, but that suave sophistication
hides a dark side."
Chelsea said, "Thanks for the warning, but about
Michael..."
"I've got to run, catch Brantly. It's stupid, but I
can't quit trying to trap him, somehow prove what he
did." She walked away swiftly, climbed into the
Corvette, yelled, "Nice meeting you.
Chelsea realized her palms were sweating; the
woman had unnerved her. Was Brant Langston a
killer? Certainly, she could understand Muriel's
feelings; hadn't she herself just been trying to find
a killer on that trip to Florida?
Back inside the house, she saw it was near ten now,
and didn't think there was time to investigate the
larger part of the house. And she realized that going
into that dark, musty area was the last thing she
wanted to do on this murky morning.
Instead, she went back upstairs, down the hallway,
walked to the door past hers and tried the crystal-
glass doorknob. It was unlocked, and as she pushed
it, the door swung open, creaking on the hinges. An
odor overwhelmed her, a combination of stale, close
air and something else, like a whiff of a woman's
cloying perfume...the scent of gardenias in bloom,
but she couldn't name the brand.
As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark interior,
she saw the heavy gold brocade drapes were closed,
probably the outer shutters too. She located a lamp,
switched it on, and stared with admiration at the
well-preserved antiques.
There was beautiful furniture in the spacious room,
dominated by a massive tester bed that had a
narrow burnished-gold canopy lining the solid
wooden top, and as Chelsea looked around, she
recognized other antiques - a bowback Windsor
armchair at a rolltop desk, a golden-velvet padded
Chippendale wing chair, amorie...book-trough table
crammed full of books, papers and magazines, an
Oriental lamp and Oriental rugs placed randomly on
the hardwood floor.
In one corner stood a Queen Anne curio cabinet,
and she was drawn to it, marveling at the
assortment of antique music boxes. Tentatively
touching the doors, she was just about to open them
and look more closely at the amazing collection,
when tinkling notes began to play a Chopin waltz.
Momentarily startled, she thought her movement
had accidentally jarred one of the boxes into
playing...but upon closer inspection, none of the
boxes were open, none playing. She gasped, realizing
the music was coming from across the room, near
the door, drifting in from the hallway.
Chelsea stood stiffly, apprehensive yet hoping
Michael's mother was about to make an appearance.
She heard a slight sound, as though a shuffling
movement of feet coming down the hall; then, a
powerful odor of the exotic perfume wafted over
her, the sickeningly cloying scent of gardenias.
She slowly turned, lifted her eyes eagerly to the
open door, prepared to see an older version of the
young woman in the picture over the mantel. She
wasn't expecting to see nothing, and the shock of
that empty doorway almost undone her. Exhaling,
she realized she'd been holding her breath, and
tiptoed across the room, peeked out into the
deserted hallway, finding no one.
Glancing back at the closet, she saw the door was
slightly ajar and curiosity got the better of her.
Easing it open, Chelsea saw rows of neatly hung
outdated gowns, satins and silks, velvet and
taffeta...
Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes riveted to
the burgundy taffeta dress crumpled on the floor.
Impulsively, she bent to pick it up...studying it,
feeling the luxuriant material between her fingers,
holding it up and knowing, yes, realizing in a flash of
understanding that it was the same dress worn by
Adriana in the photo...
But when had the woman been in this room, Chelsea
wondered, and why did she evade everyone?
She quickly looked out the door, but the hallway was
still empty, and it occurred to her that Adriana
couldn't have moved that quickly, nor that quietly...
So what had she just experienced, Chelsea
wondered, perplexed and more than a little wary of
trusting her own instincts, which usually were
unerringly correct.
But now, as her hands began shaking, she felt
betrayed by her own mind...unable to define exactly
what she was experiencing, what she was hearing
and seeing during these times alone, doubting her
sanity yet again.
CHAPTER SIX
Still holding the dress in trembling hands, Chelsea
jumped when she heard a door slam, and Michael's
voice calling, "Hey cuz, where are you?"
Chelsea stashed the gown back in the closet, softly
closed the door and hurried out of the room, pulling
the door shut behind her and rushing down the
hallway, yelling, "Here I am, been in my room."
He was mounting the stairs, his boyish face flushed,
his voice exuberant: "I brought us some lunch, it's
on the table. Come on, let's chow down."
Less than enthusiastic about seeing him, she
nevertheless followed him downstairs, asking, "Did it
go well at the paper?"
"Same old stuff, you know how it is. Rush, rush,
rush. What gets me is, here you have this weekly,
seven long days to get out a paper and what
happens? The ones who have nothing new or timely
to report stall till the last minute, so I always wind
up copy reading a few articles right before it goes
to press." He was shaking his head, going to get
napkins from the cabinet, gesturing to the table.
"This is good stuff, another local diner, Bea's place,
great barbecued pork sandwiches."
Chelsea sat down, allowing him to sort the food,
dispense it. "I had a peculiar morning. Another
encounter with Brant Langston. And Muriel came by,
said you told her about me."
"Yes, Muriel has the hots for Brant. I know she says
she's sleuthing, but I think she is a victim of his hot
Cuban sex appeal." Scooting into his chair, Michael
grinned slyly. "But if I didn't know better, I'd think
old Brant was becoming attracted to you, showing
up here so often."
"I thought you said he came and went freely all the
time," she countered, unwrapping a sandwich, the
appetizing aroma reviving her appetite.
"Sure, but he seems to be making a point of running
into you when I'm not here." He winked broadly.
Chelsea said defensively, "I thought you said he had
no interest in women since his wife's death? Besides
Muriel expressed a distinct dislike for him, so I
doubt she's as enamored of him as you suspect."
He took a bite of the cold slaw, chewing
thoughtfully. "How can I put this delicately...hmm...
Oh heck, you may as well know, they're probably
sleeping together. But I can't prove it, very discreet
in their liaisons. Brant has that notorious red-hot
Cuban passion, probably too hot for one woman to
handle; rumors circulated about him cheating on
Lenore. And Muriel is older than he likes his women,
so you be careful cuz."
"That's just what Muriel said, warned me away
from him. I agree Brant strikes me as a potentially
dangerous man."
"Yeah, sexually that is. Otherwise, there's no proof
he killed Lenore." Wiping his mouth with a napkin,
Michael took a long swallow of ice tea, adding, "All
that other stuff, it's just old women gossiping. They
have nothing else to do in this small town."
"That reminds me, Brant said he'd made you a good
offer on this property. Has he?" Chelsea sampled a
sweet pickle, savoring the blend of spices in it,
carefully watching him.
Michael paused, rolling his eyes to the ceiling,
frowning. "Yeah, let's see, he's offered to buy the
property, demolish the house..."
"But he says it's dangerous, the foundation weak..."
Suddenly Michael's face took on a closed look; his
eyes went flat, lifeless, and he said slowly, "No one,
and I repeat no one, is going to trash this house. And
while I can appreciate Brant's viewpoint, it is my
decision not to sell to him. In fact, I was kinda
hoping to keep the house in the family, that's why I
invited you here for a visit."
"I didn't agree with his opinion, and told him so in no
uncertain terms," she hastened to say, interested in
his abrupt change of demeanor; this cold, steely-
eyed Michael was closer to someone capable of lying
about an involvement with her father. But perhaps
he was rightfully angered over what he perceived as
Brant's attempts to destroy ForestWillow?
He had stopped eating, was staring thoughtfully out
the window across the room. At length, he mused,
"You know, I hate to mention this, but you
see...Brant really wants this property. It joins his
land, and has river frontage. Black River, which runs
behind this house, is considered valuable territory; if
Brant had this property, he could landscape to his
heart's delight. Run a line of trees right down to the
riverfront, create one of the older, longer versions
of an oak alleyway leading to the big house, maybe
turn Innisfree into a profitable tourist attraction
someday when his folks are gone. It irks him he
can't get me to sell."
As his words died on his lips, Chelsea had a chilling
thought: What if Brant wanted this land so badly
he'd do anything to get it? Including getting her and
Michael out of the way, whatever it took? Was that
why he was always lurking about? Was he snooping
on her and had she made a fatal mistake by goading
him about her possible renovation plans?
Michael coughed, resumed eating his baked beans,
finally saying mildly, "Don't go worrying over that,
now. It's just one of the little hassles I have to deal
with." He brightened, declaring, "Look, the sun has
come out!"
The room gradually lightened as the sun shone
brightly through the window, casting amber-shaded
patches as it played over the yellow-checked
curtains, Chelsea noticed, glad for the change of
atmosphere - in Michael as well as the kitchen. "I
never did look around in the other part of the house
because I wanted to wait for you," she lied.
"Good idea, we can't use lights over there. I mean, it
was wired for electricity, but it would be too risky
using it now. The wiring could be faulty."
She blotted her lips with a napkin, got up to help
clear the table and suggested, "I'd like to cook once
in awhile, okay?"
"I hope that means you're considering staying on
longer, making this a vacation? I'm a lousy cook, and
the take-outs are my usual fare. If you want to
cook though, that's great."
"Yes, I do think I'll stay a week or so. How about
grocery shopping, let me choose some stuff..."
"Hey, I know what we'll do. After roaming around
the house and grounds this afternoon, we'll drive
into Camile tomorrow, let me show you around town.
How's that sound?"
"Like a welcome diversion. I'm getting cabin fever,
and I've only been here a short time," she said,
secretly thinking of the odd experiences she had
already had - hearing that weeping yesterday
afternoon, and then that horrible episode earlier.
The question that buzzed in her mind was whether
Adriana was on the grounds? And if so, why was
Michael lying about her confinement in an
institution? But perhaps it was only her stressed-out
condition making her imagine things? After all, she
was already suspecting the worst of Brant, imagining
him capable of murdering her simply because she
might purchase ForestWillow. As one of her
reporter buddies would say, "Get a grip, Chelsea!"
Yes, she thought, it would indeed be good to get
away from here briefly. And it had entered her mind
to leave permanently, for staying might mean a
complete emotional breakdown. But how could she
live with herself if she ran away without
understanding the strangeness she sensed about the
house and its occupants, past and present?
As she followed him across the hallway, she resolved
to shelve the disturbing thoughts, give full attention
to the mansion.
Michael took a key off the wall where it hung near
the door, unlocked the latch, placing his hand on the
silver doorknob. "Are you prepared?"
"I'm very curious," she said, with renewed
determination.
As he shoved hard on the massive cypress door, the
rusty hinges gave a sharp piercing squeal, closely
followed by a grating noise where the door had
sagged against the floor.
It was like entering midnight, almost dark, murky,
only a glimmer of light slanting in between closed
shutters. She could make out an overwhelmingly
large room, dust motes sifting in tiny slices of
sunshine penetrating cracked shutters.
"I'm going to open a couple of windows, throw back
the shutters, get fresh air and some light," Michael
said, rapidly crossing the vast room, a screeching
sound echoing eerily as he pried up a long, narrow
window, then a banging clap as the shutters were
thrust open.
Chelsea gasped, shocked by the decay all around
her: Sheer lacy curtains were nothing more than
ripped wisps on the windows, now slightly stirred by
the breeze. The black and white marble tile floor
was littered with dead vegetation; the twenty-foot
ceiling and walls were sweating from the moisture,
and had splotches of green mold everywhere. The
fetid odor almost made her gag, but she managed to
stifle the nausea, hurrying to the window for a
breath of fresh air.
"Sorry, it's rank stuff, been closed up so long.
Guess I haven't been in here since.... Oh, let's see,
maybe last summer." Michael pushed wisteria vines
away from the center of the window, allowing a
drift of humid air inside.
Chelsea was overwhelmed by the stale scent and
asked, "Do you ever air this section?"
"We, mother and myself, used to clean the whole
house in spring, and she'd do minor stuff every
month. But in the last couple of years nothing has
been touched." He grimaced, frowning deeply. "It's
a real mess, should have come in and done some
cleaning before our tour.
"Has it always been empty?" she asked, hearing her
voice bounce around the vacant space.
"No, not until about five years ago. It was filled with
antiques, but gradually, we had to sell off nearly all
the stuff just to make ends meet."
"Hmm, I bet those were lovely items." Chelsea felt
better, and began studying the area. "What is this
room?"
"The formal dining room, which connected to the
servant's quarters/kitchen so they could serve
meals."
She looked at the peeling strips of wallpaper,
pattern and color indistinguishable now; the hanging
ornate light fixture, which was dangling precariously
by an exposed cord; and then the carved and
pointed Gothic-style door that opened into a hall.
"Hey, I won't deny it's in bad shape, but look...did
you notice the stained glass at the tops of these two
long narrow windows?" Michael pointed out with
pride.
"No, I didn't see that. It is unusual, isn't it?"
Chelsea had never witnessed such a weird display of
pride in something so utterly wretched-looking; she
watched him with growing amazement.
"You bet! Let's go into the hall." He led the way, her
close behind as they entered the great Baronial hall
that separated four huge rooms.
Directly across from the dining room was a parlor,
with similar features, windows looking out on the
front yard, Chelsea saw, suddenly overcome by the
same putrid scent, holding a hand over her nose and
mouth.
Michael hurriedly pried up a window, flung open the
shutters, and Chelsea saw a spinet piano revealed by
a shaft of sunlight; it was off in one corner, sheet
music open as though waiting for someone to play
the score.
Fighting the moldy smell, she walked over and looked
at the piano, which was host to spider webs and
green globs of mold. But as she came around to peer
at the music, her eyes riveted to the yellowed sheets
and her breath stopped: It was the same Chopin
waltz she'd heard earlier coming from a music box!
Michael was peering at her closely, and asked, "Hey,
are you okay? You 're getting pale."
"I...this...the music..."
"Yes, mother used to play sometimes. I'd forgotten
that was still here, the Chopin I mean. The piano, I
fear, is done for."
Chelsea felt faint; the shock of seeing that same
waltz, coupled with the heat, stifling humidity and
close, foul air was debilitating. She mumbled, "I...the
heat...I'm not feeling well."
He took her arm, directing her toward the corridor.
"Let's go outside, we'll do this later. It's much too
hot, I should have realized how uncomfortable this
would be for you."
She was vaguely aware of seeing two great
fireplaces, mantel and hearths cast in one piece of
iron, Michael saying how rare they were; then brief
glimpses of the same pointed, carved Gothic-style
doors up and down the Baronial hallway; and the
narrow, steep, sharply curving wrought-iron
stairway that led to the second and third floors,
which Michael said had six rooms each with massive
embrasures, latticed windows and unique shutters
which folded in three sections, like tryptics.
They went out French doors at the rear, him
steering her to the overgrown garden, sitting her
down on a stone bench underneath the live oak, cool
and shady beneath the mossy branches.
"Here, get some fresh air, breathe deep, bend
down," Michael instructed, placing a hand at the
back of her neck, gently moving her head downward
in order to prevent fainting.
Chelsea willingly complied, but she knew it wasn't
really the heat and humidity that was causing her
such distress. It was that music, that piano...and the
way she felt just seeing it there, waiting, as though
someone had momentarily walked away. Had Adriana
been in there recently? Was she hiding somewhere in
the dark depths of the spooky house, spying on them
even now? And why? Were Michael and his mother
playing some kind of sick game, trying to trick her,
make her doubt her sanity? Doing a Gaslight number
on her?
Michael asked, "Does that help?"
"Yes, I'm sorry for feeling ill." She lifted her head,
running a hand through her damp, thickly waved hair.
"I've always prided myself on being strong, felt I
could handle just about anything..."
"No, don't apologize. It was my fault, the stench
even made me feel sick."
She had an idea and said slowly, "Michael, I've got
to tell you something. It wasn't just the smell, or
even the sight of the interior...although I did get an
eerie feeling, being in there. Somehow it was as if
I'd stepped into a time-warp, got a distinctly uneasy
sense of being on someone's private property,
almost like trespassing..."
He didn't look away as she met his flint-colored
eyes, only stated flatly, "The piano, huh?"
"How'd you know?" she asked, realizing he had
taken the bait almost too quickly.
"Why do you think it's still in there? Obviously, it
would have brought in some cash, but mother
wouldn't allow me to touch it. She always said it
made her feel...strange, like she was communicating
with someone who wanted to hear her play."
"Really?" She sat up straight, staring at him,
intrigued by this turn in the conversation; maybe
she'd guessed what was going on here.
"I can still hear her playing Chopin, not just that
waltz but all the scores, over and over, night after
night. It'd be summer, like now, and she'd sit there,
the notes drifting out into the dark dense woods,
carried away softly, mingling with sounds of the
swamp creatures, punctuated by a whippoorwill's
cry. Always, she had to wear the burgundy dress,
fixed up fancy and delicately, as though on a
date...sitting there utterly alone, staring out through
the open windows, dark eyes dreamy and lost,
focused on something I never could understand. It
was as though she was possessed by magic; the
music was perfection, as her fingers wove the
intricate pieces into sheer beauty, evoking a dreamy
romantic mood. For her eyes had the look of a
woman in love, playing music for a lover who listened
adoringly."
Shuddering dramatically, hypnotized by his flair for
story-telling, Chelsea said, "Maybe she was thinking
of some man, someone whom she'd known and
loved...even your father?"
He stood, turned his back to her and shrugged. "I
doubt it, since she never told me who my father was.
Oh, occasionally she'd taunt me, say he was a sailor
she'd met in New Orleans, or a musician from
Texas...always someone different, until I was old
enough to realize these were merely fantasies on
her part. I was never able to get her to tell me the
truth, not even when she was in her better, more
stable moods. At those times, she'd dismiss it, say it
was unimportant. That she'd chosen to keep me, and
that was all that mattered."
"I suppose that is how she felt, but it must have
been difficult for you, growing up without a
father?" In spite of her misgivings, she identified
with the emotional pain in his voice; somewhere
inside, he was still a hurt child, and she suddenly had
a sense of his aloneness. Maybe she'd misjudged him
terribly? Maybe he really was just a long lost
relative, and in seeking her out, wanted to establish
a family connection, find relatives who could end his
loneliness? Being an only child of loving parents was
difficult enough, but not having a father...only an
unbalanced mother incapable of loving him
unselfishly...
"Yeah, I missed out on a lot, but I coped." He faced
her, smiling now. "Hey, let's not waste time on past
regrets. How are you doing now? Feel like walking
around the grounds, down to the river?"
Chelsea stood, felt her strength returning, and said,
"Yes, I feel fine now. Let's go."
He took her arm, and they walked through the
overgrown garden, him pointing out how the magnolia
and willow trees were circled around the edge of
the yard, gesturing broadly to the scheme of the
landscaping. It was weedy in places, but he said he'd
mown the yard only last week...that it was impossible
to keep it groomed beyond the small area where
they now stood.
Chelsea listened to him explain which shrubs had
been cultivated by past owners, arranged in
patterns to enhance the grounds, crape myrtle,
oleander and lilac bushes interspersed with flower
beds of multi-colored lilies, white chrysanthemums,
pink, yellow and red roses, bright yellow hibiscus and
camellias.
All of these, she saw, had now grown to over-sized
lush foliage, shrubbery hanging limp with the weight
of blossoms, which gave off an aromatic perfume,
drenching the humid air with heavy fragrance...and
she breathed it, refreshing herself.
Still guiding her, Michael took her through the
garden, past the magnolia and cypress trees,
entering the edge of deep woods, a forest dimmed
in muted daylight. He said, "All the live oaks have
air-plants, resurrection fern and Spanish moss,
dilutes sunlight, not to mention the marsh pine,
slash-pine and loblolly growing so closely it obscures
the skyline."
The hazy forest was enchanting in an eerie way,
Chelsea thought, tramping over wet pine needles,
deftly avoiding the woody growth Michael labeled
bamboo vine, sweet-scented similax and swamp
honeysuckle, which produced heady fragrances in
the moist air.
After they'd gone about a half mile, he said, "Listen
a moment; we may be able to hear the river."
Far off, she could make out a slight rushing sound,
but it didn't carry well through the woods. "How
much farther is it?"
"About a quarter mile, and we'll be there." He led
her onward, carefully helping her avoid being swiped
by dwarf and saw palmetto, their shoes now damp
from the saw grass in a low marshy area.
Soon Chelsea began to notice an interesting mixture
of trees, massive trunks and limbs that spiraled
upward, their tops almost out of sight. She
marveled, "What beautiful trees! So many kinds."
"Yes, there's a wide variety of species near the
river, water, willow and huge shumard's oak, water
hickory, blue beech - those with the slate-gray bark
over there." He pointed a finger to the stand of
beech. "And right by those, the sweet gum and river
birch."
"I recognize the willows, the black willow is small,
the weeping willow is like the ones growing along the
lane to ForestWillow. By the way, is that the original
name of the mansion?"
"Yes, and my grandfather, according to mother, was
captivated by it having forest in the name, our name
being Forrest...partly why he bought it, she told me."
Chelsea became aware of the multitude of wildlife
sounds all around them: There was the caw of
crows overhead, the musical trill of warblers, small
birds chattering busily and in the distance, bobolinks.
"Hey, I just remembered. You said you wanted to
tell me something back in the garden. Was it only
about the piano, and how it made you feel strange?"
He had stopped abruptly, his foot propped on a
rotting tree stump.
Chelsea looked around at the encroaching forest,
feeling claustrophobic, closed off from humanity,
and realized what a vulnerable position she was in,
standing here in the wilderness with a person she
didn't know, couldn't trust. "Yes, that was all. I'm
anxious to see the river, let's get moving."
He gazed at her a long moment, then asked, "Can
you hear the river now?"
And as she stood listening, the fast-moving waters
created gushing echoes that penetrated through
dense woods...nothing like a slow-running creek she'd
often witnessed back in Mississippi. "Yes, it sounds
almost dangerous."
He took his foot off the stump, headed along ahead
of her, holding back bushes, urging, "Come on, we're
almost there."
And soon, they were approaching the river. Chelsea
ducked a tree limb, came out to stand beside him on
the bank, gaping at swift waters, shouting over the
deafening noise, "It's beautiful but nothing like the
creeks back home."
"It's not usually so flooded; we had heavy spring
rains."
She watched the dark water racing along, sun-
kissed on white crests, looking across its wide
length, seeing overhanging tree limbs on the other
side. "Is this a special place for you?"
"Yes, I cleared it off years ago, made this little
haven." He indicated the willowy landscape
surrounding them, the green mossy ground beneath
their feet, the sloping muddy bank down to the river,
and then pulled back the thick, heavy limbs, urging
her inside the verdant enclosure, which muffled the
noisy rapids. "I do fish here sometimes. It's mostly
a sluggish stream, but right in this area the waters
pick up speed, really swift after lots of rain. But it's
a great spot to fish."
With false bravado, Chelsea said, "I love it, so
private! We're almost hidden from the other side."
She hoped her voice sounded convincing; the intimate
closeness made her feel suffocated, his gray eyes
now upon her with intense scrutiny.
"Cuz, you are really pretty, all that wildly wavy hair,
those big green eyes and full lips, little-girl pouty."
His face held open adoration, his gray eyes dreamy
and pensive.
"Thanks." Chelsea said curtly, wary as she inched
away from him, asking bluntly, "Exactly how old are
you?"
"Twenty-four, why?"
"You look younger, have a boyish youthfulness about
you. I'm only one year older than you." She turned
away, her hands toying with the weeping willow
limbs, eyes staring across the river.
"Thanks, but I feel older than I am."
She wanted to ask why, but he exclaimed, "Look at
the yellow root around here!" pointing to the small
fern-like shrub along the river bank. "The root of
this stuff is bright yellow, very bitter but it can be
made into a nice tonic for sore throat."
"That's interesting."
"Yes, but see those plants, the ones with flowery
lace that looks like Queen Anne's lace?"
She nodded, staring at the random scattering of
green vegetation.
"Deadly stuff, you better believe it. That's water
hemlock, flowers only in late spring or early
summer, real innocent-looking, resembles Queen
Anne's lace so much. But the root, that's the bad
stuff, one mouthful can kill an adult!"
"How awful!" Chelsea said, studying the plant more
attentively, amazed at its lethal potency, feeling a
shiver run up her spine. Was he indirectly hinting at
how easily she could be poisoned? Disgusted with
her unrelenting suspicions, she forced herself to
look at his grim face.
"Yeah, and it's not a pretty way to die, either."
"How do you know all this?"
"I wrote a series of articles for the paper about
native plants in this area, how to identify the deadly
ones and describing the innocent ones. A real eye-
opener."
Chelsea breathed a sigh of relief, chiding herself
inwardly again for letting her paranoia get the best
of her.
As they walked back through the forest, Michael
told her about the abundance of wildflowers that
bloomed in early spring, wild yellow lily, marsh blue
violet, pink lady's slipper, waterlily and
arrowheads...turning the swampy woodlands into
nature's work of art.
By the time they reached the house, red-gold
fingers of sunset were slanting down through the
mossy cypress, bathing the grounds in an almost
mystical aura.
They stood near the garden, Chelsea looking at the
forbidding house before her, again uneasy about it,
wishing she could somehow unravel the mysteries it
harbored.
As the sun sank lower, darkly moving shadows
descended across the garden, coming closer and
closer to her, then covering them with a sudden chill
as they stood silently.
"Um, Chelsea, about what I said at the river,
admiring your appearance. I don't want you to think
I'm coming on to you, or putting the moves on you."
She felt her face flush, because that was what
she'd thought - in addition to being distrustful of
him. His words didn't quite erase her anxiety but she
kidded lightly, "I'm glad you don't think we have to
be kissing cousins."
He chuckled, then took her arm and said, "Not that
it wouldn't be nice, but I'm just not ready for
marriage. I, well, I like to play the field, you
know...but commitment, settling with one woman, not
for me."
"And you think that's what I'd want?" She was
taken aback at his assumption. Yet, in spite of her
doubts about him, Chelsea had to admit to herself
Michael had a likable quality, an unassuming
boyishness that could understandably win her over
against her better judgment.
"Yes, and don't ever kid yourself. You are the
marrying kind."
Near the steps Chelsea paused, laughing lightly. "I
can't help laughing, because marriage is the last
thing on my mind right now."
"Maybe...but you are the kind of woman a man wants
for a wife, not a frivolous affair." He stopped,
looked at her and said, "And as your cousin, I
definitely would not allow a cad to use you."
"Why, I do declare, cousin Michael," Chelsea
drawled in a sticky-sweet southern drawl, playing
along with his light banter, "I am honored by your
chivalrous attitude."
He laughed, grabbed her hand and pulled her up the
steps, saying, "How about a twilight drive into
town?"
"Great idea!"
And entering the silent, shadowy house, Chelsea was
relieved at the thought of a drive into Camile for she
certainly was not looking forward to another night
at ForestWillow alone with the young man who was
becoming more likable by the moment.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The trip to town had been uneventful, and since
darkness was upon them before arriving, Chelsea
had seen little of Camile other than a glimpse of
wide streets with a profusion of camellias lining
curbs, all avenues and streets named for trees and
shrubs that flourished in the area. She'd also seen
quaint, nostalgic storefronts restored to 18th
century charm, historic homes preserved
magnificently and small, old-fashioned cafes that
catered to intimate gatherings preferring home-
styled meals.
It was in one of these establishments, The Dutchess
Cafe at the corner of Rose Avenue and Maple
Street, that they dined and Chelsea had enjoyed the
meal of fried chicken served with rich creamed
potatoes, milk gravy and buttermilk biscuits.
Afterward, she'd insisted they stop in at the Piggly
Wiggly, where she gathered up groceries, intent on
cooking nutritious meals; the kitchen cabinets had
revealed that Michael was woefully lacking in even
the basic essentials.
Once back at ForestWillow, Chelsea had joined
Michael for an hour or so of TV viewing, but had
grown bored. At length, she'd opted for a shower
and then grabbed a recent bestseller he'd offered
her to read, retreating to the privacy of her room
where she propped up in bed, cozy and comfortable.
Now, looking at the bedside clock, she saw it was
nearing midnight and her eyes were growing tired, so
she put the book aside and flicked off the lamp.
Blackness enveloped her, and she belatedly realized
she'd forgotten to pull the gauzy fabric hanging
around the bed closed, to prevent any stray
mosquitoes that might come through the badly worn
window screens. So she crawled over the bed, gently
grasping the fabric, shutting out the room around
her.
Lying back, she felt her head sink into the pillow, and
almost instantly fell asleep...
In the dream, Chelsea was walking through the
Baronial hall, the moldy scent suffocating her,
fighting cobwebs that clung to her as she began to
run, run....hearing the piano start to play a Chopin
nocturne, louder and louder, the dreamy sound
pursuing her, a woman's mellifluous voice close
behind her, whispery words, "Come, come... to the
basement..." And Chelsea found herself standing at
the rear of the house, looking at the narrow stone
steps leading down into the depths of the basement,
hearing the woman urge, "Please don't come down
here...alone..." Strong arms grasped her shoulders,
and she turned to see a man looming behind her, his
face hidden by shadows, suddenly shoving her
headlong down the steep steps...falling, falling, her
screams echoing...
Awakening, she was sweaty, disorientated and
unable to see through the gauzy fabric, her hands
clawing frantically, pulling it away to reveal only the
moon-brightened room, lacy curtains gently swaying
in the night breeze.
Chelsea shuddered, feeling sweat drenching her
body; she slowly got up, began to walk toward the
open window...her sluggish movement weighted down
by the nightmare. At the curtains, she pulled them
aside and stood taking deep breaths of the fresh,
flower-scented air...reminding herself it was only a
bad dream, albeit a vivid, scary one. But the image
that remained in her mind was of the shadowy man
who meant to do her harm; his face was still a blank,
yet there had been no doubt he was determined to
push her down the steep steps.
Chelsea wondered if the dream reflected her
growing confusion about Michael? Maybe his face
was obscured because she couldn't decide if he was
friend or foe? Or had the menacing man of her
nightmare been Brant Langston, a subconscious
reminder of the danger she risked if becoming
involved with him? Was there even a remote chance
the dream was a premonition?
And what of the woman's voice? Was it a warning
about the danger here? Or had her mind been so
overly occupied by the search for Adriana, that even
in her dreams she felt compelled toward the
basement as a possible hiding place?
Utterly confused, Chelsea ran a hand through her
damp hair, looking down into the garden, noticing
how the fog was creeping across the ground, the low
swirls coming in off the river, floating through the
woods, having formed a vaporous veil that almost
took shape right before her eyes.
Peering toward the stone bench underneath the live-
oak, she thought she saw a human form sitting
there, hunched over...and then there came the
wretched weeping, a haunted mourning that she
recalled from yesterday afternoon.
Although cold fear gripped her, it was soon replaced
by innate curiosity. Someone was really out there, a
distressed, grieving human and she just knew it had
to be Adriana!
Impulsively, Chelsea grabbed her robe, and hurried
out of the room, along the hall, on down the stairs
and through the first-floor hallway. At Michael's
room she paused, listening at the door for any
sounds; it was quiet as death in there though.
She tiptoed to the door, eased it open and then
slipped outside. The cool, damp night air embraced
her, and she shivered, pulling her silk robe tighter,
tying the belt securely.
Chelsea saw how the full moon illuminated the
grounds with silvery light. She dashed down the
steps, hurrying across the dew-wet grass, her cloth
slippers dampening as she ran, calling softly, "Please,
please don't leave. I want to help you."
