Rebel Spirits (12 page)

AS SOON AS
I hang up with Charlotte, I leave the house again. I’m pulled by forces I do not understand — a compulsion that demands that I get to Nathaniel’s grave
now
. I find myself running toward the Evergreen gatehouse. There’s a stitch in my side, and my mind’s a fury of questions. Edison Larch, Henry Baldwin, the Lincoln ring. Everything is so fuzzy, and just when I think I grasp something, it’s a handful of air.

Can I keep Nathaniel here if I
don’t
solve the murder? Charlotte says he disappears after the Battle Days end. But
maybe if I tell him I have a lead on the mystery, he can hang on … forever. I want to keep him with me, I realize. Selfishly.

But deep in the center of my being I know that if I don’t solve his mystery, he’ll simply fade away and suffer until someone else comes along. I can’t bear that. I’m the one, he says. I have to do it, and somehow I sense there’s a clue that will be revealed to me at his grave.

Inside the entrance to Evergreen Cemetery stands the gray-black statue of Elizabeth Thorn that I noticed the night of the ghost tour. In the daylight, I see her clearly. She holds the back of her wrist to her brow, and her fingers look gnarled with age and work. Her eyes are downcast, her face drawn and weary, her hair in an untidy bun at her neck. A shovel and some other long-handled tool lean against her flowing dress. Gravedigger’s tools. She looks hot, defeated, depressed, totally exhausted, and pregnant.

I look up into her face. I
know
this woman, this keeper of the cemetery, know her in ways I’ve never known a living soul.

Is her ghost here?
I wonder.
Is she another spirit that can reach me?

I try reaching out to her.
What can you tell me?
I think, studying the statue. There’s no response. Well, did I really expect one? Still, somehow I sense what she means for me to
know. I follow the trajectory of her work-worn fingers resting on the bridge of her nose, sure that she’s pointing to Nathaniel’s grave.

No! I’m way too practical to believe such an impossible thing. It’s just that I don’t know how to find his grave again. I came upon it accidentally in the dark the night of the ghost tour. Accidentally? Maybe I was actually guided there.

I turn reluctantly away from the Elizabeth Thorn statue and head over to the Evergreen office. The man behind the desk smiles like a typical undertaker when I ask him for Nathaniel’s burial records. He slides the mouse to wake up his computer and he types in:
NATHANIEL PIERCE/PENNSYLVANIA/1863.

There he is. I let out a small gasp, then clamp my hand to my mouth.

“Find your person?” the man asks, showing me a guide to the grave markers.

I don’t bother answering. Outside, I dodge other people looking at the tombstones and head right to where Elizabeth Thorn is pointing. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to, streaking irresistibly past dozens of graves until I get to the right one:

NATHANIEL HEMPSTEAD PIERCE

1844–1863

I’ve clenched my fists so hard that my nails are digging into my palms, but one hand juts out against my will. This marker seems older than the three clumped next to it. Those are merely warmed by the sun. This stone feels like a sizzling coal, so hot I can only touch it for a millisecond without burning my fingers. Just like the night of the ghost tour. With faith that the stone won’t scorch me, I reach out, stunned to feel it cooling under my hand, as though the granite were alive for a few seconds and only now can return to bloodless stone.

On the grass in front of the marker, I sit with my legs tucked under me. No one’s nearby, so I know it’s safe to speak. I lower my voice and ask the marker, ask
him
, “What’s the connection between the clues we have, Nathaniel? Are you hiding a detail about Edison Larch? Is there something else, someone else, that I’m missing all together? Talk to me. I’m here to listen.
Nathaniel, I need you right now, right here.
”

I get only silence from the grave, a silence so profound and exquisite that I can hear insects and worms in the earth and grass. I wait, holding my breath, as an elderly couple walks toward me and lays a wreath on a nearby grave. It’s the Crandalls, I realize, who seem to show up wherever I am. Are they following me? I crane my neck trying to see the name of their dead person, but it’s just out of my line of vision. Mr.
Crandall tips his golf cap in my direction, and Mrs. Crandall smiles, but I notice that she strains to catch the name on the gravestone I’m facing. She picks up a rock from a small pile nearby and lays it on Nathaniel’s headstone.

