Blackvine Manor Mystery (4 page)

G
EORGE CARLETON SWEEPS SILENTLY
TOWARDS the laundry room door, giving himself the chills through the viewfinder of his camera. The dramatic shot is ruined when he steps on a paper cup and he hops along trying to shake it loose from his shoe.

“Apparently the coroner drank a lot of coffee,” he says to the camera as he pans across the laundry room, wishing it looked more like a crime scene.

A single shop light aims at the broken up floor in the corner. Rubble was taken out and placed in a pile against the far wall. Of course the coroner was a thorough and methodical excavator.

“At least there’s dust,” George mutters as he picks up a ghostly tracking shot of footprints on the cement floor.

He then sets up the camera on a tripod facing the corner and goes to turn off the light. As the basement room falls into darkness, he crosses his fingers and kisses them for luck.

Hitting the record button, he starts to narrate. “Delia Charles met her fate over 50 years ago in this very room though the circumstances of her death remain a mystery to this day. Ever since her tragedy, residents here have reported paranormal activity, some even claiming to see the figure of a woman descending the stairwell. No one could explain why most of the activity centered in this laundry room until just days ago when her body was discovered here, buried under the cement floor.”

Happy with his piece, George sits down on the floor to eat a candy bar and wait. Three hours and ten vantage points later, he gets up and packs away the camera. Back upstairs in his apartment he settles in to listen to the audio in hopes of hearing Electronic Voice Phenomenon. Slumping down lower and lower on his saggy couch, he falls asleep with the headphones still in place.

At 3 a.m. a voice startles him awake. “Darling!”

Scrubbing his eyes and holding on to his dream of a blue-eyed brunette, George slowly realizes what happened. In his excitement he jumps up only to be yanked painfully back down onto the saggy couch by the cord of the headphones. He recovers quickly and flails to reposition the headphones when he hears the voice again.

“My deal!”

The whispered excitement of the voice is not coming from the headphones and George freezes. Across the short studio, his camera on the tripod turns on with a musical beep. He watches the red flashing of the record button start as the camera turns itself and focuses out the window. His heart starts thumping so hard he puts a hand tightly over it both to muffle its sound and to keep it in his chest.

George works up the courage to stand, trying to ignore the icy slide of fear down his spine as he slowly moves across the hardwood floor to the camera. The viewfinder is open and he sees two faint mists flow together near the old fountain in the courtyard.

When he hits rewind and plays it again a voice rings out. “Darling!”

A
LEXIS OPENS HER DOOR
AND pushes Maxwell into the hallway. He may be the landlord and deliciously handsome but the skeptical sneer on his face is enough to make her give him another shove.

“Maybe you’re just the only person here who would see a crack in the cement floor and decide to go digging around in it.” Maxwell brushes off the front of his sports coat.

“I’m not the only one around here who has seen the figure of a woman. You’re telling me nothing strange has ever happened to you here?” Alexis hears the sound of a door opening around the corner of the apartment hallway.

“Thought they saw. There is no proof.”

“And I suppose my word is just not good enough for you.” She advances on him with an angry stomp.

Maxwell backs away, hands up. “We’re not that close . . . yet. What are you going to do, curse me?”

“I’m not a witch!”

“Really?” he says with an impish grin. “Then stop putting a spell on me.”

“You are cursed,” Alexis slaps at his lapel and tries to swallow a smile, “charmless troll.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay tonight? Make sure the boogey man plays nice?” Maxwell turns the corner.

“Nice try. And don’t worry, I know exactly how I’m going to prove what happened to me was real.” Alexis peeks around Maxwell and calls out, “George? You busy tonight?”

George inches out of his open door, pushing a hand through his wild, curly hair and accidentally knocking his glasses on the hallway floor.

“Oh, I see,” Maxwell says quietly to Alexis. “Trying to make me jealous?”

She rolls her eyes and pushes past him to talk to George. “I’ve been meaning to ask you more about your hobby. What kind of paranormal research do you do?”

Maxwell throws up his hands in disgust and strides off down the hallway, turning to wave as he descends the stairs. George doesn’t know what to say, unsure if she is serious.

