Rosecliff Manor Haunting (5 page)

Finding the right opportunity to slip away once inside Rosecliff Manor proved more difficult than Addison imagined. Every room they entered, Derek followed behind, always lingering in doorways, blocking her from stepping out, doing any exploring on her own. His intentions seemed more innocent than contrived. But were they?  

After a tour of two bedrooms on the second level of the house, they passed a stairway so narrow one would almost have to turn sideways to climb its steps. Addison stopped, hoping Derek would pick up on her interest and follow suit. Instead, he passed the stairwell like it didn’t exist, continuing on to the next room without uttering a word.

Addison remained. “What’s up there?”

Derek didn’t look back. “Oh, nothing.”

“There’s a stairway here. Doesn’t it go to something?”

“An attic. We don’t use it.”

“Not even for storage?”

“It’s empty for the most part. I couldn’t say for sure. I haven’t been inside the attic for ages.”

“I’d love to see it.”

Her persistence finally paid off. He reeled around, eyeing her like she’d become a nuisance. “You can’t. Thing is, I couldn’t even show it to you if I wanted to.”

“Why not?”

“It’s locked.”

“Doesn’t your mother have a key?”

“She lost it a long time ago.”

“And she never had another one made?”

He shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

“Are you sure it’s even locked?” She thumbed upstairs. “I could run up, jiggle the handle a few times, see what happens. In old houses like this, you never know—I might get lucky.”

Derek crossed his arms, leaned against the wall. “Why is it so important to you? Isn’t Luke the restoration guy? I mean, why do I get the feeling you’d do just about anything to go up there?”

Fumbling over her words she replied, “You see, we, umm …”

Derek put up a hand, stopping her. “I see what’s going on here.”

“You do?”

“Don’t say another word. Not out here.”  

He turned, signaling to Addison and Luke to follow him. They walked into a long, rectangular library. A formal sitting area with a black velvet sofa and two chairs rested over a colorful oriental rug in the room’s center. Vintage books, the kind only seen in antiquarian bookshops, lined the floor-to-ceiling, mahogany-stained shelves on all four walls.  

Once inside, Derek closed the door. Voice lowered, he directed his attention back to Addison. “Do you know how my sisters died? I mean, you obviously do.”

“I’ve heard things.”

“What
things
?”

“I was told what happened was an accident.”

Addison stared at Derek, hoping to gain some insight into what he might be thinking. But his expression was blank and opaque, giving away nothing.

“Are you a reporter?” he asked.

“No.”

“Writing a book?”

“No.”

“You’re not?”

“No, I’m not. Neither one of us are.”

“Why should I believe you?”

His tone had changed. It was no longer playful and relaxed. It was terse. Apprehensive. Whatever trust he may have felt before had obviously vanished.

“Aside from my curiosity about the attic, I haven’t asked anything,” Addison said. “If I was a reporter, wouldn’t I ask more questions?”

“Maybe you would, maybe you wouldn’t.
Maybe
you were trying to butter me up before you tightened the screws, admitted what you’re really after.”

“What is it you think we’re after?” Luke asked.

“How are you two affiliated with Thomas Gregory?”

In unison Luke and Addison both said, “Who?”

“Tom Gregory. He’s a wannabe writer whose books never sold. A few years ago when his books weren’t selling, he went another route and put together a historical picture book on some of the older houses in the area, those more than a hundred years old. He included Rosecliff.”

“You mean to say your parents aren’t the original owners of this place?” Luke asked.

“They didn’t inherit it, no. My parents purchased the manor a few years after I was born. At that time, it was in desperate need of repair, which, as you’ve seen, they spent a lot of money doing. In Tom’s narrative, he discussed the night of my sisters’ deaths in detail, which was bad enough. But he didn’t stop there. He put a permanent stain on our family by alleging the police didn’t conduct a thorough investigation after they died.”

“Based on what?”

“In his opinion, not enough evidence was collected to prove their deaths were accidental.”

Addison did her best to remain impartial about the information Derek was sharing, hoping if she remained calm, he’d keep feeding her more. “How would Tom know if the investigation was done right? What makes him an expert?”

