Миранда Джеймс - Fixing To Die

“Marcelline will probably be in the kitchen,” An’gel said as they walked down the stairs. “That’s where she told me she was headed when she left after we talked.”

“Good a place as any to start,” Dickce said. “Mary Turner might be there, too, helping with dinner.”

An’gel braced herself again for the sudden cold as she moved down the stairs but nothing happened. She glanced at Dickce when she reached the first floor. Dickce shook her head. No cold spot for her either.

They headed down the hall toward the kitchen. When they entered, An’gel saw Marcelline at the stove, focused on her work. Henry Howard and Mary Turner stood near the back door, obviously engaged in a heated discussion.

An’gel cleared her throat to alert them to her and Dickce’s presence. Mary Turner cast a startled glance their way, then with an expression of determination, she marched over to An’gel and Dickce.

Mary Turner pointed back toward her husband, slumped against the wall by the back door, his head down. “Y’all are not going to believe what that idiot of a husband confessed to me.” Her eyes blazed with anger, and An’gel felt briefly sorry for Henry Howard. “He told me not two minutes ago that he is the ghost that’s been moving things around in the French room.”

CHAPTER 30

An’gel and Dickce looked at each other. An’gel knew they were thinking the same thing. If Henry Howard had been playing ghost in the French room, was he also responsible for Nathan Gamble’s death? The thought made An’gel sick to her stomach. Had they misjudged Henry Howard until now? He had always impressed her as an intelligent, upright young man.

“I’m so furious with him right now,” Mary Turner continued, “I can’t even look at him. Will you talk to him? I can’t any more right now, or I might scratch his eyes out.” She didn’t wait for an answer and hurried out of the kitchen.

“We certainly will talk to him,” An’gel said under her breath. “But not in here.” Marcelline didn’t need to hear what she had to say to Henry Howard, nor what Henry Howard had to say in his own defense. “Why don’t you stay and talk to Marcelline, Sister?” An’gel said, keeping her voice low.

Dickce nodded and moved toward the housekeeper.

“Henry Howard, why don’t you come with me to the library?” An’gel said. “Let’s talk about this and give Mary Turner time to cool down a bit.”

Henry Howard wouldn’t look her in the eye but he nodded and ambled toward her. They walked to the library in silence, but once behind closed doors and seated in chairs near each other, An’gel opened the discussion.

“You were playing ghost in the French room?” An’gel asked.

Henry Howard nodded, still avoiding looking directly at her. “Yes, I did. Stupid idea, I realize that now.”

“When did you get this idea?” An’gel said.

“A few months ago,” Henry Howard replied.

An’gel waited for him to continue, but when he didn’t, she realized she was going to have to keep probing to get the whole story out of him.

“Was it intended simply as a joke, or was there a reason behind it?”

“I had a reason for it,” Henry Howard said, then lapsed back into silence. He stared at the floor.

“Would you mind sharing that reason?” An’gel said tartly. She was rapidly losing patience with him. “If you think I’m going to give up and leave you alone, Henry Howard, you ought to know better. You stop acting like an adolescent, and tell me what was behind this silly idea of yours.”

Henry Howard didn’t respond at first. Then suddenly he straightened in the chair and looked her full in the face. His expression indicated both embarrassment and frustration to An’gel. She had an idea what was bothering him, based on previous conversations, but he needed to unburden himself completely.

“I’m sick and tired of this damn house,” he said, almost spitting out the words. “It runs our lives, we don’t run it . Mary Turner is the most wonderful woman in the world, but I married her . Not this house.” He slumped in the chair again, and his gaze dropped to his hands, clenched in his lap.

“I can understand that,” An’gel said. “We talked a little about this already. Have you talked about this with Mary Turner? I mean, sat down and really discussed it with her?”

“I tried once, about six or seven months ago,” Henry Howard said. “She got so upset that I told her to forget it. I said I was just tired, and that it was all okay.”

“But it wasn’t okay, was it?” An’gel asked.

“No, it wasn’t,” he replied, obviously miserable. “Every day I get more tired of the same old grind, with no end in sight. We make a decent living out of the house, but we don’t get much time to enjoy ourselves. We never go anywhere other than out to dinner with friends every once in a while.

“I spent my junior year in college in England. Did you know that?” Henry Howard didn’t wait for an answer. “I loved every minute of it. I loved England, and I’ve wanted to go back ever since. But I’ve never had the opportunity. Mary Turner has never been, and I’d love to take her there and show her the places I visited.” He fell silent.

“But you can’t,” An’gel said gently.

Henry Howard sighed. “We could, during the time the house is closed to visitors every year. But Mary Turner won’t leave the house. She’s afraid of anything happening to the house and her not being here to take care of it. I have begged her to take a trip with me, but she won’t.”

To An’gel, it was beginning to sound like Mary Turner could have a slightly unhealthy attachment to the house, and if that were the case, then she could certainly understand Henry Howard’s frustration. That frustration could soon turn into bitterness, An’gel knew, and that could damage their marriage irreparably.

“Do you think I’m being selfish and unreasonable?” Henry Howard asked. “Mary Turner said I was.”

“It’s not unreasonable or selfish to want to take a vacation from your responsibilities,” An’gel said firmly.

“Thank you,” Henry Howard replied.

“What was it you were hoping to accomplish by making Mary Turner think there was a ghost in the French room?” An’gel asked. “Did you think she would be frightened enough that she would want to leave the house?”

Henry Howard shrugged. “Maybe. I think maybe I wanted her to start thinking that the house wasn’t as wonderful as she thinks it is. Anything to get her to reevaluate and see that we can’t sacrifice the rest of our lives for it.”

An’gel thought the whole idea was foolish, but now wasn’t the time to tell Henry Howard that. She suspected he already knew it anyway.

“Why the French room?” she asked.

“Because it’s like a shrine,” Henry Howard said. “Her father was as bad, if not worse, than Mary Turner is about that room. It has to be preserved as it is. You wouldn’t believe what we’ve spent on special dry cleaning and laundering for the linens and the draperies alone. Every year since we’ve been married.”

“Has Mary Turner explained why this room is so important to her?” An’gel asked. She knew it was filled with valuable furniture and objets d’art, but was that the only reason?

“She seems to think that if anything bad happens to the things in that room, she’ll lose the house,” Henry Howard said. “Like that room is a talisman of some sort against bad fortune.”

“So by making her think it was haunted by a ghost, you thought you might change her mind about the importance of the room?” An’gel asked. The idea seemed even more foolish now.

“Yes,” Henry Howard said. “I know it’s idiotic, but I’ve been desperate. I feel like I’m going to suffocate if I’m shackled to this place much longer.”