“Really, George, I’m serious. I want to know.” She drops her voice before continuing. “I saw Delia’s ghost. That’s how I knew to go to the laundry room. She led me there and I found her body. Am I going crazy?”

George puts on his glasses and pushes them up his nose. “Want to see something crazy? Last night my camera equipment turned on all by itself and recorded the courtyard. You tell me what you see.”

He opens the door to his apartment, the mirror image of her studio directly across the courtyard. Alexis walks in, gingerly stepping over all the cords and extra recording equipment. George stumbles around and leads her to the tripod and camera near the window. He tips the viewfinder towards her and presses play.

Alexis watches as two separate columns of mist form near the courtyard fountain. The recording doesn’t have high volume but she clearly hears a voice call out, “Darling!”

She turns to George and asks, “Do you think ‘my deal’ could be a nickname for Delia?”

“You heard that? Where? I didn’t see any other EVPs on the recording.” George grabs for the camera.

Alexis steps back. “Wait, you didn’t hear that?”

“Actually I did; last night before the camera turned itself on. But you just heard it now? Are you clairaudient? Clairvoyant? A psychic medium?”

“Whoa, slow down. I have no idea. Ever since I moved in to Blackvine Manor I’ve been hearing things. I see things too but more like faint impressions, or… I don’t know how to describe it.”

George is listening intently, so Alexis sits down and tells him everything. “The night I found Delia Charles’ body, I was reading a book on extrasensory abilities left to me by my mother. It was a chapter on using meditation to open and control channels of communication. Next thing I know Delia is leading me to the laundry room and, well, the rest is tabloids.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t believe the whole ‘strung out drug addict’ story. Not to be all conspiracy theory, but it seems like someone is trying to keep you quiet.”

Alexis nods. “There’s no ‘seems like’ about it.”

George hops up and starts rearranging his cameras. “How do you feel about trying that whole meditation thing again and seeing what you pick up here? I saw a psychic medium, Alice Manetti, at a séance and I could try to help coach you through it.”

Alexis runs back to her apartment to grab the book and pauses before grabbing a bottle of wine. When she gets back to George’s and plunks the bottle down on his dinette table, the tips of his ears start to turn pink.

“Don’t think I’m forward,” she assures him, “I just thought it might help take the edge off.”

He shuffles into his kitchen to search for clean glasses and Alexis opens the book. Her mother’s notes cover the margins on every page; she used it as a reference and a journal. The chapter on communication through meditation is different. Besides an emphatic pencil note reading,
clear your head
, next to the chapter title, the pages are worn but unmarked.

She’s already three pages into the chapter when George returns with juice glasses for the wine. Just the act of reading the chapter on meditation works as a way to open up channels of communication because she starts to whisper what she is picking up.

“They meet in the courtyard. It’s quiet and dark and no one can hear them over the fountain.”

George pours her an unnoticed glass of wine and turns on his camera.

“Except they laugh, like children. They call the fountain their clubhouse. Old friends.”

“Can you describe them?”

“She is definitely Delia Charles. The image, the woman I saw in the stairwell. He’s got salt and pepper hair, shorter than her, lean.”

George clears his throat softly. “What are they doing?”

“Remembering funny stories, but now he’s angry, threatening.” Alexis slashes a hand across her throat.

“Is anyone else there?”

She blinks, coming out of her trance with a jolt. “My mother.”

M
AXWELL PUNCHES
THE HOSPITAL ELEVATOR button, deep in thought. He can picture his grandmother, Delia, perfectly. Her hair swept up into a bun, pearls clipped neatly on her earlobes, a soft smile on her face. He adored her, he remembers that much, but he doesn’t really know anything about her.

I know her last name was Maxwell
, he thinks sadly as the elevator doors slide open.

“There you are, finally,” his mother, Maria, calls from down the white hallway. “Trouble at the property? Is that recovering drug addict causing any more problems? After her hallucinations scared everybody, I’m surprised you let her live there.”

“Alexis Cole is not a drug addict.”

