Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy (21 page)

“I can tell you're making that up.”

“Wendy, I shouldn't have said anything about her at all. I actually just thought it was funny.”

“Funny?!”

“Stephen's acting like a puppy who wants to lick her face.”

“Did they kiss?!”

“Of course not! Look, there's nothing going on here. I mean, seriously nothing. I doubt she's going to ask him to the Sadie Hawkins Day dance, okay?”

“You aren't being a very nice friend right now, you know that?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to make Stephen like
me
!”

“Well, why didn't you say so? I'll just use my mind-control powers on him right now.”

Wendy was unusually silent for a minute.
Is she crying?
Gilda wondered. “Wendy? Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Wendy, Stephen does like you. It's just—sometimes people don't value the things that are right in front of them. Right now he's obsessed with being the big man on campus next year.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You don't even seem the least bit sad that you might be moving away. I mean, I guess we don't have a beach here in Detroit, but you'd think there'd at least be some loyalty.”

“Wendy, I tried to get your parents to adopt me, and you said no way.”

“Be serious.”

“I am serious. Look, right now I'm just trying to figure out whether Eugene Pook has a secret well on his property.”

“A secret well?”

“It's a long story. Remember how I told you I saw a ghost? Well, a bunch of other weird things have also happened. Just this morning, the girl who lives next door and I tried to do a séance, and right afterward, I discovered a message that said ‘Look in the well.' ”

“Sounds kind of scary,” said Wendy.

Gilda was about to say something dismissive (“I'm a professional, Wendy!”), but then she realized that she agreed. It
was
scary. However, she also realized that she was less frightened by the ghostly message than she was by her mother's looming wedding day.
I guess I've gotten so caught up in thinking about this mystery, I've hardly realized how nervous I really am about getting a new stepdad,
she thought.

“Gilda?” Wendy prompted. “Are you there?”

“Sorry.” Gilda licked her arm. “I've got ice cream dripping down my wrist.”

“Remember how my mom would always tell us, ‘Micromanage your cones, girls!'?”

Gilda laughed, remembering Mrs. Choy's nonstop directions about the best way to eat ice cream without spilling a drop.

Wendy sighed. “She's such a nut sometimes. Anyway, call me tonight, okay?”

“Definitely,” said Gilda. “Oh, and Wendy—”

“What?”

“Put on that Gilda Joyce costume and go out trick-or-treating. You'll feel better.”

“You know what? That was actually a really insensitive thing to say.”

“Why? I was serious!”

“Well, you happen to know I'm not going out for Halloween if you aren't here.”

“Oh. Well—I'm not doing anything fun either, to tell you the truth. I'll be tying bows on roses or lilies and that's about it.”

“Good. And don't let Stephen do anything fun either, okay?”

“Definitely not,” said Gilda. “He'll be tied to a chair, locked in his room, and having the worst night of his life.”

“Good,” said Wendy, drily. “That's more like it.”

T
he moment Gilda, Stephen, and Debbie walked through Eugene's front door and entered the living room, something strange happened: Lights throughout the house flashed on and off simultaneously.

“Whoa!” Debbie breathed. “Now I see what you mean!”

“You don't even know the half of it,” Gilda quipped. “There was one night when a whole dollhouse moved from my room into the hallway all by itself!”

“It might just be an electrical problem—bad wiring or something,” said Stephen.

“Maybe,” said Debbie. “But in this town, ‘bad wiring' is just another way of saying ‘old ghosts.'”

The three of them stood silently for a moment, waiting for more signs of ghostly activity or faulty wiring, but there was only an eerie, watchful silence.

“Okay,” said Debbie, “I didn't see any signs of a well outside the house, so let's check the interior. Maybe there's something under the floorboards somewhere.”

“I think my mom and Eugene are still out picking up the flowers and vases, but we should hurry,” said Gilda. “They could be back any time now.”