Derek shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve asked myself the same question a hundred times. I looked into him. He wasn’t even alive when it happened. For whatever reason, he made the decision to dredge up the past and attack my family.”

“Do you know anything about him or his background?”

“Aside from his age and what he does for a living, I can’t find jack shit on this guy.”

“Has anything ever come up over the years to suggest his opinions are valid?”

“His opinions
aren’t
valid. How could they be? When I asked around town, I found out he was a washed-up science fiction author. Washed-up meaning he wrote two novels that didn’t sell.”

“How did he go from a fiction author to publishing a non-fiction picture book?”

“Who knows? All I know is, when the book first came out, it received plenty of attention locally. I’m guessing that’s what he was after. Why else would he perpetuate such lies?”

“You’re right. It doesn’t make much sense.”

“Once news got around about it, seemed like every person in town bought a copy. There was a kind of renewed interest in what happened, almost cult-like. I caught a few people pulled to the side of the road in front of Mom’s house, pointing at the attic window, and taking pictures. It hasn’t been easy, especially for my mother, to have this all dragged up again. When she saw you on the property today, I’m sure she thought you were here because of what you read in the book.”

“I suppose there wasn’t much you could do once the book was released, but did you ever consider talking to Tom, telling him your side of the story? I mean, I assume you were here the night your sisters died.”

It was the “in” Addison had been waiting for, the one she hoped would shed new light on what happened to Vivian and Grace. Instead, Derek became silent. It was like he’d gone numb, like he was somewhere else, back in time perhaps, recalling the events in his mind.

“Derek,” Addison asked. “Are you okay?” 

His eyes widened, snapping him back into the here and now. “No. No, I’m not.”

“You all about done up there?” Rose yelled. “Thirty minutes passed thirty minutes ago.”

Derek hollered, “It’s not their fault, Mother. It’s mine. We’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Thanks for taking time to show us around,” Luke said. “I mean it. This place is amazing. We can’t thank you enough.”

“Hey, look. I’m sorry I accused you two of anything. It’s just been hard, you know?”

“There’s no need to apologize. Sounds like your family has been through a lot lately. You have every right to be on edge.” 

Although the visit wasn’t a complete loss, it was far from what Addison had envisioned. With no sign of the girls and no way of getting into the attic, she felt like she’d failed—not only herself, but also the girls.  

Derek stood. “Hey, I almost forgot. There’s an old homestead house out back. More of a storage shack, really. It was already here when my parents bought the place. Used to play in there as a kid. It’s so old it has a historical plaque on the front. Thought you might be interested in taking a look at it before you leave.”

Luke nodded. “Absolutely.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Addison caught a faintest glimpse of white. “Do you mind if I use the restroom first and meet you two at the homestead when I’m done?”

Derek considered the request. “I … guess so. I tell you what, we’ll head out back. I suggest you steer clear of my mother. It’s best not to let my mother know you’re in here without me.”

“Absolutely. I wouldn’t want to get you in any trouble.”

Derek cracked a smile. “I’m concerned for your sake, not mine.”   

He and Luke left the room. Once they were out of sight, Addison glanced over the sofa, seeing what she thought she had before. “Shadow? Where did you come from?”

She bent down, reaching a hand toward the cat. The cat jerked away. Addison retracted her hand. “All right, all right. I get it. You don’t want me to pick you up.”

Shadow crossed the room, stopping in front of one of the bookshelves. He looked at the books then back at her, almost like he was trying to tell her something. While she pondered the unlikely possibility, Shadow rubbed his head across the spine of a few books on the bottom shelf.   

“What are you doing, you crazy cat?” 

Shadow responded by ramming the top of his head against the same set of books a second time. They slid back, and Addison heard a tinging noise which couldn’t have come from one of the books. She walked over and knelt down. Shadow scurried out of the room.

Reaching back, she felt behind the books, and her hand came to rest on something thin, cold, and hard. She fisted her hand around the object and pulled it toward her, surprised when her eyes came to rest on a long brass key.

Footsteps approached.

“What are you doing in here? Where’s my son?”

