Because we’re here, now, to chase down a different mystery. One that is separate from the Vandenberg cold case.
He slides open a discreet door beside the fireplace. I hurry after him, through the butler’s pantry, into the kitchen. There’s an iron stove and a brick oven and a long wooden table. Above it, copper pots and pans hang from a rack. Further back, in the scullery, Mr. Tulane washes dishes in a deep stone sink, his suit coat folded neatly on the workbench behind him.
When he sees Jude, he shuts off the water. Then does a double take at the sight of me, likehe’sthe medium andI’mthe ghost. Maybe he keeps looking at me this way because he’s seen the portrait,Ezra’s Obsession. Or maybe he’s just wary of me in general, given my persistent, enthusiastic requests for an interview.
Jude shows him the book. “Do you rememberdonating this? It would have been thirty years ago.”
“To the historical society, yes.”
“Do you know where we could find the key?”
Mr. Tulane dries his hands on a towel. “All the items I donated came from storage on the third floor. If there is a key, I imagine it would be somewhere up there.”
14
FORGOTTEN THINGS
Jude strides toward a hobbled apothecary desk while I set my sights on a wardrobe, its imposing stature making up for its lackluster condition.
Third floor storage is ripe with neglect.
Cobwebs stretch between exposed rafters. Sheets hang over mystery items like moth-eaten ghosts. Dust covers everything else like peach fuzz—old trunks, broken furniture, forgotten heirlooms.
My fingers itch to explore.
I open the wardrobe’s doors and let out a soft exclamation. It’s full of clothes straight out of the nineteenth century. Hardly believing my eyes, I pull a dress free—a dusty rose ball gown made of silk and lace, its skirt cascading in layers of tulle. The bodice is stiff with boning, and the fabricsmells of old perfume and cedar wood. “I can’t believe this is up here.”
Languishing in the dark.
I lift it higher, but Jude barely looks. He’s too busy prying open the many small drawers of the apothecary desk, one after another.
I hold the dress in front of me, admiring my dingy reflection in the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe’s door. I imagine waltzing in the ballroom during the Hunter’s Moon Masquerade Ball. Wearingthis. I sway a little, then exchange the dress for a midnight blue cloak made of velvet, trimmed with fur. I drape it over my shoulders. “Are there smelling salts in those drawers?”
Jude casts me a distracted glance. “Smelling salts?”
“In case I swoon?” I give a twirl.
A cloud of dust billows around me.
“These clothes should be on display in a museum.” I shuffle past a collection of Edwardian era menswear, imagining Jude in a black tailcoat with satin lapels and a cravat. He’d look like a gothic hero.
“I don’t mean to rain on your fashion parade,” he says, wresting open another drawer. “But I don’t think you’re going to find the key in there.”
“You never know. It could be hiding in one of these pockets.” I reach inside several to no avail, then force myself to turn away from the wardrobe, cloak still fastened over my shoulders. Jude is right. We came here for a specific reason.
I set my hands on my hips and give the room another scan. “If I were a key, where would I be?”
A broken mirror rests against the wall. Beside it, a child-sized rocking chair with peeling paint.
I give it a tilt with my shoe.
It rocks in a mournful, rhythmic groan.
“Have you ever seenThe Changeling?” I ask.
“With George C Scott?”
His response surprises me.The Changelingis one of the more obscure horror films of the 1980s. It doesn’t involve a rocking chair, but it does involve a wheelchair withverysimilar vibes.
