In the Blink of an Eye (10 page)

Paine fights the impulse to hug her.

A man comes up behind her, still in the process of tucking a credit card back into his wallet “We're all set” he tells Julia, and flashes a curious look at Paine.

“Thanks, Andy. These are old friends of mine. Paine Landry and Dulcie, who is Kristin's—”

“Daughter. I figured.” Andy's gaze rests on Dulcie, whose unseeing eyes are focused in the direction of Julia's voice.

Paine tells himself the other man's curious expression is natural. And when Andy offers him a perfunctory handshake, he tells himself that he's just imagining tension in the brief grasp.

Then Andy announces, “I met Kristin when she was here that summer, before . . .”

As his words trail off meaningfully, an inexplicable apprehension seeps into Paine.

“Really? How did you meet?” he asks Andy, his voice level. “Through Julia?”

“Actually, I met Julia and Kristin at the same time,” Andy tells Paine. “They had stopped in at a bar down the road for a drink the night Kristin flew in from L.A. I happened to be there, and I introduced myself.”

His hands are tucked into the pockets of his khaki pants, and he rocks back on his heels in what should be a casual posture. Yet Paine reads something brazen into his tone.

“Andy is well known in the field of parapsychology,” Julia says—as if that means anything to Paine. “He travels and gives workshops. He's in residence at Lily Dale again this summer.”

Paine acknowledges this with a tight nod of his head as Dulcie asks, “What's parapsychology?”

“It's the study of things we can't quite understand,” Julia tells her.

“That's not exactly it” Andy takes a breath, apparently about to launch into a more complicated explanation.

Julia cuts him off. “We should let you get back to your coffee and dessert before Dulcie's ice cream turns into soup.”

“I like it that way,” Dulcie says, stirring the melting contents of her bowl. “But you should come over to our house and visit. Can she, Daddy?”

“Sure, whenever,” Paine says noncommittally.

“No, tonight. Please? We just got here and we're lonely in our house.”

That's news to Paine. After all, the two of them have been on their own for three years now, and Dulcie has never talked about being lonely before.

Then again, this is a strange place. And if he's feeling unsettled about being in the house where Iris so recently died, it can't be easy on Dulcie, either.

“Why don't you come back with us?” he suggests—mostly to Julia, though he assumes Andy is part of the deal. He wouldn't mind some adult company, after endless days on the road with only Dulcie and the tape deck for company. “I'm sure I saw an unopened can of Maxwell House in Iris's cupboard, and one of the neighbors brought over some cupcakes from a bakery.”

“Chocolate volcanos,” Dulcie corrects him. “You can try them. They're really good.”

“Chocolate volcanos? Pilar next door must have brought those,” Julia says. “Am I right?”

Paine nods. “How did you know?”

“Her sweet tooth is even bigger than Iris's used to be. And she's always buying chocolate pastries from the Upper Crust bakery over in Fredonia. I've had those chocolate volcanos, Dulcie. They're delicious.”

“Do you want to come over and have one, then?” Dulcie asks eagerly.

“That would be nice,” Julia says unexpectedly, and adds, mostly to Paine, “In fact, since I'm pretty familiar with Iris's house—I always keep an eye on the place when she's not here—I can help you get settled by showing you some of the quirky things you might not have noticed.”

“Actually, Howard Menkin stopped by earlier,” Paine begins.

“Did you say Howard?” Dulcie cuts in. “Knock, knock.”

Paine sighs. “Dulcie . . .”

“Who's there?” Julia asks.

“Howard.”

“I bet it's not Howard Menkin,” Julia says, and Paine smiles. “So, Howard who?”

“Howard I know?” Dulcie erupts in a fit of giggles.

Julia joins in.

Paine can't help himself. He laughs, too.

He notices Julia's friend barely cracks a smile.

Getting back to his earlier subject, Paine tells Julia, “
Anyway,
Howard showed me a few things—like how to work the thermostat in case we need to adjust the heat. I never expected it to be this cold here in June.”

Julia smiles. “Around here, July is pretty much the only month that you can count on not having the furnace kick on. Did Howard show you how to get into the basement? I know that old furnace is pretty temperamental. You might have to go down and kick some sense into it if it acts up later.”

“He said something about that. I haven't had a chance to look for the stairway yet and I didn't see one.”

“That's because it's outside, around the side yard, behind the big lilac tree. There's no basement access from inside the house.”

“That's strange,” Paine comments, checking on Dulcie, who is contentedly lapping up her ice cream.

“Not so strange for a vintage Victorian, really. And old houses aren't known for convenience. Like I said, yours has plenty of quirks. They all do, around here.”

Andy has been silent during the exchange. Now Paine catches him glancing at his watch. He looks up and meets Paine's gaze.

Something flickers in his eyes and is gone before Paine can figure out what it was.

