Relatively Dead Read online

  Cover

  Books by Sheila Connolly

  Orchard Mysteries

  One Bad Apple

  Rotten to the Core

  Red Delicious Death

  A Killer Crop

  Bitter Harvest

  Sour Apples

  “Called Home”

  Museum Mysteries

  Fundraising the Dead

  Let’s Play Dead

  Fire Engine Dead

  “Dead Letters”

  Monument to the Dead

  County Cork Mysteries

  Buried in a Bog

  Writing as Sarah Atwell

  Glassblowing Mysteries

  Through a Glass, Deadly

  Pane of Death

  Snake in the Glass

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Sheila Connolly

  Material excerpted from Monument to the Dead copyright © 2013 by Sheila Connolly

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-937349-72-1

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Excerpt from Monument to the Dead

  About the Author

  1

  She didn’t want to be here. But Brad had told her she ought to get out more, find some interests of her own, so here she was standing in front of the last house on the walking tour of Waltham’s most noteworthy mansions, relics of the town’s nineteenth-century industrial heyday. Could she summon up the energy to go through one more? She’d already seen four, and her feet hurt. How could this one be any better than the others?

  But she wanted to be able to tell Brad that she’d taken the house tour today. Not part of the house tour, not some of the house tour: the whole tour. That meant she had to grit her teeth and go through this one. Then she could go home, make a nice cup of tea, and take her shoes off.

  The house looked nice, she had to admit. It was not too big or too posh-looking. Friendly, almost. The house sat on a rise, and when she reached the broad terrace Abby turned to contemplate the low roofs of Waltham below. Not much of a view, but at least the house nestled proudly on its land, lawns spread out like skirts around it. She turned back to the house to study the details. High Victorian, the house sprouted chimneys, dormers, porches, a porte-cochere, and a wealth of gingerbread trim. It was a full three stories, with a turret on one end. She made her way to the front door.

  When she stepped into the paneled hall, a man about her own age greeted her and handed her an information sheet. A name badge in a plastic sleeve, clipped to the pocket of his blue-gray Oxford shirt, identified him as Ned. Abby noted that the shirt was exactly the same color as his eyes, or what she could see behind his gold-rimmed glasses. She smiled timidly.

  “Is it too late to take the tour?”

  “No problem,” Ned replied cheerfully. “Take your time. It’s self-guided, and you can wander anywhere on this floor, but not upstairs. Let me know if you have any questions.”

  Abby drifted into what must have been the main parlor. With her newfound architectural expertise, she observed that the dropped ceiling was not original, but the wavy glass in the many windows was. The room had been furnished in a cheerful chintz in light colors, and the woodwork was painted white. It had probably been much more somber a century ago. She crossed back through the spacious entry hall to a small sitting room opposite. This was more charming, intimate. There was a small fireplace surrounded by pretty decorative tiles, with a mirror inset over it. This would have been where the family spent most of its time, she decided. On the far side of the fireplace was a door; passing through it, Abby found herself in the kitchen. Nothing of great interest here. At the back of the house, it was dark, and it had clearly been remodeled, in the 1930s, she guessed. The house was surprisingly small, Abby mused; it had appeared much larger from the outside. Maybe that was the point of all that gingerbread.

  If the house was as square as it had appeared, there should be one more room on this floor: the dining room. She chose another door out of the kitchen and crossed through a small, richly paneled hall, from which she could see the front hall. She stepped into the dining room. Plainly this room hadn’t been modernized. Her eyes followed the soaring lines of the elegant woodwork to the original coffered ceiling, then to the elaborate carved mantel at the far end. She laid one hand on the doorjamb—and then something changed.

  So much anger, so much pain.

  She knew she was standing in the same place in the same room, its tall windows draped in opulent swags of peach-colored damask, its fireplace surrounded by colorful tiles, flanked by columns. She could make out the gleam of polished silver on the sideboard, the colorful arabesques on the fireplace tiles.

  But now there were people in the room, and Abby strained to hear any words. An older woman—in her fifties, maybe?—sat at the broad mahogany table in the center of the room, her hands flat as if to stop them from trembling. Without wavering, the woman watched a man pacing nervously on the opposite side of the table. He was slight, with a receding hairline, balanced by a luxuriant mustache. His suit collar was stiff and high, a stickpin anchoring his broad tie. He looked both sheepish and belligerent. She—who was she?—looked down to see a blanket-wrapped baby in her arms.

  “Miss? Are you all right?”