Addison looked over at Rose. Hands on hips, Rose stamped a foot on the ground, waiting for an answer. Addison closed her hand around the key again, slipping it inside her back pocket. “I was admiring your library.”

“
Where’s
my son?”

“He’s showing Luke the homestead house. I hear it’s quite old.”

“Why aren’t you with them? You were supposed to stay together. He told me you’d all stay together. This isn’t a museum or an exhibit on display. It’s my house.”

“I was with them,” Addison lied. “When I was in the library earlier, I was so intrigued by all of your books, I wandered back here while they were talking. I doubt Derek saw me leave. Please, don’t blame him. Blame me.”

The sincerity in Addison’s voice seemed to win Rose over. For now.

“I suppose I can’t blame you for wanting to spend some time in here. It’s my favorite room in the house.”

Addison spread her hands to the side. “This room is amazing. You must have over five hundred books.”

“Over a thousand, actually.”

“Which one is your favorite?”

“Asking me which is my favorite is like asking me which of my three children is my favorite. All of them.”

“Oh, I should tell you Shadow was in here a few minutes ago. I tried picking him up, but he ran out.”

Rose’s complexion paled. “What did you just say? How did you know Shadow’s name? I never mentioned him to you.”

In an attempt to repair the damage, Addison said, “Your son must have said something to me.”

“Why would he?”

“Why wouldn’t he? Shadow is your cat, isn’t he?”

“
Was
my cat. Shadow’s dead.”

Derek stood on the front porch steps, his hands shoved halfway inside the back of his pant pockets. He watched Addison hoist herself into the truck, watched Luke rev the engine a couple times before steering the vehicle onto the road and driving away. They seemed like decent people, but thinking back on the previous hour he’d spent with them, he believed his mother had been right to express initial concern. They were meddlesome. And though Luke’s knowledge of the manor couldn’t be refuted, his self-proclaimed affection for the place seemed like a lot more than admiration alone.

Then there was his sidekick, Addison, a woman whose keen interest wasn’t centered on the house itself. He’d kept a sharp eye on her during the tour, noticing the way her eyes darted around, never pausing long enough to focus on any one thing. He wondered about the real reason she’d asked to use the restroom.

Rose placed a hand on his shoulder. “She knew Shadow’s name. Do you really expect me to believe you just happened to mention him to her? You hated that cat as a boy. You teased it relentlessly.”

“I didn’t
hate
the cat. I’ve never cared for cats. I’m a dog person.”

“Exactly my point. Why mention the cat at all?”

Derek stepped back inside the house, closed the door, and turned. “You worry too much.”

She was right to worry, of course, and to express her uncertainty. He’d lied when questioned about the fur ball minutes ago. Even now, he wasn’t sure why he’d done it. Better to corroborate Addison’s story for now than admit his instincts about her may have been wrong. His mother had enough to worry about. Still, there were questions he needed answers to.

How
had
she known the cat’s name?

And even stranger—how the hell did she think she saw the cat alive and in the library?

Thomas Gregory was an easy man to find. Almost too easy. After a quick pit stop at one of the few bookstores in town, not only did a female store employee offer precise directions to his place, she also wrote his physical address on a piece of paper, folded it, and offered it to Luke along with a wink and smile.

So much for privacy.

Or hiding one’s motives.  

When Luke unfolded the bit of crumpled paper, he was startled to find the unexpected freebie that came along with it—the female employee’s own phone number scribbled beneath Tom’s address. Luke shook his head then laughed, acknowledging the girl in a polite “thank you but no thank you” tone of voice. He then draped an arm around Addison and walked outside, tossing the note into a trash receptacle behind him.

In the time it took Luke and Addison to drive to Tom’s place, Addison had read through the chapter Thomas devoted to Rosecliff Manor in his book
Pleasant Valley: A History in Pictures.
 In the chapter, he accused police officers of several things—shoddy detective work, failure to thoroughly interview all witnesses, and Addison’s personal favorite, failing to figure out the true motive of the crime. His words were baseless and presented with an overabundance of bias, almost like the claims he made were accompanied by a personal agenda.  