Almost at the oak now, she couldn't see through the
thick strands of clingy moss, couldn't determine
from this approach if the person was still there on
the stone bench. She was so intent on looking for
the woman, she forgot about the birdbath, and
stumbled into it, feeling a nasty pain in her legs as
she fell to the ground.
Struggling to get her breath, Chelsea heard heavy
footfalls, saw a tall dark form emerging from the
forest, and felt her heart thudding explosively in her
chest. Brant Langston was now looming over her,
peering down at her, his expression obscured by
shadows. His voice seethed, "What are you doing out
here in the middle of the night?"
Stunned, she couldn't find her voice, instead taking
his outstretched hand, allowing him to help her up
off the ground.
"Have you no common sense at all, Miss Seymour?"
he bit off the words, helping her to her feet, pulling
her closely to his body.
"I...I could ask you the same thing! You have no right
to be here, at Michael's house, in the middle of the
night!" she stormed at him, angered he'd interrupted
her search for the weeping person. "Did you see
someone on the bench over there?"
"No, is that where you were heading?"
"Yes, I...saw someone there from my window, heard
weeping..."
"Who would be out here at this hour?" he asked,
turning so that the moonlight revealed his sardonic
expression, one eyebrow lifted archly.
"You are, I am..." she reminded him, suddenly aware
they were practically embracing and that his body
was coiled like a snake, tense and ready to strike,
poisoning her with uncontrollable passion. She felt
her legs go weak, her arms turn to water, body
yearning to melt against his.
Chelsea staggered backwards, but Brant pulled her
tightly against the long, lean length of his muscular
body, imprisoning her even as she protested, "Stop
it!"
He gave a short, triumphant laugh, molding her body
to his, hip to hip, and she felt his arousal most
provocatively through her thin, wispy nightclothing.
His fingertips caressed gently beneath her chin, light
whispery touches on her throat, then his cupped
hand slowly lifted her face to his, dark eyes drinking
in her disheveled wavy hair, the robe that had fallen
apart at the neck, revealing the ripe swell of her
breasts.
"Please," she heard herself say in a strangled voice,
"let me go.
"Is that really what you want, Chelsea?" he asked in
a hoarse whisper, his eyes mesmerizing her with an
ardent gaze.
"Yes... I..."
But he had lowered his lips to her face, placing
feather-light kisses over her forehead, over her
closed eyelids, then finding her lips, capturing them
in a kiss that consumed her with intensity, harder
and harder, more demanding as his hands slid down
off her shoulders, softly caressing her body,
touching her breasts, a groan rising in his throat.
She was helpless to resist his touch, her body
kindled into a white-hot blaze by the virility of him,
the seductive sound of his voice as he murmured
huskily, "You are beautiful, irresistible, so
enticing...like an enchantress, tempting me beyond
control. God, you move me!"
He lifted her effortlessly in his powerful arms,
swiped away the mossy limbs, carried her to the
stone bench, his words whispering in her ear: "You
make me hunger for you, lose my senses, awaken
me, make me alive...after the long years of
loneliness, so empty, the sight of you stirs my
passion, reminds me of what I've missed, what I
ache for when I am alone at night, always trying to
escape the physical needs by walking, running,
exercising..."
She heard an agonized sob catch in his throat, a
sound of abject physical suffering like she'd never
imagined a man could endure, and then felt his
burning kisses urgently covering her face, his lips
moving down along her throat, tasting and tracing
her skin with his lips as he pulled aside the gown, his
caresses venturing lower, lower, hands now hovering
close to her breasts...a light fingertip brush through
the fabric against her stiff nipples, fire-shafts of
hot pleasure evoked by his stroking.
Chelsea gasped, her mind alerted to perilous danger
at last, outrage warring with passionate yearning.
She shoved at him with her hands, her voice low and
trembling, "Don't, please don't 'don't..."
He stopped abruptly, jerking away from her, looking
around at the moss-draped enclosure as though
coming out of a drugged trance, a growl low in his
throat as he put her away from him, and stood,
moving into the shadows.
Frustrated by his sudden withdrawal even though
she'd brought it on, Chelsea was unable to speak,
only stare at him as he began pacing restlessly, his
movements tense and unsettled.
He ran a hand over his forehead, swiped away the
unruly lock of hair. "Can you forgive...my lack of
control? I'm sorry, it was wrong for me to...take
advantage of you." He shook his head, his voice
throaty and choked, "God, you are so lovely,
desirable. I lost my senses."
Those words sparked her own embarrassment at
such wanton surrender to his physical attraction,
but his apology had seemed genuine. And as she
stood, Chelsea saw his profile as he looked off into
the moon-lit yard; his darkly brooding face
reflected emotional pain, some kind of repressed
agony. She had a moment of overwhelming
compassion, a terrible need to console him; he
looked lost, forlorn, wearing loneliness like a heavy
cloak that cast darkness over his soul.
But then he pivoted, pulled himself into his stiffly
arrogant posture, and she saw the sardonic smile
marring his face. He said in a silky, seductive tone:
"You seem to be a passionate young lady, may I
suggest you be careful of how you display your
charms?"
Of all the nerve, she thought, and her voice came
out heatedly, "I beg your pardon! You were the one
sneaking around here, an intruder! And
you...you...forced yourself on me!"
His low chuckle rumbled within his chest, and he
said, "You didn't mind at first..."
Chelsea rushed over to him, her hand coming up
quickly with cold fury, the slap across his face
ringing sharply in the silence.
"How dare you! How dare you hint I...that I...that I
deliberately lured you...when I was merely walking
on private property!" she said defensively.
He was rubbing his jawline, his voice mocking, "Yes,
but that revealing gown is hardly the attire for a
midnight jaunt."
"Oh! You arrogant, you...you infuriating..." Chelsea
stammered, unable to complete the sentence for the
angry knot crowding her throat. She turned on her
heel and marched past him, parting the moss and
looking back at his half-smile, declaring hotly, "Don't
you ever sneak up on me again...and I mean it!"
She ran then, ran stumbling and staggering across
the garden, up the steps and into the house,
slamming the door behind her, breathing hard and
trying to regain her senses.
Michael came out of his room, rubbing the sleep
from his drowsy eyes, asking, "What's going on,
cuz?"
Chelsea could not bring herself to admit what had
just happened, and as she stood there looking at
Michael's puzzled face, she realized that Brant
could have been the person she saw on the bench,
weeping. It had sounded like a woman, but maybe
he'd intended it to sound that way. Or had he been
searching for the weeping sound also? What was he
doing out there?
But then she also remembered Brant had rescued
her at the top of the stairs yesterday afternoon,
when she'd heard that weeping the first time...and
had just left that morning when she heard the music
box playing in Adriana's room...
Suddenly, a blinding thought struck her: Instead of
Michael and his mother being behind the strange
experiences, was Brant Langston playing some kind
of absurd game with her, toying with her by staging
supernatural effects...and using his incredible sexual
powers to confuse her further?
And his motive might just be to drive her away so
that she would never consider buying ForestWillow,
never stand in his way of owning this property...
Michael was watching her, his eyes now alert. He
asked, "You sure something isn't wrong? You look
upset."
Chelsea shook her head, trying to smile. She wanted
to escape his scrutiny, but he came forward, took
her hand and led her into the kitchen, flicking on the
light. "How about some milk and cookies to help you
get back to sleep?"
As he got glasses from the cabinet, she felt
frustration mingle with growing alarm at the
possibility Brant was lurking about, hoping to rid
himself of her intrusion. And worst of all, she
realized in a flash of fury, he'd prevented her
learning if Adriana had been on that bench! Darn
him, she fumed inwardly, he's shown me how weak I
am against his passionate advances; and now, he's
kept me from learning if Adriana, a mad woman, is
also wandering around in the dark of night.
Michael put the milk and chocolate chip cookies
before her, slid into a chair and said, "You look like
you seen a ghost."
Chelsea blurted out, "I did have a nightmare, very
disturbing. Sort of hazy now, but it was about your
um...your mother, and the basement..."
He stiffened, his hand holding the glass of milk in
mid-air, then beginning to shake, he put it down with
a jolt that spilled droplets off onto the table. "Jeez,
what was it exactly?"
She was surprised at his reaction, his face now
white and strained, mouth tight, one hand balled into
a fist. "I can't recall, you know how vague dreams
are, once you get wide awake."
He grimaced, said, "The reason I wonder is that
mother used to have nightmares about the basement
too, pretty upsetting, and she managed to tell me a
little about them..."
"Oh?" Chelsea sipped the milk, sampled a cookie and
watched him frown, work his face into a dark look,
then lean forward, close to her and say in a low,
dramatic voice, "She said she thought a body was
buried down there, can you imagine?"
"Ugh, how horrible!" She felt the cookie stick in her
throat, grabbed the milk, washed it on down, then
croaked, "That's awful!"
"Isn't it? I mean, I told her it was ridiculous, but
she said that with these old mansions and their
strange past secrets, it could be possible." He
touched her hand, gripped it, then let go. "I sure
never tried to look for one, that's a fact."
"And you said she felt a strange compulsion for the
piano too, could that be connected?"
"Who knows? These old mansions, they all have
haunting legacies." He suddenly gulped down his milk,
pushed his chair back and stood. "But I think it's
more fiction than fact, a nice touch to lure tourist if
the house was restored."
Chelsea got up slowly, feeling bewildered by the
weird experiences, wild almost with the mounting
confusion. "I need some sleep now. Thanks for the
chat, it helped."
"Any time, cuz. Hey, don't take that stuff serious. I
was just in one of my dramatic moods, although
mother did swear she saw something in the
basement once." He headed to the doorway,
chuckling, then as they stood at the stairs,
warned,"I'd just stay clear of the basement, if I
were you."
Chelsea nodded, agreeing, "I sure will."
But once she was in bed, Chelsea knew that would be
her first destination, when next the opportunity
presented itself for her to be alone. She felt
Michael was a bit too lurid in the storytelling, a tad
too obvious in warning her away.
Could Adriana have a secret room there, be staying
hidden down in that dank pit? But why? And what of
the dream? Was that some sort of ESP, or not? She
had no idea what it all meant.
Her thoughts turned to Brant Langston: His
powerful personality, his sexual magnetism; he was
unlike any man she'd ever known. Lord, she couldn't
resist him forever; his seduction tonight would have
been complete, had he only persisted. No man, ever,
had aroused her sensuality so thoroughly simply by a
burning glance, a mere physical touch.
Not that she'd had a lot of experience; the sexual
awkwardness with her high school boyfriend, Ted,
during their brief engagement was the extent of it.
College dates had been fun, but lighthearted and
certainly not serious. In these days and times, it was
too risky to experiment sexually.
But with Brant, she feared she was out of her
element; he might seduce her beyond resistance, if
he pursued her. A dangerous man, she warned
herself yet again.
And if he was intent on scaring her away from
ForestWillow, Chelsea knew it would be near
impossible to thwart his efforts. Yet, why did it
matter to her, she mused; after all, she didn't wish
to be here indefinitely, and certainly had no real
plans for purchasing or restoring the mansion.
It was just the idea of it all, she thought, the sneaky
way he was trying to unnerve and intimidate her -
which instead only provoked her wrath. Brant was
quite plainly a domineering male, had always been
able to boss women around; she'd detested his kind
all her adult life.
With renewed resolve, she vowed now was no time
to let him think her a weak-willed woman. She had to
confront him, stand up to his arrogance and not
allow the searing physical attraction she felt in his
presence to confuse her.
And too, Chelsea knew that she wasn't oblivious to
Muriel's plight. If Brant had killed Lenore, his first
wife, then he should be revealed as the murderer he
was.
But if not? Then it might just turn out that Muriel
had her own hidden agenda, ulterior motives for
warning her about Brant, Chelsea realized.
And what would that mean? she asked herself. That
there were now three people here whom she
couldn't fathom as to their character, their true
motives?
Or was it simply that she, Chelsea, was losing her
mind, hearing sounds and seeing things no one else
did? Becoming paranoid and suspicious about
everyone? Having ghoulish nightmares that were a
product of her disturbed psyche? Or was it the
result of unresolved grief over the loss of her
parents?
Sleep was a long time coming...
CHAPTER EIGHT
Chelsea awoke to a sunny Saturday morning. Rushing
downstairs, she began preparing a breakfast of
bacon, eggs and homemade biscuits, had coffee
perking when Michael came into the kitchen,
exclaiming, "Wow, something sure smells good in
here!"
As she put freshly squeezed orange juice in front of
him at the table, he was grinning widely. "Yummy, I
haven't had a home-cooked breakfast since mother
left."
After putting the plates of food down, Chelsea sat
across from him, asking, "Still miss her, don't you?"
wondering if he could fake the melancholy she saw
in his eyes.
"Yeah, it's lonely in the house without mother. You
know, she kept it clean, did her best to make this
wing a home for me. In fact, mother always insisted
on keeping the grounds in fair shape, sort of kept
me on my toes. Since she lost interest the last
couple of years, things have kinda gotten run-down."
"I'll always miss my parents, it's something I can't
change, but maybe your mother will get better. Do
you think she'll ever be able to return?" She took a
small sip of coffee, studying his pained grimace over
the rim of her cup.
"No. I wish I could hope for it, but there's not much
progress, since her confinement in early spring." He
ate a strip of bacon, sipped coffee, his eyes sad and
pensive.
"Where is she, the name of the institution..." she
quizzed.
"Hey, cuz, I just had a great idea!" Michael
enthused, wiping his mouth with a napkin, effectively
dodging her pointed question. "How about we go
sightseeing, drive over the Great River Road, tour
some of those restored plantations, give you an idea
of how much potential this place might have?"
Chelsea didn't have a quick excuse in mind; and it did
sound like a nice outing, a way to escape from her
growing uneasiness about ForestWillow and Brant
Langston, as well as a chance to subtly probe
Adriana's whereabouts while Michael was in a
relaxed mood. That made her think of something
else and she asked, "By the way, you haven't told me
the full history of this place. Brant said that it had
some, well, most disturbing events in the past."
"Him again!" Michael stood, finished his coffee, said,
"Look cuz, Brant is out to get this place, so anything
he says you can take with a grain of salt. Of course,
all these old houses do have fascinating histories,
but through the years legends have distorted the
truth, so it's hard to tell fact from fiction. But," he
pointed out, "I will be glad to tell you everything I
know, and there's even some material in the attic
you might like to read. Old account ledgers from
when the original owners of ForestWillow had it
built. They were Yankees from Pennsylvania, owned
coal mines there which afforded them this luxury,
but used slave labor to build the mansion with most
of the material brought by boat from the north."
"Yes, I'd like to see it." She ate the last of her eggs,
began helping him clear the table, asking, "Are there
any diaries, personal letters..."
"I haven't seen any, just boring account books,
which I thought might be useful to have should the
place be restored, something to let tourist pore
over. But you are free to search all you want." He
added quickly, "That is, if you can stand the stench
in that attic."
"I'll try it," she said, knowing it was another possible
refuge for Adriana. "Well, I'll take my shower, get
dressed and then we'll go on the tour. I'm actually
fond of antebellum mansions, love the antiques in
those homes too."
"Oh, this will be interesting, educational. When you
learn the histories of those houses, ForestWillow
won't seem all that peculiar!"
They parted at the stairs, Michael whistling happily
as he closed his bedroom door.
Chelsea took a brisk shower, then went to her room
and chose a cool cotton sundress of navy and white
polka-dots, slipped it on and spun around in front of
the dresser mirror, checking the sumptuous swirling
of the full skirt. Over her shoulder, she studied the
low dip in the V-back where a wide contrasted white
bow spanned her small waist-line, decided it looked
appropriate and then quickly plaited her damp hair
into a French braid.
She found large white shell clip-on ear-rings, put
them on and grabbed a white straw boater hat, that
had a wide grosgrain ribbon band of navy to
compliment the sundress. Lastly, she slipped on her
white low-heeled pumps and gave herself a once-
over in the mirror, dabbing on a tiny bit of black
mascara and rich red lipstick, all the makeup the hot
day would allow.
As Chelsea descended the stairway, she heard a
wolf-whistle and saw Michael watching her, his face
crinkled in an approving smile. "Hey cuz, you're
gorgeous!"
"Thanks, you don't look bad yourself!" she replied,
admiring his plum foulard cotton shirt and white
pants, fitted perfectly to his short, trim build.
He gave a dramatic bow, flourished with an old-
world manner just a tad offbeat, lending a comical
touch with his nasal voice: "How may I be of service,
my lady?"
In spite of her reservations about him, his natural
sense of humor and quirky charm got to her. She
laughed at his exaggerated southern-gentlemanly-
gestures, and in the spirit of the game, drawled
silkily, "Oh I do declare, cousin Michael, I am ever
so much grateful that you will conduct this tour of
the historic homes! Why, little 'ol me just wouldn't
know what to do without some manly guidance!"
Michael applauded loudly as he followed her out the
door, declaring, "You should have been an actress,
Chelsea."
"Darling, why, I just couldn't leave all this southern
charm and chivalry for the impersonal big city of
Los Angeles," she drawled, batting her eyelashes at
him and allowing him to graciously open the door of
his Chevy Blazer, assisting her into the seat.
Heading down the lush, overgrown passageway,
Chelsea began to feel free of the persistent
moodiness, the glum suspicions that had destroyed
her normally optimistic outlook. She began to hum a
popular song by Elton John, which Michael
recognized and quickly joined in, singing the lyrics as
they rode through the brilliant morning sunlight
streaming between overlapped trees.
But when the Blazer turned onto the graveled road,
Michael suddenly took a deep breath, and looking at
her seriously, asked, "Would you like to see the
grounds at Innisfree?"
"Oh sure, someday. Not now, not when I'm anxious
for the tour of those incredibly beautiful homes."
"Innisfree is probably one of the better examples
of what can be done with money and dedication,
when it comes to restoration." He pulled out onto
the road, gravel crunching beneath the wheels as
they drove slowly along, finally stopping at the gates
to the Langston's mansion.
"And I have to hand it to him, Hugh Langston spared
no expense in restoring that mansion to all its
former glory. He insisted everything be used exactly
as it was in the early 1800s, and the architectural
firm he hired out of New Orleans had already
earned a solid reputation as the best in restoration,
having proven themselves on several of the more
well-known antebellum houses in and around New
Orleans."
"When I saw all those doves and pigeons yesterday
morning, Brant said they still had pigeonniers on the
grounds."
"Yes, the white doves and pigeons are a beautiful
addition. Brant keeps them as pets, and for show.
Did you know that pigeonniers on the grounds were a
good source of food in the 1800s? The young
squabs of white kings are a delicacy, tender and
tasty."
"What a shame, to waste those lovely birds for
food!"
"Hey, they had to eat, and these mansions and
grounds were considered self-sufficient, so that
was just one more food source." Michael leaned
over to point down the well-maintained oak-lined
paved drive beyond the elaborate gate. "Can't you
just see this drive curving away from here,
connecting to our willowy alleyway and then right on
down to Black River?"
Chelsea thought that would be far too extravagant,
even for the lavish-minded Langstons, but simply
said, "I suppose it could be accomplished."
"You bet! Money will do just about anything." He
gave a short, caustic snort, eyes flat and lifeless.
"But, eat your heart out Brant Langston, you will
never have ForestWillow."
Chelsea was silent, the fun-filled day suddenly
dulled by Michael's rancor, reminding her why she
here. The occasional glimpses of a darker side to
him, whether real or imagined, set her nerves on
edge. And he seemed to have an inordinate love of
wealth, which prompted her suspicion again about
whether he was actually a distant relative who'd had
a prior meeting with her father or merely an
enterprising con artist.
"Right cuz?" he quipped, pulling away from the gates
and driving on down the graveled road.
"Um, yes," she mumbled, worried about when and
how she'd ever manage a flat refusal to buy
ForestWillow. Or would it be better to go along with
him, encourage him to think she'd invest in the house,
gain his trust, remove any barriers to discovering if
he'd ever actually spoken to her father about such a
project?
As suddenly as he'd become acrimonious, Michael
returned just as quickly to a jovial mood, startling
her again by his rapid mood-swings. Could he have
inherited his mother's manic-depressive illness, she
wondered?
As they drove along the two-lane blacktop into
Camile, he began giving a running commentary about
the countryside, complete with intimate details of
various old-name families that had settled the area.
When they arrived in Camile, he gave her a grand
tour, heading down what served as the main street,
Camellia Boulevard, telling her that the quaint
antique and fashionable dress shops were owned by
families who'd been in town forever. The wide
street was lined on both sides by neat rows of
restored 18th century buildings, canopies shading
the hot sidewalks. Flowering camellias provided a
burst of colorful attractiveness, and their tropical
profusion was obviously how the town got its name.
Michael turned onto Dogwood Avenue, pointed out
the squat brick post office, and across the street,
the two-story stucco building where he worked, The
Camile Gazette. "I'll take you inside next week one
day, show you how a weekly operates."
"I'd like that; it would be interesting." Chelsea
watched as they headed onto Oak Lane Street,
seeing the stately historic homes on a hillside, sloping
immaculate lawns leading down to the oak-lined
pavement.
"See that Victorian house on the hill, the gray and
white one with all the lacy ironwork on the balcony?"
Her eyes scanned the street, located the three-
story house that looked like a perfect replica of the
Victorian Era. "Yes, why?"
"That's where Brant's wife lived with her parents,
the Gilhams, one of the fine old families here. Her
sister, Muriel Gilham, whom you met, still lives there.
Inherited the place from her parents when they
moved into a smaller, modern home on the outskirts
of town."
"It is truly magnificent, very well-preserved,"
Chelsea marveled, studying the intricate
architecture carefully.
"Costs a small fortune to maintain," Michael advised,
pulling up at the curb near a driveway. "I guess
that's not a problem for Muriel, since she had
Lenore' Lenore's help financially while she was alive.
If you ask me, Muriel, who is only a year younger
than Brant, has her sights set on becoming the next
Mrs. Brant Langston!"
That got Chelsea's attention, and she felt a small
stab of something that felt very similar to jealousy,
quickly followed by renewed suspicion that Muriel
might not have been warning her away from Brant
for exactly altruistic purposes. She asked, "Really?"
"I guess it must be true, because she has managed
to talk Hugh into giving her a permanent position at
the newspaper, and I suspect it is just so she can
occasionally run into Brant."
"Maybe she just wants to earn a living. And besides,
isn't she trying to prove Brant might have killed
Lenore?""
"Who knows what she's up to? But the woman has
no writing talent! She is suppose to be writing a
society column, you know one of those fluff pieces
about so and so visiting so and so, who went to the
country club dance, who went to Europe for summer
vacation, that kind of stuff. And let me tell you, she
has big problems with it."
Just then a car horn blared, and Chelsea saw the
familiar red Corvette come to a sharp halt behind
them, the door swing open and the flamboyant
Muriel emerge, her leopard print blouse and skin-
tight jeans hugging her curvaceous figure.
Michael groaned. "Uh oh, here she comes!"
Chelsea watched the woman approach in her
customary seductive swivel-hipped walk, one hand
lifted in greeting. She went to Michael's side of the
Blazer, and he rolled down the window, called, "Hey
Muriel, just showing my cousin, Chelsea, around
town."
"Yes, we met yesterday." She looked in the window,
narrowed her brown eyes and said, "What a cute
outfit, you don't look more than a child!"
Chelsea said politely, "I'll consider that a
compliment."
"Oh, I never did locate Brant yesterday either. Darn
him, he seems to be avoiding me." A corner of her
mouth lifted in a sarcastic smirk. "And I can't
imagine why."
Chelsea felt oddly understanding; Brant was just
the type to shrug off a woman's suspicions, perhaps
dismiss Muriel's attentions as romantic only.
"Mike," she said acidly, "do you know if Brant is
going away on business next week? Hugh told me
this morning he might, and I was so upset. I had
planned to ask him to a party tonight, ease him back
into social life. Seven years is too long to pretend
he's mourning my sister."
Muriel paused, then almost as an after-thought,
added, "Besides, the more I am around him, the
better my chances for catching him off-guard about
you-know-what." She looked directly at Chelsea,
asked, "Don't you agree hon?"
Chelsea nodded mutely, thinking she had to find an
opportunity to have a long talk with Muriel alone,
learn whether this woman was really a scatterbrain
nut, a sexy seductress or simply hiding her
cleverness behind false pretenses.
Michael shrugged, said with irritation, "Better let
sleeping dogs lie. We got to get going. I'm taking
Chelsea on a tour of River Road."
"Well, call me sometimes hon. I'm in the book." She
backed away, giving a little wave as Chelsea said,
"I'll do that."
Michael drove away, circling around the block, then
heading toward Interstate 10, explaining, "We'll
take this quick route south, get on the River Road
near New Orleans, come back north."
"So did Lenore resemble Muriel?" Chelsea heard
herself ask, amazed that the question had just
popped out.
"Some, but she was certainly more classy, had a
subtle appeal, not so brazen and artificial." He
laughed, gave a brisk slap on the steering wheel.
"Poor Brant! I don't envy him that woman chasing
after him, even if she tries to pretend her motives
are to prove he done in her sister." He glanced
significantly at Chelsea. "Hey, you better steer clear
of her, she's flaky."
"She is rather colorful. But interesting."
"And Muriel is bull-dog tenacious, one determined
lady."
Chelsea felt more disturbed by Michael's black
remark about letting sleeping dogs lie than Muriel's
complexity, but stiffened her spine, peering ahead
at the unfolding highway and said with forced
enthusiasm, "I can't wait to see those homes!"
Michael grinned, began joking and laughing and told
her that soon they'd connect with the River Road,
and she'd be seeing how grand antebellum life was
along the Mississippi.
Chelsea couldn't quite recapture her light-hearted
mood; she feared there was no easy way out of the
convoluted quagmire of mysteries she'd discovered
here. But her determination to find the truth,
however dangerous that might be, came back
stronger than ever, bolstering her resolve to search
ForestWillow thoroughly at the first opportunity.
CHAPTER NINE
Chelsea felt somewhat knowledgeable about
antebellum houses, and had toured many historic
sites in Mississippi, especially enjoying the annual
Natchez Spring Pilgrimage tour of homes. Among
the thirty houses open for tourist during that
glorious time, Lansdowne, The Burn and Green
Leaves all had unique Civil War events associated
with them.
However, as Michael left Interstate 10 just outside
New Orleans, and drove the eight miles northwest to
their first destination, she prepared herself to
remain open-minded, to eagerly explore these
mansions from a fresh perspective. When they
turned off the shady River Road, a wide, long
driveway led up to the immaculate grounds of
shrubbery, flowers and live oaks surrounding
Destrehan Plantation. She recognized much of the
classic architecture of Creole plantations in the
three-story structure, but couldn't place other
features.
Michael said, "I've been through all these mansions,
even did some reading about them, and I think I can
tell you more than the guide. Just stick with me kid."
He twitched his eyebrows, feigning a suggestive leer
and gesturing as though he held a cigar to his mouth,
a' la' Groucho Marx.
Chelsea laughed at his funny Marx impersonation,
again bewildered at his incredible ability to lighten
the mood, bring a smile to her face. Had she not met
him under these circumstances, Michael would have
won her friendship instantly.
And true to his word, as they walked through the
stately mansion, Michael kept her slightly apart
from the others listening to the tour guide discuss
the history from a prepared text, and would
contribute little known facts. It was a house rich in
history, starting in 1787 when Antoine Robert Robin
de Longy made a deal with a free mulatto to be the
contractor for building the place - an original
document written in French which still existed.
Unfortunately, de Longy lived only two short years
after the house was completed in 1790. A significant
event in 1798 was the royal visitors to Destrehan,
namely the three sons of Philip Egalete, the Duc
d'Orleans (who later became King of France), the
Duc d'Montpensier and the Comte de Beujolis, a
legend still told avidly in St. Charles Parish. Upon
their return to France, they sent valuable mementos
to those who had befriended and entertained them
during their temporary exile in Louisiana, heirlooms
now exhibited by the guide, along with letters which
Chelsea found fascinating.
Michael whispered in her ear, "See, those old
journals might be something to exhibit."
The guide then explained that Jean d'Estrehan, a
wealthy Creole planter who served in the territorial
legislature, bought the house in 1802, and the house
was named for him.
They trailed along behind the other absorbed
tourists. The guide elaborated on the architecture
by noting the West Indian influence, the first floor
being flush with the ground, similar to a basement.
Then the detailing of a steeply sloping roof, with
three small dormer windows breaking the roof line
at a point approximately halfway down, plain Doric
columns extending to the second story and a wide
gallery the length of the front.
As they went through the wide entryway, began
mounting the double mahogany stairway, Michael
said in a low voice, "Six rooms just wasn't enough to
house the d'Estrehan sons and daughters, so wings
were added some years after the house was built,
but it's difficult to distinguish them from the
original house."
Chelsea was in awe of the fine antiques that graced
each and every room, the precise placement and
arrangement of furniture and furnishings to bring
out the elegant beauty of the home. "Michael, it's a
magnificent work of restoration!"
"Yes, and this is the oldest plantation left intact in
the lower Mississippi Valley. Imagine what you could
do with ForestWillow, which was built in 1850."
The guide was now telling in a low, dramatic voice of
the pirate, Jean LaFitte, who was a frequent visitor
during the height of his career, and that some of the
locals believed he'd hidden gold. That there were
those who said that on stormy nights, the ghost of
the brigand appeared from nowhere and pointed at
the ground floor, then disappeared. Chelsea
shuddered, noticing that several other ladies did
likewise, but the men seemed to find the tale
amusing.
Once back in the Blazer, Michael commented, "Neat
little ghost story they have here. I personally don't
believe in the supernatural, but I saw you shiver..."
Chelsea hated to admit that something of a psychic
aura seemed to linger in almost all the older
mansions she'd visited. She didn't like to think she
had any particular psychic gift, (if indeed such
existed and she was a bit skeptical herself) but
undeniably her senses were heightened to a razor-
edge of sensitivity, and there had been moments
when she had felt an unseen presence while touring
these houses where so long ago people had lived,
loved, known passionate promises and died often of
broken-hearted dreams, shattered by the coming of
the Civil War's destruction.
"Hey, penny for your thoughts," Michael kidded,
glancing at her as he pulled onto River Road.
She said distractedly, "Oh, just thinking about ghost
stories, how it enhances the appeal of these older
homes."
"So I take it you aren't superstitious?"
Chelsea watched the sun-dappled highway winding
between massive oaks and cypress, glimpsing a glint
of sunlight on the Mississippi now and then, finally
saying, "Not really. I never quite dismiss it though,
try to keep an open mind."
"Hmm, well, you have a point there. I have never
experienced anything of that nature, but it might be
that I'm just not gifted."
Silence fell between them, and Michael drove across
the Mississippi River Bridge, headed north along
Highway 18, while Chelsea wondered if that piteous
weeping she'd heard, and that cloying gardenia
perfume she'd smelled were perhaps psychic
phenomenon? If so, she was on the wrong track in
thinking Brant Langston guilty of sinister game-
playing, maybe even wrong in thinking Michael's
mother hiding on the grounds. Could Adriana be
dead? What a ridiculous idea! she immediately
chided herself. If she didn't curb these ludicrous
speculations, Chelsea feared she'd end up in an
asylum herself.
