Vows of Silence

Prologue

June 1888

Addie Goddard stared across the dining room table at her husband Charles, again struck by the sheer magnetism of the man. To say he was merely handsome did him a great disservice. Even though he’d just had his forty-first birthday, he was still as good looking as the day she’d met him twenty-one years ago.

She’d noticed a little gray at his temples the other day, but it didn’t detract from his appearance. His black hair, worn a little longer than she preferred, was still thickly luxuriant. He had finely chiseled features along with a strong jaw line.

He looked up from the roasted chicken, settling his cobalt blue gaze on her. You’re awfully quiet tonight, Addie.

Her eyes met his. He seemed a little apprehensive. She wasn’t surprised, considering. She forced a smile. There’s a letter from George on the table in the foyer. Their son, now twenty years of age, was a student at Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

I’ll read it later. His voice had an edge. He took a deep breath, putting his fork on his plate. Anna Mae won’t be home tonight?

Addie bit back a sharp response. He knew the answer to that question. No, she’s staying the night at the Hastings’ in town. She and Ruth are working on that school project.

Oh, yes, of course.

I took her in the carriage this afternoon while you were working in the den, she added.

A look of irritation briefly crossed his flawless face. I remember, Addie. As though realizing he’d spoken too sharply, he smiled.

She felt her heart squeeze a little as it always did when Charles smiled at her. She’d often wondered why he’d married her in the first place.

Of course, they always marry the plain ones, don’t they? It’s the beautiful ones they have the affairs with.

She shook that thought from her mind, even though she knew it was true.

How did your work go this afternoon? She was trying to focus her mind on this evening, this moment, anything to keep from remembering what happened earlier. In a nervous gesture she ran her hand over her sleekly pulled back brown hair. Lackluster brown, that’s what her mother had called the long, thin tresses. You remind me of a little sparrow, she’d often said.

A sparrow. Nondescript, easily ignored, with my mousy brown hair and pale green eyes. Sometimes I felt invisible. Until Charles, that is. He made me feel vibrant, like a beautiful swan. At least for a while.

Charles was speaking. ….into town tonight later. This client won’t arrive until after eight but he wants to meet me at the office.

Another client in town. Another late evening meeting. She should be used to it by now, but it still wrenched at her heart when she had to sit here pretending to believe the lie. Usually Charles’s affairs fizzled out quickly, leaving Addie with a certain sense of security, albeit an uneasy one.

Let’s have coffee out on the porch, Charles suggested as he rose from the table.

He was a tall muscular man who took pride in his appearance. He’d removed his suit coat, but still wore a white starched shirt and navy blue trousers. It’s a warm evening, how about we row out onto the lake after we have our coffee. You can watch your precious mist rise off the water. His tone lacked the light quality that usually accompanied any comment he made about her penchant for wanting to watch the mysterious fog rise each evening.

Their housekeeper, Mrs. Fitzgerald, came into the dining room to clear the table. Addie said to her, We’ll have coffee on the porch. Then you can leave as soon as you’re finished with the dinner dishes. We won’t need you any longer tonight.

The woman nodded as she began gathering up the plates, cups and silverware. Addie followed Charles outside.

The house, sitting on a hill just outside of Spirit Lake, was a three story Georgian style structure with one peculiarity. Instead of a portico, which was usually part of such architecture, it had a generous wrap around front porch. Addie stood for a moment, looking at the rose garden to her left. It was mid-June. The bushes, some planted by Josephine Billings, wife of the original owner, others planted by Addie herself, were blooming. Their heady fragrance filled the air. She inhaled deeply.

Mrs. Fitzgerald emerged through the front door carrying a large silver tray that held a matching coffee pot. On the tray also were two cups sitting on delicate china saucers, a silver creamer and a sugar bowl. The sugar spoon clanked against the side of the bowl as she put the tray on a round wicker table between two wooden rocking chairs.

Once the housekeeper was gone, Addie poured their coffee. It was just past six o’clock. The evening was warm and humid. Birds still sung in the trees, but the crickets were beginning to chirp, signaling the approaching dusk.

She sat down in one of the rocking chairs, Charles took the other one. He sipped thoughtfully at his coffee.