Tom’s house, if one considered a fifth-wheel trailer popping a squat on an otherwise vacant property a house, was located on a ten-acre parcel of land with no other dwellings around it. Halfway to the trailer, a man Addison assumed was Tom stepped out of an open door, sitting on one of the metal, fold-down steps in front of him. Steaming cup of coffee in hand, he watched and waited as they approached.

Tom was nothing like Addison imagined, his look more tree-hugging hippie than non-fiction book author. Dressed in a pair of light blue, relaxed-fit jeans, a gray crew neck T-shirt, and Teva sandals, he was young. Late twenties in her estimation. He wore a pair of oval-shaped, rimless glasses over his eyes, and had long, straight brown hair bundled into a loose ponytail behind his neck.

Luke spoke first. “Thomas Gregory?”

The man took a few swallows of coffee and leaned back, resting his elbows on the vinyl floor just inside the camper’s entrance. “It’s Tom. Who’s askin’?”

“My name’s Luke, and this is Addison. We heard you wrote a book on some of the historical homes in the area.”

“I did. What about it?”

“You made some interesting assumptions about the Clark girls, Vivian and Grace.”  

Tom lowered his head, making a face like he’d grown weary of the topic. “I’ll tell you what I tell everyone else. I don’t regret what I wrote in the book. I gave my honest opinion, and I stand by it. It’s called freedom of speech, dude, and this is a free country. Too bad if people don’t like it.”

“An opinion isn’t the same thing as proof,” Luke said.  

“I know it isn’t. That’s why I stated it was my opinion and mine alone. Didn’t matter though. They all flipped out over it.”

“Who did, the Clark family?”

Thomas swished a hand through the air. “Nah. The Clarks never bothered me. Have to say, I was surprised they didn’t. I mean, it’s a small town. I heard they were angry.”

“If not them then who?”

“All the old-timers around here—the ones who were alive when it happened. Most of ’em accused me of being a failed author who only wrote the book to make a quick buck.”

Or to garner attention, as Derek had blamed him for earlier.

“
Are you
trying to make a quick buck?”

Thomas eyed Luke for a moment then extended his arm to the side, grunting out a laugh. “You can see how rich it made me. If it was money I was after, I wouldn’t have written a book about a place only the people who live in it care about.”

Looking at Tom now, Addison had no reason not to believe him. His jeans were clean, but ripped in three places. Not in a fashionable way—in an old, worn-out way. The mug he drank from had a small chip around the base. It looked cheap. Thrift store cheap.

He wasn’t showy, and he wasn’t vain. Still, there was more to it than one man’s opinion. There was motive. She just needed to find it. 

“If you didn’t write it for the money, why write it at all?” Addison asked. “You could have included a few photos of the house and omitted the rest. You didn’t.”

“If you’re trying to accuse me of—”   

“We’re not here to accuse you of anything. We have our own suspicions about what happened to the Clark girls, and they have nothing to do with what you said or didn’t say. We’re after the truth.”

Tom raised a brow, taken aback by her statement. “Really? Why?”

“Our interest in the details of what happened is genuine.”

“She’s telling the truth,” Luke said.

“If it’s such a big deal to you, why don’t you do your own digging?” Thomas asked.

“We are, and we have been,” Addison said. “Rose Clark and her son Derek didn’t have much to say.” 

“You talked to the Clarks?”

“Didn’t you?”

“I tried. Once. I drove to the house. Rose opened the door. I told her I was writing the book and what I planned to say. I said if she had anything to say on the subject, I’d like to hear it. She slammed the door in my face.”

“You saw the police report, right? That’s what you said in the book.”

He nodded. Addison continued.

“Would you mind if we sat down, asked you some questions about what was in it?”

Thomas glanced back, then looked at Addison and said, “I’d invite you inside, but my humble abode is a mess right now.”

Except, it wasn’t a mess at all.

From her vantage point, Addison had a clear view of the front half of the trailer. It was pristine. No dishes in the sink, nothing left out on the counter, and no décor to speak of except for a small, wallet-sized picture of a woman in a wooden frame sitting on the windowsill. When he’d turned back a moment earlier, the photo seemed to catch his attention.

