Three O'Clock Séance: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 3) (6 page)

CHAPTER NINE

Half Moon Bay was on the ocean a half-hour or so south of San Francisco, but it could have been on a different planet. The small coastal town seemed to be a forgotten throwback to the mid-twentieth century.

Sandy drove three miles past the town center, and then turned down a road heading westward towards a small peninsula. The road ended at a padlocked wrought iron fence. He had the key.

The estate was twenty acres in size, and Rebecca was surprised at how far Sandy drove along the private road before she saw, atop a rise, a two-story white clapboard farmhouse facing the ocean. The parking area was on lower land on the house’s south side.

After parking, they walked up a narrow footpath to the front door. Sandy unlocked it and disarmed the security system. “I’m paying for access to this house to do a TV special. The owner won’t sell, sure that the more publicity the place gets, the more valuable it’ll become. I don’t know about that, but I do know it’s haunted.”

He gave her a quick tour. A parlor, dining room, kitchen, and pantry were on the first floor, and three bedrooms and a bathroom on the second. The rooms were quite small, but charmingly decorated and furnished with antiques. Old family portraits lined the walls. Sandy explained that every so often the owner opened it up for the public, charging twenty dollars each for the opportunity. Only by having it furnished to look the way it did back in the 1920’s when the tragedy occurred was he able to make his visitors happy.

They might not see the ghost, but they could see how she lived, ate, and slept.

“I’m still waiting to hear the ghost’s story,” Rebecca said.

Sandy didn’t get a chance to relate it because just then the photographer and a make-up artist arrived. Rebecca found it interesting to watch the photographer and Sandy work. Sandy wore one of the same romantic-looking shirts as at his performance, and the make-up artist fluffed his long hair and then applied a blend of dark creams and eye make-up so that his cheeks appeared more hollow, and his eyes larger and deeper set than they were on their own.

The photographer and Sandy worked with the home’s lighting, and used old clothes to give a sense that a woman who wore dark Victorian clothing was lurking just beyond the shadows. At one point, Sandy put a dress on a hanger and attached it to a light fixture dangling from the ceiling. He turned off most of the lights, and then had the photographer take the picture through a mirror. The light from the flash against the mirror blurred out almost everything except the nearly black dress. It looked as if it were being worn by a woman floating across the room.

An hour or so later, when the shoot was done and the photographer and make-up artist had departed, Sandy showed Rebecca a Coleman cooler containing a bottle of blush wine and half a dozen sandwiches neatly bundled in Saran Wrap.

“Want to have a picnic on the  beach?” he said.

Rebecca smiled. “Only if you promise to finally tell me the ghost’s back story.” She realized that she had chosen her words carefully. Somehow saying it like that didn’t admit to the idea that she might actually believe that this house was haunted.

“Ah,” he said. “That’s a tale that needs much strong wine to hear.”

The land on which the house sat was like a finger jutting into the ocean. On its south side, cliffs dropped sharply down to rough, rock-laden water, with scarcely any beach available. North of the house, however, the landscape was much less steep and rugged. There, Sandy led her to an an easy-to-traverse path down to the beach.

As they sat and spread out the light feast—the wine and the sandwiches had remained nicely chilled in the cooler—Rebecca remembered how much she had always loved the smell of sand and sea. She couldn’t resist digging her fingers into the dry sand and watching it slide through as she pulled her hand back up. The waves were high and crashed loudly on the shore, and a chilly sea breeze nipped at her face. She zipped up her leather jacket.

As they ate, Sandy told the tale of the ghost of Falls Meadow—the name given to the land back in the days when a creek ran through the property and created a small waterfall that dropped down to a lovely well-tended meadow.

o0o

Wilhelm Bruckman left Germany in 1849 when he heard about the California gold rush. He was one of the lucky ones. Not only did he find gold, he had the sense not to spend it on high living.

Instead, he bought a large piece of property on the coast south of San Francisco, as well as a number of dairy cows and a bull to support himself the way his family had done in Germany. He built a home and eventually sent for a German woman to became his wife.

Only one son, Johan, survived to adulthood. When Wilhelm was dying, he told Johan where on the property he had hidden his remaining gold, but warned him to never use it unless absolutely necessary.

By 1925, Johan, by then an old man and a widower, lived on the property with his son, Gunter, the son’s wife, Astrid, and their young daughter, Inga. Their dairy business supported the family, and at times to augment their income, Gunter would do some bass fishing in the Pacific. They lived well, secure in the fact that if anything happened, they had Wilhelm’s gold to fall back on. But things were not happy in the house. Gunter was restless, and unhappy living on a dreary, remote peninsula and working the land the way his father and grandfather had done. He wanted more from life.

His wife, Astrid, discovered that he had been cheating on her with a woman from the town. In revenge, she cut through a plank in the bottom of the small skiff he used when fishing.

She didn’t cut through it all the way, but only far enough so that, as the boat continued farther out over the ocean, pressure on its wooden underside would tear the plank apart. Water would flood the boat and sink it. She was sure Gunter would survive the dunking being a strong swimmer, and there were always a number of other fishing boats out on the water. She also believed that, although he wouldn’t be able to prove anything, in his heart he’d know she was behind his close call. He would spend the rest of his days looking over his shoulder at her.

One winter’s day as she was shopping in town, she heard that the bass were running close and many of the men were heading out to fish. She felt certain Gunter would join them. She smiled and went about her shopping.

Before she knew it, a thick gray wall of fog had blown in off the ocean, turning the sky dark. She couldn’t help but wonder if her husband might be hidden by the fog when his skiff took on water.