Michael whipped off the highway, braked and asked,
"Recognize that oak alleyway?"
Coming out of her musings, she exclaimed, "Yes! But
it's more breathtaking to see it right before your
eyes instead of in a movie!" Chelsea recognized Oak
Alley Plantation, famous for its alley of twenty-eight
evenly spaced live oak trees leading to a Greek
Revival mansion with twenty-eight white columns
surrounding the house, site of several Hollywood
movies which generously used it to great advantage.
The tour was splendid, Chelsea gleaning facts like
the name originally being Bon Sejour, meaning "Good
Rest;" the house built in 1830, but the oaks being
two hundred and fifty years old, planted by an early
French settler somewhere around 1690 when he
chose the site for a primitive dwelling.
Michael called her attention to the information
about the mansion being abandoned for years,
unoccupied, only an occasional cow or pig straying
through its doors, or an itinerant laborer who
needed shelter. He said, "These houses were built to
withstand just about anything, except fire. The
cypress is virtually indestructible, sturdy and repels
swamp rot and insects that would otherwise ruin a
place in this land."
The guide was saying, as if to emphasize his words,
that some intruders had set fires in the house, but
they had been put out before damage was done.
However, a section of the roof had fallen in, plaster
had dropped and much of the ornamental hardware,
as well as the decorative urns and statues, were
stolen.
Michael nodded, saying, "And just think,
ForestWillow has never really been completely
abandoned. It was rented after my grandparent's
death, then mother came to live there. So most of
the original stuff is intact, just waiting for the right
person to come along and give it some tender loving
care."
Chelsea felt a tiny bit irritated at his dogged
persistence. She suddenly resolved to tell him soon
that she would buy the house, hopefully win over his
complete trust.
By the time they'd crossed back over the Mississippi
on the Sunshine Bridge, Chelsea was famished, and
asked, "It's past noon, when do we grab a bite?"
"On the way now, place called The River Restaurant,
has great Po-Boys."
She was intrigued by the rustic log-cabin restaurant
overlooking the Mississippi, and relaxed in air-
conditioned comfort, viewing the slow-moving muddy
waters out a wide window.
Michael ordered them both generous Po-boys filled
with seafoods, asking if she preferred trying their
gusty gumbo dish. But she caught the teasing wink he
gave her and declined, fearing her stomach couldn't
handle that spicy concoction.
While they relaxed over the meal, Chelsea thought
she might as well broach the subject of purchasing
ForestWillow and said, "Michael, about the
house...what you have in mind is a vast undertaking,
and although I am a bit familiar with antebellum
homes...perhaps I'm not qualified for such a project,
even if I am willing to invest in it."
"Hey cuz, you wouldn't have to do anything, other
than choose the architectural firm, locate an
interior designer who has a proven record of
success with these houses. Money, that's all it takes.
And you can see what a fantastic investment it
would be, if for nothing but to preserve a landmark,
show it to those who have never known such luxury.
Chelsea shrugged, stared at him seriously a moment,
then said, "Are you sure you're willing to risk the
fate of ForestWillow to someone like myself,
inexperienced in restoration?"
He put his sandwich aside, wiped his hands on a
napkin and then met her eyes, one hand going to
hers, grasping it warmly. "Cuz, I will never, but
never ask another thing of you in life. It's just that
ForestWillow is so special to me, it's all I have left,
and even though I can't keep it, I want it to survive,
to be a legacy that someday our relatives can
inherit. I am confident you could get the job done,
and I trust your judgment. Most importantly, I want
to be certain ForestWillow will continue to be owned
by our family, never perish."
Chelsea couldn't look away from his gray eyes, so
sincere, so intent on winning this one request. And
truthfully, it was a good investment - not only
financially, but as a family legacy. For just one
moment her father's gray eyes seemed to be
staring out at her from Michael's face, and she
wondered if he'd intended to restore ForestWillow
because Breauxland had been destroyed, thereby
leaving a rich legacy for her and any children she
might have?
Michael moved his hand on hers, a slight pressure,
and asked, "Please cuz, I swear you will never
regret it."
His dedication to the house, his sincerity touched her
and she somehow didn't doubt him on this issue.
"Okay."
He leaped to his feet, came around to her and bent
down to give her a big hug, turning several heads in
their direction. "Cuz, you'll never know how much I
appreciate this, never!"
The rest of the afternoon was a blur to Chelsea,
vaguely haunting images of Houmas House
Plantation, Tezcuco Plantation and San Francisco
Plantation drifting before her eyes. She could not
reconcile the likable boy whom she was coming to
know with her dark suspicions about him; perhaps
her ideas about him being a deceitful manipulator
were wildly unfounded and a product of her
obsessive need to condemn someone, anyone of
anything since she couldn't solve her parents'
murder? If so, she was doing him a great injustice
and decided to relax her watchful vigilance on him
somewhat.
At San Francisco Plantation Michael pointed out the
Gothic influence, albeit a Gothic steamboat-styled
mansion, oddly shaped in the fantasy of its builder,
Valsin Marmillion, who had called it Saint Frusquin,
meaning "my all," having poured all his finances into
it, dying before it was completed. She got chills
thinking of him, knowing ForestWillow was a
potentially impossible task, something that might
defeat anyone attempting to restore the wreck to
perfection.
They ended the tour just as twilight was hovering
over their last destination, lavender shadows playing
softly on the alabaster walls of the grandest of all
estates, Nottoway Plantation - sometimes known as
the White Castle of Louisiana.
And castle it was, Chelsea thought, looking at the
grandiose building, hearing Michael tell her it was
built in 1849 by John Hampden Randolph, a planter
who owned 7,000 acres of sugar cane, and spared
no expense in designing a home with 53,000 square
feet of space to accommodate his eleven children.
Chelsea gazed at the towering square columns
across the front, extending in an unusual grouping to
support the iron-railed galleries at first and second-
story levels, noting the ornate ironwork used in
decorating the many windows.
Michael took her arm, saying, "Sorry we're too late
for a tour, but I wanted to celebrate by buying you
dinner in the finest restaurant anywhere around
here."
She allowed him to escort her up one side of the
double stairway with cast-iron handrails, leading
from the ground to the first gallery.
Pausing momentarily, Chelsea felt her head begin to
ache, but she said nothing, continuing along with
Michael into an enormous hallway, stunned at the
palatial construction. To either side of the hallway
were huge arched doorways leading into opulent,
spacious rooms.
Michael mentioned the fabled features such as
intricate lacy plaster friezework, hand-painted
Dresden porcelain doorknobs, hand-carved marble
mantels, Corinthian columns, ending with his eloquent
description of the 65-loot Grand White Ballroom.
He led her through a doorway into the exquisite
dining room where sparkling light-shimmers flowed
from the overhead chandelier, white linen-clothed
tables set with the finest china, crystal and silver.
She was suddenly overwhelmed by the whole day's
experiences, having witnessed a past southern
aristocracy that seemed full of wicked excess, while
black slaves suffered silently in shabby quarters out
back, did the dirty work for the self-appointed,
white-gloved nobility.
Michael was staring at her. "Are you sick? You look
so pale!"
Managing to find her voice, she mumbled, "I...feel
weak, tired, I guess."
He turned to the reservation desk. "Uh, yes, I had
reservations for two at seven."
Chelsea wondered when he'd made that reservation,
but squelched her curiosity, asking, "Where's the
ladies room?"
The gentleman pointed it out, and she made her way
across the white-tiled floor, sickened at the thought
of how many blacks had toiled in a bygone era for
this ostentatious nonsense.
"So we meet again, Miss Seymour."
Chelsea spun around to see Brant Langston standing
behind her, an ironic twist to his smile, one dark
eyebrow arched inquiringly. Lord no, she thought, he
was the last person she wanted to run into now!
His crisp black tuxedo was form-fitted to his tall,
lean body, and gave him an imperial demeanor. She
stood staring foolishly, struck again at how
incredibly handsome he was; his black hair was
combed neatly off his high forehead, the unruly lock
subdued, his dark eyes glinting with amusement at
catching her off-guard.
He slowly let his eyes roam sensuously over her
body with blatant disregard for propriety, his face
coming closer to hers, a finger touching the
heartbeat pulsing in her throat, an unmistakable light
of desire now shining in those dark, devilish eyes,
and Chelsea felt herself responding to his low,
throaty voice: "My, my...it's too bad we aren't
alone."
Stung by his arrogance, angered at her
uncomfortable physical response, Chelsea stepped
back from him, squared her shoulders and retorted,
"You have a nasty habit of sneaking up on me, and I
asked you not to do that anymore."
That mocking half-smile curving his lips, he said, "But
my dear, this is a public place. Surely you aren't
suggesting I planned this?"
She seethed, "Maybe not, but it's strange how you
seem to be always underfoot."
He laughed, a mirthless laugh, and she said coldly,
"If you'll excuse me, Michael is waiting for me."
"Ah yes, the long-lost cousin, Michael," Brant said,
clearly sarcastic.
"Oh there you are, Brant! "
Chelsea saw Muriel Gilham coming toward them,
swiveling her sexy walk, a red tube-styled dress
outlining her shapely figure, brown eyes wide with
surprise as she enthused, "Why, it's little Chelsea!
Honey, you look so adorable in that sundress! Isn't
she cute, Brantly, just a doll, so young and pretty."
Chelsea could feel herself flush with
embarrassment, and said nothing, looking around for
Michael.
Muriel's hand smoothed a bleached wisp of hair that
had strayed from her French twist as she said,
"Hon, did you have a nice tour of River Road?"
Chelsea nodded, swallowed hard and managed to
say, "Yes, but I'm tired."
Muriel took Brant by the arm, declared, "We're
going to be late for the private party in the
Ballroom."
Brant firmly withdrew his arm. "Go ahead, I'll be
there shortly."
As Muriel stalked away, Chelsea avoided his eyes,
heard him ask, "Is something wrong?"
She looked up to see he was staring at her,
frowning, and that his dark eyes held a warm glow
of concern.
For one silly second, she thought about just blurting
out everything, how miserable she was, how
frustrated and defeated she felt, how alone since
her parents' murder, how confused and utterly
exhausted by the complex situation she'd gotten
herself into with Michael.
As she looked into his face, he seemed suddenly to
understand her need and touched her cheek gently,
asking, "Would you like to go somewhere private and
talk?"
"No, not now."
He removed his hand, asked, "Would you have dinner
with me tomorrow night then?"
She felt herself nodding, amazed by the sudden
feeling that Brant was not the monster she'd
conjured in her imagination.
But just at that moment, Michael saw them, came
rushing over and gushed, "Hello Brant, good to see
you. Chelsea and I are celebrating; she's agreed to
buy ForestWillow!"
Brant's face clouded, an eyebrow arching, his black
eyes going cold, hard. "Is that true, Miss Seymour?"
Suddenly defensive, Chelsea lifted her chin, stated,
"Yes, and I do hope you won't interfere."
He said tightly, "I won't, but I hope you know what
you're getting into. I must go, but I'll hold you to
the dinner date and will come for you around six."
And he turned on his heel, strode away without so
much as a backward glance.
Chelsea felt foolish beyond words. How could she
have made a date with such a man? His gentle
concern was obviously a pretense, and she'd allowed
herself to get cornered into a date with him!
Michael started to say something, but looking closely
at her wan face, must have thought better of it and
merely told her he'd be waiting at the table.
It was a meal she barely got through, hardly tasted,
and was relieved when it was finished, since she was
preoccupied with ways to get out of that date.
But as they rode through the night toward
ForestWillow, Chelsea had a change of heart. After
all, maybe going out with Brant would give her an
opportunity to learn more about him and Michael.
As the Blazer made the turn onto the narrow,
overgrown path, she began to feel an uncomfortable
edginess when she saw the house looming menacingly
ahead, as though it awaited her return with
malevolent glee.
And deep within her, the old wounded ache of
missing her parents cut sharply into her soul again;
she missed them terribly! If only she could get her
father's advice now...but that was never to be again.
Inside, Chelsea said goodnight to Michael and
hurried upstairs, feeling lost and alone in a strange
land with ominous strangers surrounding her.
CHAPTER TEN
After a restless night plagued by haunting, fleeting
dream images of impending disaster, Chelsea
couldn't rouse herself Sunday morning. Lying in bed,
she recalled the scene with Brant, wondering if she
could maintain her composure long enough during
their dinner date to objectively learn anything new
about him and Michael. If only she didn't feel so
attracted to Brant!
The heavy, humid air was barely stirred by the
overhead fan, and she felt lethargic, unable to move.
She looked through the gauzy fabric, seeing pale
sunshine pouring in open windows, hearing shrill bird
calls. At length, she sat up, pulled on her robe and
went downstairs.
Michael was gone, had left a note on the kitchen
table saying he forgot to mention he would be
joining an old girlfriend for Sunday church services,
and for her to relax, rest up from their grand tour.
Chelsea went into the adjacent room, sat down on
the sofa and wondered if she could keep up her
deceptive act about renovating the ramshackle
mansion?
Peering across the room at the picture of Adriana
Forrest, she felt a stinging appraisal from the
woman's darkly piercing gaze, as though silently
reprimanding her for the pretense. Where could
that woman be? Chelsea wondered yet again. Was
Adriana really in an institution? Was she hiding here
somewhere or had she merely run away from this
godforsaken place?
Chelsea had to escape the riveting picture, went to
the bathroom and took a cold, invigorating shower.
When she emerged, her spirits had lifted
considerably and she went upstairs, hurriedly pulled
on jeans and a blue t-shirt, ran a brush through her
wet, wavy hair and headed out the door.
In the hallway she paused, looking at the two closed
doors across from hers she'd not been inside.
Peeking inside them, she saw they were almost
empty, and after a cursory look around each one,
found nothing to warrant further inspection at the
moment.
Downstairs, she squeezed oranges, drank the fresh
juice and then tidied the kitchen. Staring out the
window, Chelsea felt she just had to get some fresh
air, get outside the house before it drove her mad.
The day was brightening outdoors, sunshine falling
through the mossy cypress limbs into patches of
brilliant light where she walked slowly, studying the
intricate beauty of dew-drenched foliage,
appreciating the clean feel of lingering morning
freshness.
Going to the metal garage, Chelsea looked around
inside, found it to be a vacant shell for vehicles,
certainly not a place Adriana could hide.
She walked back to the house, went to stand at the
steps leading down into the basement. To her
dismay, she saw a padlock on the door, and when she
tried it, found it was locked securely.
Seeing the grimy, oblong basement windows, Chelsea
went to each one, trying to peer through the murky,
smudged panes. The effort proved to be fruitless; it
was so dark in there, and the windows so dirty, she
couldn't make out anything whatsoever. All were
locked from inside as well, so she made a mental
note to check for a basement entry through the
house.
Wandering around aimlessly, trying to work off her
restlessness, she came upon the path Michael had
taken into the woods when they'd walked down to
Black River. Then her gaze settled on the opposite
side of the grounds where an old iron gate was
covered with morning glory vines.
Cautiously, Chelsea made her way to the gate,
stepping over briars and straggly weeds, fighting not
to get entangled in the clutches of overgrown
vegetation. When her fingers met the ironwork, she
stood on tiptoe, trying to see what lay beyond.
It looked like a courtyard, she thought, peering at
the bricked walkway visible in places through the
thorny growths devouring the ground. But then she
saw groupings of stone markers, solid blocked
above-ground stone tombs...
Curiosity piqued, Chelsea managed to pull away the
vines enough to get at the gate, but found it was
locked. Taking another route along the spiked iron-
rail fencing, she finally found a space that was
sunken into the low, swampy ground, and began
eagerly tearing away the woody hydrangea vines,
feeling her fingers get scratched, but oblivious to
the pain.
When she'd cleared a small opening, Chelsea climbed
over the low iron fencing, dropped to the ground and
stood staring in fascination. She was in a cemetery!
It had to be an old family cemetery, she realized,
and though the creepy place made her uneasy, she'd
come too far to turn back now.
Cautiously, Chelsea crept through the thick patches
of briars and thorny undergrowth, her hands pulling
back prickly vines that stuck into her flesh, eliciting
an "Ouch!" as she saw droplets of blood on her
thumb.
At the first stone tomb, she bent down and began
tearing away the vegetation from the headstone,
swiping at the moldy mildew obscuring names and
dates, until at last she could read:
Asa H. Seaton July 3, 1800�April 10, 1856
And another headstone close beside it read:
Amanda K. Seaton October 20, 1830�April 10,
1856
They'd died on the same day! And from what
Michael had said about ForestWillow being built in
1850, these had to be the original owners, Chelsea
guessed, suddenly apprehensive about how they'd
died!
She started away, when her foot tripped over a
smaller stone tomb and she noticed a delicate angel
carved atop this one, almost fearing whose grave it
would be. Determinedly, she peeled layers of clinging
vines off the headstone, and read:
Emily Rose Seaton January 1, 1850�April 10, 1856
Beloved child of Asa and Amanda
Now at rest with Angels
Could it be, she wondered, that this was the original
family who'd built ForestWillow in 1850 only to die
six years later, all on the same day?
Looking up at the sky, Chelsea saw that a billowy
cloud was passing over the sun; a shadow fell across
her, and she shivered even though it was hot. A
distant mourning dove called repeatedly in its
plaintive voice, and from the deep woods came the
drilling of a woodpecker, then the drone of a plane
far above as she saw the flash of sunlight on silver
wings, the sound dying away slowly.
As she scanned the graveyard, Chelsea saw several
weed-covered above-ground tombs, but couldn't
bring herself to dig out the carved names and dates.
However, she did cross over to where a raised
platform stood near the wooded area; it was a solid
massive square block of stone, atop of which was
carved a stone head resembling that of some Gothic
heads found carved in the portals of cathedrals
from the 14th and 15th Centuries, the wide-open
eyes staring unseeing, a grim expression etched
forever on the face.
Marveling at the precise details, she wondered
vaguely about the sculptor who seemed to have a
strange alliance with the Moyen Age - the age of
terror and the Titanic in stone.
Time was flying, and she wanted to get back to the
house before Michael returned, but couldn't help
stopping to study one more oddity: an old bell that
was once used on plantations for calling slaves,
which stood in one corner of the graveyard.
It was, she decided, authentic, since the wooden
post was rotted, and she could read an original
inscription on the metal bell: Cincinnati, Ohio, 1866.
Amazingly, when she grasped the metal handle and
pumped it, a harsh clanging rang out, echoing eerily
through the woods.
Impulsively, Chelsea headed off into the dim
coolness of the woods, telling herself it was only a
brief walk to enjoy the cooler air. The pine straw
lined the narrow path she'd found and it was clear
that someone had been coming through here often,
keeping the lane free of overgrown vines and weeds.
Enchanted by the lovely pattern of sunlight and
shade interwoven through the woods, she kept
walking, unaware of how far she'd gone until she
heard voices. Halting abruptly, she listened and
could hear two men talking, one arguing stridently,
the other almost passively responsive.
She crept quietly toward the voices, making sure to
stay hidden in the crush of bushes. Closer now, she
positioned herself well behind a clump of wild
sarsaparilla, the crimson-colored flowers in full
bloom, emitting an aromatic scent.
Peeking through the vines, Chelsea was surprised to
discover that she was apparently on the grounds of
Innisfree; she could see the imposing mansion of
soft lemon-yellow walls from a rear view.
It was some distance away though, and more
immediately, she found herself looking at a modest
two-story cottage, built in the A-frame style, roof
dropping sharply on both sides to the ground, the
rear of which was almost entirely glass walls facing
a small round pond where white water lilies floated,
cypress trees hovering around it.
The backyard of this cottage was simple, and
prepared to attract wildlife - a rock patio with
comfortable lounge chairs faced the small pond and
forest, and in the trees, wild bird feeders
everywhere; off to one side near the forest was a
salt lick for deer. She also saw two tall octagonal
plastered brick pigeonniers with wooden finials,
white doves and pigeons clustered all around the
openings, some on the ground. It was an interesting
display that showed an appreciation and respect for
wildlife, Chelsea realized.
"I said I'd look into it, didn't I?"
Chelsea's attention was drawn to the men, who were
not in sight, and she heard a reply, "Yes, but I need
to know exact details, the facts, not what the
rumors are."
Her heart thudded; that was Brant's distinctive
voice, and she felt herself respond unwillingly to the
familiar sound of his husky voice.
"It takes time to find out these things, and it's not
like I can just come right out and interrogate the
boy!"
"All I know is that something is not right over there.
One day Adriana is right there in the house, the next
she's disappeared."
"He says his mother got worse, and you know she's
always been disturbed. It's a wonder the poor boy
survived her mood-swings, and I will always regret
that we didn't try harder to get him out of there."
"We did all we could. The authorities checked into it,
said there was nothing to prove he was being
abused."
Chelsea swallowed convulsively, her mouth tasting
like dry cotton, their words coming faster now...
"Dad, I have to go. If I don't meet Charlie at the
airport and give him these legal contracts, I won't
be back in time for my dinner date with Miss
Seymour tonight. Look, at least talk to Police Chief
Henderson, surely he knows how to subtly probe
that woman's disappearance."
"I'll see what I can do, Brant. Son, I wish you'd quit
worrying about this. After all, Michael seems to be a
fine boy. He has great writing talent, and even
though he couldn't afford college, we're training
him at the newspaper..."
"Dad, let's not argue. But consider this, if he
couldn't afford college, how can he afford a private
institution for his mother?"
"She could be in a state institution..."
The voices drifted farther away, and she couldn't
make out the words clearly but she saw Brant
walking on the far side of the cottage, the older
gentleman by his side.
She saw that Hugh Langston was a handsome older
version of his son although not having Brant's richly
dark Cuban heritage. Mr. Langston was still in
excellent physical condition, tall and well-groomed,
his full head of thick iron-gray hair and mustache
giving him a decidedly distinguished look.
Brant carried a leather briefcase, and walked to a
pearl black 420 SEL Mercedes, where he unlocked
the door. As he tossed the briefcase inside, he
turned to his father and they stood talking a
moment longer, then Brant put a hand on his
father's shoulder, said a few more words and then
got in the car.
Hugh Langston's face held fatherly pride as he
watched Brant slide into the car, start it and drive
off, giving a slight wave as the car disappeared
down the drive leading past Innisfree.
Coming out of the dazed spell of watching Brant,
Chelsea felt annoyed he could affect her so
powerfully even from a distance! But that
conversation, it had given her reason to confirm her
own speculations about Adriana 's whereabouts.
Where was Adriana Forrest? Was she indeed in an
institution? And if so, why did no one apparently
know which institution?
Rushing haphazardly back along the wooded path,
she felt elated that Brant and his father had some
serious questions about Michael's mother too. Was
the woman hiding on the grounds?
Was that why Brant kept showing up? Was he
conducting his own covert investigation? Was it
indeed Adriana trying to frighten her away from
ForestWillow? Perhaps her suspicions weren't
totally unfounded after all!
* * * *
When Chelsea arrived back at ForestWillow, she
found another note from Michael propped on the
kitchen table telling her he'd already come and gone.
He apologized, but said that Mary wanted to go for
a drive, and that if things worked out, he might not
be back till late.
Reading it, she could almost see him wink
suggestively and had to smile. However, this was a
great opportunity to search the attic, and she hoped
to do just that after a quick bite of lunch.
As she ate a ham sandwich at the kitchen table,
Chelsea was still uneasy about the foreboding
menace of ForestWillow's hold over her. Why
couldn't she just think of it as a run-down mansion,
instead of having an uncanny sixth sense that it
harbored ugly secrets of the past and the present,
she wondered?
Hearing a car horn, she glanced out the window as
the red Corvette passed by. Hurriedly clearing away
the table, Chelsea then went outside to see Muriel
standing beside the car, smoking a cigarette. And
while eager to have that long talk, Chelsea hated
missing the chance to explore the attic.
Muriel narrowed her brown eyes, squinting in the
smoke escaping her slightly parted lips, lifting a hand
to wave as Chelsea headed toward her, saying, "Hi
Muriel, glad to see you."
Muriel dropped her cigarette, ground it out with the
toe of her pointy high-heel shoe. "Saw Mike in
church, said he and Mary were going for a ride, so I
knew you'd be alone."
"Yes, I am. I just had lunch, would you care for
something?" Chelsea asked, looking at Muriel's
conservative tailored silk suit, a conventional outfit
incongruous on a woman who usually dressed in
provocative, skin-tight clothing.
"No, I'm on a strict diet, have to watch myself
these days."
As they headed up the walkway, Chelsea asked,
"Have you known Michael all your life?"
"I guess, if you can ever really know Mike. He's
always been sort of hard to figure out, complex,
secretive. And his mother, God, crazy as a bedbug!"
Inside, they went into the living room, and Chelsea
adjusted the air conditioner, put it on high, then sat
in a chair across from Muriel on the battered sofa.
"Michael told me his mother was manic-depressive,
that she was a danger to herself."
"No, that woman wasn't the type to commit suicide.
If you ask me, she should have been put away years
ago. I mean, the poor kid, he endured hell! Her
ranting and raving highs where she'd get paranoid,
thinking everyone was conspiring against her,
followed by swings into almost catatonic depression.
Everyone in town knew it, but never tried to get
Mike away from her."
Muriel leaned back, wet her lips, ran a long red
fingernail over her bottom lip speculatively. "Have
you found out where the woman is, what
institution?"
"As a matter of fact, I was going to ask if you
knew."
"No, and neither does anyone else. Frankly, I don't
think anyone gives a damn, as long as she doesn't
come back!" She laughed shortly, taking a cigarette
out of her purse, scrounging around for her lighter,
saying, "I wouldn't be surprised if someone killed
her. She was such a viciously obnoxious woman. Do
you know she once threatened to sue the Langstons
for trying to intervene on Michael's behalf? Brant
hates her."
A cold knot formed in the pit of Chelsea's stomach.
Could Brant be questioning Adriana's disappearance
because he had killed her, feigning concern to divert
suspicion away from himself? She shook her head,
trying to get rid of that crazy idea, hearing Muriel
say, "Hon, about you and Brant..."
Chelsea said quickly, "There is no involvement
between us."
"Maybe not on your part. But honey, I know that
predatory gleam in Brantly's eyes and he's
definitely interested in you."
To her dismay, Chelsea felt her face blushing, and
got up, turning toward the window. "He's virtually a
stranger to me, you know."
Muriel was smoking, her eyes on Chelsea. "I wasn't
joking when I warned you away from him. He...can
be a hard man. I guess I'll never prove he
intentionally harmed Lenore, but it's common
knowledge he drove her to alcoholism."
"How? Was he unfaithful?" Chelsea returned to her
chair, hoping to learn more about Brant and his wife.
"Yes, I think he was. Of course, he had to be
discreet, and no one could ever prove it. But he was
always gone on business, away from here...men have
their ways."
Chelsea asked, "Do you think he deliberately killed
your sister?"
"I do, I really do. Lenore was...oh, how can I
explain? She was a year older than myself, and my
parents doted on her. I could never live up to her
class act either, she just seemed to have this
incredible self-possession, an instinct for grace and
charm. Except of course, she had one flaw, her
insatiable need for wealth and social status. Oh how
she loved it, all the Langston' s money and being the
gracious social hostess!"
Chelsea said in a sympathetic tone: "It must have
been difficult for you."
"God, you have no idea! I always had to be opposite
Lenore, do the outrageous, go overboard on
everything just to get the least attention from my
parents. Even now they..."
"Yes?" Chelsea watched Muriel stare off into space,
her brown eyes wounded, pensive.
"Even now I think if I could get Brant to marry me,
my parents would finally approve of me." She closed
her eyes, sighed. "The question is why I would want
to marry the man? He's handsome, he's rich...but
maybe a killer. My parents never blamed him for
Lenore's death though, they just couldn't. You see,
he'd been so generous with them, financially, had
kept up our historic family house, which they've
dumped on yours truly now.
Muriel's bitterness was undisguised, and Chelsea
wondered if she hated her sister as much as it
seemed? Hated and envied Lenore so much she was
willing to pursue Brant, marry him just for the sake
of winning the man who was once her sister's
husband and having parental approval?
"Anyway, hon, the reason I wanted to have a long
talk is that Brantly is definitely attracted to you,
and I'd never forgive myself if I didn't warn you to
be careful." She got up, looked around for an
ashtray, wandering out into the hall, finally putting
the cigarette out in the kitchen sink. "Sorry, but
there doesn't seem to be any ashtrays." She
narrowed her eyes, studying the kitchen, declared,
"God, this place is a wreck! You sure have your work
cut out for you in restoring it. In my opinion, they
should bulldoze all these old atrocities under."
Chelsea could hardly disagree, but forced an
enthusiasm she didn't feel. "Oh, it will be work, but
Michael seems to think it's important."
Muriel went down the hallway, out into the yard,
saying tartly, "More like a waste of time and money.
I hate that house we own; it's nothing but a money
pit." She paused at the Vette, looking into Chelsea's
eyes. "Anyhow, try not to let Brant's sex appeal get
the better of you, hon."
"I will be cautious with him, but I'd like to learn as
much as possible. Besides, I might be able to catch
him off guard, help you prove he..."
"No, you just take care of yourself, don't fall for
him," Muriel said, opening her car door. "He's too
clever to trick, and if he thought you were up to
something, well...just remember what happened to
Lenore."
Chelsea nodded, agreed, "Yes, and I do appreciate
your concern."
The Vette roared to life, and Muriel said, "I'll be
seeing you around, maybe at the newspaper. God, I
love that job, it's the first time I've ever felt
useful!"
Speechless at this revelation, Chelsea forced a smile
and waved as Muriel drove off. The woman honestly
liked her position; and Michael said she was inept at
it. Maybe Muriel just needed to succeed at
something on her own, fulfill her own potential and
not keep trying to satisfy her parents or live up to
an image of her dead sister. And her frustration in
doing so served to make her defensive and difficult,
Chelsea surmised.
Going back inside, Chelsea wondered though if
Muriel's concern for her safety was genuine, or if
the woman was warning her away so she could have
Brant for herself? She was no closer to knowing the
woman than before, Chelsea thought.
She stood in the hallway, thinking about Adriana. If
she was as cruel as Muriel said, then Michael had
suffered a horrible childhood. Had it warped him
into a twisted individual capable of duplicity? Or had
he become a survivor, stronger for the experience?
So far, Chelsea had learned he was funny, friendly
and seemingly caring; but she'd also caught him in
several lies, telling half-truths, omitting vital facts.
But didn't everyone tell little white lies at times,
herself included?
It was possible that after Adriana' s
institutionalization, Michael just wanted the house
restored, needed an investor, and was happy to have
found family connections - and that was his sole
reason for contacting her father. Then upon
learning of his death, Michael turned to her for the
same reasons.
Still, why hadn't he sought out family help during his
troubled childhood? But then she remembered
reading that abuse was something children kept
hidden because of their own shame.
But was he related to them? If so, why was he so
vague about exactly how? Not even Marcus could
say one way or the other. She decided the more she
learned, the more complicated it all became, and
feared that only through time and determination
could she ever hope to settle the questions.
Resolved to do her best, she hurried across the hall,
planning to search the attic; however, the key was
gone off the wall near the locked door. Michael
must have taken it, she fumed.
