Dust and Violets Read online

  The three children's rooms and the governess' room were a delight. The children's rooms had built in shelves and toy trunks. Several old wooden pieces still sat in the trunks -- a train set, a stick with a duck with flapping legs on it and several wooden puzzles -- waiting for a child to come in and pick them up, play with them. There were even a few old children's books on the shelves and one ceramic faced doll whose dress looked as if it would fall to pieces if touched. He would have to have that restored as well.

  The governess' room had a spindly-legged table with a very old child's workbook sitting open on it. He looked at it for a long time. He didn't remember seeing it when he'd originally looked the place over, but it must have been there. In the closet, which was not elaborate like the one in the master suite, was a box with more children's books in it and some wooden blocks.

  And better than any of that, there was a secret passage. The back wall of the closet swung out, making him squeal with delight. There was a tiny staircase, much smaller than even the kitchen staircase, that he followed down to the cloakroom. He took it back up and discovered that across the stairs from the governess' room was another panel that pushed open, a secret passage leading from the governess' room to the kitchen stairs. It ran behind the children's rooms and the ballroom. There were little panels that could be opened to spy upon the children in their rooms and the further ones were for watching the goings on in the ballroom, he assumed. At the moment they opened onto the drywall.

  It was terribly exciting and he spent some time pressing against the walls and floor to see if there were any other secrets to be discovered. He came up empty though.

  As it was growing quite late, he decided to save the attic and tower room for another day. All in all though, he was very happy with his purchase of this Victorian Manor.

  ***

  By the end of April he was well-settled and the restoration begun.

  The bell had indeed been the first thing replaced, the musical bell ripped out and replaced with a large brass knocker. The sound of the knocker was amplified in the house and he could hear it from any room. A necessity given the lack of doorman or butler in his household.

  A faulty oven had him deciding to redo the kitchen first. It was the only room where convenience and modern ideas were going to usurp the original house plans and after eating out of a can for a few days, he was convinced that he should do the room first and that he should spend more in here than any other room.

  The new stove and fridge had arrived two days earlier. He'd decided not to get a dishwasher, he was after all, only one person and there was the small matter of the wiring just not being up to the job yet.

  Electrician, plumber and heating expert were all scheduled to arrive the following week and give him estimates.

  All in all, the renovations were going quite well.

  He'd even managed to find a cream tile with violets on it for the kitchen floor. Of course, he'd love to know what kind of household pests he had that kept moving a few of the tiles around, leaving them in random piles on the kitchen floor. Maybe raccoons? Although he couldn't see where they were coming in...

  Or maybe he'd moved them himself and just couldn't remember doing it. That was kind of an iffy explanation though. If the problem persisted, he'd get an exterminator.

  The brass knocker sounded, interrupting his thoughts.

  He stifled a groan when he caught a glimpse of the wide, bright-colored mass floating behind the glass. Gladys Copenhaver.

  Of the Newark Copenhavers.

  He debated not opening the door to his sweet, dear, pushy, loud, crude, good-natured, but utterly exhausting neighbor, just letting her believe he wasn't home, was napping, anything. He'd even started backing away from the door when her loud, deep voice boomed out.

  "Open up, Joshua dearie! I have banana nut bread and zucchini bread and some interesting old newspaper articles about this old house."

  He might have been able to resist the zucchini bread, he probably even could have resisted the banana nut bread, but there was no way he could pass up the newspaper articles on the house.

  He pasted a smile onto his face and opened the door. "Mrs. Copenhaver," he murmured, taking her hand. "And it's Jason."

  "Yes, of course, dearie." Her hand was moist and meaty, shaking hard enough to rattle his teeth. She was dressed in a muumuu of colors varying from deep blue to fuchsia, her teased and sprayed bright red hair managing somehow to clash with each and every hue. She carried a huge wicker basket, filled with foil wrapped rectangles and a large pile of newsprint.

  He managed not to vocalize his sigh. "I guess you should come on back to the kitchen. The breakfast nook is pretty much completed and it's the only guaranteed nail and sawdust free zone."