Do you remember the day we met, Charles? Addie asked after a few moments of silence.

Of course I do. You were coming out of the mercantile. I nearly bowled you over.

She took a sip of coffee. In more ways than one. My heart was fluttering like a trapped butterfly in my chest.

He didn’t look at her, just kept his eyes straight ahead. I knocked you down, literally. You were quite a sight all sprawled out on the ground.

The next thing I knew you swept me up into your arms. She felt her cheeks flush in remembrance of that rush of heat as he’d steadied her on her feet once again.

Charles put his coffee cup and saucer down on the tray with a clang. We’d better take that boat ride if we’re going to do so. It will soon be dark. I need to get ready for my meeting. Rising to his feet, he headed for the porch steps.

Yes, your meeting, Addie finished her coffee adding her cup and saucer to his on the tray.

At that moment Mrs. Fitzgerald came outside to retrieve the tray. I’ll just wash these up then be going, ma’am. The other dishes are all put away.

Addie nodded to the woman but didn’t speak. Instead she watched as her husband stood on the sloping lawn, staring off into space, his mind obviously elsewhere.

* * * *

Addie loved the lake at the bottom of the hill behind her home. The mist that rose up off of it each evening at dusk was both mystifying and comforting to her. Folklore about those mysterious vapors went back to a time when the Iroquois had occupied this land, long before white settlers arrived. It was said that the mist was the spirits of ancient tribal leaders who remained here to protect those who followed in their footsteps. She wasn’t sure she believed that, but nonetheless she enjoyed being near the water each evening. She and Charles often took the boat out when the weather permitted. He was an avid fisherman; she just enjoyed being on the calm, cool water. The mist didn’t frighten her one bit. In fact it took a lot to scare Addie. Usually. However, lately she’d found herself being more than a little uneasy. Oh, not about the lake. No, her apprehension came from another source—the other woman in Charles’s life.

From the start of her marriage she’d known that Charles was a philanderer. At first she’d blamed herself. She wasn’t pretty, or clever, or exciting. She was a plain faced woman with a sturdy body. She almost expected him to take lovers. Once the children came along, she was preoccupied with raising them while Charles made his fortune. He’d done well as the area’s most talented architect, accumulating wealth by cultivating influential clients all over the state of Pennsylvania. Because his designs were extraordinary, word spread fast. His affairs were numerous, but short lived. He would have his flings, but they would burn out quickly. She’d settled for the unspoken arrangement, feeling it was the most she could expect. This latest one hadn’t ended quickly, however. In fact it had gone on for almost a year.

She always knew when he was seeing a lover. She’d made it a point to keep an eye on the progress, gauging when it was time for the affair to end. Charles’s demeanor was predictable. When an affair began, his mood would be cheerful, even jovial as he experienced the new blush of his lust. As the affair wound down, usually after about three months, he would become pensive, quiet, moody. Fewer late meetings, of course. Once the affair ended, he’d play the doting husband again, almost romancing her, as though that somehow made up for his transgression. Of course she always gave Charles plenty of opportunity to end each romance himself, before she took matters into her own hands. Occasionally, though, she’d had to step in, which involved paying the other woman a visit. She found it amazing how quickly those harpies grabbed the cash from her hand.

Something was different this time, though. I could feel it. Unfortunately, I was right.

Stepping off the front porch, she stopped to let Mrs. Fitzgerald’s carriage pass by on the drive leading to the road below. They exchanged waves.

Once the housekeeper was out of sight, Addie followed her husband around the side of the house then down the hill toward the dock. As she walked she thought about what had happened that afternoon….

Addie had just dropped her daughter, Anna Mae, off at the Hastings’ big Victorian house on Allegheny Road. Now she was driving south along Main Street toward the other side of town.

Passing the bank, she looked up at the second story, where the words Goddard & Associate, Architects were printed in gold lettering on one of the windows. Charles’s office, the place where he spent much of his day and, according to him, many evenings. The associate was a young man by the name of Isaac Darrow. Besides Isaac, the office staff consisted of a secretary named Prudence Masters. They had both been dinner guests at the house on several occasions. Isaac was a thin jittery man. It was obvious he thought the world of Charles and was eager to learn from him. Prudence was a matronly, efficient spinster who seemed to like the single life.