Going quickly to his bedroom door, she found it
locked as well. Surely that was unusual; he'd
offered for her to look around freely yesterday!
Chelsea then walked to the bedroom near the end of
the downstairs hallway, found it unlocked and
managed to get inside, although it was stacked high
with all kinds of clutter. And after several hours of
going through boxes of junk, she discovered nothing
suggesting any leads.
Coming out of the room, dusting cobwebs off her
clothing, out of her hair, she saw it was almost five.
She hurried upstairs to her room, in a rush to get
ready for the dinner date.
As she stood looking at her wardrobe, Chelsea
suddenly felt defeated and somewhat foolish. It
seemed useless to keep pondering about Michael's
character; if anything, she was beginning to feel
overwhelming compassion for him, and the traumatic
childhood he'd endured.
Chelsea thought back to Anna, and the impoverished
childhood she'd had. In some ways, Michael
reminded her of Anna; they both had been treated
unfairly...
Resigned to her newfound compassionate
understanding of Michael, Chelsea resolved to keep
an open mind, not condemn anyone of anything - not
unless factual evidence came to light.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Chelsea took a brisk shower, blow-dried her hair,
applied makeup, and was slipping into a creamy silk
crepe de chine dress, cinching the wide belt at her
waist when she heard a car door slam. She stood
back from the dresser mirror, looking at herself one
last time, noticing the glow in her green eyes.
Slipping on her pumps, she grabbed her purse and
was descending the stairs when the knock came at
the door.
She opened the door to see Brant standing on the
steps, his back to her; he was wearing a tailor-made
gray suit, had his hands jammed in the pants
pockets. "Looks like we'll have a beautiful sunset
this evening."
Closing and locking the door, Chelsea joined him,
saying, "Yes, it does."
He looked at her, the curved smile on his lips. "Do
you mind if we go for a short drive before dinner?"
"I think that would be nice." She followed him to the
Mercedes, where he held open the door, pausing to
stare at her a moment. "You look lovely."
"Thank you, " she murmured, slipping into the plush
car.
Brant was silent during the drive to the main
highway, and Chelsea wondered at his pensive mood;
his dark eyes focused on the road, but had a
faraway look. Being confined in the intimate
closeness, Chelsea felt the sexual lure of Brant's
nearness, and struggled against her physical
reactions.
When he pulled onto Cypress road, a two-lane curvy
highway that wound through the countryside, the car
picked up speed. As they sped along, Brant took the
hairpin curves recklessly, his hands resting lightly on
the steering wheel, and Chelsea felt herself bracing
for an accident.
He shot her a quizzical look, asked, "Are you
uncomfortable?"
"No, but, the...I mean, it's such a hazardous road..."
"Relax, I know the road. Besides, I thought you must
enjoy danger, the challenge of speed, being the
reckless young lady you are." He glanced at her, the
mocking, sarcastic smile on his lips.
Aghast, Chelsea stammered, "I...what makes you
think that?" She wondered if he was also referring
to her career in journalism?
"It's hardly prudent to be staying in that dilapidated
old mansion with a boy you don't even know."
Anger shot through her, and she retorted, "Michael
is family and it's certainly no more dangerous being
with him than with you.
He exclaimed, "Touche'!"
Chelsea swallowed hard, telling herself to calm
down; this wasn't the way to get information out of
him, by responding angrily to his barbs. "I'm sorry,
it's just that I am touchy this evening."
An awkward silence ensued, only the sound of soft
hiss of tires on hot asphalt, the moss-draped trees a
blur on either side of them as Chelsea clenched her
fists to keep from screaming at him to slow their
speed.
At last he slowed, turned sharply onto an unfamiliar
gravel road that began a gradual ascent. Soon he
was pulling off to the side at a scenic overlook
where she saw a cliff ledge ahead, leaning forward
to glimpse a sheer drop off a bluff.
He stopped the car perilously close to the ledge, so
close she could see the heavily wooded hillside
pitching down to a rushing river below. "Where are
we?"
Brant lowered the windows, shut off the engine,
pulled on the emergency brakes. "That's Black River
down there, I thought you might appreciate this view
of it."
She looked at the red-orange sun sinking down
slowly past the hillsides beyond them, feeling the
warm, humid air of late afternoon come in the open
windows. "It looks like a dangerous place."
He glanced at her, lifting an eyebrow archly. "You
like danger, don't you?"
"No...I...please, let's not argue." She felt increasingly
uncomfortable with him; all the warnings echoed in
her mind, and she inched closer to the door, feeling
uneasy and trapped.
"What's the matter my dear, are you afraid?" he
asked, dark eyes riveted on her mercilessly.
"No, but..." She couldn't move, impaled by his
burning gaze, unable to protest as he unbuckled his
seat belt, moved closer to her with his hands
outstretched...
"Isn't this uncomfortable?" he asked, unlocking her
seat belt.
Chelsea felt his hands briefly brush her arms, then
he moved back behind the steering wheel, and
stared off at the skyline with that faraway look in
the depth of his eyes, a muscle in his jaw clenched.
"This is a...pretty place, untamed, natural."
"Yes, it's a parking spot for teens at night." He
paused, rubbed his chin, said gruffly, "And it's
where I lost my wife, Lenore."
Stifling a gasp, Chelsea stared at him, her voice
barely audible, "I'm sorry..." Why had her brought
her here? she wondered, heart racing.
"Yes, it was tragic. An accident." He looked at her,
adding, "I brought you here because I knew you'd
heard the rumors of how I killed her."
Chelsea bit down hard on her bottom lip, willing
herself not to turn away from his penetrating gaze.
"I know what the gossips say, how I removed
Lenore's seat belt that night, causing her to lose her
life in the accident, but nothing could be further
from the truth." He reached for her hand, held it in
his while he said, "Chelsea I want you to know the
truth, and what I'm about to tell you is the truth."
She nodded, feeling the warmth of his hand on hers,
looking at the pain and sorrow in his eyes now. It
seemed genuine, and she said, "I'd like to hear what
happened."
He straightened, his gaze drifting to the fading
sunlight. "I have to admit that I didn't love Lenore.
Nor did she love me." He sighed, deep sorrow etched
in his face. "She wanted my money, and I wanted to
please my father. You see, he thought by my
marrying her, our family would have the social
standing we lacked. Dad worked damn hard to build
a solid reputation, and though he had my mother's
family inheritance, he was able to increase it
tenfold, so we have wealth; Lenore's family has
social status but no money."
"Surely that kind of marriage doesn't still exist,"
she heard herself say skeptically.
He shrugged, sighed. "Believe me, it does. And ours
was such a loveless marriage of convenience." He
paused, then said, "Ah, Lenore and I might have
made it work, but she refused to have children. I
wanted children, and we argued constantly about it.
She was a social person, loved entertaining, the
country club set, always had to be socially active."
Chelsea realized this was the same Lenore whom her
sister, Muriel, had described and felt he was being
truthful. She urged gently, "And?"
"And I'm not like that, not at all. My dad tried to
mold me into someone with social aspirations, but I
always resisted. I don't even live in Innisfree, have
my own modest house out back, and find all the
snobbish, pretentious airs to be a big bore. This
proved to be more than Lenore could endure; she
finally realized she couldn't change me, and wanted
a divorce. Believe me, I was ready and willing. We'd
already agreed on the terms, and everything was
being drawn up by lawyers."
He shook his head, continuing: "Lenore's drinking had
gotten so bad, I was trying to convince her to go
into a rehab...and she was fighting that idea. The
night of the accident, we'd been at the country club,
where she'd made an ugly scene, drunk and raving.
On the drive home, she became hysterical and I
drove up here to let her sober up some, hated for
my parents to see her in that shape. We lived at
Innisfree, had one wing for ourselves at that time."
Chelsea wanted to believe him, but asked, "Why did
Lenore drink?"
"God, I wish I knew! Why does anyone drink, use
drugs? I think at heart she felt miserable, as
unhappy in our marriage as I was, but maybe she
hated disappointing her parents."
"What happened up here?" she asked, watching his
jaw clench, a muscle working tensely.
"We were parked here, almost exactly in this spot,
arguing and Lenore was screaming that she was
getting out of the car...when a carload of drunken
teens in a hotrod came roaring up the road,
apparently didn't see our car in time to slow down,
and rear-ended us. Lenore had her seat belt off, the
car door open and was mostly outside, one foot still
inside, when our car went off the cliff. I remember
hearing the crash, feeling the car shoot forward,
trying to unbuckle my seat belt, yelling for Lenore,
her screams...and then the wild rush headlong off
the cliff, bumping and jostling as the car plunged
through vegetation, a sudden hard impact that
slammed me into the steering wheel, causing me to
lose consciousness."
"Oh how awful."
"Yes, later I learned that Lenore had gotten
mangled underneath the car as it crashed through
underbrush, dragging her down the hillside, killing
her. All that saved me was that the car, after
traveling halfway down, rammed into a tree and got
stuck. I was rescued within a couple of hours, once
the kids got help."
"Were you injured badly?"
"Some fractured ribs, a leg broken...but nothing that
wouldn't heal. God, if I'd only seen that car in time,
done something, anything to have saved Lenore! The
guilt, you cannot imagine how much guilt I still feel
because of that." He broke off, taking a deep,
ragged breath, brushing the unruly lock of hair off
his forehead.
Chelsea was overcome with compassion; his pain,
regret, endless suffering touched her deeply, and
she said gently, "Brant, there was nothing you could
have done. I know how you feel though, remorseful
and guilty, like you shouldn't be alive."
"Exactly! I've wished I was dead so often since
then!" He looked at her with gradual understanding
dawning in his eyes. "You feel like that because of
your parents' murder?"
She nodded mutely.
"Dad told me what Michael said happened to them.
Chelsea, I'm so sorry." He started toward her, then
stopped. "I wish there was something I could say or
do..."
"Nothing can bring them back, and I'm beginning to
finally realize that. I've been bitter, vengeful...a real
mess." She swallowed, feeling the tight knot of pain
in her throat, managing to say, "I miss them."
"It was a tragedy..."
"And so was Lenore 's death. Don't blame yourself,"
Chelsea said, fearing she had come to truly believe
what he'd told her, not knowing why except that she
wanted to.
Brant leaned toward her, put his hand on hers,
whispering, "Thank you for listening, for
understanding. You are a very special lady."
Then he started the car, and headed toward town,
where they enjoyed a leisurely dinner, talking
casually of various topics, learning more about one
another.
Chelsea didn't bring up any of the distressing
questions plaguing her, nothing about Adriana's
whereabouts, nothing about Michael's motives in
contacting her. She felt lost in Brant's commanding
presence, more and more convinced he was
misunderstood by the community and not the
dangerous man Michael and Muriel had warned her
about.
By the time they pulled up at ForestWillow, Chelsea
was relaxed, and felt less wary of Brant. When he
walked her to the door, she stood looking at him in
the silvery moonlight, remembering the passionate
encounter they'd shared in the garden that night.
His dark eyes smoldered with desire, but for once
he seemed unsure of himself as he said, "Chelsea, I
love your company. But I don't want to rush you..."
She smiled at him. "I like being with you too. Let's
just give ourselves some time."
He took her in his arms, and she felt his lips softly
brush hers, then he kissed her soundly, pulling away
with a low groan. He stepped back, cleared his
throat, said in a husky voice, "I won't deny I want
you, I'm...I feel very attracted to you. But I won't
do what I did that night in the garden." He sighed.
"Anyhow, I have to go away on business tomorrow,
be gone a few days. Chelsea, please be careful in
this old wreck of a house...and, look, if you need
anything, anything at all, just contact my parents.
They will help you, or get in touch with me, if you
need me."
Still reeling from the tantalizing kiss, the promise of
their smoldering passion, Chelsea said distractedly,
"Yes, I will. Don't worry though, I've been taking
care of myself quite well."
He threw back his head and gave a deep, lusty laugh,
declaring, "I like your spunk!"
She marveled at the change in him - he was almost a
different man from the brooding, quick-tempered
man she'd met a few days ago, and she found him
much more appealing; a man with humor, warmth and
perhaps soulful depths. "Good night Brant," she
murmured, unlocking the door. "Have a good trip,
and I'll see you when you get back."
"Yes, that's a promise."
She slipped inside, knowing she was falling hopelessly
in love with Brant Langston, dreading Michael's
reaction should he discover her feelings.
But he wasn't yet home, and standing in the hallway,
Chelsea began to feel affected by the gloomy,
oppressive atmosphere; she hated being alone in the
house late at night.
Rushing upstairs, she went into her room and did
something she rarely ever resorted to: She
plundered through her suitcases, found the valium
that her doctor had prescribed after the death of
her parents. Looking at the pill, she told herself this
was just to relieve her nerves, to get a good night's
sleep.
After gulping it down with a glass of water, Chelsea
crawled into bed and refused to allow a replay of
the peculiar experiences she'd had here to plague
her. Her last thought was of her mother's smiling
face the day they'd left on vacation and her words,
"Chelsea, we'll be back soon, wish you could come
along..."
* * * *
Upon awakening Monday morning, Chelsea couldn't
shake the drowsy effect of the valium. She looked
at the clock, saw it was almost noon, and jumped out
of bed, calling Michael.
Downstairs, she read his note with growing relief:
He'd had to rush off to work at the newspaper, had
seen she was out like a light, didn't want to disturb
her...
"Great," she said aloud, "another chance to explore
the house!"
After a shower, she got into a pair of faded cutoff
jeans and blouse, then had some toast, and strong
black coffee to revive her.
Quickly she walked to Michael's bedroom, found the
door unlocked, and peeked inside the room; it was
tidy, the bed made, the maple furniture clear of
dust, everything arranged in almost obsessively neat
order.
She stood there a moment, studying the room to get
a better sense of Michael's personality: It was a
masculine room, royal blue drapes at the windows,
pulled back to allow light inside; a worn carpet-rug
of the same color, matching bedspread and faded
wallpaper of checked design.
She noticed the closet door was open, could see his
shoes lined up on the floor, his clothing hung neatly.
A desk in the corner held the only disarray, a clutter
of books and papers surrounding the electronic
typewriter, obviously his work area.
It all looked typically male, right down to the gun
rack on one wall, antique rifles and shotguns
probably having been passed down through the
previous owners of ForestWillow, Chelsea thought.
She went quickly to the desk, began riffling through
the loose papers, seeing only Michael's notes for
articles. There was nothing like bank statements, or
any kind of official papers that might indicate where
Adriana was currently hospitalized, she discovered.
Chelsea checked the drawers, pulling them out,
seeing typical supplies, pencils, pens, correction
fluid...but the center drawer was locked.
Pulling a bobby pin from her loosely wound chignon,
Chelsea inserted it into the lock, fumbling with
nervousness, anxious to see what he kept locked in
the drawer. Just as the lock gave way, she thought
she heard a vehicle coming, but couldn't resist
pulling open the drawer, her eyes going to a thick
blue notebook.
She grabbed it, flung open the pages and ran her
eyes down Michael's neat, precise
handwriting...grasping bits and pieces of his
emotional outpouring, upsetting incidents with his
mother's wild mood swings. Then she fanned to near
the back, looked at a page in red ink, noticing the
handwriting was loose, almost a scrawl, hard to
make out; but she did decipher the words:
"All these years and she wouldn't tell me! Now I
know, now I know who my father is!"
The slamming of a car door jerked her into action,
and she rammed the notebook back in the drawer,
shoved it shut and flew out of the room, hurried
along the hallway, stepped outside to see Michael
rushing up the walkway, taking the steps two at a
time to suddenly stand beside her.
He exclaimed, "Hey cuz, long time, no see!"
"You're telling me!" Chelsea replied, forcing a
calmness she didn't feel after almost being
discovered snooping in his room.
"Sorry, I have been lousy as a host, huh?" He
grinned widely, holding his palms up, shrugging
elaborately. "But what can I say? I had a heavy
date last night, and didn't get in until the wee
hours..."
"Oh, I understand. You don't have to apologize, it's
not like I can't occupy myself."
They walked through the open door, and Michael
started down the hallway, but glanced at her
curiously and asked, "So, what you been up to? Did
you look around at the house, the grounds?"
"Yes, I walked around the grounds yesterday; it
gave me something to do. Today, I slept late, and
was about to explore the house but you got back
earlier than I expected." She gave him a big grin. "I
wanted to surprise you with a home-cooked meal for
dinner."
He said, "Wow, that'd be swell." He looked at her a
moment, glanced at the entry to the mansion. "I
took the key to the main door, you may have noticed.
I was afraid you might get ill in there all alone, faint
like you almost did before."
She headed into the kitchen, him following. "I did
see the key was missing, but I wasn't in the mood to
bother with it anyway. I'll get that meal started
now."
He pulled out a chair, straddled it backwards and
sighed. "Cuz, I'm beat. It was a tough morning, not
just the hassle of my work, which was frustrating
today...couldn't get in touch with a man I'm hoping
to interview, but now Muriel seems to be on the
war-path."
"Oh? What do you mean?" Chelsea took two veal
chops out of the fridge, got out a large heavy skillet,
added oil and browned the chops on both sides
lightly.
"She's always a pain, but today...well, I can see that
old green-eyed devil in her face! Could it be, cuz,
that she's jealous of you and Brant?"
"Why? Has she said something about him and me? I
mean, she drove out here yesterday and gave me
another warning..."
Michael sighed. "She said you and he went to dinner
last night, and that was enough to set her off.
Remember, she has her mind set on marrying Brant."
Chelsea wanted to scream with frustration. Did
news always travel so fast in small towns?
As she sliced tomatoes, carrots, then added it and
some sherry to the veal chops, putting a lid on the
skillet, Chelsea said, "More power to her, then. Far
be it from me to interfere in her plans."
Michael scraped the chair around, fidgeting. "I
myself think Brant is attracted to you, but knowing
him, it might just be a ploy to get at this property,
considering you plan to buy it now."
She bristled at that remark. WAS Brant using her?
Could he have fooled her into trusting him by
seeming to be so open, so warm, so honest?
Michael stood, stretched and asked, "Anything I can
do?"
"Not right now, let's just relax while this simmers
for awhile, make it tender."
They went across the hall, Michael turning up the air
conditioner and then joining her on the sofa. She
said, "Michael, I...uh, had an unusual experience
yesterday while you were gone."
"Really? Do tell!" He grinned boyishly.
"I discovered the family cemetery, and...the graves
of the Seatons. Did they all die the same day?"
"Yes, but it's no deep, dark secret. You see, the
Seatons were among those wealthy antebellum
Louisiana families who, during the spring and summer
months, sometimes went to a fashionable resort
located on Isle Derniere, staying at a place called
The Trade Wind Hotel. Isle Derniere was one of the
five islands which had been formed by the water
breaking through the former shore line, the last
island most westward, once a part of the fifty mile
coast line. It was an extravagant resort, a huge
luxurious hotel that catered to seasonal crowds and
gave lavish parties for the guests."
"Sounds wonderful."
"It was up until that fateful day, April 10, 1856,
when a furious storm struck in the afternoon,
totally destroying the resort, and more than one
hundred houses on the island, killing two hundred
people, among them the unlucky Seatons."
"How awful!" she exclaimed, yet felt relieved it was
a natural disaster, not some act of human
destructiveness.
"Well, after that tragedy one of Asa Seaton's
cousins, Zachary Seaton, came here, and used the
place as a summer vacation home. It escaped
damage in the Civil War largely due to the fact it
was never a working plantation, and was owned by
Yankees."
He got up, walked around the room, looked at her.
"Old Zachary was a peculiar character though, a
loner and never married. My mother said the legends
had him linked with several local young women who
mysteriously disappeared, never found."
Chelsea leaned forward, suddenly alert, asking
sharply, "Could that be why your mother felt
someone was buried in the basement?"
He winked broadly. "Who knows? But wouldn't that
make an excellent dramatic tale to entertain the
tourist if you get this place in shape to show?"
She couldn't return his banter, and her voice came
out skeptical, "I don't know...it might put them off."
"Nah, people love that kind of stuff, ghost stories."
Michael peered out into the afternoon sunlight,
asked, "What you cooking, it smells delicious!"
"Braised veal chops." She got up, then faced him and
asked bluntly, "Michael, where exactly is your
mother, what institution?"
"Why?"
"I took a little stroll through the woods yesterday,
accidentally overheard Brant and his father
discussing the fact that they didn't know where she
was..."
His face paled, and his eyes took on a cold, flat look.
"My mother is in Texas. I didn't want them to know,
because it's none of their business."
"I see. Well, I suppose they are just concerned..."
"No, they want to snoop into my life, like they
always have. It's time they learned I can handle my
own life, and their snooping is not appreciated."
Chelsea could feel the anger coming off him as
though he'd struck her; but beneath that she sensed
a hurt, confused person, defensive, too proud to let
others help him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset
you." The scowl on his face prevented her from
insisting on the name of the institution; she
concluded she'd have to find Adriana by covert
means.
"Look cuz, you have to remember that Brant is after
the property, and it's in his best interest to try and
convince my mother not to allow me to sell it to
you."
"Oh, I...that never occurred to me." And that was
true; but now that he'd brought it up she considered
that perhaps Brant was seeking Adriana so he could
lay claim to the property.
He suddenly smiled brightly, the swift mood change
once again amazing her. He took her arm and said,
"Let's eat, I'm starving and those chops are going to
be done soon."
Chelsea tried to dismiss the renewed worry that
Brant was being deceptively clever, using her only to
gain ForestWillow; that maybe he was trying to
locate Adriana in order to secure the rights to the
property before Chelsea purchased it.
But as they ate, and Chelsea watched Michael
closely, she wondered if he could have been so
damaged by his mother's abuse that he had killed
Adriana? If so, Brant's concern for her safety
could be genuine, not a ploy to oust them from the
house.
However, even though there had been some
uncomfortable, awkward moments with Michael, the
strange flatness of his eyes when he spoke of his
devotion to ForestWillow, that was surely a justified
response to the Langston's efforts to take away
what he felt was a family legacy. But who was his
father and why had he lied about not knowing? Her
foray into his journal left no doubt Michael knew his
father; she'd just have to get another look at it.
However, Chelsea decided, hearing Michael
compliment her on the veal chops, this engaging
young man seemed stronger for having been the
source of his mother's survival all these years, and
she was forced to admit that the Langston's might
be as diabolical as Michael thought.
And that meant the electrifying sexual attraction
she felt for Brant would have to be suppressed,
denied and never allowed to surface while in his
presence. Going upstairs later, she wondered if that
was possible...or if she would become a victim of her
passion?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tuesday morning Chelsea learned that Michael was
intent on sticking close to her, and insisted on an
afternoon sightseeing excursion. While dismayed not
to have time for further searching alone or to sneak
a peek at his journal, she spent the morning sitting
outdoors on the stone bench underneath the live oak
limbs, her lavender stationary on her lap, a pen
poised over the paper, trying to form the correct
written words to convey her experiences here to
those friends she'd promised to write back in
Claymore, Mississippi.
Deftly, she wrote of the fantasy wonderland
surrounding her, the ethereal beauty of moss-
draped cypress, the wilderness tangle of flowers,
shrubs overflowing with aromatic blossoms. She told
of the house, leaving out the sinister aspects, merely
describing architectural design, the decaying
structure. And when she'd finished, sealing the
envelopes and addressing the letters to her dearest
female friends, she wondered what they'd think?
Being here, absorbed with the mystery and intrigue
of the mansion and its occupants (past and present),
having met the enigmatic, virile Brant Langston, had
slowly taken her mind off the torment of her
parents' violent death, helped her realize the
bitterness and anguish needed to be resolved, not
directed at others. She'd tried to convey that to her
friends, hoping they'd be more receptive when she
returned.
And if she was honest with herself, Chelsea had to
admit that the negative emotions of anger and
revenge had propelled her on a quest for vengeance
- not a quest for truth, justice and to get a killer
off the streets. She was disgusted to realize she'd
fallen into the same trap other crime victims
sometimes did: allowing bitterness, anger and
vengeful feelings to rule her life.
Vowing to deal more honestly with her pain, Chelsea
left the seclusion of the live oak's mossy enclosure
and went to get her purse just as Michael came out
of his bedroom, keys in hand, saw the letters and
said, "I'm ready to go, we'll drop those off in town."
En route, he told her about an interview he hoped to
get with a man in Baton Rouge who'd recently
retired from the oil business owned by the
Langstons, slanting an article for those readers who
themselves either worked on offshore rigs, or
wanted those kinds of jobs.
With a sly wink, he also said if he could learn more
about the Langston' s vast enterprise, it would give
him an edge in dealing with Brant's obsession to own
ForestWillow property.
Michael drove on to nearby towns, keeping up a
running monologue about the countryside, telling of
Lutcher where a few hundred acres in the St.
James Parish was the only place in the world to
grow the rich, strong, dark Perique tobacco used in
blends of the world's finest smoking tobacco. It
was cultivated by only a few families, exported to
foreign markets mostly, which he explained while
driving along La. 642.
Chelsea stared at the endless tobacco fields, trying
to enjoy the excursion. When Michael stopped at a
small store to get them a coke, they talked with an
elderly man who told them it was considered a mark
of manhood to smoke or chew the tobacco straight,
and did so right there, cackling with delight as
Chelsea choked on the pungent smoke.
In Convent, Chelsea followed along with Michael
through St. Michael's Church, a massive Gothic
structure that vaguely reminded her of
ForestWillow. She walked through the dim, cool
interior, learning that it was built in 1831 in response
to a plea from the east bank St. James residents,
who for many years had to cross the Mississippi for
worship services.
She was awed by the elaborate hand-carved altar,
obtained at the Paris Exposition of 1867, and
studied it for a long time, enjoying the peaceful
atmosphere. Then they walked through the grotto,
intrigued at the way it depicted the apparition of
Mary at Lourdes, entirely constructed of bagasse, a
by-product of sugar cane.
At last, Michael headed back to ForestWillow,
Chelsea wondering if he'd ever give her another
moment alone to get at the blue journal in his desk,
or search the mansion.
After their meal, he went into his room, saying he
had to write some notes for the interview, telling
her he'd be leaving early tomorrow in order to drive
to Baton Rouge, which pleased Chelsea immensely.
Wednesday morning was overcast, and as Chelsea
got into comfortable denim shorts and shirt, she
hurried downstairs to find that Michael was gone.
But when she tried his door, it was locked! Her
attempts to pick the lock failed, and the windows
were locked securely from inside. Frustrated and
fuming, Chelsea reluctantly gave up on that project.
After a quick breakfast, she decided to explore the
mansion, and found the key in place on the wall. She
took it down, unlocked the cypress door and pushing
on it, heard the familiar squeal of rusted hinges,
then the noisy scrape of wood where the door
sagged against the floor.
She paused, tying one of Michael's white
handkerchiefs over her nose and mouth, hoping to
avoid the stench. Anxiously, she entered the dining
room, seeing that Michael had left the windows
open, and the fresh air had helped cleanse away
some of the moldy odor.
There was still very little light inside the rooms, and
she flicked on a large flashlight, crossing the vast
dining room into the Baronial hallway, glancing in at
the parlor where the spinet piano had so unnerved
her before, involuntarily shuddering. She walked
down the hallway, began checking every place where
there might an entry to the basement but found no
way down from inside the house.
She also went through every room on the ground
level and the second and third floors, fighting the
sickening odor of mildew, hoping to discover
Adriana's hiding place. It was wasted time though,
and she finally conceded no one was living on either
level.
Then Chelsea headed directly for the shaky spiral
stairway, testing it first by stopping at the second
step. It seemed sturdy, so she progressed up the
steep twisted stairs, winding round and round until
she arrived at the stairs leading to the attic, taking
off the handkerchief for a deep breath.
The stairs here looked perilously unstable, and had
rusted splotches, probably from the leak directly
above in the ceiling. She took a deep breath, put one
foot on the first step, leaned her weight into the
structure, felt it give slightly, then settle beneath
her feet.
Chelsea mounted the stairs, slowly and cautiously,
finally standing before an oval-shaped doorway to
the attic. She was on the narrow landing now, and
pushed on the door, felt it move, then shriek loudly
when she gave it a hard shove. The door swung open,
hinges squealing, stale air hitting her in the face as
she looked at the cluttered room underneath the
slanted rooftop beams.
As she moved into the area, it was stifling hot, the
space having been closed up so long...not moldy,
rather dusty and stifling. She hurried to a Gothic-
arched window that faced the front of the house,
but saw it was locked and secured forever by
decades of disuse. However, since there were no
shutters outside, she had better light coming
through the dusty windowpanes, and put her
flashlight down.
At first glance, the room had seemed small, but
upon closer inspection she realized it was larger
than expected, running the length of the house. She
was standing underneath one of the rooftop gables
in a tiny alcove, which harbored boxes of discarded
items from past residents.
She walked throughout the long wide attic, noticing
antique oil lamps and a plaster statuette of Venus
wasting away in one corner, checking for a door, any
kind of hidden room. But all she found was assorted
junk, 30s-style clothing in a small trunk, some boxes
of stored kitchenware, old newspapers, magazines
and various odds and ends of no use to her.
Then she discovered an older waist-high trunk, a
genuine steamer trunk of the 18th Century, and
hurriedly opened it to see the stack of ledgers
inside. Fascinated, she pulled out a stack and began
reading avidly, engrossed to the point of closing out
her surroundings.
As the morning passed, Chelsea began to grudgingly
accept that Michael had been correct: There were
no personal letters, no secret diaries, nothing in the
least way intimately connected to long-past families
who'd lived in ForestWillow. The ledgers were
boring on the one hand, yet interesting in that they
depicted the manner of a fortune made in
Pennsylvania coal mines during those early years
when it had proven the key to the Seaton's wealth.
Her eyes were beginning to glaze over when she
found the information related to the building of
ForestWillow. It was in a leather-bound ledger, one
labeled: FW BUILDING EXPENDITURES. In the
account listings were valuable facts about prices
spent on material, the chartered boat costs from
the north to bring it all south...and even a detailed
listing of how many slaves had been necessary to
build the house, their time for working and how long
it had taken to complete.
She closed it at last, stood up and rolled her stiff
neck around, working out the kinks of strain in her
back. And she decided to take the ledger with her,
so that Michael could read it.
Chelsea went to look out the window, saw the sky
had darkened and it was beginning to rain lightly. As
she watched, the rain became a hard, slanting
onslaught that streaked the windowpanes, gusts of
wind battering the rooftop, tossing the willow and
cypress limbs recklessly below, thunder booming and
lighting crackling.
It looked forbidding, and almost the moment that
thought occurred to her, she was stunned by utter
silence in the attic. Even though she could still see it
raining, the noise of the storm had ceased, not the
least sound of wind, rain or thunder. Her heart
seemed to climb up in her throat, and she felt like
she'd been submerged in quicksand, unable to move
from her position.
Then a sound came from the attic doorway behind
her; but she could not turn to look in that direction,
still paralyzed by fear. She heard the familiar
wailing start, slowly gaining in strength, a melancholy
sound that shattered the quiet, making Chelsea's
scalp prickle with terrified anticipation. Gritting her
teeth, she pivoted, stared at the door, now closed...
She'd left the door open, hadn't she?
Suddenly, Chelsea couldn't remember if she'd
closed the door, but was almost certain she'd left it
open. And there was no one in the attic with her; she
was all alone.