Questions filled Addison’s mind.

Who was the woman in the photo?

Why did Tom say his trailer was dirty when it wasn’t?

What was he hiding?

Her gaze lingered on the picture long enough for Tom’s apprehension to kick in. He hopped off the trailer steps, closing the door behind him. Motioning to a wood, chipped, sun-damaged picnic table several feet away, he said, “Let’s sit here.”

They sat.

“Why are you interested in the Clark girls?” Tom asked. “Idle curiosity? You read the book and now you want more details? If so, I’m not your guy.”

Addison shook her head.

“What then?”

“It’s personal.”

“Personal, how?” Tom asked. “Are you related?”

“I can’t say.”

“Why not?”

She’d have to do better if she expected him to open up. “I may be able to find out the truth about what happened the night they died. The real truth. I don’t know how much it matters to you, but it matters to me.”

He set the coffee cup down. “I wouldn’t have taken the time to write about it if it didn’t.”

“And I wouldn’t have taken the time to come here today if it didn’t mean something to me. So help us. Please.”

He crossed his arms, resting them on the edge of the table. “What do you want to know?”

“You saw a copy of the police report, but some of the things you said in your book aren’t found in a standard police report. Where did you get your information?”

“I have a source.”

“What source?”

“Can’t say.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” he said.  

“Were you even telling the truth when you said you actually looked at a copy of the report?”  

“There’s a waiting period. You just don’t go in, get a report handed to you right away. Sometimes it takes days. And even then, you’re only viewing a copy. Who knows what they leave out of those things? A little whiteout, and a person wouldn’t even know what they’re missing.”

“Are you’re trying to say you viewed the
real
report, not a copy?”

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I’m not
saying
anything. And, just so you know, if any part of this conversation gets around, I’ll deny it. All of it.”

“I get it.”

“Oh, you do, do you?”

“We just met. You don’t have any reason to trust us.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t.”

“Trust goes both ways.”

“No, it doesn’t. It goes
one
way. I’m not trying to gain your trust. Look, the two of you seem nice enough. You have to understand, there are things I can’t say, things I don’t have any right talking about, things told to me in confidence.”  

“Is there anything you
can
tell us?”

He paused, thought it over. “Okay, I’ll say this. I ordered a copy of the police report to cover my ass. I knew once the book came out, there’d have to be a paper trail proving I actually ordered the report in order to make what I said legitimate. But let’s just say it may not have been the only information I received.”

It wasn’t a lot to go on, but it was a start.

“I still don’t see why the Clarks’ story interests you.”

“You and me, we’re not the only people trying to find out what really happened the night those girls died. They may be gone, but not everyone has forgotten.”

There
was
someone else, someone using Tom to stir up conversation again. Although small, the portrait of the woman in Tom’s window was familiar. Too familiar. “What makes you think Vivian and Grace died under mysterious circumstances?”

“For starters, you have to consider what investigations were like back then. Grace and Vivian died in the mid-seventies. Forensics was limited. We’re talking Polaroid pictures. AFIS wasn’t in place yet. There were no camcorders, no light sources capable of detecting things like fibers or body fluids, things not visible to the naked eye. No DNA fingerprinting. The list goes on.” 

“Even if they had better technology at the time, there’s still no proof the girls’ death wasn’t accidental,” Addison said.  

“Oh no? The police report stated they found a doll on the roof of the house. You could say it was the doll that led police to believe the girls fell while trying to retrieve it. It’s the only logical explanation, right? I mean, it’s not like they were up there daring each other to jump out of a third-story window.”

“What’s your point?”

“Wouldn’t it be interesting to process the evidence again? The doll, the attic, what the girls were wearing that night?”

“You really think they’d find anything in the attic after all this time?”

“Rose has a neighbor who’s lived in the neighborhood since 1973. According to her, once police closed the case, Rose locked the attic and never allowed anyone in there again. If she’s right, it’s been preserved in time. I mean, I’m no DNA expert, but it makes you wonder, doesn’t it? On the night of the party, no one admitted to being in the attic. Everyone said the girls must have been in there alone. Know what I think? Someone is lying.”