  "Oh, you need a woman's touch in decorating around here." Gladys trundled through the house, voice echoing loudly. "You know, James, my daughter Linda is very good at decorating and colors -- She made this dress for me, in fact. I don't suppose you're hiring?"

  He gritted his teeth. "It's Jason, ma'am." He'd thought the first time they'd met that she was doing it on purpose -- misremembering his name like that -- but she seemed to be genuine enough, if a bit... garish and loud. "And I've got a friend from college who specializes in Victorian era décor. She'll be working with me, but I appreciate the offer."

  "Please excuse the mess," he said as he led her through the living room, where he'd gone ahead and torn away the wood boarding up the fireplace. He'd been right, it hadn't been bricked up or gutted or ruined in any way. At the same time, he hadn't had a chance to even clean away the wood, deciding to focus on the kitchen instead.

  "Oh, I'm not worried. When you live with a carpenter as long as I have, you get used to it." Gladys chuckled, nodding toward the fireplace. "We buy wood by the cord, if you want to share the cost, I'll let Jimmy know before he goes to pick up the load."

  "Oh, that'd be great, thank you. I've got a cord or two out by the greenhouse, but I doubt it'll last too long once I start burning."

  They went through the dining room, where he was storing ladders, tools, paints and all his bits and pieces and into the kitchen. "If you want to have a seat in at the table I'll make us some tea."

  "Thank you... Jason?" At his nod, Gladys grinned, settling into a kitchen chair and slowly unloading her basket. Five loaves of bread were stacked on the table, plus a glass jar of homemade raspberry jam. "I'm terrible with names. Called my Jimmy 'Frank' on our wedding day. I don't even know a Frank."

  He chuckled. "You make all that yourself?" It surprised him, most people who could afford houses in this area were not the home baking type.

  She nodded, laughing again. "Love to bake. Used to cook constantly when the kids were still home. And it's good stuff, too."

  "Well I appreciate you bringing it over," he told her. And he meant it, too. She might be loud and annoying, but she was also the one who'd made him feel the most welcome to the neighborhood.

  He set the kettle on to boil and brought two cups to the table along with a couple of plates, the butter and a pair of knives. "I'm not sure I'm going to be able to eat five loaves on my own though."

  "They'll freeze, but I'd be willing to share one with you." She started unwrapping a loaf, fat fingers surprisingly nimble. "Have you spent any time in the greenhouse? The lady who lived here before you spent hours in there, potting and planting. Rumor was she was growing marijuana."

  Jason laughed. "I didn't see any in there, though I suppose I could have missed it. It's really nice -- I don't think I'll get much going in there this year -- my focus is the house herself first, but hopefully by next spring I'll have the time to putter. I like plants."

  Gladys nodded and spread butter on a slice of bread, smiling as he brought her tea. "I was sorting through my storage area and found a box of things that Janice -- she's the poor thing that used to live here, bless her heart -- gave me before... well, before she, you know..."

  "Lost her mind. Her folks were pretty blunt." He
took the plate and sat down across from her. "So which one is this, zucchini or banana nut?"

  "Banana. Yeah, she was a sweet little thing, but the spirits got to her and she just lost her mind."

  "She drank?" he asked, surprised -- her parent's hadn't mentioned that.

  "Huh?" Gladys looked up, blinking. "Oh! Oh, no. The ghosts. This house is haunted -- didn't you know?"

  "Haunted?" He couldn't keep the smile off his face.

  "Oh, don't laugh." Gladys' face was serious. "That little girl saw ghosts, heard them. They pulled her hair, destroyed all the things she stored in the tower room, wouldn't let her sleep. It was horrible for her."

  "Ghosts or voices in her head? She was crazy after all, Gladys." He took a bite of the bread. "Oh, this is wonderful! Banana bread's my favorite."

  "She wasn't the first person to see them." Gladys pinked, brown eyes twinkling. "I've only been here for five years, but no one stays in the Violet long."