“Would you like anything else, sir?” the waitress asks Paine, popping up beside the table.

“No, thank you. Just the check.” While she tallies it on her pad, Paine looks expectantly at Julia. “So you'll come back for a little while, then, for coffee?”

“That sounds good to me, but—what do you think, Andy?”

“I'm going to take a rain check,” he says easily. “I've got to be up before dawn to go fishing. Why don't you go, Julia?”

She seems a bit surprised by the suggestion. After a moment's hesitation, she glances at Dulcie, and nods. “I think I will. It's still early.”

“You might as well ride back with Paine, then,” Andy says, sneaking another glance at his watch as he slips his arms into the sleeves of his lightweight navy jacket.

The waitress hands the check to Paine, then gives Dulcie a little nudge. “Looks like you're enjoying your ice cream, huh, sweetie? Come back again.”

“We will,” Dulcie promises.

It's good to see her smile, Paine thinks, watching her fumble on the back of her chair for the red windbreaker. He reaches across to help her, but Julia is already there, helping her find it. He's impressed by the way she simply places the jacket in Dulcie's hands, allowing the little girl to put it on, as though she instinctively senses Dulcie's fiercely independent streak and that she wants to do things for herself despite her disability.

Paine hands the waitress his Visa card.

“Thank you, sir. I'll be right back. Pretty little girl you've got there.”

“I guess I'll head out then,” Andy announces as the waitress departs. “I'll see you tomorrow night, Julia. Don't forget—the movies.”

“I won't forget.”

“Nice meeting you, Paine.”

“You, too,” Paine murmurs, wondering whether Julia and Andy are a long-term couple.

Something tells him they're not. Maybe it's the almost awkward way he bends to give her a peck on the cheek before he leaves. Julia turns her head toward him, as though uncertain about where he's aiming, and his kiss lands on a wisp of short hair at her temple.

Then Andy's gone, and Paine is signing the credit card slip, and the three of them are heading for the door. Dulcie walks between them, with Paine's hand on her shoulder, guiding her through the restaurant.

Paine looks over at Julia. She's looking at him, too. Suddenly uncomfortable, he tries to think of something to say.

He settles on, “So you're going to spill all the old house's secrets to me, huh?”

She nods, but she doesn't smile. “There's actually something else I'd like to talk to you about, too.”

“There is? What—”

“Later,” she says, with a slight nod toward Dulcie.

Paine immediately senses that it's about Kristin.

His heart beats faster as the three of them head out into the wind-driven rain.

Chapter Five

H
AIR STILL DAMP
from her shivery shower, Miranda flops down on the bed in Kent's room. Hers is across the hall, a sparsely decorated rectangle containing only the basics. So is his, but Kent has somehow made his temporary lodging homey.

The single wide windowsill has become a makeshift bookshelf lined with novels and parapsychology books. His plump down pillow from his bed back home, tucked into a cheerful Ralph Lauren plaid pillowcase, is propped at the head of the bed. On the scarred dresser top, in a half-filled water glass, is the wildflower bouquet he picked by the lake earlier, the petals still glistening with raindrops. Beside the makeshift vase is a collection of toiletries that includes several glass bottles of expensive cologne.

“Did you really throw away the bottle of cologne you had on this afternoon?” Miranda asks, not spotting it on the dresser.

“Of course. If Mike wears the same stuff, it's lost its allure for me.”

“Oh, come on, Kent. That's ridiculous.”

“Hey, careful, my glasses are there,” Kent says, reaching out to snatch them from the range of Miranda's elbow as she rolls onto her stomach and props her chin in her hand.

“I wish it would stop raining, damn it!” She tilts her head, listening to the steady dripping on the roof.

They never launch an investigation unless the weather is clear. Rain or snow interferes with their equipment.

“Relax! It has to let up sooner or later.” Standing in front of an old picture-sized wall mirror, Kent removes his contact lenses.

“The forecast says later. Much later.”

“Well, we're not on a strict schedule. If we have to, we'll wait to go out tomorrow night.”

“I know, but I'm feeling claustrophobic,” Miranda complains, sitting up and walking over to the closed window. She presses her face against the pane, staring out into the darkness.

“Don't get any ideas. I have no desire to do the duck thing again.”

“I know. We did enough sloshing around out there this afternoon.” Miranda had hoped that a long shower would help warm her up after that, but the old hotel only has one shared bathroom on the floor, and by the time it was free, the hot water was gone.

She turns away from the window, slaps her hands against her thighs, and exhales through puffed cheeks. “Looks like we've got an evening to kill, Kent. What do you want to do? Are you hungry?”

“Nope. Still stuffed from that cheeseburger at the snack bar.”

“So am I. I think I brought a deck of cards,” she offers.

“No, thanks. You cheat.” Kent pops his right contact lens into the vial and twists the top on, then grabs his glasses.

