Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy (22 page)

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Authors: Jennifer Allison

BOOK: Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy
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“Because you don't seem happy. I mean, you don't seem as happy as a person is
supposed
to be right before getting married.”
“Honey, even small weddings can be stressful. And just because everything isn't perfect doesn't mean I'm not happy.”
“Okay,” said Gilda. “But I also just think there's something you should know about Mr. Pook.”
“What's that?”
“He might be hiding something.”
“We all have secrets, Gilda.”
“Yes, but—he might have a
bigger
secret than just getting up in the middle of the night to snack on datil-pepper jelly and ice cream.”
“Gilda, please. What are you talking about?”
“Mom,” Gilda whispered, “we found a cistern or something under the kitchen floor. But Mr. Pook had told me that there
wasn't
any well on the property!”
“Gilda, you know I don't like you snooping around other people's homes. Anyway, that doesn't mean anything bad. He probably didn't know the well was there. Maybe the previous owners knew about it.”
Gilda wondered if her mother had a valid point. What if Eugene honestly didn't know about the cistern?
“You mean this house hasn't always been in Eugene's family?”
“Actually, Eugene said he bought this house from the Furbos. I suppose he was enamored with the house as an antiques storage place even though the relationship with Charlotte didn't work out.”
Aha!
Gilda thought.
So the Furbos used to own this house! And maybe
they're
the ones who know all about the trapdoor and the old cistern!
“Mom,” said Gilda, “I don't mean to shock you, but there's something else I think you should know.”
“What is it, Gilda?”
Gilda decided to just go ahead and blurt out her theory. “I have reason to believe that the Furbos may have murdered their daughter, Charlotte.”
Mrs. Joyce ceased arranging flowers and stared at Gilda. “Gilda—that is a horrifying thing to say!”
“I know. But it's an even more horrifying thing to
do
. I can't prove they did it yet, but I just thought you'd want to know what you might be getting into here, Mom. I mean, since Eugene is so close to their family and everything.”
Mrs. Joyce began pulling lilies out of the vase she had been arranging, as if she found the flowers offensive in some way. “Gilda, I don't like some of the Furbos' views any more than you do. But making an accusation like that is crossing a line.”
“But—”
“I know you like to pursue these little investigations, Gilda, and I also understand that you're angry that I'm marrying someone other than your own father—”
“That has nothing to do with it!”
“I think it has everything to do with it!”
“Mom, I only told you about this because I care about you!”
Mrs. Joyce pulled the entire bunch of lilies from the vase. “If you care about me, then you will let me have my wedding day without ruining it for me—and for everyone else. You're not a little kid, Gilda; it's time to get over these childish games and realize that life changes. People, friendships—even families—they
change
over time!”
Gilda fell silent. Something about her mother's words made her feel as if someone had knocked the wind out of her lungs. She felt tears brimming in her eyes, but she didn't want to cry.
What if Mom is right?
she thought
. Is it possible that deep down, I'm trying to find a reason to break up her new marriage because I don't want anything to change—just like the Furbos didn't want anything to change in their family?
Mrs. Joyce pulled Gilda toward her in an awkward hug. Her mother smelled different—like someone else's perfume. “You know I love you, Gilda,” said her mother. “That will never change.”
“I know that, Mom,” said Gilda. “And I like you, too, sometimes.”
“Not love?”
“Okay, I guess I love you, too. Whatever.”
“Now—let's finish these arrangements, and then we'll go out for dinner.” Mrs. Joyce suddenly spoke in a clipped voice and moved briskly to disguise her frazzled nerves. Secretly, some of Gilda's concerns
had
worried her.
Is Gilda right?
Mrs. Joyce wondered.
Am I less happy than I should be right before my wedding?
The front door slammed shut and Eugene entered the kitchen followed by Stephen. “So Stephen and I have made our plan for tonight,” said Eugene. “We're going out for seafood and then on to a pirate ghost tour on the Matanzas. How does that sound for a Halloween night before the wedding?”
It does sound fun,
Gilda had to admit.
“Hey, Stephen,” Gilda whispered, pulling her brother aside as Eugene stepped in to oversee the floundering flower-decorating project in the kitchen. “Later tonight, when everyone goes to bed, we'll find out what's down there, underneath the kitchen.”
Gilda half expected her brother to protest that there was no way he was getting up in the middle of the night just to open a trapdoor, but to her surprise, he agreed.
“Okay,” he said. “I'd actually like to see what's in there, too.”
He probably just wants to be able to tell Debbie about it,
Gilda thought.
Well, whatever gets him to help is fine with me.
One way or another, Gilda was determined to find out what was hidden beneath Eugene Pook's house.
38
The Ghost-Pirate
Dear Dad:
I'm feeling a little weird right now. Maybe I'm nervous because in a few minutes, I'm going to wake up Stephen, and we'll tiptoe downstairs with our flashlights and investigate the contents of that cistern.
Maybe I'm also feeling weird because I actually had fun tonight when Mom, Eugene, Stephen, and I all went out on the ghost-pirate ship together. We were out on the water, and Captain Jack was telling the funniest and spookiest pirate tales (Mom and Eugene liked him so much, they even reminded him to come to their wedding if you can believe it !), and the feeling of being under the stars and looking out at the lights of St. Augustine from the dark water and feeling all those spirits around was kind of magical. I couldn't help thinking, Maybe we could have more nights like this, all together. I mean, what if Stephen and I just never looked down in the cistern? What if I just pretend that I never suspected any dark secrets? If I pretend not to see ghosts, like Darla has done for years, will they eventually go away? Would I stop seeing the woman in white? Would I stop having nightmares about Charlotte's death?
But you know me, Dad. I can't pretend that I DON'T know what I DO know.
Besides, I can't miss this golden opportunity to wake Stephen from his beauty sleep in the middle of the night.