  Abby nearly jumped out of her skin at the touch of a hand on her elbow. The man from the hallway had come up behind her.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Maybe you should sit down.”

  Abby was fighting between embarrassment and the lingering remnants of the irrational fear that had swept over her. “I, uh . . . I’m fine. It’s just that you startled me. I’ll go now.” Abby wanted
nothing more than to escape from this stranger’s kind attention.

  He still held her elbow, watching her face. “Please, no. There’s no rush. Why don’t you sit for a minute, just to be sure you’re all right? Come on.” When she didn’t resist he led her not to the parlor but to the smaller sitting room. Apparently he agreed with her that it was a friendlier room, she thought. He settled her into a wicker chair plump with cushions. “Now, just stay there for a moment. I’m going to make a cup of tea. All right?”

  Bewildered, Abby nodded. She sank back into the chair. Ned disappeared toward the kitchen, and she could hear the sound of water filling a kettle, the clink of china, a refrigerator opening and closing. She closed her eyes and made a conscious effort to relax. What on earth had happened? And then the memory came back. She shut her eyes: to remember it better or to blot it out? She wasn’t sure.

  She opened them again when Ned reappeared with a silver-plated tray bearing a teapot in a tattered cozy, two cups, a sugar bowl, a milk pitcher, spoons, and a delicate flowered china plate with some store-bought sugar cookies. He set it down on a low table next to Abby’s chair, then took the chair on the other side of the table. Leaning forward, he studied her face.

  “All right, now. I wish I could say you were looking better, but you’re white as a sheet.”

  Abby stared at him for a moment, and then to her horror she burst into tears. Even as she attempted to control her sobs, she felt a moment of pity for poor Ned, stuck with this dripping female that she didn’t even recognize as herself. He was trying so hard to be helpful, and she just kept making things worse. Wordlessly he handed her a small napkin from the tea tray, then sat back to wait out the storm. Finally, Abby swallowed a few times, blotted her eyes, and ventured a watery smile.

  “I’m sorry. This is so not like me. But . . .” She hesitated, afraid that if she went on, he would think she was loony. Oh, well, what the heck—she didn’t have anything to lose. “When I walked into the dining room, something weird happened. It was like I was watching a film of people in that room, except . . . they weren’t real. They weren’t there, were they?”

  She looked at Ned to see how he was taking her odd statement. He didn’t look contemptuous. In fact, he looked curious.

  “Interesting. Was there something that triggered it, or did it just start up out of nowhere?”

  She gave an inward sigh of relief. He wasn’t going to laugh at her. “All I know is, one moment I was about to walk into the dining room, and the next minute I was watching some kind of melodrama. There were three people there, and one of them—the one I was seeing through or something—was holding a baby, and they were all upset. Well, not the baby, but the others were.”

  “Did you recognize anyone?” Ned asked, concentrating on pouring two cups of tea. “Sugar?”

  “And milk, please. No. They were dressed like people were a hundred or more years ago. Is that part of the house tour? Some hidden projector shows you what life used to be like in the house?” That would be such an easy solution—but it hadn’t felt like that. She accepted the cup of tea that he held out to her, and when she took it, she realized her hands were trembling. She tightened her grip on the cup and sipped cautiously. It was hot and delicious. “Is this Darjeeling?”

  He nodded.

  “It’s good.” Now that Abby was feeling almost normal, she was beginning to wonder about this man. “Don’t you have to watch the door or something? And how come you know where all the tea things are? Do you live here?”

  Ned laughed. “It’s okay. It’s nearly time to close up, and I doubt that anyone else is going to show up today. Saturday’s usually the big day. Anyway, I’ve done this for a couple of years, so I know the house. Actually, no one lives in it these days—it belongs to the private school next door, and they use it for functions, entertaining, and such, so they keep it stocked with basic supplies. Not that I’ve ever had to deal with a problem like yours until now, but I’m glad that I was prepared. Tea and sugar make most problems better, don’t you think?”

  He has a nice smile, Abby thought.

  “You sure you’re all right?” he asked again.

  “I’m fine. I probably tried to do too much today, and it caught up with me. I’m just embarrassed about causing you so much trouble.” She sipped again at her tea, at a loss for words.

  “Well, don’t hurry. We can sit here until you’re sure you’re all right. Do you live around here?”

  “I just moved to Waltham last month, and I read about the house tours, and I thought it would be nice to see some of the big old places like this. They’re beautiful.”