As she passed the mercantile she spotted the sheriff, Jacob Hudson, going inside. He was making his rounds she supposed, keeping law and order in Spirit Lake. Close behind him was a woman she knew as Claire Murchison. Breathing a sigh of relief, Addie kept going.

As she got farther away from the center of town, the buildings were farther apart. Finally, up ahead on the right, she saw the white frame rooming house, standing on a dusty lot with only a few trees to shade it. She pulled on the reins, bringing the carriage to a halt several yards away. Then she snapped the reins again, directing the horse into a small clearing bordered by a small copse of elm trees. The shade here would keep Blaze, the three year old gelding, from getting too hot in the afternoon sun. She tied the reins to a tree then walked the rest of the way to the isolated house.

On the porch she found a yellow tabby cat that ran off when she approached. The heavy oak front door was open, the screen door unlocked. She walked inside. The air was still but cool. She wiped the perspiration from her forehead and chin with one gloved hand. For the occasion she’d chosen a blue cotton dress, one she usually wore when shopping in town. It was comfortable as well as functional. Pulling her long skirt up a little, she climbed the stairs. She knew the room number, had known it for a long time. She also knew that the woman who ran this somewhat seedy boarding house, Claire Murchison, made a habit of going to the mercantile every Wednesday afternoon, staying away at least two hours.

Reaching the top of the stairs, she turned right then knocked on the door at the end of the hall. The woman who answered was of small stature with blond hair and vivid blue eyes. She had a classic beauty—high cheekbones, rosy full lips, a finely shaped nose. She smiled tentatively. The aroma of lavender wafted into the hallway.

Are you here to pick up the wedding dress for Miss Landers? You’re a day early. Her voice was melodic. Addie could well imagine how sensual she would sound as she whispered sweet nothings into Charles’s ear.

No. I’m here for another reason, Miss Roth. A matter that concerns my husband, Charles Goddard. She strode into the room, pushing the younger woman aside. She heard a gasp from behind her as the door closed softly.

You’re Addie, the woman said as she walked to the center of the room.

The sound of that chippie using her first name infuriated Addie. And you are Amanda Roth, the tart who has been having an affair with my husband, she said in a tone of voice that displayed her disdain. She looked around, taking in the small sitting area in one corner, the bed only partially hidden behind a folding screen in the other. The fireplace, made of rough cut stone, was to her right between two windows that looked out on the side yard. The hearth was a small arc of smooth agate. She noted the oil lamp in the center of the mantle. Flanking it were two marble statues about ten inches tall, one a dog, the other a cat. A treadle sewing machine sat along the wall to her left, a cabinet with spools of thread next to it. Clothing in different stages of creation or repair hung on a rack nearby. The woman, she knew, was a seamstress. From what she’d heard in town, Amanda Roth was quite good at what she did. Obviously Charles thought so too.

Amanda stood facing Addie, her chin tilted up in a show of bravado. What is it you want?

Addie didn’t answer. Instead she walked slowly around the airy room, taking in the dark green horsehair sofa along with its matching ottoman, the floral print easy chair, the four poster bed with the plush looking quilt behind the Oriental screen. The eclectic mix of styles worked, making the room look cozy and inviting. In her mind’s eye she imagined Charles sitting on the sofa, his feet propped up on the ottoman. She could almost see Amanda snuggling next to him, her blond head on his broad shoulder. She tried her best to block out the mental image of him stretched out on that four poster bed, his muscles rippling as he made love to the town seamstress.

How long have you been in Spirit Lake, Miss Roth? A little over a year, isn’t it? Addie now stood by the fireplace.

Amanda turned to face her. I’m very busy. I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me.

Addie sneered. Yes, I’m sure you are very busy, seducing other women’s husbands.

To her surprise, Amanda laughed out loud. Addie narrowed her eyes, glaring at the woman. What is so funny, Miss Roth?

Amanda’s expression sobered. Nothing, except your statement. You see, it was the other way around.

Although she could easily believe that, she said, You’re a liar on top of everything else, I see. Even to her own ears, her voice lacked conviction. I am curious, though, how you managed to carry on an affair right under Claire Murchison’s nose.