She thought of finding someone on the pier to go out and tell Gunter that his father believed something might be wrong with the skiff, and he shouldn’t take it out that day.

But then, she saw the “other woman” walking along the sidewalk, and her heart hardened. She went into a cafe where she dawdled over tea and a sandwich.

Eventually, with the fog so heavy she could scarcely see her hand in front of her face, she headed for home. There, she saw old Johan, but not her daughter.

The old man told her that Gunter had taken Inga with him earlier that day, and they hadn’t yet returned.

She ran from the house.

They said you could hear her calling her husband and daughter’s names as she ran along the pier. The fog hung low on the bay, and nothing could be seen out on the water.

She begged others to search for them, that she believed something might be wrong—a feeling—but no one dared go out in the thick pea soup fog until Gunter and Inga were long overdue.

Neither Gunter, Inga, or the boat were ever seen again.

The townspeople say that Astrid was so distraught and guild-ridden, she confessed to Johan all that she had done. He went to the police, insisting that they arrest her and hang her for murder.

But they had no bodies, no case, and apparently some sightings convinced them that Gunter had sunk or otherwise destroyed the boat, took his daughter, and left the area.

Johan became so furious at them, he had a heart-attack. He died cursing Astrid and saying she would have no peace for all eternity.

She spent the rest of her life half-insane, walking around the house, going from window to window to look out at the ocean. The locals say she’s continued to do that even after death, and that she forces anyone who attempts to live in the house out of it as she waits for Gunter and Inga to return.

o0o

Rebecca, ever the cynic, wondered how much of the story was true. She’d heard similar ones over the years involving different times and different places. But as she looked up at the house from the beach, the curtain over an upper story window moved, revealing something dark just beyond it. She stared, but then the curtain went back to its original position.

“Is someone in the house?” she asked.

“No. Why?” Sandy turned to face the building.
“Don’t tell me you saw something?”

“No, not at all. Maybe a draft. That’s all.”

“There’s no draft. My God! We’ve got to try to conjure her up. Let’s go back to the house.” Sandy looked more like a big, enthusiastic puppy than a serious psychic.

“I don’t think so,” she said with a laugh.

He cocked his head. “Well, if you want to be practical about it, we can call her to us in order to ask her where the old German’s gold is hidden.”

“You think it’s still here?”

“Frankly, I think it was a made-up story to add more interest to the place. And to give people a better reason for coming all the way out here than simply to see a ghost.”

She chuckled. “That’s remarkably cynical for a psychic medium.”

“Maybe I think ghosts are a better class of people than the living.” He smiled just enough to deepen his dimples. “Come on. Let’s go. It’s freezing out here.”

“No. I’m enjoying the beach.”

“Ah ha! You do believe!”

“I do not!”

“Prove it.” He held out his hand to hers and waited.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Feeling irritated, but also nervous—had she seen anything, or was it just the play of light and shadow bouncing off the ocean in the twilight?—she put her hand in his. He helped her to her feet and they went back up the hill.

From the rise, Rebeca saw a wall of fog out on the ocean, heading inland, reminding her of the ghost’s story and of fog blanketing the area and leading to the tragedy. A foghorn made a baleful cry, sending shivers down her spine as she followed Sandy into the house.

The house had turned icy cold. He turned on the lights in the dining room, but they had little power, leaving them and the chairs and table in dim shadows. She suddenly didn’t want to be here, but felt as if she were intruding on someone, or something.

Sandy lit a candle on the table, and then shut the electric lights. “Let’s sit at the table,” he said. He and Rebecca faced each other, the candle between them as they reached across the table and held hands, one hand on each side of the candle. “Now, I want you to look at the flickering candlelight, and clear your mind. We both need to relax and then open our minds to the presence in this house.”

“I thought you said that could be dangerous,” she said.

“Only for a novice.” His voice was filled with pride. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Look at the candle, Rebecca,” he said. “Concentrate only on the flame and the sound of my voice.” He began to breathe deeply and to go through a series of relaxing words about each limb of her body growing heavy and relaxing until she felt at one with the candle, its flame, and even the house.

She tried to keep a smile on her face to show how silly she felt doing this, but something about his voice made her start to believe that to relax was very good, even desirable. Her eyes grew so heavy she needed to shut them. Her breathing slowed.

He talked to her for a while before he asked her to open her eyes and look around the room. “This room and the kitchen were where Astrid spent most of her time. What do you see?”

She stared a long time. “I think … Is that a shadow in the kitchen doorway?”

“Is it? You tell me.”

“No. It’s nothing. There’s only darkness now.”

“Do you see a woman? Perhaps she has blond hair, parted in the middle and pulled back? Her dress is most likely black with a high collar that fits tight around her neck.”

“I can’t tell. I don’t think I see anything at all. I don’t like this.”

“Relax, Rebecca. It’s fine. I’m guiding you.”

“I feel so sad.”

“That’s Astrid,” he said softly. “She has the sorrow of a woman who knows she’s killed the only ones she’s ever loved. She was a wife and a mother. Have you ever been a wife or mother?”

“No.”

“Your mother—is she still alive?”

“Yes.”

“Do you see her often?”

“Very little.”

“Why?”

“She’s far away. I disappoint her.”

“Why? What terrible thing did you do, Rebecca? You can tell me.”

“Nothing. My sister is prettier, and very ladylike. She’s in Hollywood because she wants to become an actress. I’m not ladylike at all.”

“Your father—is he dead?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?”