  “They are grand, aren’t they? This city’s had its ups and downs—there was a lot of industry here in the nineteenth century. Watchmaking, mostly. You’ve heard of the Waltham Watch Company? This was the place. You saw the Paine house? A lot of that was built by H. H. Richardson, and Frederick Law Olmsted designed the grounds. You know—Richardson’s the one who designed Trinity Church in Boston, and Olmsted laid out Central Park in New York.” He looked at her expectantly, and Abby wondered if she was supposed to know what he was talking about.

  “Yes, I started with the Paine house today. It’s gorgeous. But I guess I didn’t do all my homework. You certainly seem to know a lot about the houses. Are you from around here?”

  “More or less. I work in Lexington, and I’ve lived in the area for most of my life.”

  “What do you do?” Not an original question, but it was the best Abby could do.

  “I work for a company that does DNA analyses—that’s my day job. But my avocation is historic architecture, and New England history. That’s why I help with the house tours, things like that. It means I get to see more of the behind-the-scenes stuff than I would if I was just a visitor. You know—attics, basements. The bones of the old houses.”

  Abby was silent for a few beats. Then she said slowly, “What’s the history of this place?”

  Ned lifted the teapot, and when she nodded, he refilled her cup, and his, then sat back. “Well, it’s kind of interesting. For most of the nineteenth century, it belonged to a family named Hawley. They had a nice big farmhouse here. Then in the 1890s, a successful businessman named Flagg bought it and started making some major changes, at least to the way it looked. The structural core is still the farmhouse, but everything that you see, inside and out, is late Victorian.”

  “He certainly threw himself into the decorating part—I’ve never seen so much gingerbread in one place!” Abby said, smiling.

  “Yes, he was determined to put his stamp on it. I can show you some of the newspaper articles about it. William Flagg brought in woods from all over the country, and if you look around, you’ll see that every doorknob is different. There’s some really beautiful work here.” He took another sip of his tea. “And then something happened—after about ten years, he ups and sells the place to the school next door. After all the fixing up he’d done.”

  Abby’s curiosity was piqued. “Did he lose all his money or something?”

  Ned shook his head. “He may have—I haven’t done any detailed research. But I do know that he stayed in Waltham—in fact, he ended up living in a smaller house about a mile south of here, for the rest of his life, and he’s buried here.”

  “Did he have a family?”

  “Yes—a wife and two daughters. The younger one went to the school here. His wife outlived him, but she’s buried next to him. Don’t know what happened to the girls.”

  Abby shut her eyes for a moment, trying to remember. “Was one of the girls a lot younger than the other?”

  Ned looked at her quizzically. “Yes, I think so. Why do you ask?”

  “Because that’s what I saw. There was a man and a woman, and I think they were fighting, or at least they were very angry. And there was a younger woman with a baby. I didn’t think the baby was hers, from the way she held it. Like she wasn’t used to babies.” Was that baby the one they raised as a daughter? And why was the wife so a
ngry?

  Ned gave her a long look. Finally he said, “I see. That’s intriguing.”

  “You don’t think I’m crazy? Or at least hallucinating?”

  He shook his head. “No. I’ve seen—or felt—too many odd things in old houses to brush off experiences like yours. Have you ever had an experience like this before?”

  Abby shook her head vehemently. “No, never. In fact, people have accused me of having no imagination. I’m usually the practical one in any group—you know, the designated driver, the one with the maps and all. That’s why this is so weird.”

  Ned was silent. Abby watched him anxiously and wondered what was going through his mind—like calling in professional help to take her away. She was relieved when he finally spoke.

  “Miss, uh—you know, I don’t even know your name?”

  “Oh, right. Abigail Kimball—mostly Abby.”

  “I’m Edward Newhall, mostly Ned. Well, Abby, you’ve certainly come up with a pretty puzzle.”

  “Why? What do you think that . . . experience was?”

  “At a guess, I’d say you stumbled on a past scene that somehow got stuck here. No, that doesn’t make sense. You had a vision of something from the past? Or you have an extremely overactive imagination that filled the room with people, like it was a play. Are you sure you’ve never been here before?”

  “Never. I’ve never even been in this state before, or at least not since I was a kid, and then it was just passing through on the way to somewhere else. I’ve only been here a few weeks, and I’ve been so busy getting settled that I haven’t seen much of the neighborhood, much less Boston.”

  “What brought you here, if you don’t mind telling me?”

  “I came with my boyfriend. He got a job offer, and in a couple of weeks, here we were.” Was it her imagination, or did Ned look a little disappointed when she mentioned the “boyfriend”?