“It’s a custom among some cultures,” she explains, “so the departed will know they’ve been visited and their spirits can rest in peace.”

Soon they move on, and I watch them pause at the Elizabeth Thorn statue, then walk out of the cemetery. They’re holding hands, but Mr. Crandall’s about three steps ahead of Mrs. Crandall, who turns around and waves to me.

It’s quiet now, and I’m alone, waiting, waiting for him, until the shadows grow long, and still he doesn’t come.

Once night falls, I return to the inn, feeling let down by Nathaniel. Why didn’t he show up at the graveyard? Deep in thought, I’m on my way upstairs, hoping none of the guests will corral me for fresh towels or toilet paper.

In the second-floor hall, Bertha and Amelia Wilhoit are standing head-to-head, like they’re in a pitcher/catcher huddle. All I hear are the
swish-swish
of whispers, but as soon as I approach, Bertha jumps back, cradling a basket of Crabtree & Evelyn soaps, and says, extra loud for my benefit, “Well, if it
isn’t the famous novel-writer lady. You look a little frazzled, Ms. Wilhoit, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Wilhoit’s wearing an oversized olive-green tunic and black leggings. Her bottle-blond hair is headbanded into submission. And style queen that she is, she’s in red stiletto backless heels.

Bertha says, “I hope your accommodations are up to snuff, because General Stuart is the finest room we have to offer, if you like southern warmongers.”

“The room’s quite satisfactory, Mrs. Dryden.” Amelia shifts her eyes from me to Bertha. Why are they pretending they weren’t speaking just now? There’s something weird going on. Whatever it is makes me extra suspicious.

Bertha mutters something about chores downstairs and takes off in a hurry.

“Miss Chase,” Wilhoit says, turning to me, “my room needs freshening. Clean sheets, a bit of Ajax swirled around the sink. Would you mind?”

The last thing I want to do right now is clean around the dozens of bottles of
product
in her bathroom, but I’m caught, and Charlotte’s not around. I nod halfheartedly.

“I’ll go out for a stroll while some chapters print, but please don’t take too long. I must return to my work; deadlines loom,” Ms. Wilhoit says, tottering away in those ridiculous heels.

I sigh. I know about deadlines looming. Tomorrow Nathaniel will disappear from my life.

Her room is messy — historical textbooks on Gettysburg are piled everywhere. On her desk is a framed photo of a rugged-looking, not very attractive man who seems a little familiar. Does Wilhoit have a boyfriend? Interesting.

I whip through the bathroom and have started to strip the bed when my cell phone rings in my pocket. The cheerful ring-tone is barely loud enough to hear over the clackety sound of Amelia Wilhoit’s printer churning out page after page.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had an actual phone call. The number’s unfamiliar, but I answer and am ecstatic to find that it’s Jocelyn.

“I’m so glad to talk to you,” I say, leaving the bed as is and sinking into the overstuffed chair in the corner.

“I know,” Jocelyn groans. “I miss you. We’re out in Nowheresville. It’s great for horses. People? Not so much. Internet zones in and out. I’m calling you from a pay phone now! The horsey girls are at dinner. Gotta make it quick, though, because I fed all the change in my pocket down the throat of this phone. What’s up? How was that Scarlett O’Hara dance thingie last night?”

Wilhoit’s printer stops, spitting papers all over the room and flashing a paper-jam message. Not my problem.

“Surreal. Everybody trussed up in vintage Civil War clothes, waltzing around like it’s a hundred and fifty years ago all over again, except for the high-tech sound system pounding out the band’s music.” Should I tell her about seeing all the ghostly dancers? Not yet, not on the phone. “The guy I went with —”

“The live one, not the dead one.”

I pause, a little irritated that she’d dismiss Nathaniel so easily.

“You there?”

“Yeah, just thinking how to tell you about this. Evan, the lawn-mower guy, he was oh-so-dashing in his Confederate uniform and really sweet, and I was having a great time, but then the real Civil War soldier, Nathaniel, showed up.”

“Get out of here! The ghost? Did they fight over you? Blood and guts right there on the dance floor?”