Debbie stopped in her tracks when she saw the jawbone on display in Eugene's coffee table. “This,” she said, pointing, “is a problem.”

“Mr. Pook says it's probably a Timucua Indian bone,” Gilda explained.

“And it was found on this property?”

“I think so,” said Gilda. “Someone may have found it here a long time ago—maybe back when the house was first built.”

“I see.” Debbie spoke in a clipped, irritated tone. “And I'm sure whoever found it took no notes on where, exactly, it turned up.” She pulled out a notebook, jotted some comments, then took a photograph of the bone with her cell-phone camera. “It bugs me so much when people mess up archaeological sites,” she fumed. “Is it possible to take this bone out of the case?”

“We don't have time,” said Gilda. “What about looking for the well?”

“Okay, okay. But I'd love to take a closer look at that bone to figure out how old it is. That could be some pretty compelling evidence that there's a burial site somewhere on this property.”

Debbie walked through the room, examining the floorboards and the structure of the house. When she walked into the kitchen she stopped in her tracks. “Come here and feel this,” she whispered.

Gilda and Stephen followed Debbie into the kitchen. Gilda immediately felt a tingling, cold sensation. She remembered her mother's strange behavior in the kitchen upon their arrival at the house.

“That's a definite cold spot—a sign of spirit activity,” said Debbie. “I've had that feeling from time to time on my ghost tour, but it's never been this strong.”

“That
is
weird,” said Stephen, walking from one side of the room to the other. “It's like walking through an invisible refrigerator.”

“Something's up in this room.” Debbie walked slowly across the room. “I'd like to look under this floor.”

“The thing is,” said Stephen, frowning at the floor, “I don't see any way we could pull up these boards without Mom and Eugene finding out.”

Debbie reached into her handbag and pulled out a magnifying glass and a small brush. “Some Southern belles carry lipstick and powder; I carry archaeology tools,” she joked. “You just never know.” She held the magnifying glass over the floorboards and brushed away some dust to get a closer look. “There are some interesting irregularities here in the floor if you look at it closely.”

“I doubt we'll have time—” Stephen fell silent because Debbie suddenly reached down and removed an oddly shaped cutting of wood from the floor. It came out easily, and beneath the piece of wood was a handle. “Will you look at that!” said Debbie. “I think we've found something even more interesting than I expected!”

Gilda stared at Debbie with admiration.
Note to self: learn some archaeology and/or carpentry skills for future investigations!

“Wow,” Stephen breathed.

“Looks like a secret trapdoor,” said Debbie. The door was an irregular shape, like an enormous jigsaw puzzle piece; if you didn't know it existed, its outline merely looked like natural cracks in the wooden floorboards.

Gilda's heart raced. So there
was
something under the kitchen floor!

“Can you give me a hand, Stephen?” Debbie asked, attempting to pull the handle connected to the trapdoor. “I think it's stuck.”

Stephen pulled on the handle until the trapdoor opened slowly, with a creaking sound. The three of them stared, astonished, into a dark cavern beneath the house. In the complete darkness, it was impossible to see what might be hidden there.

“Now hop down in there, Stephen, and check it out,” Gilda joked.

“We don't want anyone jumping down there and discovering that it's where Mr. Pook hides his pet alligator or something. . . .” Debbie pulled a flashlight from her bag. Just as she was about to beam it down into the gaping hole, the three of them heard footsteps on the porch outside. “Close it!” Stephen grabbed the trapdoor handle and pushed Gilda out of the way. “They're back!”

“Okay, nobody say anything about this discovery,” Gilda whispered. “We'll find another time to investigate it when Mom and Eugene aren't around—maybe later tonight.”

Gilda, Debbie, and Stephen managed to close the trapdoor and reseal the wooden floorboards just before Eugene and Mrs. Joyce walked into the house, carrying vases of lilies.

Mom doesn't exactly look like a glowing bride-to-be,
Gilda observed. Mrs. Joyce looked thinner and more pale than usual. With dark circles under her eyes, she looked as if she hadn't slept in days.