Amanda seemed to be considering whether to answer. Finally she said, Mrs. Murchison’s nose is in a whiskey bottle most evenings. She’s usually locked in her room asleep by eight o’clock.

Addie felt her pulse quicken. So, Charles would sneak in after the landlady was asleep. Obviously the other boarders minded their own business. There had been no gossip in town about Charles and this harlot, so they’d been extremely discreet. Very lucky, too. Until now.

"I’ll ask again, what do you want, Mrs. Goddard? Why have you come here?"

Addie again assessed the woman’s appearance. The calico dress was well tailored, giving her a look of innocence yet sophistication. The cloying lavender scent hung in the air. I came here to make you an offer, one I’m sure you will have no trouble accepting.

An offer? A smile curled up the corners of Amanda’s well formed lips.

Addie opened the drawstring on her satin purse, withdrawing an envelope. Stepping forward, she thrust it into Amanda’s hands. I’m sure you’ll find the amount is sufficient for you to leave Spirit Lake. You can make a fresh start elsewhere. She squared her ample shoulders as she pulled the drawstring tight again, closing the purse.

Amanda held the envelope, examining it carefully. Slowly she opened it, fanning the cash inside with her thumb. Finally her gaze met Addie’s. You are attempting to buy me off? The incredulity in her tone caused Addie’s breath to catch in her throat.

All whores work for money, Miss Roth. You’re no different than the others. Addie snapped impatiently. She wanted this distasteful episode to end, so she could get back to her life, her husband.

With a quick snap of her wrist, Amanda tossed the envelope onto the floor, where it landed at Addie’s feet. Some of the cash spilled out onto the Oriental rug. I am not a whore. I am the woman Charles loves. We intend to marry, once he’s rid himself of you!

It was Addie’s turn to laugh. You can’t be serious. Take the money, Miss Roth. It is the best offer you will get, I assure you. She turned to leave.

I’m carrying his child, Amanda said softly.

Addie spun around, her heart beating wildly inside her chest. She could feel the heat rising up her neck into her face. She knew her cheeks must be fiery red. The room seemed to spin momentarily causing her to grab at the mantle for support. You’re lying, she finally managed to say through a throat that seemed dry as dust.

No, I’m not. Charles knows. He’s ecstatic. I’ve never seen him so happy. He plans to tell you tonight on one of those silly rides you like to take on the lake at dusk.

Addie shook her head. It’s not true, she murmured.

Amanda went to the spool cabinet, opening a drawer at the bottom. Carefully she withdrew a rolled up paper, which she brought to Addie. On closer examination she could see it was a blueprint.

Do you see this? Amanda asked after unrolling the plans. "This is the house Charles intends to build for the two…no the three of us! Now tell me he will never leave you for me!"

The triumph in Amanda’s clear blue eyes made Addie’s heart sink. She felt disoriented, nauseated—her head throbbed. She grabbed the blueprint from Amanda’s hands, flinging it away. It landed with a flutter on the hearth. Turning, Amanda squatted down to pick it up. In that moment, Addie felt a new resolve take hold. Reaching up, she grabbed the marble cat off the mantle, bringing it decisively down on top of the young woman’s head. The dull thud that accompanied that act, as the marble split flesh and crushed bone, sent a wave of satisfaction through Addie’s body.

Without a sound, Amanda crumpled in a lifeless heap on the floor, her right hand still clutching the blueprint…

* * * *

Charles helped Addie into the rowboat. Casting off the line, he jumped in after her. The evening was warm with very little breeze. The musty smell of the lake greeted Addie as she settled onto the rough wooden seat. Charles sat opposite her, rowing with smooth, steady strokes. The oars made a slap, slap sound as they sailed toward the center of the lake. The sun was hovering above the horizon, its orange glow reflecting off the water’s placid surface.

It’s going to be a beautiful night, Charles commented as he directed the boat toward a grouping of trees that overhung the lake on its north side. We’ll go to your favorite spot, so you get a good view of the mist as it rises up.

Addie studied her husband from the other side of the boat. He looked calm, almost serene. He had the look of a man who had made a decision and now was at peace with it.