“No, but once Nathaniel was there, it spoiled the whole evening, because he’s the guy I really wanted to be with. It’s just that he has that big problem.”

“Which is that he’s dead.”

“Well, yes. And also the fact that he didn’t die from the war — he was murdered, and I’m trying to figure out who did it before he disappears tomorrow at midnight.”

Long whistle from Jos on the other end. “You’re trying to
solve a murder that happened about a hundred and fifty years ago by tomorrow night? Yikes. How are you going to do that?”

It sounds ridiculous when she puts it that way, but all I can do is try. I wonder if Jocelyn actually believes me about Nathaniel, the way Evan seemed to. The way Charlotte does. Jos always thought our séance games were fun, nothing more.

I decide to change the subject. “How are
you
?” I ask.

Jocelyn sighs. “Sad news from the Poconos pastures. It’s all over with Jude.”

“Jude?” I say, confused, and then I remember — her sort-of summer boyfriend. I feel like a bad friend for not keeping her love life in mind. I’ve been sort of distracted with my own. “What happened?” I ask.

“He’s into some other counselor now. Turns out his style is a different girl each week. He’s more loyal to the horses.”

“I’m sorry, Jos.” I feel a lump in my throat as I think of Nathaniel. He might be loyal to me, but I can’t keep him here, with me.

“Uh-oh, here come the prepubescent troops. Dinner’s over. Girls! Girls!” Jocelyn shouts. “Stay right there a sec ’til I finish my call. Lori? It sounds like you need help. Should I come back next week? I can tell the camp my father’s getting married this time. Maybe you’ll be able to introduce me to Nathaniel?”

“Won’t work. After July third he won’t be around, whether I solve the murder or not. He can only materialize around the Battle Days.”

“I didn’t realize there were so many rules related to ghosts!” Jocelyn says, kind of teasing, but not. She can tell I’m upset. “Okay, I should go, but let’s talk soon. Keep me posted! Ciao.” And she hangs up, leaving me totally depressed as I face the truth: Nathaniel will leave me by midnight tomorrow, and I’ve made no headway on the murder.

I stand up from the chair, turn around, and realize Wilhoit’s standing at the open door. “You’re not done yet?” She’s picking up pages strewn all over the floor. I hurry over to her bed. If I quickly plump the pillows, maybe she won’t realize that I didn’t change the sheets.

“How long can it take to make one bed?” she asks, scowling. “You might be more efficient if you weren’t on the phone yakking about your social entanglements.”

I freeze. Did Amelia Wilhoit overhear the whole conversation?

I SLEPT BADLY
last night, worrying about Amelia Wilhoit and thinking about Nathaniel’s grave. Early this morning, I leave Gertie sleeping at the foot of my bed and slip out of the house without seeing my parents or Bertha.

Down at the creek I feel that thickening of air again, and my heart skips a beat.

“Is this a good time?” the deep voice in my ear asks jauntily. “I’m trying to abide by your unreasonable rules.”

“Yes, it is,” I say, relieved, and I turn to see him, materialized and real in his blue uniform.

He greets me with a long kiss. I want to enjoy it even more than I already do, but my mind is elsewhere. I pull back.

“I went to your grave yesterday,” I say. “And I asked for your help. But you didn’t come.”

“I am sorry,” Nathaniel tells me somberly. “I wish I could have. Unfortunately it is very difficult for me to manifest at times.” He reaches for my hand and I take it.

“Today is our last day,” I whisper, feeling immeasurably sad.

We walk hand in hand, talking in low, intimate tones. It feels so normal. It isn’t.

“If I could stay with you,” Nathaniel says, “I would take you to Titusville to meet my mother and father.” He bursts out laughing. I’ve never heard him laugh so hard like that. Somehow it makes him more human, more real, more losable, and I’m already starting to miss him.

“What’s so funny?”

“Just imagining what they’d think of you dressed in short trousers and a shirt that leaves your arms and neck and shoulders open to the eye.”

“It’s the way people dress today!”

“I know, yes. It’s just that you’d shock those old Pierces of Titusville. They’re right proper folks.”

I’m confused. “Do you — still see your parents?”