“Stephen,” said Mrs. Joyce, “would you help Eugene carry some things in from the car? We have some bottles of champagne and a few more vases of flowers to bring inside.”

“Okay.”

Gilda observed Eugene, wondering what the chances were that he didn't know about the trapdoor under his own kitchen. It seemed unlikely.
You lied
,
Mr. Pook!
she thought.
I bet you knew there was a cistern under the kitchen.
It was all she could do to contain herself from blurting out the accusation right then and there.
But if he is hiding something,
she thought,
I shouldn't tip him off that I know about it until we've had a chance to investigate
.

“Gilda,” said Mrs. Joyce wearily, “if you would help me arrange these flowers and the wedding bouquets, that would be wonderful. Oh, and by the way, make sure you get up early tomorrow. Eugene made appointments for both of us to get our hair styled first thing in the morning, before the ceremony.”

“No need,” said Gilda, “I'll be wearing my ‘freaky bridesmaid' wig,” said Gilda.

“Not funny, Gilda.”

“Okay, but seriously, Mom; I'm planning to wear a hat, so I won't need to have my hair styled.”

“Even so, we made an appointment for you.”

Should I say something to Mom about finding the cistern under the floor?
Gilda wondered.
I can't let her go through with this without at least knowing that Eugene might be hiding something!

“Can you think of anything else we need to do tomorrow morning, Eugene?” Gilda's mother asked.

“Let's see.” Eugene paused to think on his way out the door. “Stephen and I can pick up the cake first thing in the morning while you and Gilda get your hair done. The Furbos are bringing some
hors d'oeuvres
over tomorrow. I think we'll be all set to have the cake and champagne back here at the house after the ceremony.”

“Did anyone order the groom's cake?” Gilda asked, mostly to tease Eugene. “I think Mom wanted to surprise you with a cake shaped like a mustache, Mr. Pook.”

“Sounds like a surprise I can do without,” said Eugene.

“I think that's so cute when people have a groom's cake shaped like one of the groom's hobbies,” said Debbie. “I guess Mr. Pook could have something about antiques, right?”

At this comment, Eugene suddenly appeared to notice Debbie's presence in his house. He listened to her suggestion without smiling.

“Or a chocolate graveyard filled with buried skeletons,” Gilda blurted. The words slipped out before she could stop herself.

Stephen shook his head with disbelief at Gilda's tactless comment.

Eugene reddened and stalked out of the room. “Back in a minute,” he said.

“Way to keep a low profile, Gilda,” Stephen muttered.

“Gilda, can you help me cut some of these flower stems and tie bows on the vases?” Mrs. Joyce asked.

“I'd better be going,” said Debbie. “Halloween is one of my busiest nights for ghost tours.”

“Nice to see you, Debbie,” said Mrs. Joyce.

“You too,” said Debbie. “I'll see you all tomorrow morning!”

Debbie squeezed Gilda's arm as she passed. “Keep me posted,” she whispered as Mrs. Joyce turned to fill a vase with water. “Call me if you find anything important!”

Gilda nodded. “Will do.”

“So, Mom,” said Gilda as she helped cut flower stems and tie bows around vases, “I noticed you ended up with lilies for the wedding.”

“Yes—they're nice.”

“But you wanted roses.”

“Sometimes it's okay to compromise, Gilda. What's important to me is the marriage.”

“And how are you feeling about that part?”

“What part?”

“You're marrying Mr. Pook tomorrow, in case you forgot. Tomorrow you'll become Mrs. Patty-Cakes Pook.”

“I'm sure everything will turn out fine.”

“You know, Mom, we'd totally understand if you want to cancel this. I mean, we wouldn't hold it against you.”

Mrs. Joyce frowned. She gripped a bunch of lilies firmly and trimmed their stems with a large pair of scissors. “Why would you say that, Gilda?”