  "That I don't understand," he said, shaking his head. "She's a beautiful house. I think she and I are going to get along just fine. Ghosts or no ghosts," he added, winking at Gladys.

  "Well, I hope so. I'd hate to see you hurt or upset." She handed over the clippings. "Janice researched Violet House quite a bit. The Ogletrees built it, you know? James and Lindy -- or was it Michael and Elizabeta..."

  He chuckled. "Michael and Lindy. Elizabeta was their governess. I read up about them when I first saw the house -- just the who's who of Boston for when the place was built."

  He looked through the clippings. "This is far more extensive than my own research. Thank you."

  The clippings had pictures of the Ogletrees -- a tall, bald, skeletal man standing next to a wide, smiling woman with mounds of light, curly hair. Their children -- two girls and a boy -- stood beside them, looking quiet and still. The boy had a look of utter mischief on his face -- eyes seeming to glint, even in the bad reproduction.

  "Oh, it's my pleasure. I figured you'd make more use of them than I would." Gladys pointed to a series of articles about the scores of people inhabiting and leaving the house. "See? People don't stay here."

  He nodded; she was right. "Well I'm not going to let any 'ghosts' scare me away. I love this place and I bought it fair and square -- she's mine now and it's about time someone stayed and took care of her."

  Gladys nodded. "The Ogletrees kept this place for a long time, considering that the old man went crazy after his heir died. Died right up in that tower room. Tuberculosis."

  "Oh, that's a shame. Not surprising though, considering how cold is it up there. They should have kept him down where it was warm."

  Gladys shrugged and cut herself another piece. "He wasn't very old -- sixteen, seventeen maybe. Poor thing."

  "People didn't live as long back then -- lots of disease and stuff. Of course if they'd been from now they never would have built a great house like this either."

  He started skimming the articles she'd brought over. There had been a lot of owners since the Ogletrees had died off, giving the place up. The reasons for leaving where wide and varied -- bouts of mental illness, complaints about the foundation, the doors, drafts keeping people awake, children who wouldn't sleep, intruders, pests -- it was quite interesting.

  "I've always thought Violet House would be pretty, if it wasn't falling apart." Gladys finished her second slice of bread. "Are you going to repaint the outside?"

  He nodded. "Yeah, I've got written descriptions of what the colors looked like and, if I'm really lucky, if I scrape it down I'll actually get a sample of them. I'm concentrating on the inside for now though -- the outside'll ride another winter just fine, the inside... it needs work."

  "Yes, well, my Jimmy knows lots of people who do this sort of work, if you need help." She sighed and then stood. "I'm going to go and start Jimmy's dinner. You enjoy your bread and watch out for the ghosts. They don't seem friendly."

  He stood up to walk her to the door. "Don't you worry about me, Gladys. If they're nice to me I won't give them any trouble. And thanks for the offer -- if I get stuck I'll give your husband a shout."

  Gladys nodded. "Any time, Ja..." She winked. "I don't suppose I can call you Frank?"

  He chuckled. Maybe she really wasn't so bad. "I'm kind of partial to Jason."

  She nodded and bustled out the door. "I imagine so. Have a good evening, Jason. Enjoy your bread."

  "Thanks again."

  He closed the door and headed back to the kitchen. He'd have just another slice of the banana bread and finish up his tea and then he'd get back to his tiles.

  He settled at the table, slicing off some bread and sifting through the clippings. He was reading idly when he noticed that the clipping with the family photo seemed to be missing. He looked again and again, checking the floor, in case a breeze had caught it. Nothing.

  That was strange. If he were the superstitious type he'd blame this on a ghost, but he wasn't. Gladys must have decided to take that one with her. He'd skimmed the article, so he didn't need to see it again.

  He finished his tea and a last slice of bread, watching the plants and wildflowers swaying and bobbing in the greenhouse. A cold chill passed through the kitchen, fading quickly. He was having the damnedest time finding the cause for these drafts. He supposed Gladys would tell him it was the ghosts. He shook his head, he guessed they made a convenient excuse.