The sound seemed to penetrate the closed door, and
in spite of her fear, Chelsea listened attentively. It
was more of a crying whimper now, punctuated by
sniffles; and unlike the piteous weeping of the
woman she'd heard, Chelsea knew this was a child's
unmistakable high-pitched crying, hiccupping off and
on with exhaustion, gradually ending in a heart-
rending sob. When the voice came, she was not
prepared for it:
"Mommy, please don't...don't...hurt me...mommy,
mommy...it hurts."
Chelsea felt her throat ache with unshed tears,
hearing a small boy's begging plea for mercy. She
was rooted to the spot, still hearing the little boy
begging, then crying, then hiccupping...his small voice
finally, mercifully fading away.
As though released from a trance, she ran to the
door, violently pushing on it, shoving a shoulder
against the wood, straining against it with all her
might...a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach
as she realized the door was either stuck or locked
from the other side.
She ceased her frantic efforts, stood there
listening to the ragged sound of her own breathing,
nerves taut. And then came the Chopin waltz,
drifting into the room, the eerie tinkling of the music
box that caused Chelsea to mumble, "No, oh no,
please...no!" backing away from the door to stare at
it transfixed as the tinkling music played on and on.
Gasping, she saw a wispy white vapor swirling in
front of the door, rising toward the ceiling, hovering
like a vaporous cloud, mystical and mysterious.
Trembling, Chelsea told herself she was imagining it,
that her eyes were playing tricks on her...but she
could now see the shape of a voluptuous woman
assembling out of the whiteness, lowering to the
floor, more like the vague image on a developing
Polaroid film than a real-life person.
A woman's sultry, southern voice spoke: "Leave this
place, don't come back."
Chelsea heard herself ask in a trembling voice: "Who
are you, what do you want?"
The piteous weeping started, and Chelsea saw the
ghostly figure clutching its face, blood-red tears
falling to the floor...staining the wood as a puddle of
blood formed.
"Please," Chelsea begged, "tell me who you are, how
I can help you..."
But then the image began to glow, burn with a
searing brilliance that suffused the room, and
Chelsea had to shield her eyes against the glaring
brightness.
Instantly, there was immediate and complete
silence, and as Chelsea opened her eyes to an empty
attic, she smelled the cloying gardenia perfume. The
scent surrounded her, sickened her with its heavy
fragrance, causing her to pull the handkerchief
from her pocket, place it over her nose and mouth,
only to hear a woman's sparkling laughter, the
joyful laughing of a happy woman. But it suddenly
changed, the laughter becoming strident, almost
shrieking, the insane laughter of madness.
Shuddering, Chelsea closed her eyes, told herself
aloud, "This isn't happening, I'm scared, imagining it
all!"
And still the mad laughter got louder, and louder,
and louder, the pitch higher, the shrieking so shrill
that Chelsea fell to the floor, put her hands over
her ears, tears burning her eyes, tears falling down
her face...
Abruptly, the shrill sound ceased, leaving in its wake
utter quiet, but Chelsea still sat crumpled on the
floor, not daring to look around. Finally taking her
hands off her ears, hearing the rain pelting against
the windowpanes, she opened her eyes to see the
thunderstorm raging outside.
She got to her feet, looked around in a daze,
gradually shaking off the hypnotic hold the eerie
phenomena had over her, starting to sob and shake
as her nerves collapsed. Her first impulse was to
run, but innate curiosity made her look at where the
image had appeared, bend down to see if blood
stained the floor; it was dry, nothing there at all.
Shocked, Chelsea was suddenly frightened like she'd
never been in her life, thinking she had to be losing
her mind!
She grabbed the doorknob, and it twisted open with
the same protesting squeal. She stuck her head out
onto the narrow landing, seeing nothing, no one.
Forgetting the dangerous steps, she plunged down
them, heedless of her direction, feet flying, flashing
by the third, second floor, down, down to the
Baronial hallway, running as though the devil himself
were in hot pursuit, dashing through the doorway
into the living quarters, frantically pushing the
cypress door closed, her trembling fingers locking it
and then falling back against it, tears streaming
down her face.
"Cuz, what on earth is wrong?"
Michael came striding out of the kitchen, wiping his
hands on an apron he'd tied around his waist. "I
called you when I got in but..."
"Oh it was awful, awful! Michael, I...I have to leave
here, I have to! I'm losing my mind
or...someone...something doesn't want me in this
house!" Chelsea sobbed, putting her hands
protectively over her face to close out his surprised,
shocked look, incapable of maintaining her deceptive
act while gripped with sheer terror.
Michael pried her hands open, asking calmly,
"Chelsea, what happened?"
"Oh Michael," she sobbed, allowing him to guide her
into the living room, easing her onto the sofa, him
sitting beside her, and holding her hands. "I...the
attic." She couldn't begin to describe the ordeal
she'd just been through, not to him, probably not to
anyone.
"The interview didn't work out, and I'd only been
here a few minutes, thought maybe you were
exploring the house... I put on the apron, started
some lunch." He held her hands firmly, looking into
her eyes. "Whatever happened, you can tell me."
Chelsea felt she HAD to tell someone or go mad,
and it might as well be him. Maybe he could
understand, or at least give her an objective opinion.
She swallowed, removed her hands from his and
wiped away tears with the back of one hand, saying,
"I was in the attic, and I...found the ledgers."
"Yes, and something scared you?"
"Oh, the ledger! I must have dropped it while I was
on the floor."
"What scared you?" Michael was watching her
closely, his gray eyes curious and concerned.
"Well, I uh, heard...something. It wasn't just a
crying sound I heard in the attic. I also heard again
that music box playing Chopin..."
"I don't understand...crying, a music box?" He
leaned toward her anxiously, wiping a strand of
wavy hair off her forehead. "Have you heard these
sounds before?"
She was so distraught, her prior secretiveness
seemed unimportant, and she launched into a full
account of everything, telling him she'd not meant to
hold it back, but that she felt he may not have
wanted her snooping...
"Snooping! Who said you were snooping?" Michael
got up, walked across the room to stand motionless
near his mother's picture over the mantle. He said,
"I gave you permission to look around, and that
included every room - even mine. I have nothing to
hide."
Chelsea quickly said, "I did think of cleaning your
room the other day, but saw it was locked."
He ignored that comment. "You said you heard the
music box playing but none of those in the cabinet
seemed to be ajar?"
"No, and...the sound was coming from the hallway,
not inside the room where I stood."
She reached for a Kleenex box on the end table, got
a fresh one out, blew her nose. "I couldn't accept
what I heard, later trying to convince myself I'd
imagined it, or something."
"I see. And now, after what happened in the attic..."
"It was totally real in the attic, what I heard. I was
about to leave, saw the door was closed, and I'm
pretty sure I had left it open... Anyway, first I
heard a child crying, a little boy..."
"How do you know it was a boy?"
"Mingled in with the crying, he was begging his
mother not to hurt him, I could tell it was a little
boy's voice." Chelsea noticed that he'd turned his
back to her, was staring at the picture, and her
words seemed to have caused him to slump his
shoulders, rub the back of his neck anxiously.
"What else?" he asked in a soft voice, still with his
back to her.
"Um, when that stopped, the music box started
playing, then...I saw this...ghost, I guess. I mean, a
white vapor in the shape of a woman..."
"Did you recognize this woman?"
"No, um, there wasn't really facial features, more
like...I don't know, just a shape. She told me to
leave, and then...there was that awful crying, and
tears like blood...then a brilliant light, and she was
gone."
"Was that all?" he asked shortly.
"No, I heard a strange kind of laughter next, mad
and wild, that just got louder and louder until I
thought I'd be unable to endure that crazy sound."
He slowly turned to face her, and Chelsea was
stunned at how pale, how starkly white he had
become, his eyes blazing against the contrasted
ashen skin. "I'm sorry you had to go through that,
Chelsea."
"You believe me?" She was amazed he'd not
questioned her sanity!
"Yes, I believe you heard something...I'm just not
sure what."
"Michael, I confess that when I heard that weeping
woman, I tried to dismiss it. And the music box, I
figured was...well, after what happened that night
when I heard the weeping woman and found Brant
outside..."
He advanced to her, asked, "Wait a second, when
was this?"
"I'm sorry, it was the night you awakened to find
me in the hallway, when I said I had a bad
nightmare."
"Yes, go on..."
"I'd awakened from a nightmare, went to the
window, heard the crying and saw someone sitting on
the stone bench underneath the live oak. I ran out
there, because I wanted to know who was so upset
to cry like that. Impulsive, as always! I didn't take a
light, ran into the birdbath, and when I looked up,
Brant was standing there, he helped me up..."
"Ah ha!" Michael rubbed his hands together. "Caught
him in the act, huh?"
"I know what you're thinking, that he's behind these
strange occurrences. I was convinced too, and in
fact I could place him here either shortly before or
after each one happened. But now...he's gone away
on business."
"Yes, but don't you get it?" Michael began pacing in
front of her, running a hand through his hair. "He
could have this place wired, fixed up some kind of
equipment to make those sounds, project that
ghostly image."
"But...but, how would he have known I was up in the
attic today?" This didn't make sense to her, the
ghostly image of the woman couldn't have been
faked! Or could it, she wondered; after all, any
rational explanation was better than the
alternative...
"Maybe he had it rigged, some kind of electronic
device in the door, that would activate a time-
delayed tape recorder when the door opened. A
device set to go off, throwing the ghostly image of a
woman into the room. Haven't you ever heard of
holographs? It's a projection that looks like a ghost.
Perhaps he didn't care if it was you or me in there,
just as long as one of us got scared out of our
wits!" Michael sat down beside her, took her hands.
"He's an intelligent man, as well as diabolical."
It seemed too far-fetched to Chelsea, too
impossible to accomplish; yet, it gave her hope that
she wasn't losing her mind. And she saw Michael was
convinced Brant had to be the culprit.
Nevertheless, she asked in a weak voice: "What if, I
mean, just for the sake of argument...what if I was
experiencing supernatural phenomena?"
He studied her face, gripped her hands again. "Is
that what you think?"
"Not really. I've always been a skeptic...but, there
have been times when I felt...well, touched by
something I can't quite put into words. And I had
that peculiar nightmare, with a woman warning me
not to go into the basement."
He nodded. "It's entirely possible you are a bit
psychic, so maybe you did pick up on a past tragedy
in this house."
Chelsea asked, "Do you know of any tragedy in the
past here that would...you know, make spirits want to
haunt the house? I mean, the music box was in your
mother's room. But you said even she felt compelled
to play Chopin on the piano, that she acted
strangely...felt there was a body buried in the
basement."
"Yes, she did and it always struck me as peculiar.
Let's see, uh, about the people who have lived here...
After old Zackery died, he left the house to a
nephew, and that boy brought a wife here, they had
children. Maybe that is where the crying child comes
in, even the woman too."
"What were their names?" Chelsea wondered if he
was trying to divert suspicion from himself. Maybe
he was the one responsible for the peculiar incident?
Or was it that there was another explanation for
what she'd heard - other than doubting her own
sanity and condemning Brant or Michael. For certain,
even if Adriana was alive and hiding on the grounds,
she couldn't have accomplished such a distortion of
perception...unless...was it possible Adriana had been
sending telepathic communication to her? Needing
her help? Or had Adriana committed suicide?
Michael had said he feared his mother might harm
herself. But if so, why would he not reveal it?
Michael was talking: "....Seatons, I'm sure. How
about going to the county courthouse, do some
research in records?" He smiled suddenly, let her
hands go, stood. "We'll go right after lunch."
Chelsea bit her bottom lip, knowing she should stay
and look around here by herself, see if there were
indeed hidden devices, try to get at the
basement...but the shattering episode in the attic had
unnerved her so badly she said, "I don't want to
stay here alone, not after what just happened in the
attic."
* * * *
The afternoon turned typically sunny and steamy,
the usual pattern following morning thundershowers.
Chelsea found county courthouse fascinating, and
was impressed by the aged building, the high-
ceilinged corridors that wound through a maze of
rooms.
However, as they pored over the official records, all
they could determine was that Ashley and Patricia
Seaton had taken possession of the house in early
1900, lived there until they sold it to Michael's
grandparents in 1931. The couple did have six
children, two boys and four girls - three dying as
infants, and no trace of where the others had gone
as adults, who would now be either dead or elderly.
It was conceivable that one or both of the boys was
the weeping child; but why was he crying and why
was the woman similarly crying? Was the woman his
mother? Were they both victims of Ashley Seaton,
an abusive husband and father? Or did something
worse happen in the house, a murder even?
On the drive back, they debated several theories.
Chelsea speculated that Ashley had a cruel streak,
abused his wife, and that she in turn abused the
children, venting her misplaced anger onto them,
possibly accidentally killing those infants in a fit of
rage. Michael didn't dispute that possibility, and
there was no way to find out what had taken place,
short of undertaking a search for the elderly adults,
who in all probability wouldn't speak of that
childhood trauma.
Abuse, in those days (and even up until the last few
years) had been something families kept hidden - a
dark, secret silence, Chelsea knew. Even Michael
wouldn't openly discuss his mother's mistreatment
of him, and Chelsea didn't rule out the eerie episode
being related to his and Adriana's past.
Never having had any direct experience with abusive
situations, Chelsea had no firsthand knowledge of
how it affected individuals, but from all she'd
learned in psychology classes, and read in articles
lately, even seen on TV programs, it left lingering
emotional scars that at the very least required
counseling to overcome. In some cases, it was so
damaging that the abused children grew into
warped, dysfunctional adults, repeating a
destructive behavior pattern. Perhaps, she conceded,
ForestWillow harbored supernatural echoes of
those who'd suffered abuse in the house, and she'd
picked up on it?
When they got back to ForestWillow, Chelsea
nervously said, "Michael, I don't feel...safe here.
Maybe I should go into town, take a motel room."
There was now an undeniable "presence" that had
made itself known to her. That, or she was
hallucinating. Either way, Chelsea felt that staying in
the mansion was courting certain disaster; and
whereas before curiosity had kept her there, her
determination was fading fast.
He parked the Blazer, sat staring at her. "Look, if
this is only supernatural phenomenon, then you can't
be harmed. Frightened and upset, yes, but not
physically hurt. On the other hand, if it's Brant's
handiwork, we can do something about it. That is, if
you stay here and help me fight him."
Chelsea chewed on her lower lip, considering it. Was
Brant deviously planning these incidents to scare her
away? He had a strong motive, but she still couldn't
believe he could accomplish such a thing. Or was it
merely the anguished souls who'd been tormented
here trying to contact her, trying to make someone
understand they'd suffered in silence?
Either way, she knew it couldn't be taken lightly.
Ghosts, she feared, were a danger in that she had
no idea how to deal with the upsetting phenomenon.
And if Brant was determined to get rid of her, he
might just succeed. After all, she reasoned, he may
have already gotten away with murder once; and
he'd made quite an effort to gain her trust, ease
her suspicions by being charming and persuasive.
"Cuz, I really need you now, more than ever."
Michael reached over and took her hand. "The first
thing I want to do is for us to look around, see if
Brant's wired up the house, done anything to cause
this stuff."
"And if we find proof?"
"We'll confront him together. United we stand,
divided we fall...and that goes for the ghosts too."
He gave her a hug, asked, "Please? If not for me,
then for yourself. I know you don't want to leave
here, always wonder what you experienced."
True, she thought, nodding. "I guess you are right.
I'd hate to never know if the ghosts were a real
phenomenon, or if Brant..."
"I'll tell you something Chelsea, we need to get to
the bottom of this. Not let either thing intimidate us.
If it's Brant, then maybe he is...dangerous, and we
can't let him get away with..."
He didn't have to finish the sentence; Chelsea was
still nodding, agreeing now and coming to realize
that she had to face whatever truth awaited her in
ForestWillow. Squaring her shoulders, she stated,
"I've never been a coward. It takes guts to be a
reporter, to fight for the truth...no matter how
painful that truth is.
"That's a girl, you've got spunk and I knew it all
along!" Michael was smiling his encouragement. "With
you and me on the story, we'll be an ace team!"
As they got out, starting across the overgrown yard,
Chelsea hoped he was not being too optimistic - and
that she wasn't being duped by Michael himself.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Chelsea accompanied Michael in his search through
the mansion. It was the same as her recent search,
and they uncovered nothing in the least way
suspicious.
Michael then prepared a quick meal for them, trying
to soothe her nerves, telling her not to be upset,
they might still turn up evidence later.
Chelsea couldn't manage to eat the chef salad he'd
prepared, and simply sat staring morosely at him.
"Just because we didn't find anything though
doesn't rule out Brant's tampering. I mean, he'd be
careful to cover his tracks." Michael speared a
chunk of ham on his fork, ate it and continued: "It
was really dark in there, and the lantern didn't help
much. Tomorrow morning, we'll take another look
together."
"Are you off tomorrow?" Chelsea nibbled at a
cracker, sipped her ice tea.
"Yes. I've been thinking that our tour of the historic
mansions, and that sightseeing trip north wasn't
much of a vacation for you. How about we make
another jaunt tomorrow?"
"Where?" Chelsea replied, her mood lifting at the
idea of a day away from the brooding hulk of
ForestWillow.
"I'd like to take you into the bayou country, rent a
boat and show you how the lower Louisiana Cajuns
live."
"Okay, I guess it might help me to get out of here."
After the meal, Michael insisted on cleaning up the
kitchen, and Chelsea went to her room, got her dirty
clothing together and gave it to him; he'd said he'd
do the laundry, while looking around for anything
Brant might have planted in the basement.
She couldn't convince him to let her help, once again
being prevented from going down into the dank
basement where the washer and dryer were
installed. However, she did sneak outside, get a look
inside the basement while he had the light on; it
looked dismal, just a slab of cement for the
washer/dryer, the rest a dirt floor. She could see a
walled up section that apparently linked the rear
wing to the main house, and thought it strange.
Later, she showered and sat brushing out her dark
wavy hair in front of the dresser mirror, seeing the
wan paleness in her usually vibrantly healthy face.
Partly, it was from the past two months of grieving
for her parents, and partly it was the stress of
being in this predicament.
She'd always prided herself on being independent
and persistently aggressive when the situation
demanded it; but the current circumstances left her
feeling somehow incapable of dealing with either
unknown forces or the diabolical Brant Langston.
Worst of all, she knew she might be falling in love
with him...unable to resist his magnetic sexual
attraction.
Pulling the gauzy fabric closed around the bed, she
fell back onto the pillow, remembering how Brant's
strong arms had lifted her off the ground that
night, the tenderness in his touch, the sensual feel
of his lips upon her face, her neck, her mouth...and
then the excruciating groan when he wrenched away
from her, not taking advantage of her weakness, her
desire for him.
Brant had behaved honorably on their dinner date, in
spite of the passion he seemed unable to deny, she
realized; he'd seemed so sincere about his guilt and
pain over Lenore's death. Surely, no man could act
that well?
And what of Michael, she wondered; he was almost
as confusing. Although of late, Chelsea felt more
trusting of him, she still didn't rule out the
possibility he was the one rigging up these strange
events. Only, what was his motive? She'd already
agreed to buy the house, and besides, when would he
have been able to get rid of the evidence?
If Brant was not doing it, then she had to doubt her
sanity again. The twisted thoughts went round and
round, until at last she fell asleep, only to dream
again of the wild, mad laughter pursuing her through
the mansion, her feet stumbling awkwardly as she
fled outside to find herself at the top of the
basement steps, the echoing laughter down there in
the dank depths of darkness, hard male hands on
her shoulders, pushing...
She awoke in a frenzied state, sprang up and felt
the sweat soaking her silky nightgown. The house
was quiet, only the low hum of the overhead fan
disturbing the utter stillness. She slid out of bed,
groped her way across the room to the wardrobe,
took out a cotton gown, changed and crept back to
bed. Her eyes focused on the satiny moonlight
spilling through the open windows, pools of bluish
light on the wood floor, the willowy limbs of trees
outside moving in a slight wind...her exhausted body
slowly, slowly subduing her alert mind as she gave
into the oblivion of sleep.
* * * *
Thursday morning, by the time Chelsea was dressed
in her jeans and t-shirt (which Michael said was the
only appropriate clothing for a day in the bayou), it
was nearing nine.
Michael had awakened her at seven, and they'd both
prowled through the mansion on another search, but
found nothing. Then they ate a quick breakfast, and
while he showered and dressed, she'd wondered if
she was going crazy, hearing sounds no one else
could? For she'd questioned Michael, and he said
he'd not heard anything when he'd come into the
house while the shrieking and crying occurred - and
although it had been storming loudly outdoors,
surely that acrimonious clamor would have carried
into this wing? Was he lying? she wondered again.
As the Blazer went south past New Orleans, Chelsea
watched the swamps and marshes spreading out
before them, the long stretches of elevated
interstate revealing wind-swept grass mingling
through winding, narrow waterways. Housing
consisted of cabins on stilts in the murky waters,
she noted, her gaze taking in fields of sugarcane,
and a glimpse of tremendous cane processing plants
in the distance.
When they left the interstate behind, she was not
surprised by the wilderness scenery, having now
become accustomed to the magnificent cypress
swamps, the misty beauty that was eerie and
enchanting.
Michael chatted about the Cajuns, the rugged
Acadian people who'd settled the bayous in the
south; he mentioned their spicy food, their sadly
haunting folk music, their colorful folk tales and
family traditions that never seemed to change with
modern times.
When they turned off the two-lane blacktop onto a
clamshell road, Chelsea began to relax, becoming
intrigued with the path that wound alongside a
bayou, finally ending at a tin-roof shack situated on
the bank of a levee.
"This is where we rent a canoe, and paddle out along
the bayou to do some sightseeing," Michael said,
smiling with anticipation. "It's early enough so that
we can drift along slowly, enjoy ourselves and then
come in before dusk, the time the mosquitoes get
worst."
He got out, came around and opened her door; they
walked up to the shack, which turned out to be a
store. Michael was heartily welcomed by the short,
muscular man who spoke with the French Cajun
cadence, little of it understood by Chelsea, but
easily mastered by Michael.
When they were off in the canoe, she was awed by
the quality of timelessness all around her. It was as
though these Cajuns who'd chosen to stay in this
region were untouched by modern life, still setting
traps and trot lines. The intricate stream of the
bayou twisted and surged, slowed and meandered
through cypress trees, the mossy limbs entwining
with willows overhead, big stumps blocking their
progress, causing Michael to maneuver skillfully
around them.
She saw the large hump of a turtle's back, the
creature swimming through the blackish water; and
an alligator was lazily sunning itself on a muddy
bank.
They traveled slowly downstream, and as the
afternoon wore on, pulled up at a small cafe on
pilings. They had a meal of something Michael
refused to reveal until after she'd tasted it, and
found the food unusual. He told her it was alligator
stew, and she tried not to let her queasiness show,
instead getting down enough to satisfy her hunger.
Back in the canoe, the burning sun-embers of late
afternoon turned the surface water a dark reddish
color. It was an eerie, desolate region, and yet
presented a breathtaking vista with the bloody light
slanting through the dead cypress trees, naked limbs
etched against the brilliant amber skyline.
When Michael chose a secluded spot, tied up the
canoe and told her to use the repellent, Chelsea
relaxed, putting on her jacket and liberally applying
insect repellent to her face and exposed skin.
They quietly sat there, the water a dark liquid
bloodiness around them...the lull of mild ripples
against the canoe rocking them.
At length, Michael questioned, "Having a good time?"
"Yes, I think it was a good idea. I have felt removed
from the turmoil and confusion back at
ForestWillow."
"Great. I knew this would calm you, show you that
Louisiana has some natural wonders, a place worth
calling home."
"I don't know if I could leave Mississippi. We have
our natural wonders too, some not unlike this."
"Yes, but...cuz, you could learn to love this state, and
I know that once ForestWillow is restored, you'd
enjoy being the owner. Heck, I migh
rent a room there, stay on and...be a tour guide."
Chelsea watched him closely, seeing how enthusiastic
he looked, face expectant and hopeful.
"I'll be so glad when we come to an agreement, on
price and stuff." Michael concluded, now gazing at
her with a warm glow in his eyes.
Chelsea could see how happy he was; it showed in his
clear gray eyes. She said, "Michael, I have my
position at the Claymore Clarion, and it's important
to me."
"Oh sure, I understand. If you don't wish to live
here, maybe...you know, hey, I could stay on at the
house, oversee the renovation, and you could just
visit when you wanted to get away from the
pressures of your job."
And that, she decided, must have been his intentions
all along: to have the house restored with her
investment while he remained the sole occupant. Was
there any possibility he was trying to scare her away
so that he could live in the mansion, oversee the
renovation with her investment? But she didn't really
plan on investing in the house, and wondered how she
could continue in this charade?
Michael was staring at the water, a dreamy,
contented look on his face and she decided it was
the perfect time to strike. "You know, I sure miss
my dad. I'd like to meet your mother, why don't you
tell me where she is, and I can go see her or we can
go together."
His face clouded darkly, and he said quickly, "She's
not allowed visitors, not even me just yet."
Chelsea was at a dead end on that, could see it in
the grim set of his mouth, so she began talking about
her father, telling how great they got along...
"Yeah, it must be nice to have a father," he
interrupted.
"You have no idea who you father was, you said..."
Chelsea commented, hoping he'd confide about what
she'd glimpsed in his journal.
"Nah, not really. Like I told you, my mother taunted
me with hints, but never told me who he was." He
slumped forward, shoulders hunched. "Your father
sounds great; he really was interested in restoring
ForestWillow too."
"Um Michael...look, I have to be honest, I still don't
know if I can buy the house." Suddenly she felt
incapable of deception any longer.
"But a minute ago you were agreeable." He
stiffened, his face taking on the lifeless look, eyes
going flat. "Guess we better get back."
Rapidly, he paddled along the darkish waters, and
Chelsea noted the grim line of his mouth, the
extremely quick change in his mood.
When the canoe was nearing the bank, Michael
paddled faster, and she had trouble steadying
herself, looking behind her to grasp onto something...
Suddenly the canoe swung savagely sideways,
throwing Chelsea off-balance, her head hitting the
wooden rail, a hard thud that gave her a moment of
panic as she struggled to right herself, straighten
up...
Another thudding sound, and this time Chelsea felt
the canoe flipping over, her futile struggles ending
as she fell into the black water, a cool rush of wet
sensation as she went under, then surfaced, gasping
and yelling, "Michael, Michael, where are you?"
Treading water, an eerie stillness settled over her;
the canoe was upside down, and Michael was
nowhere in sight. She screamed again, and her
screams echoed hollow through the desolate
emptiness...
Just then she caught sight of an alligator easing off
the far bank, sinking into the waters, its back
coming up as the creature began a swift surge in her
direction. Panicked, she fought the urge to scream
and started swimming through the murky water
toward the nearest embankment...
Chelsea felt something gliding by her, couldn't
prevent the scream that rose up her throat as she
kicked and fought furiously against the touch of
something on her skin.
"It's me, Michael!" She heard, and then felt the
thrust of his arms and legs in the water beside her,
splashing noises as he yelled, "Swim as fast as you
can!"
It seemed forever until they reached the muddy
bank, and as she staggered out of the water gasping
for air and sputtering, Michael right beside her, she
looked across the water to see the alligator already
at the canoe, still relentlessly coming toward them...
Michael grabbed her hand, pulling her along with him
as he headed up the darkened path, their clothes
dripping wet. Once inside the Blazer, he explained
that he'd tried to paddle too fast, had not noticed
her leaning sideways, and that was what caused the
canoe to capsize.
Chelsea felt too exhausted to argue; all she could do
was nod, remembering that hungry alligator coming
at them...
Only when she was back at ForestWillow, did
Chelsea's fear subside enough for her to realize
that her tilting sideways wasn't what had caused the
canoe to capsize; there had been some kind of hard
thud, which had caused her to fall over...
But then she figured that Michael must have hit a
stump, and was too ashamed about his error to
admit the real cause of their accident. Even so, he
had been angry with her just prior to that incident.
At this point, Chelsea found the valium and took one,
crawled into bed and told herself sternly she had to
quit thinking about it, stop inventing motives where
none existed. And after all, Michael had another
opportunity to prevent her reaching the bank, and he
hadn't harmed her.
Drowsiness made her thoughts fuzzy, but as she
drifted off to sleep, her last coherent thought was
that she hadn't been harmed, just frightened half
to death...a state she found herself in almost all the
time now.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Friday morning, Michael wanted Chelsea to join him
at the Camile Gazette, show her around, and while
he worked, he said she could re-experience the
pressure-cooker atmosphere of a newsroom the day
the paper went to press.
She told him it would be like old times to her, and
came downstairs to hear him give a wolf whistle,
saying, "You look beautiful in that outfit."
Smoothing the yellow button-front dress, she
replied, "It's nothing extra."
Michael said, "Yeah, but you could have worn jeans.
We're informal at the office."
Getting into the Blazer, she touched a stray wisp of
hair from her chignon, fingering the few wavy curls
falling delicately onto her neck. "That was a scary
situation last night."
"Yeah, it sure was," Michael agreed, keeping his eyes
on the road. "I called the rental place this morning,
told them where to find the canoe."
"That alligator looked mighty hungry..."
He rapped the steering wheel. "You know it! Gosh,
I'm glad we 're both good swimmers."
Chelsea left it at that for now, trying to convince
herself it had been an accident.
He did ask if she meant what she'd said about not
investing in ForestWillow. Noting his tenseness, she
said no and he relaxed.
Soon they were driving into Camile, and she saw the
streets busy with people: Wives doing their daily
errands in SUVs loaded with children; pedestrians
engaged in conversations on street corners, enjoying
the sunny morning, some no doubt trying to get
chores done before the midday heat and humidity
killed their energy.
Chelsea noticed Camellia Boulevard was less
crowded, then they turned onto Dogwood Avenue
and pulled into the parking lot of the Camile
Gazette, parking beside Muriel's sleek Corvette.
"Okay, here we are," Michael said, glancing at her.
"Just don't expect it to be like the Clarion."
He ushered her across the asphalt lot, into the
ground floor which housed an office supply store,
owned and operated by the Langstons, Michael said
in a low voice. He paused to introduce Chelsea to a
young blonde girl behind the counter, and she
noticed the blush creeping over the girl's face.
When they headed for the stairs that led to the
second-floor newsroom, she teased, "One of your
admirers, I assume cuz?"
He smiled boyishly. "Aw shucks, you're onto my
game!"
At the top of the stairs, they stood looking down the
short corridor, Chelsea peering through glass
windows to rooms where several young reporters
were busy at computer terminals.
Michael promptly took her arm, entered the first
room where she saw Muriel leaning back in a chair,
her brown eyes widening as she called, "Hi Chelsea,
good to see you!"
Michael let go her arm, slapped his flat hand on
Muriel's desk, causing the woman to flinch and glare
at him as he said loudly, "Get to work, your column is
due now!"
Muriel snapped upright, her spine rigid and her face
going red. "It's almost finished!"
"Hey, I was just kidding, take it easy." He extended
his arm in Chelsea's direction. "Cuz here wanted to
see how this little 'ol weekly operates. She's used to
the hectic pace of a daily, so this will be interesting
to her."
