I swiveled my chair toward the file cabinet behind me, resolute in proving I could live without this vampire and her companions, thank you. I'd come to love them-mostly-for they were the only family I had, but I was ready to make my own way without their interference. Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
Behind me, I heard the rustling of her dress and felt the breeze from the door she didn't need to open. "Believe what you like, Andrea, but you'll be trying to find me within the week. I know where Billy Tripplehorn is."
Of course I turned around to gawk at her! But she'd evaporated, leaving the door wide open in her wake. Only her disembodied voice remained.
"He's one of us now, you see," she finished with a giggle. "Billy has a lot to learn, but who wouldn't want him for a student?"
Chapter 10: Carried Away
I'll say this for Nat Dammet: he put on a funeral like Redemption had never seen. Not only did he make Harold Legg appear regal and wise, in a casket lined with purple velvet, he somehow elevated the magistrate's reputation to almost heroic status. Amazing what an undertaker who's been scared witless can do with a little makeup and some positive gossip.
Although the judge didn't attend services at St. Mary's, Father Dominic gave a glowing eulogy for the man who'd served as "a lighthouse on the town's stormy seas." It was probably the biggest congregation the priest had ever seen, for everyone in town came. But by the time we interred Judge Legg, next to Lucy's fresh grave, the raw wind had people murmuring about the cold…among other things.
"Mighty strange, the way things've been happenin'," the woman in front of me muttered to her husband. "Weren't that long ago when Harry caught Miss Lucy and that Tripplehorn boy goin' at it, and she turned up dead. Now he's gone, too. Somethin' ain't right."
Her man gazed over the crowd, toward the hillside where the mansion once sat. "Yep, cain't put my finger on it, but things is differ'nt, all right. Things ain't what they used to be."
Virgil Furmeister stood like a silent sentinel during the service. Such remarks made him glance my way with a strained expression, as though he blamed me for the incidents in Nat Dammet's work room. In his tight cap and an overcoat that swelled over his belly, he might've been a bowling pin still quivering after one close to him had been struck down by the black ball of fate.
I focused on the priest, intoning his benediction over the open grave. What else could I do? Miss Pink and her two cohorts had always been beyond my control. Hadn't I suffered my share of loss, as well?
I wouldn't whine about losing my home and my lover-my innocence and basic beliefs-to those wicked women, however. These salt-of-the-earth folks suffered no nonsense about vampires. It was against their religion. So Virgil and Nat would be taking the truth about Harold Legg's final moments to their own graves-another dark secret festering beneath the benign surface of this quiet Pennsylvania town.
The crowd dispersed quickly. It was too damn cold for lingering in the cemetery, and the ladies were hostessing a funeral lunch. It would've been the best meal I'd eaten for days, but I passed. Despite the camaraderie of the crowd, I was feeling very much the outsider. Why, I don't know-I'd worked among these people as Alex Moore for more than a decade. Perhaps my sense of alienation was the result of the dual identity I'd hidden behind for so long.
I entered my office, and knew someone had been there: an old brass key on a faded red ribbon awaited me on my desk. An eerie vibration went up my arm when I picked it up. Years of handling wills and estates told me it would open a safety deposit box-but why was it here?
Were Furmeister and Dammet playing a trick? Would there be a nasty surprise related to Harry Legg's death when I opened the box? I had visions of body parts the mortician lopped off, as payment for my role in that episode between Miss Pink and the magistrate-even though I couldn't be held responsible. I considered tucking the key away, until the aftermath of the judge's funeral had worn off, but the prickling at the nape of my neck had me heading for the bank.
I presented the key to Miss Pritchard, and the prune-faced teller nodded her usual greeting. "Number thirteen?" she queried. "My gracious, that box was rented back when we first built the bank. I don't believe it's been opened since."
Constance blinked behind her spectacles, expecting me to elaborate. She'd been the keeper of these keys since she started work here as a young woman.
"Confidential estate business," I stated. "I'll need the little viewing room, please."
"Of course, Mr. Moore." If she noticed I was trembling when she slid the box from its slot into my outstretched hands, she knew better than to remark.
Once the door was shut, I sat down at the small table, my fingers lingering on the box's latch. My gut told me this was a highly personal journey…which might lead to things I didn't want to know. Sometimes our orphans' parents had put personal items in deposit boxes, to be opened upon their deaths. And sometimes our charges-if they survived the three vampires-had been happier before seeing these gifts.
I bit my lip and swung the lid up. The box held the usual assortment of manilla envelopes, but on top of them was a bundle of blue deposit books for First National Bank of Redemption, tied in the same faded red ribbon as the key. I wondered idly if anyplace in the world had a Second National Bank, but that was my nerves racing ahead of my timid fingers.
When I opened the top book, the words ALEXANDREA MOORE, DECEMBER 17, 1875 addressed me in a tidy script. I was six months old then…couldn't imagine who'd started an account in my name. And when I turned to the first page, the single entry made me gasp.
One hundred thousand dollars.
The next deposit book was identical to this first one-as was the next book, and the next. I opened them with my mouth hanging open. The accounts had been set up this way to comply with the bank's insurance, but my Lord, there were EIGHT of them! That meant that with interest accrued over thirty-five years, why-I must have nearly- I couldn't believe the figure my crazed brain came up with! Quickly I retied the ribbon and tucked the books into my suit coat pocket, to review when my sanity returned. With fingers that trembled so hard the old paper tore, I opened the next envelope and my breath caught again. I'd never seen the handsome man smiling at me from the sepia-toned photograph, but God, I knew him. I only had to look into his soft brown eyes, at the way his thick, dark hair defied his comb, before I let out a soft sob.
It was my father.
This, too, I tucked away for later-my heart was beating so hard I had to take several deep breaths to keep from passing out. Thoughts of Constance Pritchard having to revive me kept me focused on the remaining contents of the box.
The next document was the deed for that tract on the hillside…with descriptions of the mansion, the orphanage-which had started as a community school-and the stables. I let out a short laugh. Who would've guessed little Alexandrea owned that estate free and clear before she was a year old? Which meant Pandora, Perfidia or Miss Pink had acquired it-probably by devious means-when she'd done in my daddy. All my life I'd felt like a poor relation, yet I owned the most picturesque property in town!
The last envelope was small, of ivory vellum, and I swore I caught a whiff of ghostly perfume as I pulled out the letter. I unfolded it, read, "My Dearest Alexandrea," and knew it was from my mother. This, too, I slipped into my pocket, before I succumbed to emotional overload. Thanking Miss Pritchard, I retrieved my key and then hurried back to my office. I locked the door.
Brandy from the flask in my back room filled a snifter: this would be no ordinary revelation. For thirty-five years I'd wondered who I was and where I'd come from; now, after losing everything and everyone that mattered to her, Alexandrea Moore was about to find herself. The liquor pooled hot and sweet in my stomach. I propped the likeness of my father on my desk, and then unfolded my mother's letter with hands that could barely hold the pages.