“You don’t leave people you’ve loved behind, like a snake shedding its skin. They’re wanting to know how all this turns out. I can feel them hovering near sometimes, but they’re quiet, just waiting.”

“And listening? Watching?” I think of him kissing me. What would his nineteenth-century parents think of our kissing right out in the open?

“No, just waiting for me to tell them everything’s all right.” He steps to the side and looks me over carefully. “Women in my day covered up neck to ankle. Some changes are better, like your talking machine that gives you information faster than an eye blink. Wish I could live in the present, to stay with you.” He smiles, squeezes my hand, and adds, “I love the way you look, dressed so bold. I love you entirely, Lorelei Cordelia.”

My heart soars at the sound of these words, and my own spill out unexpectedly: “I love you, too, Nathaniel Pierce. I do; I really do.”

I’ve never said that to a boy before. How easy it is to say it when you mean it. Nathaniel squeezes my hands and beams at me and I stand on tiptoe to kiss him.

But we’re no closer to solving the murder.

My phone rings. I reach into the back pocket of my shorts and pull it out. Evan’s calling. What great timing.

“Hi, I can’t talk to you right now,” I say into the phone, noticing Nathaniel’s quizzical look.

“Not much of a greeting for the guy who’s about to make your day.”

“Can you text me about it?” I’m afraid Nathaniel will get impatient and vanish again.

“Another talking machine?” Nathaniel says. “In the words of the Bard, ‘O brave new world.’”

That’s in one ear. In my other ear Evan’s saying, “I’ll make it quick. I’ve been doing some Internet research. Followed a few dead leads, but I hit on a live one, and boy is it good. Google ‘Dryden Bluefin Harbor Maine.’ Call me when you’re done — we’ve got some dicey stuff to discuss.”
Click
.

I give a deep sigh, tucking my phone back in my pocket. Nathaniel is frowning at me. The last thing I want to do now is leave him, especially after what we’ve just said to each other. But I need to follow up on Evan’s research while it’s still fresh in my mind.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Nathaniel, “but there’s something I have to take care of right away. It might have something to do with
your murder, but I can’t say how, yet. Can we meet again later? I might have something important to tell you.”

He sounds irritated. “Let’s meet at Devil’s Den.”

“What’s that — a tavern? A shop?”

“It’s a battlefield where many of us fell. You’ll find it on a Gettysburg map. Wait for me. I’ll be there. We haven’t much time.”

The sun is high in the sky, half blinding me. Someone’s coming toward us, a woman. Only one person would be walking on a country road in needle-thin heels. Amelia Wilhoit. Oh, man, why can’t she be up in her room like she usually is, pecking away at her laptop?

“Someone from the house is coming,” I whisper to Nathaniel. “You’d better make yourself scarce, quick.” Wilhoit wouldn’t see him anyway, but still I’m nervous having him around, especially since she heard me talking about him to Jocelyn last night. Nathaniel nods, and the air around me changes until I know he’s gone. Where does he go when he’s not with me?

“Hello, Ms. Wilhoit!” I’m trying to chirp like Mom does, but I come off sounding like a demented parakeet.

She stops abruptly, hands clasped across her chest. “You gave me such a start.”

I don’t believe her act. She slides her squinty eyes from me to the empty space beside me, like she’s looking for someone. “Are you alone? I thought I heard you talking to someone.” Her husky voice turns hard. “Was it that murdered soldier you were having a nice afternoon stroll with, cozy as two cooing doves?”

I swallow. Did she really see Nathaniel, or is she just throwing my own words back at me? “You must be mistaken. I was just on the phone.”

“Maybe so, but I know about that bedraggled Union soldier, the one who met an unfortunate early demise. You, my friend, must be more careful about what you say on the phone. You never know who’s listening.” I’m fuming, but I hold my tongue as she adds, “Your parents would find this relationship rather startling, would you agree?”

And with that she turns tail and walks quickly toward the house, those stupid stiletto heels digging into the soft dirt of the road like cleats and leaving me feeling like I’m about to be blackmailed. But why?