Muriel's voice was pained, "I'd like to show you
around, but I have to finish this column first."
"Hey, she's my guest, I'll do the honors."
He propelled Chelsea away from the desk, out into
the corridor and into the next office, where a young
girl pivoted to stare at her; she was a reporter,
doing an intern stint before graduation from college,
Michael said. They made polite conversation, then
Michael walked her down the hall toward a closed
office door, opaque glass obscuring the interior.
"This is Hugh Langston's office. I think he's in
today."
He knocked gently on the door, pushed it open when
a deep voice said, "Come in."
Chelsea followed him inside, her eyes widening at the
plush decor consisting of carpet, brown leather sofa
and armchairs, wood paneling and gilt-framed family
photos covering one wall. A picture of Brant and
Lenore captured her attention: They were standing
on the gallery of Innisfree, brilliant sunshine
highlighting Lenore's gold-spun hair, her patrician
features and willowy-thin body the very image of
elegance. Beside her, Brant was a dark, brooding
figure, his face somber and unsmiling.
Shaking off her momentary awe at seeing how
beautiful Brant's first wife had been, Chelsea
turned to the gleaming mahogany desk behind which
sat the man she recognized from that surreptitious
overheard conversation in the forest. Hugh Langston
stood, a tall, imposing man who extended his hand,
his smile directed at her, gray eyes warm and
interested.
"Mr. Langston, this is my cousin, Chelsea Seymour..."
Michael began, but stopped as Hugh boomed, "Yes,
Brant has told me about you. It's a pleasure to meet
you, young lady."
They shook hands, his grip firm and reassuring as he
said, "I must compliment you on your awards won at
the Claymore Clarion. I confess I checked it out,
and was impressed."
Surprised, Chelsea said, "Thank you, I enjoy my
work."
"That's always good to hear. I think your cousin,
Michael here, has a bit of your talent."
Michael went to the door and when he opened it,
Brant stood there, poised to enter.
Brant strode into the office, his virile energy filling
the room with a vibrant, exciting air of expectation.
Michael exited, saying curtly, "I have work to do,
see you later Chelsea."
She was suddenly on-guard as Brant stared at her
with almost undisguised longing and need, his dark
eyes like smoldering coals, that arrogant, mocking
smile curving his lips, the white shirt and cream-
colored trousers defining his darkly handsome Cuban
looks. "Ah, we meet again, my dear."
"Yes, Michael was kind enough to bring me in today,
wanted me to see the weekly..."
Hugh interjected, "And you are most welcome to
look around, ask anything you wish."
"Thank you." Chelsea edged past Hugh, moving
closer to the door, avoiding Brant. "I'll go now."
Brant stepped in front of her, gazing down at her
intently, and she felt the familiar heat of sexual
attraction sear her body like a flame that could be
ignited merely by his physical nearness, brought to
life by his burning black eyes riveted upon her.
She fought against the wild sensation sweeping
through her body, but was unable to pull her eyes
away from him, aware of the way his rolled-up shirt
sleeves revealed dark swirls of hair on his arms, the
strong hands that had caressed her...
"Allow me to show you around," he said, never taking
his eyes off her, moving smoothly to her side,
gripping her arm firmly, guiding her out the door and
down the corridor.
Muriel came running out of her office, confronting
them: "Brantly, since you returned early Wednesday
morning, you've not bothered to let me know if you
can go with me to the dinner club tomorrow night."
He turned on his heel, hand still gripping Chelsea's
arm, paralyzing her with his total possession in that
simple grasp. "I don't plan to go. Now if you'll
excuse us, I want to show Chelsea around. First
here at the newspaper, and then if she agrees, I'd
like to take her out to Innisfree."
Chelsea barely noticed Muriel's retreat, hearing only
that Brant had been home Wednesday morning, the
same morning she'd experienced the strange
occurrences in the attic...
Brant steered her through the hallway, down the
steps and into the first floor composition room
where he casually told of their layout staff, praising
first this one, then that one. He took her into the
noisy adjoining press room, introduced her to the
older printing press operator, who'd been with the
newspaper when the Langston's bought it.
All of this registered with Chelsea, but could not
block out the doubts assailing her: Had Brant been
able to cause the terrifying experience in the attic?
Then remove the evidence before she and Michael
had searched the house later?
"I said, would you be willing to allow me to drive you
out to Innisfree?" He stood motionless, his suit
jacket draped over one shoulder.
She blinked, shook her head. "No, I really must be
getting back to ForestWillow."
"It wouldn't take much of your time, and then I
could drop you off over there." He led her outside,
through the rear exit door and stopped near his
Mercedes.
The last thing she wanted right now was to be alone
with him, but there didn't seem to be a valid excuse.
"Okay, but I can't stay long."
Brant opened the car door for her. "I'd very much
like you to have lunch at the house. My mother has
been looking forward to meeting you.
During the drive, both were silent, Chelsea reflecting
on whether Brant could have electronically
manipulated the strange phenomena in the attic?
Glancing at him, she saw his face was set rigidly, as
though he was trying to suppress something. He
drove carefully, however, never taking his eyes from
the road.
When he pulled up to the ornate gates of Innisfree,
he said softly, "Ah, here we are...home." He got out,
punched in a code at the gates, came back and then
swung the Mercedes through the gateway.
She heard the whining whir as the gates closed
behind them, locking shut, thinking he seemed adept
with the electronic system and said casually, "I
suppose you have to have an electronic security
system."
"Yes, there are too many valuables at Innisfree not
to have some kind of security system. I installed it
myself."
Chelsea flinched, her nerves taut and fresh doubts
running through her mind as the car purred down
the paved lane of cypress and oaks, daylight
shuttered out by the intertwined limbs overhead, the
mystical magic of Innisfree rising as though from
some distant yesterday at the end of the lane.
Brant recited in a low, dramatic voice:
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
Chelsea said, "William Butler Yeats, The Lake Isle of
Innisfree, for which the house is named?"
"Yes, my father named it when he first saw the
ruined estate, said that he'd always wanted a place
he could go to escape worldly concerns." Brant
sighed. "Unfortunately, it seems to me that he was
more interested in making it a showplace than a
peaceful isle of restful retreat."
Chelsea heard a note of dismay in his voice, but
before she could question it, they swept out of the
dark tree-lined avenue and into a galaxy of brilliant
daylight illuminating the magnificently restored
mansion of Innisfree, the lemon-yellow walls
shimmering in golden light. A wide cemented drive
circled around to the entrance beyond the
manicured front lawn, neatly trimmed shrubs lining
the driveway.
Brant pulled up to stone steps leading to the wide
gallery where she could see a massive doorway with
fan-windows. "Mother will enjoy meeting you, she's
been looking forward to it."
"Michael told me your mother was originally from
Cuba."
"That's right, she came here to escape Castro." He
looked at Chelsea a long moment, his lips lifting in
that familiar sardonic gesture. "I don't suppose you
have any comments about my being a half-breed, do
you?"
Surprised, she said, "Brant, I have never felt biased
about any race."
"Yes, I can believe you have an open mind, but I
can't say the same for some of Camile's bigoted
citizens."
Though he'd probably tried to conceal his hurt,
Chelsea had heard it in that brief caustic statement
and wondered just how much he'd had to struggle
against narrow-minded attitudes in some of the
more prejudicial people of Camile.
He got out and came around to open her door and
when she emerged, took her arm, gesturing to the
mansion, saying, "The house was built in the early
1800s, using the oldest method of wall construction
in colonial times, clay packed between cypress studs
- the clay mixed with oyster shells and moss as a
binder. The lower walls are entirely of plastered
brick, upper colonettes of carved cypress."
Chelsea stood transfixed by the expert restoration
before her: The house was two-stories, with great
brick columns surrounding the main body of the
house, modified Tucson rather than Doric, soft
white in color against the lemon walls, the second
floor of wings the same, but with pale green
shutters and blinds for contrast. Wide encircling
galleries spread from the walls to the columns,
below a hipped and dormered roof.
As they went across the gallery, Brant said, "The
floor plan is simple, a 70 foot long hallway running
through the first floor flanked by four enormous
rooms." He pushed open the door, yelled, "Mother,
we're here!"
Chelsea saw the mahogany staircase rising to a
second floor, and Brant told her the floor-plan
there was the same, but that his father had ordered
an east wing built specifically for the family
quarters, so that the main body of the house could
be maintained to perfection.
Remembering the historic tour of homes she and
Michael had undertaken, Chelsea realized Innisfree
could be opened to the public just as it now
appeared. She looked around with admiration as
Brant pointed out marble mantels framing the
enormous fireplaces, rich creamy walls accented by
Irish and Belgian lace curtains on the long narrow
windows. The dining room had furniture of hand-
carved English oak; the parlor had rose-wood Louis
XV covered with Aubusson tapestry; the paneled
cypress doors had doorknobs and hinges of silver.
A Mexican woman came hurrying from the rear of
the house, said in heavily accented English, "Mr.
Brant, your mother, she ez not well, ez in the
bedroom...said she ez sorry..."
"Another one of her migraines?" Brant asked,
rescuing the woman from her faltering attempt to
apologize for his mother's absence.
The woman nodded vigorously. "She wants you, she
ez asking for you."
Brant turned to Chelsea, a grimace on his face. "I'm
sorry, but sometimes mother has these terrible
migraines."
"I understand. I really can't stay long anyway."
Brant took her arm, led her into the parlor, insisted
she sit on the sofa and wait for his return. Chelsea
obliged, intent on asking him a few pointed questions
about what he'd been doing Wednesday morning...
It seemed he was gone only moments, and when he
strode back into the parlor, his face was more
relaxed. "Mother is better. She just has to stay in a
dark room, rest until the headache passes."
"I've heard migraines can be very painful."
"If she wouldn't let dad's round of social
obligations impose on her privacy, she'd be less
susceptible to these headaches." He paced in front
of her, continuing: "Mother has never been much for
the social life, perhaps where I get my own
particular love of occasional solitude. But dad...he is
still trying to be accepted in this town. I wonder if
he'll ever learn that he has already overcome his
childhood poverty, whether the blue-bloods grant
him acceptance or not."
Chelsea didn't comment, merely looked at him
expectantly.
"You see, dad seems unable to realize he's not that
poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks, an
outcast, unwanted even by his own parents. He was
brought up in foster homes when his parents
abandoned him, and should be proud of all he's
achieved by himself. But no, he apparently needs the
town's approval, acceptance and appreciation to feel
worthy."
She moved over slightly as Brant slouched down
beside her on the sofa, stretching his long legs out
on the Oriental rug, arms folded behind his head. "I
know Michael thinks I'm the one who wants his
property, but truthfully, I have no interest in it,
except as a means of helping Michael get a fair
price for it. No, it's dad who wants the land, more
property to impress people, always needing that
social standing. Just like him buying the Gazette; it
was about to fold, and the town would have been
without a newspaper."
The words penetrated Chelsea's consciousness like a
sharp knife carving out an ugly scar: Could Brant's
father be the one responsible for the scary
incidents at ForestWillow?
Brant was staring at her, his dark eyes intense. "You
are very quiet, I hope what I've said hasn't upset
you?"
"Um, no..." She decided to take a gamble and said, "I
have to tell you something...rather odd. It may even
sound like I'm a bit crazy..."
He moved closer, his voice low and intimate,
"Whatever it is, you can confide in me."
She inched away slightly, began choosing her words
carefully, telling him about the strange crying she'd
heard, the nightmares and the frightening noises in
the attic, her confusion, the fear, the worry and
doubts; she even told him about the dangerous
episode in the canoe yesterday...
As she'd talked, Brant had stiffened, his face
showing displeasure, a muscle working in his jaw.
When he spoke, his words seemed to be measured:
"Chelsea, has it occurred to you that Michael could
be responsible for these peculiar incidents?"
"I've considered that, but what would his motive
be?" She felt his hand on her arm, his touch
somehow comforting instead of threatening.
"Dad and I have always worried about Michael, his
relationship with his mother was...well, with her
mental illness, it was a bad environment for a child."
"I'm aware of that, but he seems to have survived
it, perhaps having become stronger." She hadn't
counted on seeing the compassion now in Brant's
dark eyes, and it disarmed her.
He said, "I wish we'd done more to get him out of
that house, but Adriana threatened to sue dad, and
that was enough to make him quit interfering."
"And you?" she asked, feeling his fingers lightly
move down along her arm, caress her hand.
"I didn't give up, but every time I tried to get help,
I met a dead end. Bureaucratic red tape, ignorance,
lack of interest or cooperation, always something..."
He sighed deeply, ran a hand through his hair, over
his chin.
"But if it wasn't Michael..." Chelsea still had doubts
about Brant, but her resolve to resist him was
wavering.
He shook his head, the unruly lock of hair falling
onto his forehead. "One thing is certain, you are not
unbalanced."
His words reassured Chelsea more than she wanted
to admit, but before she could respond, he asked,
"How about having lunch at my place, the cottage
out back?"
She started to say no but thought if nothing else, it
would give her a chance to learn more about him, so
she agreed.
Brant smiled, and it was a warm, sincere smile; he
led her down the hallway, out the back doorway and
through the well-groomed garden, telling her about
the landscaping plans.
Soon they stood at the cottage, and Brant said, "My
home, be it ever so humble."
But looking at the proud gleam in his eyes, Chelsea
realized he adored the quaint cottage; it was
charming in an old-fashioned manner, simple and
rustic.
He unlocked the door, and she stepped inside to see
an entirely open interior with exposed wooden
beams, richly paneled walls and wood floors with
braided rugs, knotted pine furniture, a fieldstone
fireplace. The wall of windows gave a spectacular
view of the pond, and she walked over to gaze out
at the hazy sunlight slanting down through the trees
to cast shadowy reflections on the still surface of
the deep water.
Caught up in the dreamy beauty of nature, she
didn't hear Brant moving across the room, stopping
close beside her to gaze at her. He said, "Lovely
view."
"Hmm, it's idyllic, almost dreamy."
He moved in front of her, staring down at her, his
dark eyes smoldering as he said huskily, "I was
referring to you."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
There was a breathless moment of silence between
them, both unable to look away and then suddenly
Brant was kissing her, his mouth urgent on hers, as
she felt his hands drift over her breasts, linger
lazily at her waist, pulling away with a ragged groan,
his voice hoarse, "I swore this wouldn't happen, but
God, you are so beautiful, so tempting..."
Words failed her and she could only stare at him,
knowing his powerful sexuality had rendered her
defenseless, that she was lost to his overwhelming
attraction. She wished she could move away, run,
run, run...but was so weak that she leaned against
him, murmured, "Oh Brant..."
His voice was still hoarse, "I need you, God, I need
you so badly."
Chelsea felt him tremble, felt his arms go around
her, looked up to see his dangerous dark eyes bright
with desire as he pulled her against the long, hard
length of his body, and heard herself say in a
whisper, "Tell me we have to stop."
"I wish I could..." Brant said in a low, throaty voice.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he
lifted her off the floor, carried her across the floor
to mount stairs that led to a loft bedroom, the
window with white curtains softening noon sunlight
as it slanted across a patchwork quilt on a knotted
pine bed.
He said, "That night, when we were together in the
garden...it was almost more than I could endure.
I've wanted you every moment since then."
When he'd set her gently on the bed, Chelsea felt
sudden panic: What was she doing here? Could she
really be doing this, allowing passion to over-rule her
reason?
But then Brant was kneeling in front of her, his
fierce need burning in his eyes as he told her, "I
want you beyond words, God, I want you more than
any woman I've ever seen."
She leaned forward, saying simply, "I want you too."
And then he lifted her to her feet, began kissing her
with abandon, his lips first tender, tentative in
worshipful kisses on her closed eyelids, her
forehead, moving with growing ferocity to her open
lips, his mouth on hers, his tongue tasting, teasing...a
groan catching in his throat as Chelsea pressed her
hips against his, feeling the potent fullness of him.
She felt him tremble again, then mold his groin
against her, bewitching her with a sensual delirium as
he continued the swaying of his sinewy body
suggestively against hers; her knees weakened, and
she moaned with desire.
Brant moved back, looked at her and then his hands
drifted to her shoulders, fingers unbuttoning the
front of her dress, lowering it and then removing it.
He stared at her voluptuous body clad in the silk
slip, his eyes drinking in the curvaceous figure while
she demurely lowered her eyes.
"Don't darling, don't turn away. Look at me, see how
much I want you, can't you see it in my eyes?" Brant
commanded, forcing her to meet his heated gaze.
She felt she was melting beneath those intensely
hot, black coals of smoldering lust, so vivid, so
dangerous with almost violent need...
He peeled off her slip, unclipped her chignon, ran his
hands through her loose, wavy hair, then stood back
to gaze at her body clad in bra and bikini panties, his
eyes raptly studying her as though he could
memorize every detail of this first revealing sight of
her shapely body.
She didn't feel embarrassed by her near nakedness,
rather desired, idolized in the dark glow of his eyes
as he stepped closer to unhook her bra, stand back
and look covetously at her desire-swollen breasts.
And though he wasn't touching her, she felt her
nipples peak with aching need as he stared hungrily
at them, his voice an intoxicated whisper: "My God,
but you are beautiful, enticing me with an innocent
purity in your eyes, but with such a tempting,
voluptuous body it has taken all my will-power not to
let my passion for you drive me insane. I've wanted
to see you like this, to touch you, from the moment I
met you."
Chelsea closed the short distance between them,
and encircled his rigid, muscle-tensed body with her
arms, pressing against his chest, feeling his shirt
prevent her naked breasts from touching his bare
skin, murmuring, "Please, touch me... please..."
He captured her firmly against him, savagely kissed
her, hands greedily exploring her body, head
lowering to her breasts, his tongue circling her
nipples, his hands then going flat on her buttocks,
forcing her roughly upon his swollen need...their
erotic dance simulating the sexual union by achingly
slow moves against one another.
She gasped, feeling his hand go to her inner thigh,
lift her panties and slip a finger inside to the warm,
moist triangle where she was centered, every
heartbeat, every breath, every nerve in her body
alive in that hot, deep, throbbing place.
"Touch you, yes...God, how I've wanted to...do...this
for so long...touch your heat, make you hunger like I
do..."
He abruptly wrenched away with a guttural moan,
turned his back to her, said gruffly,
"Sorry...it's...just that it's been so long...I...need to
slow down."
Shaken, Chelsea said nothing, vaguely aware this
quiet submission was unlike her normally assertive
self.
He pivoted around to her, his face inflamed with
passion, his sexual thirst evident by his words: "I
don't know if I can go slow, I want you so much,
just the feel of your lovely skin, so soft, so
seductive...you make it difficult not to simply ravish
you mindlessly."
Chelsea stepped out of her panties and heard his
breath catch, then as she stood in front of him, only
inches away, she invited boldly: "Take me, slow or
fast, but please...make love to me."
He started taking off his shirt, fingers fumbling
with the buttons, then tossing it on the floor, hands
quickly unzipping his pants and pulling them off as
Chelsea saw the lean, taut length of his naked body,
his muscled chest, shoulders and arms, admiring the
sinewy build of a runner.
She felt her desire burn, burn at the sight before
her; he was an exceptionally handsome man, all
male...darkly appealing with the olive-tinted skin and
thick tangle of inky hair on his chest, facial features
capable of reflecting many emotions, the deep-set
eyes beneath arched brows, expressive lips that
could mock or evoke desire...now clenched tight in an
effort to control himself.
But his control snapped and he lifted her off the
floor and began kissing her as he carried her to the
bed, slowly easing her down upon it and lying beside
her, stroking her supple skin and groaning as his
hands went lower, slender fingers whispering along
the shape and swell of her hips, then her full
breasts, his mouth replacing his fingers and his
warm, wet lips upon her nipples causing Chelsea to
moan and beg, "Please don't stop...
And he didn't, continuing his expert manipulation,
until she lowered her hand to hold, stroke him
seductively, make him gasp with pleasure, both of
them lost in physical arousal so intense as to be
almost painful...
He whispered hoarsely, "I...this...you are so
beautiful, more so than I ever dreamed, ever
fantasized."
Then he took her hand away, lifted himself above
her with barely leashed passion, hovering temptingly,
asking, "Are you sure, darling, really sure you
want...to..."
Wordlessly, Chelsea guided him into her, feeling his
fullness easing inside; then the gradual opening and
flowering as he plunged deep, deeper, his hot breath
on her face, his heated flesh on her flesh and his
explicitly whispered erotic phrases inciting her
wildly, his passionate praise of her repeated over
and over: "You're so beautiful, inside and outside, so
wondrous, so...exciting to me, so sexy and sensual,
every inch of your body is lovely. I want you for
mine, to possess...like this, us together..."
She could feel his careful restraint when he'd stop
occasionally to almost slip away, controlling himself
and savoring the exquisite sensations, pleasing her
with his deft strokes, his hands rough on her
breasts, then gentle on her face, his movements
taking her somewhere she'd never been, higher,
deeper, greater than thought or reason, more
profound than words. And as they rode toward the
crest of oblivion, he maintained the excruciating rein
on himself, skillfully pacing the jolts of electric
thrusts, teasing with swirling circles above her, his
hips maneuvering against hers to heighten the
delicious flesh-to-flesh stimulation, moment by
moment of torturous thrills repeated in long, deep,
hard penetration until she felt he had entered her
forever, stealing her soul through his unending,
unrelenting erotic bonding of their bodies...
He stopped abruptly, suspended there above her,
dark eyes penetrating into her soul, one hand gently
wiping hair off her face, gazing with adoration into
her eyes, saying thickly, "If you never remember
anything else, remember this moment, remember
that you've brought me alive, a man who was dead
to life in every way before you."
"Say you'll marry me?" he asked, lifting his eyes up
to her, a tiny grin of satisfaction on his face as he
saw her fevered expression.
"Brant...please...oh..." He was doing things to her
she'd never dreamed could drive her to such a
frenzied state of need.
He stopped for a second, stood, and then edged her
back down on the bed, poised over her like a
conquering warrior as he plunged back inside the hot
wetness of her velvet tunnel.
"There's no need to say you will, I know you will.
Not now, but darling...someday..." he rasped, pacing
his thrusts, first strong, then gentle, then long, long
moments of stillness before beginning the cycle
again, making Chelsea beg and gasp for him to never
stop...
As they burst upward together, the climatic
explosion consuming their minds, Chelsea cried out,
"Brant...I...oh Brant..."
But she couldn't bring herself, not even in the
throes of passion, to admit aloud she loved him.
He whispered against her skin, "Shh, I know, I
know."
She managed to nod, and then he was plunging
deeply, solidly inside her, both losing themselves to
the mounting tension in their bodies, the dream-
dazed wonder of lovers who are riding the high of
arousal, his open, seeking mouth crushing hers as she
arched her body against him, achingly wanting the
wave to reach the sky, and him placing his hands
forcefully beneath her hips, molding her fiercely to
him as he cried out in ecstasy, "Chelsea...Chelsea!"
And in the complete surrender of the moment,
Chelsea rode the wave to crest against the sky and
fell back to earth, spent and lost to reason...simply
gratified that this man, such an artful lover, this
unbelievably handsome man desired her, only her...
And that, looking at him in the light from the
window, his sweat-soaked body slowly relaxing
beside her, his hair tousled and damp, his eyes warm
in the afterglow of satisfaction, she had fallen in
love with him against all reason.
His words came softly, "I know, I can see
darling...we are meant for each other."
And she wanted to agree, because they were good
together and because it was her first real sensual
awakening to the overpowering sexual appetite her
body could demand - but it was a bittersweet
moment. How could she ever trust him? Desire him,
love him...yes...but could she trust this dark-eyed
man who'd stolen her heart, soul and body?
He placed a finger on her bruised lips, spoke again,
"Shh, don't have any doubts, we're right for each
other."
She closed her eyes against the incredibly appealing
man looking at her with tenderness and desire; he
was irresistible, just as she'd feared from the
beginning.
"Darling," he whispered, his lips nuzzling her neck, "it
means more than you know to me that you 've
surrendered to the desire we feel." He hesitated,
then got out of bed, knelt on the floor and pulled
her to a sitting position, took her hand and said
huskily, "I want you to marry me, Chelsea."
She was stunned, disbelieving that he'd proposed...on
bended knee, stark naked...and she couldn't help but
be impressed at the serious look on his face. There
was something extremely touching in his posture, his
dark eyes lovingly tender, his risking rejection in
such a vulnerable position.
When she did not speak, he asked, "You are not
sure?" a mocking grin lifting his lips.
"No, I...um," she stammered, suddenly shy. "You've
confused me, surprised me."
"By the way I have seduced you?" He kissed the
open palm of her hand, trailing his lips up along her
arm, licking and tasting her skin. "Hmm, I could
devour you again, and I think I shall do just that, my
dear."
Chelsea was feeling light-headed again, his ardent
kisses now moving to her breasts, his head bent as
he tasted of her again and again, then slipped lower,
evoking a gasp of unspeakable pleasure from her.
* * * *
Later, lying spent and satiated, they talked of
nothing in particular, randomly and without meaning;
the stimulating nearness of him, his sexual
magnetism, was a drug that rendered Chelsea unable
to focus clearly on her doubts and fears, unable to
question his motives.
When she suggested that she'd better leave, that
Michael would be wondering about her, Brant
handed her a portable phone and said, "Call him at
the newspaper, tell him we're going out, not to
expect you back tonight."
Chelsea hesitated only a second, seeing Brant crook
a finger at her as he headed for the bathroom,
suggesting with a wink, "How about a shower
together?"
Lost in love with this enigmatic man, she couldn't
deny the insatiable sexual craving he'd aroused in
her....and God help her, she thought, if he proved to
be the diabolical man Michael had warned her about.
* * * *
That afternoon and night Chelsea held back nothing;
she gave herself up to the long, lazy hours of
seduction that Brant continued unabated. He was a
wild, dangerous lover at times, exacting and exciting;
then he'd become a master at the art of slow,
tender seduction, and evoke exquisite sensations
that made her cry out for mercy.
They had an impromptu dinner on the patio as the
sunset cast ribbons of gold on the pond, Brant
telling her about his childhood, of the sneers and
jeers he'd endured from school children about his
being born a "mixed breed." Chelsea felt compassion
for the lonely outcast he'd become, the solitary
little boy who'd avoided friendship because of his
Cuban heritage.
The sultry summer air drifted in the window as they
lay together in bed that night, caressing and
murmuring, lovers awakened by touch, taste,
exploring over and over again the sensual pleasure
of their bodies coming together effortlessly,
completely. And when exhaustion overtook them,
Chelsea curled up against Brant, burying her doubts
in the starry night sky, sleep stealing away her
fears.
* * * *
Chelsea awoke the next morning disorientated,
sitting up in the empty bed, clutching tangled sheets
against her nude body, looking around and slowly
remembering where she was, what had happened...
Brant's voice called from downstairs, "Come on
sleepy head, it's time to get up. I have breakfast
ready."
God, she thought, could she have behaved so
wantonly? Her body felt tingly all over,
remembering what they'd done, their lovemaking...
She groaned, called back to Brant, "I'll be right
down, need a shower."
"Sure sweetheart."
In the shower, Chelsea stood under needles of icy
water, her mind growing more alert underneath the
cold assault, thoughts racing about her predicament.
She toweled off, running a brush through her hair,
dressing and feeling foolish...wondering how she'd
allowed this to happen.
But then, walking into the kitchen, she saw Brant's
tall, lean body and felt an embarrassing flush of
erotic response. He turned to her, an arrogant,
satisfied smile on his face, and Chelsea realized he'd
never said he loved her...
And his marriage proposal, was that just another
attempt at acquiring ForestWillow? If he'd actually
killed his first wife, why not his second one too?
"Good morning, sweetheart. You look lovely, very
refreshed." His dark eyes had a devilish twinkle in
them, and he pulled out a chair at the table, said,
"Eggs and bacon. Oh, I know it's not suppose to be
good for us, but indulge me."
She sat down, but couldn't get a bite into her
mouth, simply stared at the plate of food feeling
like a fool, finally took a sip of coffee.
"You sure are quiet this morning," he said, picking up
his fork.
She blurted out, "I've got to get back to
ForestWillow."
"Yes, I'll take you after while." Brant sampled the
eggs, then took a swallow of coffee, his eyes on her.
Jumping up, she overturned the chair. "I have to go
now."
Brant picked up his napkin, wiping his mouth and
getting to his feet. "What's the hurry, I thought we
might have that visit with my mother this morning."
Mortified, Chelsea said tightly, "I hardly think it
would be...would look appropriate..."
He was staring at her, a dark frown on his face.
"Why not? After all, we are going to be married..."
"Of all the nerve!" Chelsea ground out between
clenched teeth, marching back through the cottage,
looking for her purse. "I don't recall accepting your
proposal."
Stung, Brant shot back quickly, "Not yet, but...after
what we shared, I think it's obvious we please one
another."
"You don't have to remind me." Chelsea looked at
him standing with his arms crossed over his chest,
the unruly lock of hair on his forehead, that tiny
tight smile of mocking superiority on his lips. Anger
at herself, at her weakness, at his arrogant pride
boiled over and she grabbed her purse off the sofa,
heading for the door.
He called, "Wait, I'll drive you."
She stopped, and he walked over to stand near her
at the door, saying softly, "Look, I thought we felt
the same, that what we shared was special..."
Touched by this, she said, "It was...but..."
"Chelsea, I'm worried about you staying over there
with Michael, especially after what you told me."
"I can take care of myself."
"Maybe, but Chelsea, Michael could be disturbed,
could be trying to harm you..."
"I know he had a terrible childhood, but he seems to
have coped with it." She couldn't believe she was
defending Michael, when she also had more than a
few doubts and suspicions about him.
"Perhaps, but is that fair to a child? To have a
parent that dependent? Don't you think he'd resent
it a bit?"
"Maybe, but..."
"And now Adriana has disappeared, gone without a
trace."
"I know where she is." Chelsea moved closer to the
door, getting away from his overwhelming physical
presence.
"Really, and where is that?"
His sarcastic remark made her look up at him, seeing
the absolute certainty in his face that he was aware
she didn't know where Adriana was. Could that be,
she wondered, because he had killed Adriana?
She retorted, "I know, and that's all that matters."
"You've visited her then?" His eyes pierced her with
direct challenge, daring her to tell the truth.
"No, but I'm satisfied she is in a mental institution,"
Chelsea declared, seeing Brant now looming over her
menacingly.
"Unless you've seen her, you can't know definitely. I
repeat, I am worried about you Chelsea, alone over
there with Michael in that decaying house."
"And I repeat, I can take care of myself; the
danger might just be worse here, with you. Where
were you Wednesday morning anyway?"
Brant put his hands firmly on her shoulders, his dark
eyes riveted on her face. "What is this, an
interrogation? I am the villain now, hmm?"
Something in his dull tone of voice caused her to
flinch, and she jerked loose from him, stiffened. "As
a matter of fact, Michael does seem to think you
are the one behind those strange occurrences. But
I...wonder if... Could it be that your dad is so
desperate for the land he'd do these things?"
Brant laughed derisively, the chilling sound dying
away in the morning silence. "My dad's socially
ambitious, but he's certainly not capable of such
cruel tricks."
"And neither is Michael!" Chelsea snapped angrily,
wondering if Brant's quick defense of his father
was because he himself was the culprit?