“Calm down, son.” David Charles steps in between them. “Your mother is only repeating what she heard on the news.”

“You mean the lie she told the reporters.”

“Your mother does nothing but clear the way for all of us to be our best,” David tells him.

“Is that what Delia did for Otto?” Maxwell waves a hand at his grandfather in the hospital bed.

David scolds him. “Your grandfather is not well. He should be your concern today.”

Maxwell enters the hospital room and circles around his grandfather. Otto Charles looks tough even asleep with his square jaw habitually clenched after years on the police force. According to the world at large, he was an honorable man and exemplary police chief. Maxwell knows he should look at him with pride but there is a cold knot of fear in his heart whenever he thinks of his grandfather. Delia was murdered, strangled to death, and her killer was never discovered. Looking at the hard, unforgiving figure of his grandfather, Maxwell can’t help but doubt.

“He’ll be alright, won’t he?” he asks lightly.

Maria breezes in and straightens the blanket over Otto’s legs. “They called it an ‘episode,’ a minor heart attack. There’s talk of putting a stint in but so far your grandfather refuses.”

Otto’s eyes snap open and focus on his grandson. “Long time, Junior.”

“Hello, Otto. How are you feeling?”

Otto gives him a colorless smile. “The last few days have been hell but I’ve been through worse.”

Maxwell sits down in the chair next to Otto’s bed. “Must have been a shock when I called about Delia.” He can’t bring himself to add an apology.

His grandfather’s eyes tighten but his voice stays steady. “Least you could do an old man a favor. Go feed Johnny.”

Otto turns on the television, scowling at the news and not saying anything else. Maria fusses around the room before heading to the nurses’ station to straighten out Otto’s dinner.

“She’ll be a while,” David chuckles. “Why don’t I go with you? I seem to remember Johnny’s not that fond of you.”

As they climb into his father’s BMW, Maxwell realizes his father knew he was going to ignore his grandfather’s wishes. “That damn German Shepherd would have been fine without food for one night.”

“He would have eaten the couch again and you know it.”

Maxwell grits his teeth. “How can you stand being his errand boy?”

“You’re supposed to do things for your family,” David sighs.

“Like finding their murderers? Like honoring their memory? He never talks about it. You never talk about her.”

David grips the steering wheel tighter. “Has it ever occurred to you that it hurts to talk about her?”

“Has it ever occurred to you that pretending she didn’t exist is not healthy? She was your mother.”

“Exactly,” David raps out quickly, “and I had to come to terms with the fact that she is gone.”

They get out of the car at Otto’s craftsman-style house. “Doesn’t it bother you that they never found her killer? Not even your police chief father?”

David pauses on the porch. “I should let Johnny take a chunk out of you.”

The German Shepherd barks wildly, frothing at the side window until David opens the door and calls out a command. Johnny comes quickly to the door and sits, bright eyes studying them both.

“Just listen to yourself,” David continues, walking into the house, “even the police chief could not find her killer. So we all had to let it go.”

Maxwell can’t help himself. “And you never wondered if maybe your father had something to do with it?”

Johnny starts growling deep in his throat until David snaps his fingers. “Otto is a hard man. His career has made him hard, but he loved her more than anything. You were just a child; I know how he was frightening and she was an angel. But you were a kid and didn’t really know.”

“And how did you know? You were always away working.”

“Ah, yes, you want to cover all the old ground again. How about we take a little detour and talk about your career? Or your complete lack thereof. You might be a jerk to your grandfather but Otto would still use his contacts to get you into the academy.”

“No thanks,” Maxwell says, looking around Otto’s place. He notes there isn’t a single picture of Delia anywhere.

“So you’re just going to waste away as the landlord of that awful property?”

“Blackvine Manor Apartments is not awful.”

David dumps dog food in Johnny’s dish, making the dog sit in the doorway and wait while he turns to Maxwell mid-pour. “It’s awful to me.”

“Yes. It’s full of crazy people and drug addicts, just like Alexis Cole. You have to admit that what you did to her was wrong.”

“You’ve got it the wrong way around. She did something to me: she literally dug up memories I wish had stayed buried forever.”