Well, I’m not at peace, Charles. Far from it. Your precious lover is gone. So is your bastard child! You, however, are still here. A situation I will soon remedy.

After maneuvering the boat into the small cove, he secured the oars. The fishing has been especially good this month, he commented.

No need to make small talk, Charles. I know why you brought me out here this evening, Addie said, surprised at how phlegmatic her voice sounded.

Charles’s gaze shifted momentarily from her face to a spot in the center of the lake, then back again. I don’t understand—

"No, but you will. Tell me something, Charles, how did you meet her, anyway? She claimed you seduced her. I guess I wanted to believe it was always the other way around."

His eyes widened in surprise. Addie, I—

Addie held up a hand to stop his words. In a tone devoid of emotion she said, Never mind. I guess it doesn’t matter how you two met. No more lies, Charles. I met your chippie, Amanda, today. I must say she had a little more character than I would have guessed. At least she didn’t take the money.

Money…what…Amanda— He sputtered.

I offered her twice what it took to get rid of all those others, but she threw it at my feet in disgust. Addie chuckled. Of course, I had the last laugh.

Charles’s face registered his shock and dismay. You saw Amanda? How? When?

I went to that seedy boarding house where she lives, of course. Do you honestly think I had her over for tea? She showed me the blueprints. She told me about the child. Even though I knew about her as well as the others before her, I never would have guessed you’d actually fall in love with one of them.

Charles, obviously knowing there was no use in lying further, said, So, you know. I was going to tell you tonight, out here on the lake, one of your favorite spots.

As if that would somehow soften the blow, Charles? She stared at him.

I just wanted…I guess I thought it would make it easier. His shoulders slumped. He bowed his head. Resting his elbows on his knees, he clasped his hands together as though praying.

She’s dead. I killed her. I suppose they will find her body by tomorrow. I hid it under the bed, but she will be discovered. Not by you tonight, though, when you planned to go to her. No, not by you, Charles!

In one swift movement, she rose, grabbing one of the oars from its rack. Raising it up, she hit him on the side of the head. Before he could respond, she dropped the oar, pushing him into the water. His body hit the surface with a splash, sending a spray up into the boat. He was still for a moment, then began flailing weakly around, his breath coming in ragged gasps. She could see he was bleeding from the head wound she’d inflicted. Not matter. It would be assumed he’d slipped and hit his head on the side of the boat then drowned.

Picking up the oar, she used it to push him under the water. When he bobbed to the surface, she pushed him down again, holding him there until he stopped moving. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity but could only have been a minute or so, he floated face down, obviously dead.

Looking up, she saw that the mist was rising off the lake, swirling around the surface of the water like a lowland fog. Quickly she rowed back to shore, securing the boat to one of the dock pilings. Running up to the house she got some of Charles’s fishing equipment, bringing it back to the boat. She threw it inside then loosened the boat. Slowly it drifted away. Soon, it disappeared into the mist.

You can be with your whore in hell now, Charles, she said.

In the morning, when she arose, she’d claim he went fishing while she went to bed with a migraine. He often did that in the evening, so no one would suspect a thing. Since there was really no client he was supposed to meet this evening, there would be no one to report that he failed to show up. As for Amanda Roth, Addie had removed the blueprint, gathered up the money, then searched the room for anything else that would connect Charles to the woman. There had been nothing. She was certain her carriage had not been seen near the boarding house, since the other two residents worked in town. Mrs. Murchison hadn’t returned home by the time she left.

Returning to the house from the lake, Addie stripped off all her clothing. Adding it to the dress she’d worn to the boarding house and the blueprints, she burned it all in the fireplace. The money now rested in a dresser drawer. After she cleaned out the ashes from the fireplace, she bathed, put on her nightclothes, then went into the basement. The oil lamp she carried cast a narrow yellow glow as she made her way down the stairs into the coal cellar. She stood in the doorway, looking to her right, where the coal had been shoveled aside just enough for a person to squeeze between it and the wall.

You had another secret, didn’t you Charles? But I know about it, too. She stood for a moment breathing in the stagnant, pungent air. Then she turned and went upstairs to bed.