  In the meantime, he had a floor to finish tiling and he was losing light.

  He'd have to save the clippings and his mysterious drafts for another day.

  ***

  Two mornings later he was painting the kitchen.

  He'd chosen a bright off-white, of which he'd painted the second coat the day before. All that was left were the accents. He'd found a stencil of Victorian violets and was planning to paint them in at three foot intervals.

  "Do I start with the green for the leaves or the light purple for the flowers? Though I think the girl said the color was called mauve..." Talking to himself was a habit he used to indulge in at college, when he was going through a particularly long streak of being on his own, just to practice and make sure he remembered how. He'd caught himself doing it once or twice in the house.

  He'd almost decided when something bumped him on the hip. He looked back, blinking. The purple paint can was sitting snug up against his hip, the green one still a few feet back, next to the brushes.

  He looked down at that paint can, frowning. He was sure he'd put them together, though he supposed he could have moved it earlier, planning then to paint the mauve first.

  But he couldn't remember doing that.

  At all.

  He pushed the can of purple back and reached for the green can. As his fingers touched the can, it tipped over, clattering across the tiles.

  "Shit!" It made him jump and he gave himself a shake. Butterfingers. He'd knocked the can from the counter by accident. He picked it up and set it back by the brushes. Maybe he'd start with the purple after all.

  He went over to the radio and turned it on, filling the silence that suddenly seemed just a little too quiet. Green Day. All right, that fit perfectly with painting violets for some reason.

  The music played, filling the room with sound and he sang along, one song after another. Then the commercials started, irritating and loud. Crazy George's Used Furniture was selling dining sets at... The channel changed suddenly, classical music filling the room.

  "What the fuck?"

  He went over to the radio and played with the dial until he found something alternative. He thought it was bjork, or maybe blink181, but that didn't matter, the point was that this was what he wanted to listen to.

  He didn't want to think about how he couldn't blame this on the damned wiring.

  He was almost done with the little purple flowers and he was thinking that he'd wrap them up and go outside, get some sun and air and let the purple paint dry. The green could be worked in tomorrow.

  The song ended and the dj started talking and the
radio seemed to shift, the station changing to static, then to classical. Again.

  He turned it off.

  Two more flowers. And then he was out of here.

  Before he decided his house was haunted.

  Chapter Three

  Jason got the leaves painted in the kitchen without further incident. He cleaned the fireplace in the formal sitting room; he really needed to start thinking of it as his office. The boards he cut down to burn and then he started cleaning, stripping the wood down to its natural grain, exposing all the fine detail in the mantel carvings.

  It was long tedious work, but it tired him out and that was what he was looking for. He was tired, which explained why his glasses would be on the counter in the bathroom when he thought he'd put them down on his bedside table. It explained why his bookmarks never seemed to stay in his books -- he obviously only thought he'd put them there.

  It was nearly a week after the radio incident in the kitchen when he called Diane in -- he needed window treatments for his kitchen and his office to start with. He was also very excited about showing her the rest of the house; he knew she'd be as thrilled by it as he was.

  They'd been friends at first sight -- she was a bleached blond decorator with horned-rimmed glasses and too much makeup daring to fight to take some architecture theory classes. She'd been unwelcome and uncomfortable and utterly unwilling to give up. He'd admired her tenacity, she'd latched onto his knowledge and, over gallons of hot chocolate in the Student Union, they developed an understanding of one another's likes and needs and philosophies.

  She was sitting on the window box in the office, combat boots swinging as she looked around, black-lined eyes admiring. "Wow, Jas. This place is... wow."

  "Isn't it great?" He was bouncing on his heels, barely able to keep still. "Just wait until you've had the full tour!"

  "I think you should do this room in dark eggplant, accent with creams and greens, handmade lace curtains... tour? Cool!" Diane grinned, hopping up and hurrying over. "Show me!"