“I don't cheat!” Miranda protests, going back to the bed and plopping down again.

“Yes, you do.” He sits on the bed beside her and pats the mattress. “This bed is lumpy.”

“Is it?” She lies back. “Not worse than mine at home. But then, I'm no Princess and the Pea, unlike you, so—”

“Hey, who are you calling princess?” He swats her arm.

Miranda laughs and rolls onto her back. She studies the network of cracks in the water-stained ceiling. It's dry now, but it's not hard to imagine the old plaster springing a few leaks if this rain keeps up.

She supposes the hotel is suited to Lily Dale's generally shabby, rudimentary ambience. But back in Boston as they were planning the trip, when Kent described their lodging to her, she found herself picturing more of a quaint, cozy bed-and-breakfast. The reality is reminiscent of a Depression-era rooming house.

“So what's the plan for later?” Kent, sprawled beside her on his back, has his elbows bent and hands tucked beneath his neck. “Or tomorrow, if the weather doesn't break tonight?”

“First, I want to go back to Inspiration Stump. Since that's where the mediums spend a lot of time doing readings, it makes sense that we might find some activity there.”

He nods. “What about that house on Summer Street?”

“You mean the one with the lilac tree? And don't tell me it's a shrub, because I'm not the least bit interested in horticulture. Yeah, I definitely want to go back there.”

“I figured. Why?”

She shrugs. “It's just a feeling.”

He accepts that without question.

They've both been in this business long enough to trust each other's hunches.

Yet neither of them has extrasensory abilities. Their mission is strictly to conduct scientific research, collecting data that isn't visible or audible without the equipment they tote with them. At least, not to those who aren't gifted mediums.

But experience has taught both Miranda and Kent how and where to look for the spirits who are willing to communicate, and whose energy will come through most effectively.

It happens randomly, really. During an investigation, Miranda is sometimes struck by the sense that she should point her video camera in a certain direction, or she impulsively knows to spend more time in a certain room. When that happens, she's often rewarded with vivid documentation—stark video footage of darting orbs or ectoplasm, snatches of disembodied voices on tape.

Miranda is convinced, after a drizzly afternoon poking around the narrow, tree-shaded streets, that Kent was right about this place. Lily Dale will prove to be fertile ground for their research.

And no site captivates her more than the tree in the overgrown yard of that forlorn house at Ten Summer Street.

“
H
OW DO YOU
take your coffee?” Paine asks as the old-fashioned stainless steel Farberware percolator sputters on the blue Corian countertop.

Julia looks up from the book she's reading to Dulcie. It's Maurice Sendak's
Where the Wild Things Are,
one of Dulcie's favorite stories. It's a classic, but Julia has somehow never read this fanciful tale of mischievous little Max, sent to his room without supper, where his imagination takes over and he courageously sails off on an adventure.

“I take my coffee with milk . . . if you have it,” Julia adds, remembering that Paine probably hasn't had time to set up housekeeping yet

It's strange—Iris's kitchen without its usual lived-in aura. When she was alive, every surface was cluttered. Perhaps less so in the winter months, when she was living hundreds of miles away. Yet while most summer residents cleaned out their homes before abandoning them for the season, when Iris left, her place remained perpetually pervaded with
stuff.
Stacks of magazines and catalogues, needlepoint projects she was planning to get back to the following summer, recipes she had clipped—mainly desserts, of course, and most of them chocolate. Not that Iris ever baked. But she was always talking about how she'd learn how, someday.

Now she never will.

Julia swallows hard.

Paine has been here less than a day, but already he's rid the kitchen of more than just perishables. Resentment stirs inside Julia, though she knows he has a right to make changes. Iris is gone. The house is his and Dulcie's.

At least for now. She can't imagine them staying in Lily Dale.

“You're in luck. I do happen to have milk,” Paine is saying. “Dulcie and I went out to get some basics over at that Shur-Fine supermarket in Cassadaga. She drinks a lot of milk.”

“Somehow I knew that,” Julia says, noticing the faint milk mustache above the little girl's upper lip.

“And Daddy eats lots of potato chips,” Dulcie says, with a grin.

“I didn't realize potato chips were considered a basic item.” Julia spies a jumbo-sized bag of Ruffles peeking through a cupboard door that's slightly ajar.

“They're a basic in our pantry,” Paine tells her. “So is sugar . . . and I just realized I forgot to buy it”

“Doesn't Iris have some in the cupboard somewhere?”
Present tense,
Julia realizes belatedly.
Stop that.

But she can't get used to talking about her friend as though she's gone.

It was different when Kristin died. Probably because after so many years of estrangement, Julia had already taken to thinking of her in past tense.

“Iris did have a whole canister full of sugar,” Paine tells her, “but ants had gotten to it. I dumped it. In fact, I dumped a lot of stuff.”