Wish me luck, Dad, and if you're out there, please protect me from any evil spirits that might be lurking around this house!
Love,
Gilda
39
The Secret in the Cistern
I
can't believe I agreed to do this,” Stephen whispered. He and Gilda tiptoed down the hallway, doing their best to avoid stepping on the creaky spots in the floor. The glow of Gilda's flashlight made the antique furniture and artifacts in the house look spooky and strange.
“You know you want to see what's in there just as much as I do,” Gilda replied.
“Still—I can't believe I'm doing this.”
“It's probably the most fun you've ever had on Halloween.”
“That might actually be true.”
They made their way down the long staircase, then walked through the living room. Gilda held her breath as she inched silently past the coffee table that contained the jawbone.
They froze at the sound of something creaking in the next room.
“Did you hear that?” Gilda whispered.
“No.”
Gilda cautiously moved toward the dining room and kitchen.
“Let's hurry up if we're doing this, Gilda,” Stephen snapped. “There aren't any ghosts down here, if that's what you're worried about.”
“You sure about that, son?”
Gilda and Stephen gasped. A light shone directly in their eyes, and for a moment, they could only make out a shadowy figure who was pointing a flashlight at them. Then Gilda realized that it was Eugene. He had been sitting there, alone in the darkness.
Was he waiting for us?
Gilda wondered.
Did Mom say something to him after I told her about the cistern? And why is he sitting there in the dark, with only a flashlight?
“I couldn't sleep,” said Eugene. “Must be wedding jitters.”
“We couldn't sleep either,” said Gilda, trying to disguise the panic in her voice.
“So you thought you'd take a little nighttime walk?” Eugene was obviously suspicious.
“I was actually just coming down to get a drink of water,” said Stephen. “I'll be getting back to bed.”
“Have a seat, both of you,” said Eugene, pulling out a chair from the dining table and pointing to it. Something about his tone made them obey him. Eugene lit his antique lantern, and as Gilda's eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw that Eugene had an assortment of objects in front of him, including two old rifles. There were also small bottles of cleaning fluids, an assortment of brushes of different sizes, and some other small antiques, including an old photograph.
“Sometimes when I can't sleep I get up and clean my antiques,” said Eugene. “It relaxes me.”
Gilda and Stephen nodded, both now wishing that they could simply retreat from the room and go back to bed.
“See this gun? It's beautifully carved. Just look at that craftsmanship. It was Bob Furbo who gave me this gun. He taught me everything I know about antique rifles—how to take care of them.”
For a moment Gilda was terrified that Eugene had lost his wits and might actually be planning to use one of the guns, but then she realized that he was getting ready to tell a story.
“My daddy came down to St. Augustine to work on the railroad,” said Eugene. “He and Mama were from up in Louisiana. I didn't have any deep roots here in St. Augustine like some folks do, you know. We was always ‘them folks from Louisiana.'”
Gilda wondered where Eugene was heading with all of this. He seemed to be in a strangely confessional mood, and while Gilda was usually the first to want to hear intriguing stories, sitting in the darkness with guns on the table made for an uncomfortable discussion.
“I don't know if I told you this,” Eugene continued, “but one morning, I watched my daddy get on the train at the St. Augustine station, and he never did come back. After that, I was known as ‘that boy whose daddy took off on the train.'
“We didn't have much money, and Mama never did work. You know what she did for money instead of working?”
Gilda and Stephen both shook their heads. They stared at Eugene, transfixed and disturbed by this tale.
“She sold things. Every cotton-pickin' thing she and Daddy had brought from Louisiana, Mama sold. Furniture, paintings, silver, jewelry, clothing.” He enumerated the items on his fingers. “Everything.
“Well, there were a handful of things that she did not sell only because I hid them from her. And this—this is one of them.” Eugene handed Gilda a small tintype photograph in an antique silver frame. “That's my grandma,” he said, pointing. “That was taken when she was young.”
The tiny picture struck Gilda as unusual for its time because Eugene's grandmother was photographed with her hair long and loose instead of pulled into a severe updo. A faint, inscrutable smile played upon her lips. She looked angelic, with her soft, powdered skin and the romantic waves of her hair.
Then Gilda realized something else about the photograph:
She looks like Charlotte,
she thought.
“Whenever I looked at this photograph, I felt peaceful,” said Eugene. “I felt almost like my grandma was still with me.
“You see, when I was a boy, I realized that most people were very unreliable. But objects like this photograph—if you knew how to take care of them, you could keep some of them around forever, and they wouldn't change. I guess maybe that's when I got interested in antiques.
“As soon as I was old enough, I got a job working in an antiques shop. I loved how some old things could actually become more valuable over time
if
you took care of'em. And you know—the more I studied the value of antiques, and the more I built my collection by going to all the big auctions and estate sales, the more I got to know some of the oldest families in this community. They became my customers. And do you know, for the first time in my life, I had their respect. They respected me because I knew even more about these objects than they did. They saw that I understood their past and what they wanted to preserve. I guess I always liked that about some of the old-timers: How rooted they were to a single place . . . how well they knew this old city.
“When Mama died, I sold that empty old house of hers and used all my savings to purchase my own shop on Antiques Row in the city.” Eugene paused for a moment, as if watching a movie of his memory amidst the shadows cast on the wall by the lantern light. “And that's where I met Charlotte. But you probably don't want to hear about that.”
“Oh, we
definitely
want to hear about that,” said Gilda, her curiosity now outweighing her discomfort.
Stephen kicked her under the table, obviously wanting to extract himself from the whole conversation.

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