Лоуренс Блок - Ariel

“It’s not that. Or maybe it is, when all is said and done, but that’s not how Roberta sees it.”

“How do you mean?”

He hesitated, groping for words. It was hard to explain her feelings, especially in view of the fact that they didn’t make any sense to him.

“The house disturbs her,” he said finally.

“It disturbs her?”

He nodded. “It makes her uncomfortable. She acts as if it were a person instead of a thing. I don’t know how to describe it. She’s going through a difficult time emotionally, it’s obviously a result of losing the baby, and she’s reacted by putting all the blame on the house.” And on Ariel, he thought. But the house could be disposed of.

“She think maybe it’s haunted?”

“It’s as if she thought that,” he said. “Of course she’s intelligent, she’s an educated woman. She doesn’t literally believe in haunted houses—”

“Oh?” The dark eyes sparkled. “ I do. Of course I’m not educated and I daresay I’m not terribly intelligent either but—”

“You believe in ghosts?”

“I don’t know if I believe in ghosts exactly. I believe houses get to be haunted, and I suppose it’s ghosts that haunt ’em. An old house like yours, a house on that street, it’s more likely to be haunted than not.”

“You’re not serious?”

“’Course I am.”

“You actually believe—?”

“Oh, I don’t believe in anything. I especially don’t believe in astrology. Know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a Sagittarius, and every Sagittarius knows astrology is a lot of hooey.” She lay back her head and cackled at her own joke. “I believe and I don’t believe, both at once,” she explained. “In just about everything, from ouija boards clear through to the Virgin Mary. There’s such a thing as haunted houses. You go into your neighborhood, into any of the good old blocks south of Broad Street, and I’d say three houses out of five are likely to be haunted.”

“Then you think that Roberta’s right?”

“You really want to know what I think?” She sat forward, planted an elbow on her desk top, rested her chin in her hand. “I think houses pick up some of the vibrations of people, who’ve lived in them, and especially people who died violently in them. That’s the theory behind ghosts. Somebody dies suddenly or violently and the ghost doesn’t know it’s time to go on to the happy hunting grounds. Anyway, ghosts or vibrations or whatever you want to call it... certain people are just more sensitive to the feeling of a haunted house than others. And certain states of mind make a person more or less sensitive. Your house has been standing over a century. The odds are pretty strong that more than a few people died in it, and it’s a safe bet that one of them somewhere along the way died in some sort of abrupt fashion. As a matter of fact—” She straightened up. “What’s the number of your house again? Forty-two?”

“That’s right.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Grace Molineaux lived there.”

“Who on earth was she?”

“Before your time,” she said. “Before my time, if you can believe it. It must have been in the eighties or early nineties. I remember people still talked about it when I was a girl.”

“What happened?”

“I’m trying to remember. Now I’m not sure I’ll get this entirely accurate. It seems to me she was a widow with small children. Was it three young children? I think so. It’s usually three in stories, whether it’s three little pigs or three bears or three wishes.” She rocked back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling. “I seem to recall she was married to a ship’s captain who was lost at sea and left her a young widow. With however many children, but let’s say there were three of them. And one night they were all murdered in their beds. The children, that is... and it wasn’t three, it was four. I’m remembering it now. They were smothered in their sleep, the four of them.”

“By their mother? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch her name.”

“Grace Molineaux. What it was like is Lizzie Borden. Did she do it or was it a prowler? Now I myself wasn’t around at the time, David. I’m not quite that ancient. I’m going back to a childhood recollection of conversations about an event that took place before I was born. I believe everybody thought she did it but had no proof. And she came from good family, good old French Huguenot stock, and people sympathized with her over losing her husband. So she was never charged with the murders.”

“And she went on living alone like Lizzie Borden? While children taunted her with rhymes?”

“If she did, it wasn’t for long. She killed herself. They found her hanging from a rope. Or did she take the gas pipe? It’s one or the other, it seems to me. Either way she killed herself.”

“Which amounted to an admission of guilt for the murder of her children, I gather.”

“Do you suppose it did? You could also take it that she was despondent. Had nothing to live for what with her husband and kids all gone. They argued it both ways but it seems to me I grew up more or less taking it for granted that she killed those babies.”

“And it happened in our house?”

“Might have.” She shrugged majestically. “I knew which house it was when I was a child,” she said. “It was pointed out to me. I recall that it was a big old red-brick house and it seems to me it was on that block and it might have been the same house you’re living in today. But they might have pointed out the wrong house to me or my memory might be at fault or any of a hundred other things. You could find out if you wanted.”

“How?”

“Check the deed registry in the county clerk’s office. Nate Howard’ll help you out if you mention my name. He’s an old friend. Wait a moment, that might not help. I think Molineaux might have been her maiden name and the house would have been registered to the sea captain. Or maybe not. Now if you were to go over to the Post-Courier they’ll have back issues into the last century, and they could probably help you.”

“I don’t think it’s worth the trouble, do you?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I frankly don’t. But if Grace Molineaux lived and died in your house, well, it kind of adds up, don’t it? A woman grieving for a child is going to be sensitive to the vibrations of a woman who lost four children under the same roof. Unless you don’t believe any of that crap in the first place.”

“All of a sudden I’m having trouble figuring out what I believe and what I don’t believe.”

“Well, congratulations! I think somebody said that’s the beginning of wisdom.”

“You mean there’s hope for me, Etta?”

“Hope for us all, or so I’m told. Want some advice from a fat old lady? Your Roberta’s having a bad time. That’s perfectly natural. Be surprising if she weren’t, all in all. You go home and tell her the house is listed for sale. That way she’ll think you’re taking some steps to solve the problem. It’ll be that much of a load off her mind. Meantime I won’t list the house at all. Or I’ve a better idea. I’ll list it, but I’ll put it on the card at ninety-five. Nothing against your house, it’s a fine property, but the fool hasn’t been born yet who’s going to pay ninety-five thousand for it or even ask to go through it at that figure. And if he turns up, well, maybe you wouldn’t mind making that kind of a profit on the transaction, or would you?”

“Not at all.”

“Fine. So the house’ll be listed, and if Roberta ever happens to check you won’t turn out a liar. But it won’t sell and you won’t have to move and as soon as she works things out in her mind and comes to terms with her life, then you can take the house back off the market. How does that sound?”