“By their mother? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch her name.”
“Grace Molineaux. What it was like is Lizzie Borden. Did she do it or was it a prowler? Now I myself wasn’t around at the time, David. I’m not quite that ancient. I’m going back to a childhood recollection of conversations about an event that took place before I was born. I believe everybody thought she did it but had no proof. And she came from good family, good old French Huguenot stock, and people sympathized with her over losing her husband. So she was never charged with the murders.”
“And she went on living alone like Lizzie Borden? While children taunted her with rhymes?”
“If she did, it wasn’t for long. She killed herself. They found her hanging from a rope. Or did she take the gas pipe? It’s one or the other, it seems to me. Either way she killed herself.”
“Which amounted to an admission of guilt for the murder of her children, I gather.”
“Do you suppose it did? You could also take it that she was despondent. Had nothing to live for what with her husband and kids all gone. They argued it both ways but it seems to me I grew up more or less taking it for granted that she killed those babies.”
“And it happened in our house?”
“Might have.” She shrugged majestically. “I knew which house it was when I was a child,” she said. “It was pointed out to me. I recall that it was a big old red-brick house and it seems to me it was on that block and it might have been the same house you’re living in today. But they might have pointed out the wrong house to me or my memory might be at fault or any of a hundred other things. You could find out if you wanted.”
“How?”
“Check the deed registry in the county clerk’s office. Nate Howard’ll help you out if you mention my name. He’s an old friend. Wait a moment, that might not help. I think Molineaux might have been her maiden name and the house would have been registered to the sea captain. Or maybe not. Now if you were to go over to the Post-Courier they’ll have back issues into the last century, and they could probably help you.”
“I don’t think it’s worth the trouble, do you?”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I frankly don’t. But if Grace Molineaux lived and died in your house, well, it kind of adds up, don’t it? A woman grieving for a child is going to be sensitive to the vibrations of a woman who lost four children under the same roof. Unless you don’t believe any of that crap in the first place.”
“All of a sudden I’m having trouble figuring out what I believe and what I don’t believe.”
“Well, congratulations! I think somebody said that’s the beginning of wisdom.”
“You mean there’s hope for me, Etta?”
“Hope for us all, or so I’m told. Want some advice from a fat old lady? Your Roberta’s having a bad time. That’s perfectly natural. Be surprising if she weren’t, all in all. You go home and tell her the house is listed for sale. That way she’ll think you’re taking some steps to solve the problem. It’ll be that much of a load off her mind. Meantime I won’t list the house at all. Or I’ve a better idea. I’ll list it, but I’ll put it on the card at ninety-five. Nothing against your house, it’s a fine property, but the fool hasn’t been born yet who’s going to pay ninety-five thousand for it or even ask to go through it at that figure. And if he turns up, well, maybe you wouldn’t mind making that kind of a profit on the transaction, or would you?”
“Not at all.”
“Fine. So the house’ll be listed, and if Roberta ever happens to check you won’t turn out a liar. But it won’t sell and you won’t have to move and as soon as she works things out in her mind and comes to terms with her life, then you can take the house back off the market. How does that sound?”
“It sounds good, Etta.”
“Just because a house is haunted is no reason to move out of it,” she said. “The hell, it’s less lonely that way.”
Later that day he felt vaguely dissatisfied and wondered why. It seemed illogical that he should be bothered at deceiving Roberta; the deception was harmless enough, and was designed to help put her mind at ease.
Perhaps it was the story Etta Jellin had told. It was preposterous that such a solid earthy woman could actually believe in haunted houses, and her belief became all the more convincing for her general air of no-nonsense earthiness.
Not terribly good, he thought. Willow was all too obviously there just to rhyme with pillow. The bit about Lizzie Borden might also be doggerel, but at least it was good doggerel.
That was better. A shame he couldn’t share it with Roberta, but if one thing was certain it was that he could not say Word One to Roberta about Grace Molineaux and her claim to infamy.
Not that he felt there was more than a chance in a hundred that the woman had actually lived in their house. Of course it was possible, just as it was possible that Grace herself was the subject of the portrait Ariel seemed to be so fond of. Under normal circumstances that was the sort of thing Roberta would have enjoyed believing.
But circumstances had not been normal for quite some time now.
No, this was something he couldn’t possibly risk mentioning to Roberta.
Eighteen
When Ariel got out of bed that morning her night table was centered under the portrait of the woman with the rose. Its top was empty except for the jar lid. The candle stub had burned down to less than half an inch. A burnt match lay in a pool of congealed wax at the side of the candle.
She moved quickly, putting the candle away, returning her table to its usual position, replacing her clock and lamp on top of it. Then, hesitantly, she looked up at the portrait.
Evidently she had awakened in the middle of the night to go through the candle ritual again. But she couldn’t remember any of it. As far as she could recall, she hadn’t even dreamed during the night. The last thing she recalled was lying in bed on the verge of sleep.
Maybe she had gotten up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. Sometimes that happened and she’d go and come back and be half asleep, barely able to remember it the next day.
But this was different, wasn’t it? Whatever woke her, whatever got her out of bed, she’d evidently gone through a whole ritual with the candle, moving furniture and lighting a match and doing God-knew-what while the candle burned. She looked at the portrait again, trying to learn something from the woman’s compelling gaze, but it didn’t help. Her memory was blank and it frightened her.
Was that all she had done? Just light a candle and go through some mental hocus-pocus number?
Or had she left her room?
She dressed and left it now, walking directly to the bathroom, hurrying past the closed door of Caleb’s room. She washed up, brushed her teeth, used the toilet. In the hallway, she cocked her head and listened. David and Roberta were both downstairs.
She walked to Caleb’s door, stood outside it for a moment. Her hand settled on the doorknob, hesitated. She turned the knob, drew a breath, opened the door.
The room was untouched. Everything was as it had been when Roberta last straightened it. Caleb’s fish mobile remained in place over the crib.