Back in my room, I take out my laptop and, as Evan instructed, type in “Dryden Bluefin Harbor Maine.” The first link is to an article in the archives of the weekly
Bluefin Harbor Trumpet
, from last year. I read:

I pore over the article twice. Sure sounds like the Drydens aren’t on the up-and-up. Now I’m convinced that they’re after something hidden here at Coolspring Inn. And the pocket watch was a presidential artifact. It reminds me of the Lincoln ring.

So I Google “Death of William Lincoln” on a whim. There’s a lot of general information, none of which seems to trigger a brilliant insight. I keep skimming through more and more sites until — whoa! — something practically lights up in neon on my screen. At William Lincoln’s death, the attending doctor’s name was Richard V. Anderson.

Initials: RVA. Like on the amputation kit.

My thoughts race. Could that be Nathaniel’s doc — the man who had the ring? Which might have actually been Abraham Lincoln’s baby ring. Which would be incredibly valuable today. Which went missing. Which is maybe what the Drydens are searching for. Which might be somehow connected to Nathaniel’s murder.

My breath’s coming in pants, like Gertie’s. I’m hyped with excitement, sure that the ring’s hidden in the RVA box, and that’s why Old Dryden was hunting for it. Nathaniel said that his friend Wince probably went to the hospital and hid the ring among the doctor’s personal possessions. What could be more personal than your very own handy-dandy amputation kit?

“Off the bed, Gertie Girl, and no telling anyone what you see, agreed?” She couldn’t care less, because a cricket’s leading her on a merry chase.

The RVA kit is still hidden inside my pillow. The hinges
are fragile, rusted with age, so I open the box carefully and notice that faint words are engraved on the inside of the lid:

I
N TIME AND WITH WATER
,
EVERYTHING CHANGES

Leonardo da Vinci

What’s that got to do with bloody limbs? I pull out the small drawer, lift out each surgical knife, and lay them all on the floor. The small knives are so light they could be letter openers. Some have hooks, like dental hygienists use to clean your teeth. Some fold like jackknives. They all look menacing. What were they used for, exactly? Cutting into skin? Severing blood vessels or nerves? I’m chilled to the core, and I hug myself, shuddering.

I search the inside of the entire box to the edges, to see if the ring is in there somewhere, but have no luck. I pick up the handsaw, which has greater heft than the other tools. The handle’s made of elephant ivory, and it’s warm to the touch. A familiar scent wafts up from the velvet lining. Chloroform. Bertha said Civil War doctors used it as an anesthetic, the rare times they had any. They covered the soldier’s nose and mouth with a towel dipped in the chloroform. Did that free the patient
from pain, or terrify him because he couldn’t breathe or cry out? And how many soldiers died from inhaling too much of the drug?

A thumb flick across the blade of the handsaw jangles my nerves. The blade must have been sharp long ago, but now it’s dulled by the hundreds of bones it must have sliced through. Trying to picture Dr. Anderson, I wonder how it felt to him to cut off a man’s arm or leg.

The handle of the handsaw has tiny freckle-sized screws in it, just begging me to loosen them and see how the saw’s constructed and what’s hidden inside. I’ve always been interested in putting things together and taking them apart. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to Nathaniel’s mystery.

“I’ll be right back, Gertie,” I promise.

In the kitchen, Dad’s on his knees, his head in the gaping cave where a drawer once fit. “Oh, Lorelei.” He mutters, “There’s no end to the things that don’t work in this place. This drawer swelled in the humidity and wouldn’t slide open.”

I want to say
I told you not to buy this place
, but of course, if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met Nathaniel.

“Mind if I look for a small screwdriver?” I ask him. I rummage around in the toolbox at his feet. “I need the tiniest one, the kind you’d use to fix the screws on eyeglasses.”

“Right-hand corner. You’ll see a small kit in a plastic tube.”

“Thanks. I’ll bring it back next time I climb down from the tower.”

Upstairs, Gertie yaps as my door creaks open. “It’s me. Remember me?” I say, coming back inside and sitting down on the floor beside the box.

One by one the four screws in the ivory handle of the saw come loose. The ivory lifts off with just the slightest prying of the small screwdriver. I’m sure the ring’s in there.

But there’s nothing inside. Another dead end.