"I think you'd better not dismiss Michael so easily,"
he said sternly, scowling at her.
She was wildly furious with him for trapping her
alone at the cottage, and with herself for having
dropped her guard, allowed her physical attraction
to cloud her better judgment.
She said hotly,"I must get home. I'm sorry I told
you what has been disturbing me. Obviously, you
think either Michael or myself is the one who is
crazy."
"No, that's not what I..."
She cut him off, interjecting, "I'll just walk back to
ForestWillow," and headed out the door.
"Wait, I'll drive you." He caught up to her, grabbed
her by the shoulders, spun her around on the porch,
said between clenched teeth: "You are the most
obstinate woman I've ever met. Fine, have it your
way, be reckless and impulsive as you always are..."
"Let me go!" She twisted out of his grasp, headed
down the steps, off into the yard, but he hurried
after her, said in an angry voice: "I'll drive you back
to the newspaper, not over to that creepy house."
She looked at him, the darkly handsome man
pursuing her, and his passionate, almost violent
expression somehow excited her, the energy and
force of his heightened sexual magnetism, raw and
primitive, almost causing her to hesitate, allow him a
chance to conquer her again. Appalled at herself,
she headed for the Mercedes, saying over her
shoulder, "Fine, but I'd prefer you keep your hands
off me."
He merely glared at her, getting in the car, and
turning his attention to starting the engine. The ride
to town was tense with unspoken disagreement;
neither tried to bridge the silent distance growing
between them.
Chelsea's doubts and fears multiplied by the
moment, and as she looked at his glowering face, the
tense muscle working in his jaw, she felt horribly
disappointed in herself. Brant had a strangely dark
look, as though he could barely contain the rage
within himself, and her suspicions about him having
murdered Lenore and Adriana revived anew; she felt
like a fool for having allowed reason to desert her.
The man was a superb actor, that's how he'd
managed to convince her of his sincerity, she told
herself; but that didn't help diminish the indignation
she felt at having been played for a foolish,
emotional female, seduced by passion and pretense.
When he pulled up at the Camile Gazette, Brant
switched off the motor, looked at her and said in a
hollow voice, "I meant everything I said yesterday
and last night. Chelsea, I want to marry you.
It took all her innermost strength to keep from
believing his deceptively smooth act, but she steeled
herself and said flatly, "I'm sorry, but I have no
desire to marry you. Please, just leave me alone and
let me handle this situation by myself."
He stared at her soberly, his face hardened, callus,
his hooded eyes going stone-cold. "Have it your
way."
She whipped out of the car, slammed the door and
rushed across the parking lot. Just as she entered
the building, Michael was on his way downstairs and
was quick to see her upset.
He got her into the Blazer, and as they headed
toward ForestWillow, she expressed her uncensored
outrage with Brant's manipulation, her frustration
with her own weakness and mentioned the possibility
his father could be causing the strange events.
Glancing at Michael, Chelsea noticed his face was
inscrutable; he seemed preoccupied, almost sulky in
his reproachful silence.
But when they arrived at ForestWillow, he said with
conviction, "You know, it just may be Hugh Langston
behind all this stuff."
Confused and despairing, she wailed, "Oh, Michael I
just don't know anymore! I've been such a fool! And
maybe I'm having some kind of emotional breakdown
over my parents' murder. Maybe I am going nuts!"
"No, even though I think sleeping with Brant was not
a smart move, it certainly doesn't qualify you for
the loony bin." He smiled weakly at her, rapped his
fingers on the steering wheel anxiously. "And
remember, Muriel could be the culprit."
"But she lives in town..."
"I know, but she is constantly out at Innisfree,
always the nosy so-and-so, into other's business.
And it's pretty obvious she is jealous of you and
Brant."
Chelsea thought about that. Yes, it could be Muriel,
although she really had trouble with that idea. Her
courage came back then - the same courage that
made her uncover the poor living conditions of some
blacks in Mississippi; the same courage that made
her uncover the potential environmental damage by
paper mills in Claymore.
One way or another, Chelsea knew that she alone
would find the truth, and resolved to make a
renewed effort at the first opportunity.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The weekend passed routinely. Chelsea slept
soundly, had no nightmares, and nothing
extraordinary happened. Monday morning, she
awoke recalling the Sunday outing with Michael,
who'd stuck close by, insisting she needed a
diversion from the distressing pressures of late. Her
brooding about having surrendered to Brant's sexual
attraction, the sick awareness of being in love with a
man she couldn't trust, maybe a man trying to drive
her insane, a killer even...made her willing to accept
Michael's invitation for an outing.
They'd spent time fishing in Black River Sunday
afternoon, enjoying his favorite secluded spot. He
entertained her with local gossip, stories of Camile's
settlement by French who were unhappy with
crowded living conditions in New Orleans.
As they dipped their fishing lines into the blackish
river waters, Michael asked if she'd ever heard of
the famous Charles Durand, and when she said no,
he launched into a dramatic tale of the man's lavish
lifestyle.
With a gleam of mischief in his eyes, Michael said,
"This Charles Durand came from France in the early
1800s, brought a fortune with him, and then reaped
unlimited wealth here on the sugar plantation he
built near St. Martinville, then known as Petit Paris,
or Little Paris."
He winked at Chelsea, pushed back the straw hat on
his head and chuckling, continued: "Old Charles, he
knew how to live in style; the legend goes that he
often would stay up nights trying to figure out new
ways to outshine his aristocratic neighbors. And boy,
he had a talent for luxury! He traveled in a gold-
ornamented carriage drawn by horses weighted
down with precious metals on their harnesses.
"The home, situated at the end of a three-mile oak
and pine alley, had the finest furnishings brought
from the continent. Each morning, so the tale goes,
he ordered the slaves to awaken his family with
delicate sprays of perfume. It was such a pleasure,
old Charles then desired daily perfumed baths,
having the slaves pour fragrant crystals and oils into
the steaming waters."
Chelsea had squirmed around on the padded cushion,
trying to get comfortable. "He sounds like the
typical overly extravagant antebellum slave owner."
"Ah, but listen to this, he had an imaginative flair
that few could equal. He fathered twenty-four
children, by two different wives, and it seems that
when, just before the Civil War started, two of his
daughters became engaged at the same time, old
papa Charles promised to give them the most
beautiful, elegant and fantastic wedding in
Louisiana."
"I bet the slaves had plenty of work to do in this
wedding." Chelsea had remarked sarcastically.
"Why, of course cuz. Anyhow, Charles ordered a
million spiders sent from China and sent couriers to
California to fetch hundreds of pounds of silver and
gold dust. Shortly before the wedding day, the
spiders were set loose in the alleyway, and spun
millions of yards of delicate webs through the moss-
draped limbs of the oak and pine trees."
Michael paused, grinned. "On the morning of the
wedding, slaves...yes the slaves, carried bellows
filled with silver and gold dust and sprayed the
cobweb canopy to set it glittering in the sunlight,
creating a fairy tale beauty for his daughters. There
was food and drink, servants aplenty, and musicians
playing from behind the trees lining the alleyway."
He stretched out his arms expansively, declaring,
"Yes, it was splendor all day, toasts, laughter,
dancing, song...until dusk when a steamboat came up
Bayou Teche to take the newlyweds to New Orleans
honeymoons. Fireworks lit the night sky as they
departed, and you can imagine how impressed the
rich folks of Petit Paris were that time!"
Chelsea had had a fleeting image of a doomed man
struggling to be the most grandiose among his
wealthy peers; it reeked of wicked excess, decadent
pleasures at any cost. And then, she suddenly had
had the feeling that Hugh Langston, though for
different reasons, could be just as obsessed by
ostentatious displays, thereby linking the two men in
her mind. Her voice had come slowly,
"What...happened to him, Charles Durand, when the
war broke out?"
"Hey, that's the sad part. See, the wedding proved
to be his last grand gesture. Him and his sons and
grandsons fought in the war, but his slaves were
freed, the sugar mill seized, the home heavily
damaged, everything lost. Fact is, he died in 1876 at
the age of sixty-two, impoverished."
Michael added, "Oh, in his later years he was senile,
and rambled about buried money but after he died,
none could be found anywhere. And over the years,
the plantation house fell down, finally being washed
away in the flood of 1929. You know, there's not
even a painting of Durand or of his mansion, nothing
left but a mile-long stretch of oak and pine trees
and then emptiness. Time and tide spares no man."
Chelsea had shook her head, commenting, "I'm
constantly amazed at the amassing of fortunes, the
excessive luxury the antebellum society seemed to
crave."
Michael pinched the end of his nose, and said in a
high-pitched whiny voice, "Ladies and gentlemen,
welcome to Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous here
in America, where movie stars and rich people live
like Royalty..."
"Okay, I get your point. Things haven't changed
much since then for a certain sector of the wealthy
egotistical population, but it still seems a shame that
so few have so much, while so many have so little."
At which time, Michael had wrestled with a catfish
and reeled it in, ending any further philosophical
discussion.
Now, reflecting on that flamboyant legendary
figure, Charles Durand, Chelsea couldn't help but
link him with Hugh Langston. Was Brant's father
capable of sinister behavior in order to achieve his
goal of being "accepted" by Camile's socially
prominent families?
Chelsea hurriedly got up, dressed in faded jeans and
loose blouse, pinned up her hair and then went to
grab a bite of breakfast. Michael was already gone,
off to the newspaper, and this was the opportunity
she'd been waiting for.
When she headed up the stairway, Chelsea was
grimly determined that before the day was over,
she'd be convinced whether any trappings were
hidden in ForestWillow, whether Adriana was in
hiding on the grounds or not.
Once upstairs, she stood near her own bedroom
door, then walked quickly to the door directly
across from hers, tried the crystal-glass doorknob,
which opened easily. Chelsea looked into the
bedroom, finding only a vacant space, dusty
hardwood floors, yellowed wallpaper and tightly
closed windows and shutters.
But having promised herself to leave no corners
unknown, she walked through the room, opened a
small closet door, saw several older coats and
jackets, coughing at the strong odor of mothballs.
But after a thorough search of the closet and room,
she found nothing else.
Back in the hallway, she went down to the next door,
opened it and peered inside; there appeared to be
covered furniture, white cloths draped over bulky
objects. She walked into the room, tried the light
switch and a light came on overhead; it shone dimly,
but gave enough light for her to look around,
inspecting the antique furniture, some battered so
badly it was almost beyond saving.
The closet was empty, and there were no personal
objects anywhere, so she went back across the
hallway and stood at the door to Adriana's room.
Although she already knew the contents, she thought
it necessary to look around more carefully.
Bracing herself against the memories of that last
eerie incident in the room, she thrust open the door
and walked swiftly around the interior, studying the
Tester bed, the Windsor chair and desk, then
pausing in front of the curio cabinet. The music
boxes were as exquisite as she remembered, and
she gently opened the glass door, took each one out,
noting they were mostly made in Switzerland during
the late 19th century, almost priceless antiques.
However, none played Chopin.
It disturbed her, but she realized that the music
she'd heard that morning had come from the
hallway, so she replaced all the boxes and then
walked over to the book trough table, stooping down
to riffle through the magazines, mostly women's
popular reading material, went through the desk
drawers, but found nothing legal or financial to
indicate where Adriana might be staying.
Just as she started to turn away, her eyes fell on a
small cloth-covered booklet stuck in a corner of the
desk, and she thought it might be a personal diary.
Her hands trembled with excitement as she pulled it
out, flipping on the reading lamp, sitting down in the
chair, opening the covers...only to be disappointed
when she saw it was blank.
Chelsea closed the book, and as she leaned over to
put it back, a small oblong white paper fell out on
the floor. She picked it up, saw handwriting, read:
Michael... I never wanted you to get away, leave me
alone, and that's why I kept it a secret all these
many years. I never should have let you know who
your father is. I won't let you go, you are mine, you
can't leave me like he did, I'll destroy you before I
see you walk away...
The paper fluttered to the floor, and Chelsea bent
down to get it; there was nothing else there, the
sentence ending abruptly, as though someone had
interrupted the writer. And she knew in her heart
this was a letter to Michael from his mother,
Adriana...
Yes, she thought, Adriana had accidentally revealed
who Michael's father was to him! But why had he
lied about it? He'd been emphatic about not knowing
who his father was...and she hadn't had a chance to
search for his journal again...
Chelsea got up, paced around the room, her mind
puzzled. Was it just that Michael didn't want her to
know who his father was? But why? She suddenly
had a startling thought: What if Hugh Langston was
Michael's father? He did have gray eyes too!
But no, how could that be? And yet, stranger things
have happened, she told herself, also realizing that
could be the cause of Michael's bitterness for the
Langstons. The outcast, bastard son, too proud to
claim his rightful place in that wealthy family...and
Michael's gray eyes, which she'd mistakenly thought
a link to her family! Did Brant know this? Could he
have killed Adriana to keep her silent, and be trying
to destroy Michael in order to remain the sole
Langston heir? Or had Hugh Langston been
threatened by Adriana's public revelation, and
decided to silence her forever?
Downstairs, she went into Michael's unlocked room,
went through his desk, found the journal gone, and
searched until satisfied there was nothing
whatsoever to lead her to any conclusions.
She went out, closed the door behind her and then
stood motionless with indecision, dreading the search
through the abandoned part of ForestWillow yet
again. But she had to be sure she hadn't missed
anything in her earlier search so she squared her
shoulders and headed rapidly for the connecting
door.
Hours later, Chelsea had found nothing unusual;
she'd even confronted the piano and ran her fingers
over the Chopin sheet music, but heard nothing at all.
It had been a relief, and yet as she went into the
kitchen to pour a glass of ice water, she felt
disappointed that she'd uncovered nothing of
consequence except Adriana' s inscrutable words.
The facts, that was what she reminded herself she
was after, while sipping the water. If she found
nothing significant in the house, or on the grounds,
the next move was to learn which institution Adriana
was in, however she had to go about it. If there was
no legal/financial paper trail to where the woman
was institutionalized, then maybe she could go to the
authorities with her suspicions.
Chelsea drained the glass, put it in the sink, rubbed
at her dirt-smudged face with a damp paper towel,
grabbed a flashlight, and then walked down the hall,
looked in the small closet to get a hammer. She went
outside and around to the steps that led down to the
basement door.
The humidity caused her to break out in a sweat
immediately, and she could feel the prickly drops
beaded on her forehead, the tension and anticipation
nearly as palpable as the heat. She looked at the
slanted door, closed and locked, the stone steps
leading down to it...
Plunging ahead, she walked down the steps, lifted
the hammer and crashed through the oblong glass
window near the door, being careful to step back
from the broken glass. Using the other end of the
hammer, she began to clear away the shards,
knocking away the pieces, pulling herself up to shine
the flashlight through the open space.
A putrid scent wafted out, suggesting moldy mildew
and wet earth as she looked around, shining the light
randomly inside the basement, unable to get a clear
view of it.
Then estimating the large space would easily allow
her to slip through it, she made sure no glass was
left on the windowframe. She slanted herself
sideways, sliding her upper bod
see the washer and dryer directly below the window.
Soon she was sitting on the washer, the flashlight
beam picking out a hanging chain to the exposed
bare light-bulb, so she jumped down and hurriedly
jerked on the light.
She saw there was no floor, only the hard-packed
dirt, and that she was standing in an area the length
and width of the rear wing they'd been staying in.
One earthen wall was lined with shelves of old
canned goods, so grimy it was impossible to tell what
was in the jars. There was a raised stone platform
for the washer/dryer installment.
Chelsea walked over the dirt floor, intent on
exploring every inch of the cellar. Her eyes scanned
the far wall connected to the main house, unable to
see what was back there, so she walked in that
direction, avoiding the dead roots that protruded out
of the ground occasionally.
Flicking on the flashlight, Chelsea groped along the
cement wall linking the rear wing to the main house,
studying the boarded-up arched entranceway she'd
seen before. A set of hooks about eye-level held
shovels, pitchforks, hoes, and various gardening
tools; a rusted lawn-mower was shoved into the
corner, a gasoline can nearby.
Finding nothing else, she started to see if she could
pry off the boards on the entranceway, get a look
at the basement below the main body of the house,
but noticed something crammed in the dark corner,
focused the flashlight beam downward on it to
reveal a faded patchwork quilt covering a bulky
object. Grabbing up the quilt, she saw a small
battered trunk shoved against the wall.
Chelsea shone the light over the latches, the lid
jammed closed. It wasn't locked, so she got the
hammer and came back to squat down, then edged
the claw end of the hammer underneath one latch,
pried hard and it gave way beneath her probing, the
other one doing likewise.
Her hands lifted the lid, and she saw a crumpled,
dirty sheet, which she cautiously removed. What she
saw at the bottom of the trunk caused her to stand
up quickly, transfixed by the contents, stunned and
dismayed.
She moved slowly then, as though in a waking
nightmare, disengaging the shotgun from where it
had been wedged against the bottom. Holding the
lethal weapon, she realized it was sawed off mid-
point of the barrel, checked and found no shells in
the chambers.
Trembling, Chelsea leaned the shotgun against the
wall, and took out another item, shocked as she sat
down squarely on the cold, wet ground. She heard
herself say aloud, "It's a...black ski mask...the kind
of mask used in...the robbery.. .when my parents...."
Rapidly, she got the other stuff out: a black pair of
leather gloves, black pants and long-sleeved shirt.
She heard again the words of the Lt. Investigator:
"The perpetrator wore black clothing, a black ski
mask, making it impossible to identify the individual."
Totally absorbed and disbelieving at what she was
holding in her hands, her head snapped up toward
the window when a voice said, "Why, why couldn't
you just leave things along? Why did you have to go
snooping?"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Chelsea stared open-mouthed at the gun pointed at
her through the window, hearing him command,
"Don't make a move, or you're dead."
He held the gun on her while easing over to pull open
the door he'd apparently already unlocked, then
came rapidly into the basement as she stared at him,
paralyzed by his cold eyes. She could hardly believe
he was the same person she'd been spending time
with, because his face was now contorted with
anger and rage.
"If you'd not come down here, if you'd not poked
into things that are better left alone, my plan would
have worked out eventually." He came quickly
toward her, a malevolent gleam in his eyes. "If you'd
not tried to be the intrepid reporter, always
outwitting everyone...well, we wouldn't be in this fix,
would we?"
"Michael, look...I found, these things...in the trunk..."
she said, her voice thick with fear, her body still
frozen with shock. "Someone probably hid these
here..."
He was instantly upon her, grabbing her hair,
twisting her head savagely. "An ace reporter just
can't quit snooping!"
"Michael, please...you're hurting me!" Chelsea
struggled against his powerful grip, felt him pulling
her to her feet, slamming her forcefully into the
wall, her head reeling with the blow.
"No, no...you just couldn't quit snooping," he seethed,
jerking her head up with a painful wrench.
His face was close, too close, and the flat look in his
gray eyes made her forget the pain at the back of
her head. She'd glimpsed this detached stare
before, but now it seemed in possession of him, the
thin-lipped grimace on his face like a corpse's
frozen expression.
"Michael," she said, careful to keep her voice even,
"we have to find out who put this stuff here."
"Don't insult my intelligence! I may not have your
fancy education, but I'm far from stupid. You know
I put these things here, and now, because of your
prying, you've ruined my plans. I made the mistake
of underestimating your courage; I thought the
cellar was too creepy for you to tackle. And it was
locked."
She moved slightly, saying, "You're hurting me."
He wound his fingers tighter in her hair, tugging
gently, then furiously pulling it out of the band, his
grip forcing her head back, back until she was
staring directly up into his furious eyes. "I hate it
that you've ruined my plans! I hate it that I had to
do all this crap to get the money that should have
been mine."
"What are you saying, Michael?"
And in that moment, his face contorted with rage,
Chelsea almost didn't want to hear the truth but his
words struck out at her like red-hot pokers being
stabbed into her heart: "I killed your parents, I
killed them both. It wasn't fair, you see, him never
helping us, never helping my mother and me like he
should have."
Her body went limp, and even as she told herself
this was a horrible nightmare, Chelsea knew it was
all very real.
Michael held her up, pinned her against the moldy
wall, his angry words hot on her face: "Mother
finally told me, not deliberately, just let it slip...back
last winter. She was deep in depression, we'd argued
about her illness, about the need for institutional
care, not any money for it... And, she just said one
night, 'Troy Seymour, he's your father. He could
afford to care for me, with the ship-building
business, his big fine home in Claymore, Mississippi'"
Chelsea gasped. "But...Michael, that means you and I
are half..." It was unthinkable, had never entered
her head that her own father was Michael's...
"Brother and sister, yes, it does cuz. I can quit
calling you cuz, you're my sister, Chelsea. And I
hate you for having everything I never did." He
suddenly let her go, and she slumped down, seeing
him jam the gun in her face.
"I could kill you right now, right here...but I won't."
His face dissolved into a boyish pout. "I enjoyed
your company, that's what I didn't count on. I kept
putting it off, dreading it actually, having to kill you.
You see, we are so alike in some ways, and maybe if
you hadn't changed your mind about investing in
ForestWillow..."
She kept her eyes riveted to the gun inches from
her face. "But I told you I hadn't."
"Oh yeah, you tried to lie...but it was too late then. I
knew you were just stringing me along." He sighed.
"After mother told me about him, I researched
Troy Seymour, learned all about his life, his family,
everything I could from news articles, business
associates, even a few of your distant relatives
willing to talk to me when I pretended to be a long
lost cousin.
"Then I went to Claymore and found my father. I
followed him around, I even followed you for awhile.
It was all nice and cozy - the perfect parents, the
perfect child, everything just perfect, no place for
a bastard son, for sure."
Chelsea asked, "Did you tell father you were his
son?"
"No, I just hung around, watched from a distance.
It was like a fairy tale, the beautiful home and the
warmth, the love you had from him. Your mother,
she seemed okay too. I didn't dare intrude on your
little paradise just then."
"But...why? Why would you kill them?" Chelsea had
trouble getting the words out; it was still unreal,
unbelievable.
"I never planned to, not at first. It was...after...what
happened here when I got back. Mother was upset,
she got into one of her wild highs, began ranting
about her mother beating her when she was little,
how it warped her, about Troy having a fling,
abandoning her, that she would kill me if I left her,
she needed me..." He gave a bitter laugh. "Needed
me, yeah, right. She tried to ruin my life, time after
time, she would..."
Chelsea saw something then in his eyes, it was like a
wild fire that devours all in its path, a destructive
rage that had surfaced in him. His mouth clenched
tightly; his body shook with uncontrollable spasms of
rage, and he almost seemed unable to stand, bracing
himself against the wall for long moments of deep,
deep breathing.
Afraid to speak, Chelsea watched with the dawning
realization that, yes, Brant had been correct:
Michael was disturbed, unbalanced. That her own
glimpses into this darker side should have prompted
action...
At length, he stiffened, wiped a hand over his
sweat-soaked face and said, "I don't want to talk
about any of that. All I can tell you now is that,
because of what happened here, I went back to
Claymore, waited and waited. Patiently. I knew my
chance would come, a chance to kill all of you in a
way that would never raise suspicions about the
murders being anything other than one of those
senseless killings in the course of a crime being
committed. Then you didn't go on the trip, and I still
had the problem of getting rid of you."
Chelsea recalled the Lt. Investigator wondering
about the brutality, the way the gunman had
slaughtered two innocent people...and shuddered,
fully aware of just how dangerous Michael was.
He looked at Chelsea closely, asked, "Do you like
me?"
She found his question astonishing, but managed to
say levelly, "Yes, I do. Michael, I'm sure whatever
father failed to do in the past, he could have made it
up to you..."
Michael shrugged. "He never even knew he had a
son, so far as I could tell."
"But Michael, that was all the more reason to reveal
yourself! It could have been wonderful, my father
would have accepted you, assumed his
responsibilities..."
"And if he didn't?"
"But I know he would have!"
"Nah, you don't know people like I do. I got wise to
humans fast, and as a kid, I learned you just can't
trust people, none of them. My mistake was in not
setting you up in Claymore, some kind of car
accident, but I'd hoped luring you here would be
easier. And besides, I was curious about you, wanted
to know what you were like."
Chelsea was unable to keep her eyes off him; he was
smiling, that same friendly smile that disarmed her,
made her think him incapable of duplicity. She
watched the smile fade, his face becoming a mask
of indifference.
He glanced down at the black ski mask, kicked it and
the clothing aside, complaining, "I didn't have a
chance to burn this stuff, like I meant to, cause you
surprised me by coming to the house. I thought
you'd probably go to the newspaper first, or might
not even come at all. That's my fault, my mistake in
not destroying this stuff right after the killings."
Chelsea couldn't speak, her stomach nauseous from
the matter-of-fact tone he'd used in referring to
such a heinous act; she felt sweat roll down her
back.
"Look, we can stand here all day and chat. But it
won't make any difference in the long run, because
it's all over for you." He nudged the gun under her
chin. "We're going outside, then into the house. You
try anything funny, and I'll have to kill you sooner
than need be."
"Michael," she implored, looking him in the eye, "this
is not the way to handle the situation. Yes, I'm
furious you killed my parents, but...you must have
been deeply troubled to do such a thing."
The gun was rammed into her stomach, and she
almost gagged at the impact; he grabbed her hair,
jerked her away from the wall, shoved her ahead of
him, the gun at her back now. "Don't bother with
that psycho-babble crap, I will not go for it. Never
try that on me again. Now march!"
They walked the length of the basement, Chelsea
climbing up the steps, hoping for a chance to escape,
but he never took the gun out of her ribs as he
followed along behind her. Emerging into the brilliant
afternoon sun, she could hardly believe this was
happening...only a little over two weeks ago and she
was safe in her apartment in Claymore.
Michael told her to go inside, then up the stairs to
his mother's room, where he sat her down in the
Windsor armchair, took out cord from his back
pocket and expertly tied her to the chair.
"Now, here's what I want you to do. You sit here
real quiet while I go make some ice tea."
"Michael, what are you going to do with me?" The
words had come out unbidden, fear tightening her
throat.
"Oh, I got a beauty of a plan, but don't rush me."
He left, and she felt her dry, aching throat full of
unshed tears. She had a fleeting moment of doubt,
denying that Michael was her half-brother. And yet,
his gray eyes were clearly a genetic link to her
father; how could she pretend otherwise? Why, why
hadn't she connected those gray eyes to the silver-
eyed gunman Jerry had mentioned in the holdup?
Because, she told herself, it would have seemed like
she was grasping at straws...being a paranoid crime
victim.
Chelsea wondered when her father had had an
affair with Adriana? If Michael was twenty-four,
then he was a year younger than herself and that
meant her father had had a love affair, or at least
spent enough time with Adriana to have created a
pregnancy while Chelsea herself was an infant. And
had her father known about Michael? Had her
mother suspected? More puzzling, why would
Adriana not have told him, even if only for much-
needed money for child support?
Michael came down the hallway, appeared in the
door with a tray, two frosty glasses of ice tea on it.
"Here we go, just what we need."
She had never felt less like getting anything
between her lips, but her throat was so parched she
managed it. The cold tea went down easily, and she
drank the whole glass.
Michael sipped his tea, watching her intently. "You
are so beautiful, cuz...oops, I mean sis."
Chelsea wanted to scream with frustration. How
could he act so casual, as though this was nothing
out of the ordinary?
"If you hadn't been my half-sister, I'd of put the
moves on you before old Brantly could have. Oh,
he's going to be one sore loser when he finds out
you are dead."
She couldn't speak; time seemed out of focus...and
again, she felt this was all a bad nightmare.
"Was the tea good? Want more?" He stood,
watching her closely, a sinister grin forming on his
lips.
"No thanks." Chelsea began to feel weak, her vision
blurred, and her head was spinning; she tried to look
at Michael, but his image was fading, her eyelids
beginning to get heavy...hard to hold them open...
"You're going to sleep now for awhile. I put some of
your valium in the tea. I...I'll..."
But that was all she heard, her mind fogging over,
her body going limp...the room going dark.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Chelsea could hear distant thunder, the angry
rumbling muted, and rain pelting against windows as
she slowly woke, her mind confused by the darkness.
Briefly, she struggled to come more fully awake,
convinced she had her eyes closed, then a stark
realization swept over her as she tried to lift her
eyelids: They were taped closed!
Every muscle in her body tensed, and though she
was groggy, Chelsea had total recall of her last
conscious moments, being tied up in Adriana' s room,
the sound of Michael's voice dying away.
Her first impulse was to scream out for him, but
when she tried to open her mouth, she felt the tape
against her lips. Then, like the sensations of a wild
bird clasped in a human hand, its freedom lost, a
slow quivering began at Chelsea's feet, and moved
throughout her body, leaving her shaken and broken.
She had no idea what time of day or night it was;
nor could she determine how long she listened to the
rain, the pelting turning into a hard onslaught,
lightning popping sharply and thunder crashing
beyond her confinement. It seemed hours and hours,
her thoughts vague at first, then gaining clarity as
the valium wore off, to be replaced by the
shattering images of her parents' deliberate murder
by Michael.
Tears threatened, but she refused to allow them; it
would only irritate her eyes bound by tape. Chelsea
had never felt so alone in all her life, so utterly
wretched. Michael had complete control over her,
rendering her helpless, something she'd never
experienced.
As the storm raged, Chelsea had to acknowledge
that Michael was going to murder her. He had
probably convinced himself there was no other
alternative, had been plotting it since the day he'd
seen her at the cemetery - and would not be
diverted by her emotional pleas, nor her clever
psychological ploys. No, she was doomed to die...
Regret seared through her as she wondered why she
hadn't trusted her instinct that Michael was up to
something deceptive, her suspicions of his seeking
her out for monetary purposes!
She felt a pang of sentimental memory seize her,
reminiscing that her life had been wonderful right up
to the moment when Michael had taken her parents'
life. She had no regrets about those years, none
about her career choices. The deepest regret she
had now was that, being honest with herself, she
wished she'd told Brant that she was in love with him
when they'd spent those pleasurable hours together
in his cottage. Certainly, she was glad she'd
experienced the sensual awakening in his arms...if
only she'd voiced her heartfelt love!
"Oh Brant," she grieved silently, "I'll never see you
again, I'll never be able to tell you that I love you,
or that I'm sorry I didn't trust you."
Chelsea heard footsteps approaching, and felt her
heart beating rapidly, her nerves vibrating with
tension.
Suddenly, the tape was ripped off her eyes. She
blinked, trying to focus in the dim light, seeing she
was still in Adriana's bedroom.
Michael was peering into her face, his voice loud,
"Chelsea, Chelsea.. .you awake?"
She nodded, still smarting from the sting of the
tape being pulled off.
"Good, now listen. It's Tuesday morning, and I have
already informed Brant I won't be at work today or
tomorrow. I told him that you and I planned on
driving down to New Orleans to visit one of our
relatives." He moved back slightly, a smug grin on his
face. "Brant is going away on business, so don't
expect him to rescue you. Both your car and my
Blazer are inside the garage, out of sight."
Chelsea stared at him, amazed at how his boyish
face had transformed into that of a menacing
monster.
"Hey, don't look at me like that. I got to thinking
last night, I mean, about all that crap you told me,
hearing music, about a woman and child crying - you
did that to taunt me, didn't you?"