Chapter One

Erica drove the rental car along Main Street, marveling at how little things had changed in the year she’d been away from Spirit Lake. She wasn’t sure what she expected. Perhaps some earthshaking metamorphosis. After all, the past year had changed her life dramatically. As she rounded the bend in the road, the inn came into view. She felt her heart skip a beat.

The sign at the bottom of the hill still read Spirit Lake Inn, Proprietors Erica Parkhurst & Paula Bascilla. The rose trellis above the sign was covered with large red blooms. They were so perfect, so velvety looking they could have been artificial. Since the day was mild and the car windows were down, their heady fragrance floated inside, triggering memories of the first time she’d made this drive.

If I’d just kept going that day, if I hadn’t pulled into the sloping drive and up the hill to the inn, would my life have been better?

The answer to that question came in the form of a squeal from the back seat.

She’s awake, Diane Clarke said from the passenger seat.

Erica glanced at her mother, then in the rear view mirror at her six-month-old daughter in the car seat behind her. Probably hungry, too, she said.

As though agreeing, little Joanna Diane Clarke blew a saliva bubble through her perfect bow-shaped lips, then squealed again. She had curly red hair that tended to have a mind of its own. Her eyes were the color of rich, dark chocolate.

Joe’s eyes, Erica thought as she tried to keep her attention on the road. The baby’s skin had a slight coppery glow, denoting her father’s Iroquois heritage.

It’s her heritage too, don’t forget that.

Diane Clarke reached into a tote bag by her feet on the car floor, taking out a box of animal crackers. How about a lion, Jo, she said, handing a cookie over the back of the seat to her grandchild. Taking the treat, the baby began munching eagerly. I wish your father had lived to see her, Erica. Her tone was wistful.

Erica drove up in front of the inn and turned off the engine. I miss him, too, Mother. She still teared up when she thought about her father’s sudden death in November of a heart attack.

It’s a beautiful place, Erica. The pictures don’t do it justice, Diane said as she got out of the car, looking first at the house then at the surrounding grounds, which included a lush, well maintained rose garden.

Erica exited the car. She’d had mixed feelings about returning to Spirit Lake. Joe was gone, what was the use? Then she’d received a call from her best friend and co-owner of the inn, Paula Bascilla, telling her that two events would be taking place here that she might want to attend. One was the Founders’ Day celebration, which would also include the official release of The Real Spirits of Spirit Lake, a book about the inn’s infamous ghosts written by former guests Rick Castillo and Dan Parish. Both authors would be present to sign copies of the book at the community center. The second event, one she dreaded, was Joe Lakota’s memorial service, organized by his older brother, Jake.

It’s time, Paula had told her on the phone during one of their many conversations. He’s been gone a year, Erica. He isn’t coming back.

Then let his brother handle it. I just can’t, had been Erica’s response. In the end she’d decided to return, but not to stay. In fact, she intended to sell her half of the inn to Paula, then leave Spirit Lake for good soon after the July fourth celebration. She hadn’t told her partner that bit of news yet. She’d have to find the right time.

Little Jo began to fuss. Shaking herself out of her reverie, Erica extricated the baby from the car seat. You’re all right. That’s a good girl. Cookie covered hands patted Erica’s cheeks.

I can take her, Diane offered, holding out her arms to the child.

Erica Parkhurst! You’re finally here!

Erica looked up to see Rick Castillo running down the porch steps. He looked much the same as he had last year—tall, well proportioned, immaculately dressed. His black hair was a little longer now but stylishly cut. His warm brown eyes twinkled with joy as the swooped in on Erica, hugging her and baby Jo. Jo chortled with delight as Rick released them and stepped back. You’re beautiful, both of you!

For Lord’s sake, Ricky, quit trying to smother them, Dan Parish said as he descended the porch steps. Erica smiled up at him. His close-cropped reddish hair glinted brightly in the afternoon sunshine. He was a little shorter than Rick with a boyish face and emerald green eyes.

I’m so glad to see you both. I can’t wait to read the book. Just so you know, though, I’m Erica Clarke again. I took back my maiden name. The sight of them together brought back fond memories.

Rick looked expectantly at Diane. Erica quickly did the introductions.

It’s certainly easy to see where Erica gets her good looks, Rick said, giving Diane a hug.