Yeah. I noticed.

Aloud she says only, “It's okay. I don't take any in my coffee.”

“I do.”

Yes. She remembers seeing him tearing open several packets back at the restaurant. That was when she had worked up the nerve to approach him, knowing that it was now or never, with Andy paying the check and ready to leave.

“Julia, can you finish reading the story?” Dulcie prods, pouting a little.

“Sure. I'm sorry I got sidetracked, Dulcie.”

“Oh, don't worry about her,” Paine says lightly. “It's not as if she doesn't know how it ends. I read it to her almost every night before bed.”

“Yeah, and he describes the illustrations after he reads what's on each page, not
before
he reads, like you do, Julia.”

“I'm sorry,” Julia says again. “I'll do it your daddy's way.”

“I like your way better,” she says shyly. “Then I can picture what it looks like while I hear what's happening.”

Julia is struck by a flood of affection for the little girl. It's all she can do not to impulsively give her a hug. She doesn't know how Dulcie would react to that now, at her age. When Julia last knew her, as a toddler who had just lost her mother, she had willingly curled up in Julia's arms.

“Julia?” Dulcie nudges again, but she's unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.

“Right after this, it's bedtime, Dulc,” Paine warns, taking the carton of milk from the fridge.

Bedtime? That will leave Julia alone with Paine.

She finds herself slowing the pace as she works her way through Max's adventures in the land of the Wild Things, postponing the conclusion and the inevitable departure of the sleepy little girl.

Julia was never alone with Paine the last time they met. What will they talk about?

Kristin.

That's what they'll talk about. What else do they have in common? And anyway, she needs to bring up the nagging doubts about Kristin's death—doubts that have surfaced to haunt her now that Iris, too, has met a tragic end.

Paine pours two cups of coffee.

Then, grumbling about holes in the screens, he grabs a plastic fly swatter and goes after a moth that's darting around the overhead light.

Julia turns the pages, struggling to capture aloud for Dulcie Maurice Sendak's incredible illustrations of big-eyed beasts with gap-toothed grins in a bewitching twilight forest, and Max, who coronates himself only to become lonely for home and his mom.

Dulcie likes to run her fingertips over the dog-eared pages, almost as though the flowing artwork can seep into her through the alternative sense of touch. Julia notices that she never places her hands over the type, as if she senses precisely where the print is on the pages and knows to avoid blocking it. She lovingly caresses the pages that have no text as Julia tells her about the pictures.

When the book is finished, and little Max has found his way back to his room with a hot supper waiting, Julia swallows hard. “No wonder you love this book, Dulcie. It's a wonderful story.”

“I sleep with it under my pillow every night,” Dulcie confides. “Sometimes, I pretend that I'm Max.”

Paine scoops his daughter from her chair and cradles her snugly in his arms. “Tell Julia good night, Dulcie.”

“Good night, Julia,” Dulcie says around a yawn. “Will you come back tomorrow?”

“I'll come back again,” Julia promises, handing her the book.

“Tomorrow?”

Julia smiles, touched. “Maybe.”

“I'll be back down in a few minutes,” Paine tells her.

Julia leans back in her chair, her hands cupped around the hot mug of coffee Paine has set before her with the warning that it might be too strong. He's used to his automatic drip coffeemaker, not a percolator.

She hears the stairs creaking, then footsteps overhead and water running in the bathroom.

She closes her eyes to block out an image of Iris, dead, in front of the tub.

Oh, hell. She doesn't want to be here.

She should have said no when Paine asked her to come back. And she would have, except . . .

Dulcie.

Julia can't help being drawn to Kristin's daughter, not merely out of pity or curiosity, but some innate sense of concern. Maybe it's because of the intensely emotional time they spent together that summer—or maybe because Dulcie is a part of Kristin, and Kristin will always be a part of Julia.

As she sits in the silent kitchen, eyes closed, she becomes aware of little sounds. The last of the rain, plopping steadily on the tin roof above the back entryway. Paine's weight groaning the old floorboards above. The antique clock chiming the hour in the front hall.

She strains for some other sound—for some hint, audible or not, that she isn't alone in the room. Yet she knows instinctively that this time, there will be nothing. She doesn't feel the presence that was here before, the day Iris died. Nor does she want to.

Now, though she's half waiting for the energy to make itself known once again, she isn't willing to accept the distraction. It's hard enough, just being here in Iris's house without the familiar disarray. Without Iris herself.

Her death is still a shock. So, three years later, is Kristin's.

Julia muses at the cruelty of fate. Both mother and daughter died in Lily Dale, though neither lived here full-time. Both died in tragic accidents. Both deaths occurred at this time of year.

The macabre coincidence strikes Julia anew, along with another wave of uneasiness.

“
K
ATHERINE . . .