She shook her head furiously, unnerved at the
pitiless glint of hate in his pale gray eyes.
"Don't lie to me, don't!" His open palm struck her
face, knocked her head sideways, and he yelled,
"Don't you dare lie to me like my mother always
did!"
Chelsea's ears rang from the blow, and she hung her
head, afraid to look at him with the wrong
expression.
"Look, I'm sorry..." He reached out his fingers and
gently tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his
eyes. "I'm sorry for slapping you. But I can't stand
for a woman to lie to me, I just can't."
He took a deep, ragged breath, moved away, stood
staring at her, then continued soberly: "I got to
wondering about all that stuff you told me, the
haunting crap, and it occurred to me that you
suspected I might have killed your parents and you
were trying to rattle me, make me weaken and
confess, since you couldn't prove it otherwise, but
I'm not superstitious so it didn't work."
Chelsea was afraid to shake her head, so she merely
stared and held herself motionless, wondering how
he'd arrived at this warped conclusion of the
strange sounds she'd heard.
"Anyhow, what I need to know, must know...is
whether you told Brant of your suspicions that I
killed your parents? I know you said you told him
you heard all that creepy stuff, but he probably
figured you were bonkers, which will work to my
advantage now."
She was beginning to grasp what he might have in
mind for her...he must have laughed at her fears,
her turmoil over the strange sensations he'd
somehow created to make it look as though she was
having a breakdown.
"I'm going to take the tape off your mouth, and you
must not scream, okay? No one would hear you
anyway. It's too far over to Innisfree for the sound
to carry, but a woman's screams...well, it really
unhinges me, and I can't be responsible for what I
might do."
The tape was ripped off, searing her skin. "Ouch!"
"Sorry, but I didn't want you to wake up and go
nuts screaming, get me up here for nothing." He sat
down on the edge of the Tester bed, facing her, his
eyes inquisitive. "So, tell me, did you suspect me of
their murder?"
Chelsea swallowed hard, her mouth dry, her voice
hoarse, "No, and I swear that's the truth, Michael.
The strange things I experienced, you did that,
didn't you, trying to make it look like I was crazy!"
He simply stared, his flat, lifeless eyes upon her.
"Why, why? Did you hope everyone would think I'm
crazy, then murder me, make it look like a suicide?"
He said in an emotionless voice, "I told you not to lie
to me. You made that stuff up, all that supernatural
crap..."
"No! I didn't, Michael. If you didn't do it, maybe it
was..."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Maybe it
was somehow connected to the past, like we talked
about, something to do with those other family
tragedies. Not that I believe in the supernatural, but
you were the one who had the experiences. Just so
I know you and Brant didn't invent this stuff."
She sighed wearily. "No, Brant and I...we..." her voice
broke off, choked by emotion.
"Oh come now, don't get all teary on me. Sure,
Brant's a real catch, but...I bet he was just having a
sexual fling, long overdue if you ask me. He's not in
the market for a wife."
"Maybe not...but I am in love with him!"
He straightened, waved a hand in the air with
dismissal. "In love, out of love...it really doesn't
matter now."
"Michael, please...please...let me go. I can leave here,
never tell anyone, let you have your share of the
inheritance." She couldn't help begging for her life.
"I've asked you before not to insult my intelligence!
Do you think for one minute I believe you'd let me
get away with their murders?"
"You could get help then, because it was something
caused by your abusive childhood..."
He leaped off the bed, smacked her across the
face, his hand striking her over and over, her head
being knocked back and forth until she couldn't help
screaming, which only incited him to grab her by the
throat, start strangling her...
Almost at the point of fainting, she stopped
struggling and he let her go, her whole body going
slack. He quickly walked off, pacing around the
room like a feral beast, while she coughed, sucking in
air desperately, laboring to breathe, to cool her
lungs of the painful fire.
"Damn it, why did you have to scream? I told you
not to do that!" He glared at her, leaning over the
desk, his white-knuckled grip indicating barely
controlled rage.
"I'm...sorry..." she croaked, her throat aching from
his strangle-hold.
"I told you, I...don't...want...to talk about my
childhood."
His head lowered with a sigh and when he lifted it
only minutes later, there was a regretful look on his
face. "Chelsea, whether you believe me or not, I
never wanted to hurt mother."
She felt her pulse throb, a dull dread spreading
through her; all along, she'd intuitively known that
Adriana wasn't in an institution. Why, she chided
herself silently, why didn't I try harder to learn the
truth!
"I guess I may as well tell you, it won't matter
anyway." He paused, took a deep breath and went to
collapse on the bed. "I never wanted to hurt mother,
I honestly didn't. But when I came back from
Claymore, told her what I'd learned about my
father, she got crazy. She ranted and raved about
him, said to leave him alone, he was the only man
she'd ever loved and she hadn't wanted to saddle
him with a crazy woman and a bastard son."
He saw her flinch, and nodded. "Yep, those are the
words she used, calling me a bastard. She never
loved me, never. I think she hated my being a
reminder of the man she'd loved and couldn't have.
I look kinda like him, don't I?"
"Yes, your eyes..."
"I told her that I was going to confront him, see if I
couldn't have one good parent. That set her off, and
she... I may as well admit what you've probably
figured out. She hit me all the time when I was little,
did things..." He stared sightlessly out the window
where rain lashed against the panes, finally clearing
his throat. "When I got in my teens, I told her if she
ever lay a hand on me again, I'd kill her. That
stopped her."
Chelsea could only imagine what that had done to
him emotionally, the cruelty of being beaten, always
at the mercy of a mentally ill mother.
He shrugged. "Whatever, it was just time I got out
for good. When I tried to explain it, that I wanted
to go to my father, she...uh, she...tried to beat me,
we struggled and...she threatened to call him, tell
him I was no good. It was just too much, I couldn't
handle it any longer. I had to, I just had to do what
I did. But I never dreamed the water hemlock would
cause such a disgusting death."
Chelsea was biting her lips, torn between compassion
at the abuse he'd suffered and horror at his
confession of having murdered his mother.
"Sure, it seemed like a clever way to poison her. But
ugh! After she ate it in the food I prepared,
she...started screaming with these terrific pains in
her abdomen, she wouldn't stay in bed, and she...got
to the closet over there, tore that burgundy dress
down...and then, she fell on the floor, her body going
stiff, lost control of her bladder, had convulsions."
He stood, ran a hand through his hair. "It went on
and on, those convulsions, horrible to watch. About
fifteen minutes later, while she was still twisting her
head, her teeth grinding together, blood started
seeping out of her ears! I was horrified, but I
couldn't quit watching...her body arching up, all her
senses gone, wild animal grunts and groans...then her
breathing got shallow, finally stopped and she fell
silent. It took over thirty minutes for her to die!"
Chelsea couldn't look at him. It was too shocking,
too graphic for her, sitting now in the same room
where this gruesome murder had occurred.
He coughed, walked over to the window, traced the
edge of the windowsill. "I'm ashamed I didn't read
how badly that stuff can treat a person. Even later,
her corpse swelled something awful, in the abdomen,
the face, a green froth foaming out of her mouth."
Chelsea tasted bile rising in her throat and fought
against the churning nausea in her stomach.
Long moments passed, the sound of the rain
slackening, far-off thunder rolling away. And then,
Michael came over to stand in front of her. "It
won't be like that for you. I'll make it easy,
painless."
A sob broke from her, her head spinning madly with
the stark truth: He was going to kill her and he
couldn't be stopped!
"You know, it was that awful death that got me to
thinking. I mean, I sat here afterward and I...it
struck me that mother wouldn't have been the way
she was if my father had of loved her, if he'd done
right by her. Maybe he did know about me, and just
chose ignore us? All kinds of vile thoughts got inside
my head, and...the longer they festered, the worse it
hurt. Eventually, it just seemed nothing could rid me
of those painful thoughts, not unless I could get rid
of who caused them. That's when I knew I had to
kill all of you, come forward later and claim the
inheritance to make up for all the misery I've had."
Chelsea felt her head shaking, couldn't prevent it,
didn't care if her words sent him into a blind rage.
"You killed two good people, two kind, caring
individuals and you didn't even give my father a
chance to explain his past actions!"
"That's easy for you to say, but I know how
despicable people can be, how they will lie and cheat,
how they will hurt you. Our father was no different;
he cheated on your mother, after all. If you'd been
with them, it would have all worked out. When it
didn't, I decided to try and lure you here...kill you in
a way that would look like an accident."
She realized he'd been waiting for the perfect
moment to attempt her murder and said quickly,
"How will you do that now?"
"Hey, I got a good plan; you won't suffer, that I'll
promise. See, I deliberately put you in the company
of Muriel and Brant, so that you could tell them you
planned to buy ForestWillow; they will agree that
you were going to invest in it. That way, after your
death, I'll just come forward and confess we were
half-brother and sister, produce my birth
certificate."
Chelsea saw his logic; it would appear she'd wanted
to restore the mansion because she'd learned of
their having the same father, who was also intending
on restoring the mansion. Dejected, she asked to be
taken to the bathroom and he obliged, but kept a
close watch, not allowing the slightest chance for
escape.
Back in the bedroom, he tied her in the chair, then
pulled out a roll of tape, began rolling off a length.
"I know you lied about that supernatural crap, and I
know it because I have searched the house
thoroughly and there's nothing here that could
produce those sounds and sensations. But it will
work to my advantage now, evidence of your
breakdown. Anyway, unless the Seatons are haunting
you, which I doubt, you are lying. I don't know why
I thought you might tell me the truth; you're just
like all women, liars."
Chelsea flinched as he leaned down near her with
the tape, begging, "Please don't, I'll be quiet."
He winked broadly. "Yeah, right, and I am supposed
to believe a liar?"
He secured the tape on her mouth, then her eyes
and said, "I'll be back tonight, and in the meantime,
you can just sit here and think about how if our
father hadn't been an adulterer this wouldn't be
happening."
Chelsea heard his footsteps retreating out of the
room, the door closing, and then silence. She gave
way to a moment of hysteria, fidgeting with her
arms, hands...only to realize that it was futile to
waste strength and energy on a pointless struggle.
She was tied up securely.
Yes, she acknowledged, Michael had been abused by
his mother and it had killed him as surely as he'd
killed her. His soul was a vast wasteland of
bitterness and tormented memories, a tortured,
troubled human being, the end result of a psyche
too fragile to withstand and survive such abusive
treatment. And the rage he'd suppressed, when it
did surface, was all-consuming and misdirected at
anyone and everyone. If he managed to get away
with killing her, she was sure she wouldn't be his last
victim.
She wondered what the strange sounds, eerie
sensations were she'd experienced? Had she been
on the verge of a breakdown? Or had Adriana's
spirit tried to contact her, warn her away from
Michael?
Regretfully she realized if she'd not been so
pragmatic, searching for logical reasons behind the
supernatural occurrences, heeded the warnings, she
could have avoided this ultimate fate.
However, as dark as her thoughts, as hopeless as
her situation seemed, she vowed not to give up
without a fight. And that is what kept her from
black despair, hoping for any chance of escape,
however slim it might be.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Chelsea spent the day in contemplation of how she
might be able to escape, should a chance present
itself. In spite of her growing certainty that Michael
would devise an almost fool-proof plan of action,
she nevertheless steeled herself for the coming
ordeal, a life-and-death struggle.
When college had proven difficult, the stresses and
pressures mounting and eating away at her
composure, Chelsea had taken a course in
meditation. It had served her well over the years,
and she now tapped into that reservoir of strength
by deep breathing, and visualizing her freedom.
Darkness proved to be her ally, the sightlessness of
the tape over her eyes enabling her to go deeper
and deeper into the well-spring of her inner being,
creating the tranquillity and aura of quietness,
stillness necessary to replenish and fortify her
energy.
During the transcendental phase of pure awareness,
instead of attaining the desired euphoric state,
Chelsea had an eerie sense of the ghostly presence
she'd known before. A woman's voice whispered to
her: "You will survive, you will survive..."
But upon resuming her own reality, Chelsea couldn't
be sure whether she'd actually heard that voice, or
if it was her innermost self preparing her for battle.
From then on, she listened to the creaking sounds of
the house as a series of thunderstorms passed
through, blocking out any noises Michael may have
been making downstairs. Tree limbs scraped the
house, and an occasional gust of wind rattled the
windows; torrential downpours were ceaseless,
causing Chelsea to imagine how flooded Black River
and the surrounding low-lying land would be soon.
When Michael came striding into the room, he
announced, "It's almost time for our rendezvous,
dear sister."
He ripped the tape off her, and she gasped as it
stung worse the second time around. She was
alarmed at how crazed his eyes were, and noted the
dirt-smudged khaki pants and shirt he had on, his
knee-high boots soiled with mud.
A sly grin teased at his lips, and he said, "I look like
a ditch-digger, huh?"
Chelsea smoothly replied, "Or grave-digger."
He laughed, a sharp bark, then clapped his hands.
"I'm glad you still have a sense of humor, sis."
She forced a thin smile, trying to swallow the tight
knot of fear in her dry throat.
He leaned against the desk, and pulled a gun from
his waistband, began telling her about his plans to
leave the country if ever necessary, via Mexico. He
bragged that he'd be long gone when and if old
Brant ever was able to prove anything on him, which
he doubted. Just a drive across Texas to the
Mexican border, slip over there and then, in a few
months, off to Europe for plastic surgery to change
his appearance, kidding, "Hey, even if they put me on
'America's Most Wanted,' my mug will be different
by then."
Chelsea asked, "One thing I don't understand, about
you planning to murder us all, me and my parents.
How could you be sure you'd get the inheritance?"
"It's easy, real easy."
She looked at the darkening windows, wanted to
keep him talking and asked, "Oh, how so?"
"If you'd been along on that trip, I'd have shown up
later with my birth certificate, said my mother had
confessed the truth when she read of the murders,
and claimed the inheritance. I got a copy of my birth
certificate after mother told me about him, and
Troy Seymour's name is on it as my father."
Chelsea wanted to scream at his stony indifference,
the cold way he stared at her as though she were
nothing more than an inanimate object. How could he
be so devoid of emotion? His moods swung from
wildly out of control, then back to this aloof
indifference...keeping her confused and off-balance.
He continued dispassionately: "As for now, you are
going to write a suicide note, in a few minutes, and in
it you will explain how you found out we are half-
brother and sister, how your father had known of
my existence but never helped me or my mother.
And what with your depression over their deaths,
and learning how cruel he was to us, then hearing all
those strange things here, you just couldn't go on,
felt you were having a mental breakdown, decided
to commit suicide and you want all your inheritance
to go to me."
"Isn't that risky? Don't you think the authorities will
check into it?"
"Hey, they are not that smart, and besides they
won't be able to prove anything. Brant might get on
my case, but even he won't have proof. Oh, they
may hassle me, but when your body turns up in Black
River...and I'm sick with grief, plus worried about my
poor mother in an institution... "
"And that's another thing," she interrupted, "how
will you continue the charade of your mother being
alive?"
"I'll work it out later, but first I will get that
inheritance, which should be mine."
She asked, "And you really don't give a damn about
saving ForestWillow?"
He shook his head, said, "Not now. If you'd been
sincere, really wanted to be part of my life, I might
have spared you, given us a chance to get close, save
this old wreck, see how generous you would be with
your money."
Somehow though, Chelsea knew that was an
impossibility; he was intent on having all the
inheritance, and would have never been content to
share it.
As he stared at her, he suddenly grimaced. "I should
have avoided all this hassle with you, just went
ahead and killed you earlier but...I sorta liked you,
kept waiting for the right timing...and that canoe
fiasco, what a mess! Anyway, all that's water under
the bridge, but things will work out even better
now."
He lowered the gun, said sternly, "Okay, sweet
sister, I am going to keep your hands bound, but I'll
untie your legs, allow you to walk."
Chelsea became alert, hoping for an opportunity to
escape. She squirmed around, looked at him, said,
"Michael, why don't you undo my hands too, I need
to use the bathroom."
He gave a curt nod. "You'll have to write the note
anyway, and it's a long ways to... Yeah, I'll take you
in the bathroom when we get to the bottom of the
stairs."
She watched him carefully undo her ropes, letting
her stand and it was such a relief, she sighed
gratefully, her feet and legs almost numb from
sitting so long.
Then he guided her across the room, down the
hallway and stairs, and she felt the point of the gun
in her back as he stopped her at the bathroom,
stated flatly, "Don't try anything and I won't have
to use this gun."
"Michael, please!"
"I'll stand right here, so don't get any bright ideas."
Reluctantly, she went into the tiny bathroom, then
saw him turn his head slightly away as she relieved
herself. She frantically looked around for anything
to divert his attention, but there was little she could
do with him only a few feet away, a gun in his hand.
When finished, he marched her out of the bathroom,
down the hallway and into the kitchen, where she
saw he had laid out pen and paper for her suicide
note.
As he shoved her down on the chair, he yanked one
arm up behind her in a hard twist, causing her to
scream out. He eased up a bit, said flatly, "Now
write what I say, exactly what I say."
The whole process took no more than ten minutes,
and with each stroke of the pen, Chelsea ached to
leave a message, some sign of being forced into
writing the fake note...but he was breathing down
her neck, peering over her shoulder watching each
word form.
With the note written, he advised, "Now hold the
paper up, that's right. Make sure you get your
fingerprints all over it, and...oh yes, fold it and put it
right over there, between the salt and pepper
shakers."
She did as he commanded, asking, "I thought you
told Brant we were going to New Orleans?"
"I did, but I'll just say you wouldn't go, so I went
by myself and when I came back, you'd left this
note...and I couldn't find you anywhere."
Chelsea wondered briefly if Brant would ever buy
that story; he'd probably never stop trying to prove
something on Michael. However, she had told him of
the strange sounds...and though he'd professed to
not doubt her sanity, she wondered if perhaps in
time, Brant wouldn't convince himself she'd been so
emotionally disturbed by her parents' death and
learning of Michael being a half -brother, that she
did kill herself.
Michael tied both her hands again, and she simply
had no recourse but to go along, out the door, down
the back steps and then he pushed her toward the
cellar where the door stood open, the thin light from
the bare bulb lighting the stairwell.
The ground was soggy, her feet miring down in the
muddy earth as she walked in front of him, feeling
the gun at her back. A light misty rain was falling,
and as she stood at the entrance to the cellar, she
looked up at the low-scudding thunderclouds,
nightfall deep and dark now, the yard beyond
obscured in thick ground fog. She wondered if this
would be her last glimpse of freedom, of life...
"I need to get something in there, let's go down."
When she hesitated, he commanded sharply, "Go on,
get down there!" poking the gun in her ribs for
emphasis.
She started down the steps, him beside her, and
then she made her move, sticking out her foot to
trip Michael. Pitching down, falling, he shouted,
"Damn you!"
Chelsea swiveled around, pounded up the steps, was
out on the ground, running, yelling at the top of her
lungs, "Help me, help me...somebody please help me!"
Her blood-curdling screams, louder and louder,
piercing the night, shattering the quiet.
Suddenly she felt hands on her shoulders, yanking
her backwards, and she was falling, falling down into
the wet earth, her body smacking into the squishy
mud, Michael straddling her and grasping her throat
with deadly hands, choking, choking...the breath of
life going out of her...
"Damn you! Damn you!" he seethed, finally loosening
his grip, but back-handing her hard across the face,
yanking her by the hair and pulling her forcibly to
her feet. "Don't try that again, and I mean it!"
Blindly she stumbled along, him half-dragging, half-
carrying her to the cellar, down the steps, shoving
her roughly into the dark, dank basement, his voice
dispassionate: "You are making me hurt you."
Now Chelsea couldn't hold back the tears, and felt
them welling up, falling down her face, mingling with
mud and the warm blood trickling from her nose.
"Michael, please, I'm begging you, don't kill me,
please don't."
He shoved her hard again, and she staggered
backwards, pleading, "Please don't..."
Michael glowered at her, his face grim, impassive as
he said flatly, "Shut up. I need to get the shovel and
I..."
Chelsea saw his eyes widen, his mouth fall open. He
was looking behind her toward the rear wall, and she
turned to see what had alarmed him.
At first, she didn't see anything back there, at the
walled up doorway...but then, gradually, slowly, she
began to make out a peculiar white smoky haze that
was swirling near the bottom, rising like a fog,
shaping itself into a woman's image, a voice she
vaguely recognized saying, "Son, don't. Son...you
can't kill this innocent girl. I...won't...let....you.
I've...come...back for you..."
Michael was pale, his body visibly shaking; his hands
were trembling, and the one holding the gun fell
numbly to his side. He had his eyes riveted to the
ghostly white image, and moved backwards,
stumbling and mumbling incoherently as it started
flowing toward him, softly, softly swirling through
the cellar, flooding the area with cold air, the
woman's voice whispering, "Run girl, run...I have
come to help you. I...tried to warn you, the music
box, the crying woman was me, Adriana, and the
little boy was Michael...the piano I played for you,
and I...we're doomed, but you...run girl!"
Chelsea moved then, coming alive to flatten herself
against the wall, edge past Michael, who now seemed
frozen and awe-struck by what he was witnessing,
unable to speak or move.
She was behind him now, not daring to hardly
breathe, racing up the steps and never looking back,
outside now, feeling the rain on her face as she
sprinted off toward the deep woods, heading for
the forest path that would take her to Innisfree.
Chelsea stopped at the live oak, peering through the
fog, taking one last look back at the looming dark
hulk of ForestWillow. She could see the light shining
up from the cellar entrance, and heard a high-
pitched shriek that made the hair on her neck rise
and chills run down her spine.
She ran then, ran for her life through the forest,
her feet slipping and sliding on the wet, mushy
ground, stumbling and crying, ducking and dodging
the tree limbs that clutched at her in the darkness,
her breathing labored as she rounded the last bend,
saw the welcoming amber glow of lights in Brant's
cottage...
CHAPTER TWENTY
Breathless, Chelsea kicked at the door to the
cottage, screaming, "Brant, are you in there? Help
me, it's Chelsea!"
In seconds the door was jerked open, and Brant
stood there, his dark face shadowed by unshaven
beard stubble. "Chelsea, what..."
She fell into his arms, crying, muttering, "He,
oh...he...I thought I was going to die!"
Brant lifted her up in his strong arms, carried her to
the sofa, asking in an alarmed voice, "Chelsea, what
on earth...what's this? Your hands are tied behind
you! What's going on?"
Chelsea was sobbing, almost incoherent, her face
buried in his chest, and he held her against him,
soothing, "It's okay, you're safe now...I'm here, it's
going to be fine."
She looked up at him, and even amidst the turmoil
and confusion, she knew she had to tell him, it was
that urgent: "Brant, I love you, I'm in love with you."
His dark eyes filled with a tender light, and he wiped
her face softly with the edge of his shirt. "I love
you too...but what's this all about, what's
happened?"
Only then could she plunge into the details of what
she'd been through, and as he gently untied her
hands, rubbing her sore wrists with loving concern,
his eyes grew stormy, his face tightening with fury.
"I knew it, I knew your were in danger! Where is he,
I'll find him...darling, I should have been there for
you!"
"You couldn't have known this would happen now, or
how it would come about. Brant, he killed my parents
and his mother! He's my half-brother, but...oh,
Brant, he needs help, he needs to be stopped from
harming others."
"And he's still over there, you left him in the
basement?"
She nodded mutely as Brant got a towel and began
gently wiping her face, his fingers softly touching
the bruises at her neck, checking her nose to see it
wasn't broken. His face went pale with shock at how
close he'd come to losing her. "God, Chelsea, if he'd
killed you, my life would have been over."
She moaned, feeling his strength support her, telling
him yet again, "Brant, I love you so much, I should
have told you that night..."
"It's okay, I could feel your love darling. We'll work
everything out soon, but right now we need to do
something about Michael. "
She cried, "Please don't hurt him!"
He had the phone in his hand. "I'll get dad and we'll
go over there."
"Don't go alone, just you and him. Get the
authorities, get help." Chelsea grabbed his arm,
cautioned, "Brant, he's dangerous, he could kill you
both! He's got a small handgun, and there's that
shotgun somewhere..."
Brant started dialing, said, "I'll call Chief Henderson
and he'll meet us over there."
After he'd talked with him, Brant wrapped her in a
blanket, got her some brandy and sat with her on
the sofa, letting her tell him all she'd learned, ending
with the strange apparition in the cellar...Michael's
mother, Adriana, helping her escape and saying she'd
tried to warn Chelsea of the danger.
Brant did not dispute her supernatural experience,
instead only held her close, said huskily, "Darling,
if...if you'd not survived, I...there' s no way I could
have lived with myself. Just tonight, I thought I
heard your screams, but convinced myself it was my
imagination. After what you told me, to leave you
alone, to let you take care of yourself, I restrained
myself from intervening, afraid I'd lose you for
good if I did."
She leaned into his warm, loving embrace, and told
him, ''Michael said you were leaving on business."
"I planned to, but for some reason, I couldn't make
myself go. I thought I might wait till you and he got
back from New Orleans and persuade you to see me
again."
A car horn sounded, and he got up. "That's dad.
Come on, you are going over to the main house, stay
with mother. I'm not leaving you here unprotected
until I know exactly where Michael is."
She was too weak, too afraid to protest and went
willingly to Innisfree, accepted graciously Mrs.
Langston's kindly ministrations. Chelsea found
Brant's mother was still beautiful, had retained the
dark beauty of her youth well into middle-age and
yet had the most unassuming manner, a soothing
maternal nature, which calmed her greatly.
It was around midnight when Brant and his father
returned, and Chelsea saw from the look on Brant's
face that something was terribly wrong. He held her
close, said, "Darling, it's...too late. Michael, I'm
afraid he couldn't deal with what he saw in the
cellar, or what he'd done to his mother and your
parents. He hanged himself up in the attic, from one
of the rafters."
Chelsea felt the tears hot in her eyes, her voice
thick with pain, "Oh no! Oh, if only...he was so
disturbed, but he...needed professional help,
needed...love, care. Brant," she sobbed, "he was my
brother!"
"I know, I know." He held her, let her cry, and then
they walked back to the cottage, where she finally
managed to calm down and allow Brant to persuade
her to stay overnight with him.
And after a long, warm bath, she felt better able to
cope with what tomorrow would bring - the
sensational head-lines about Michael and what he'd
done. Chief Henderson suspected that Adriana's
body was buried in the basement underneath the
main house, causing some of the putrid stench she'd
smelled in there. Three murders, almost four, all
committed by Michael...
Wearily, Chelsea lay wrapped in Brant's loving arms,
hoping to gain enough strength from him and get
enough rest to face what the future would bring.
EPILOGUE
Chelsea loved the slow arrival of autumn at
Innisfree, because October was the beginning of
cooler breezes, the end of the suffocating heat of
summer, a time of bright blue skies and beautiful
wild flowers, Queen Anne's lace, wild aster, joe-pye
weed and the cool sweet smell of wild clematis and
tea olive in the air. It was as lovely this year as it
had been last year, when she and Brant were
married in the gardens of Innisfree, Chelsea
reflected, feeling wondrous joy upon the first
anniversary of their wedding.
She stood on the patio behind the cottage, and
looked toward where the forest had once been, the
trees now thinned, granting a glimpse of
ForestWillow's rooftop and massive structure. It
had been remodeled to update and lessen its more
unattractive features during the last year-and-half,
the name changed to Haven House, and currently
provided a non-profit shelter for abused children.
Brant came around the cottage, a favorite pigeon on
his finger, letting the bird go as he approached
where she stood. He embraced her, exclaiming,
"Happy Anniversary, Mrs. Langston!"
"Happy Anniversary yourself Brant!"
"Are you happy darling?" he asked, searching her
face anxiously.
"Yes, I am now. It was difficult at first, trying to
understand what happened to Michael. But after I
did all that research, wrote the series of articles on
childhood abuse victims, talked to so many survivors,
I do finally understand. It's a plague in this country,
maybe even the world, a disgrace how we allow our
children to be victimized. I just hope the articles
helped bring it out in the open more, so it can be
stopped."
Brant touched her face, kissed her lightly. "You did
win another award for the series, so I think it made
some headway. You know Chelsea, dad is relieved
you agreed to take over the Camile Gazette, be the
publisher/editor. He never really wanted that to be
a retirement project, much rather be golfing. I think
he's finally quit trying to prove his worth to this
town."
She smiled up at him, held his hand. "And I'm
delighted with the challenge, hope to make it an
outstanding newspaper someday. Muriel has already
gotten recognition for us as staff photographer.
She really has talent in that area."
"Yes, and now that she has a fulfilling career, she
has accepted that Lenore's death was a tragic
accident."
They looked toward Haven House, and he said, "I
admit you had a good idea about the mansion,
turning it into a haven for abuse victims, a place
they can come and be safe from harm, get
counseling."
"I wanted to do something constructive, something
useful about the problem, and putting most of my
inheritance into it helped me deal with the pain of
Michael's life and death, the loss of my parents.
But..."
"Yes darling?"
"I guess we'll never know if my father was aware
of Michael's existence, or if he even knew Adriana
was pregnant. I tend to think she kept it to herself,
but then...those things happen. Father was away on
business in New Orleans during the first year of my
birth. My mother was absorbed by a new baby,
and...Adriana was a beautiful, seductive woman..."
"Chelsea, don't torture yourself with trying to
understand why or how that affair happened. You've
done the best you can, and something positive has
come from it all, the haven."
She stared at it, knowing that at least it was a
legacy she could take pride in. "Brant, child abuse is
so insidious, it keeps being repeated over and over in
generation after generation...even Michael was
beginning the pattern of hurting others because he'd
been hurt. He referred to Adriana being beaten by
her mother; and with Adriana's manic-depressive
illness, that kind of abuse as a child, instead of
medical attention and compassion, turned her into a
cruel, abusive mother. In my article, 'Season Of The
Serpent,' I made an analogy of the abuse being like
a serpent that is capable of poisoning generation
after generation if the pattern isn't acknowledged
and broken.
"You're right, but that's the aim of Haven House, to
end the cycle of suffering by intervention. People
have to realize that childhood abuse affects us all,
either individually through those we know who are
victims, or as a society afflicted by rampant crime
and murders sometimes committed by abuse victims
unable to cope with their devastating childhoods."
Brant put his arm around her, and they walked
across the patio as he said, "Dad and I were glad to
contribute to the project, because we felt guilty for
not being more aggressive in the past, not
intervening with Michael."
"That's because in the past, abuse has been so
difficult to end, not just by well-meaning individuals,
but by social agencies too. It is changing though,
slowly but surely."
He nodded, musing aloud, "And now that the house
serves a useful purpose, it seems that Adriana's
spirit has been laid to rest along with her body."
Chelsea shuddered, and he held her a moment as
they paused to look across the woods to Haven
House. "It was an experience I'd never want to
repeat, but she...or rather, her restless spirit, saved
my life. I suppose I have a bit of a psychic gift, but
I feel nothing now, no ghostly presence in Haven
House. I believe Adriana and Michael must be
satisfied with what we have accomplished in their
memory.
Arm in arm, they entered the cottage and Brant
lifted her off the floor, his voice husky, "What say
we celebrate our first happy year of marriage,
darling?"
Her answer was lost in his passionate kiss as he
carried her up the stairs to their bedroom.
The End
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