We were so sorry to hear about Mr. Clarke, Dan said.

Yes, such an awful thing, especially after everything else that happened, just dreadful, Rick agreed.

Dan and Rick retrieved the luggage from the car trunk while Erica motioned for her mother to follow her into the inn.

The foyer looked much the same. On the round table under the period chandelier was a large arrangement of fresh flowers. Erica recalled a time, before most of the inn’s ghosts had been vanquished, when fresh flower arrangements were out of the question, since one of the spirits kept knocking them over, spilling water all over the refinished wooden floor. She’d finally opted for a dried arrangement. She smiled at the memory.

Straight ahead was the staircase, next to it a small elevator that had once been a closet. To her right was the parlor. Glancing in, she saw it was empty.

This is beautiful, Diane said, looking all around. She wandered into the parlor. I love the grand piano.

Jo struggled to free herself from Erica’s arms. She was crawling now, which meant she constantly wanted to explore. Not just yet, little one, she said to the baby.

Dan and Rick came through the front door, toting the luggage. We’ll take this on up, Rick said. You and little precious are in the room Dan and I had last year. Your mother is in the small one.

We got the royal treatment this time around, Dan commented. We’re in one of the rooms with a lake view.

The room Erica and Jo would occupy looked out over the rose garden.

The garden where I was supposed to be married last June. The garden Raymond Livingston helped recreate after the awful fire that nearly destroyed all the original bushes as well as the gazebo. The garden where the skeletons of Angela Billings, daughter of the man who built this house, and Sonny Lakota, Joe’s ancestor, were unearthed after being buried there for over a century. The garden where a guest’s body was later found. The garden once haunted by a weeping woman.

You’re a million miles away, Erica. What’s wrong? Diane asked. She was now standing next to Erica in the center of the foyer, next to the table. Giving up the idea, at least momentarily, of crawling around on the floor, Jo had stuck her thumb in her mouth and laid her head on Erica’s shoulder.

Erica looked at her mother. At fifty-six she was still a very attractive woman. Her auburn hair was cut in a short flattering style, her brown eyes framed by long, thick lashes. She was wearing a pair of tan chino slacks along with a matching short sleeve knit top. Her jewelry was understated—a pair of diamond solitaire earrings, a gold cross hanging from a thin chain around her neck, a simple wristwatch. She looked elegant, as always.

I wonder where everyone else is? Erica said, heading for the archway to her left, which led to the dining room, which in turn led to the kitchen.

I’d love to freshen up, Diane muttered, following along.

You look like you just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine, Mother. I’m the one who needs to be hosed down. I think I have cookie pieces in my hair, Erica said. Jo began kicking.

Diane took the baby from Erica. She’s tired. She probably needs a nap. I wouldn’t mind one myself. Her voice sounded strained.

Erica felt a surge of alarm Her mother’s battle with Meniere’s Disease had been one of the reasons she’d decided to leave Spirit Lake last May to join her parents in Fort Lauderdale. June, July and August were a roller coaster ride as Diane’s condition became erratic. Finally the doctors were able to get her stabilized so that the crippling affects of the malady, which included severe vertigo, imbalance, nausea and vomiting, were under control.

Are you feeling all right, Mother? You’re not having dizziness are you? Erica asked anxiously.

No, I’m fine. Just a little tired.

Erica turned on her heels. Then we’re going upstairs. She walked decisively across the foyer to the elevator.

They found Rick and Dan in the upstairs hallway. Rick made a beeline for Diane. Your room’s at the end of the hall on the right. It’s the one Erica used to sleep in. Paula thought Erica should have the larger room since the baby will be with her.

Where is Paula? Erica asked a little sharply. She’d really expected her to greet them when they arrived.

At the cafe. Cal’s off with that medicine man on one of those quests, or whatever, Rick said with a wave of one hand. We’re kind of playing meet and greet.

Erica suppressed a smile. Rick did have a way of expressing himself that displayed a lot of humor. What he was referring to was Cal Motega’s decision last spring to follow the same path as his long-time advisor, Chet Dyami, and become a shaman. Erica knew that although Paula supported Cal’s decision, it made her life more hectic, because she would have to take up the slack at the Eagle Hill Cafe, owned by