Phantom Evil. Heather GrahamЧитать онлайн книгу.
house had stood.
No one had gotten up here yet to start on the cleaning. The area was rife with dust; it almost felt as if he took a step back into a different time. Dressmakers’ dummies were along the wall, near one of the three dormer windows. Jackson checked them; the alarm wires were in place. Clothing on the dummies ranged from an antebellum ball gown to a World War II–era swing skirt.
A huge old sewing machine was in another corner, and a wire crate held toys from eons past, wooden soldiers, dolls that might have been collectibles, croquet mallets, balls and wickets. More—he couldn’t discern everything in the container.
He walked through the low hallway at the one end, arriving at the area over the ballroom, and discovered that it had been set up as a row of dormitory–style rooms, and he assumed that the rooms had been slave quarters for the household staff at one time, and servants’ quarters at another.
It was slow going, but he checked each of the dormer windows. He walked back through the main storage room and through the low–ceilinged hallway to the last ell; here, he found just two rooms, both of them large, and both of them empty. But the alarm wires were in place, and the windows were secure. He walked back down to the second floor and went through all the motions, finally reached the first, and checked that all the windows not facing the courtyard were secure.
The place was huge. Despite the fact that the police had searched the premises, and despite the alarm system, Jackson still wondered if there hadn’t been a way for someone to slip in—uninvited, and unknown.
Back in the ballroom he discovered that his crew had been busy. There was a set of television screens arranged at the far end of the room, cables, cords, lights and more equipment aligned against the wall.
“We’re trying to decide which rooms should get the cameras first,” Angela told him. She stared at him peculiarly.
“What?” he asked.
“You look like a ghost yourself,” Whitney said, giggling.
“Like you’ve been playing in a pail of plaster,” Jake added. “You went up to the attic? I’m guessing there hasn’t been a cleanup crew there.”
He groaned and looked at his arm. The sleeves of his cotton shirt were white.
Once again, the doorbell rang and he walked to the door, expecting the remainder of the team.
A tall, slender woman of African descent stood there as straight as a ramrod, and as ancient as one. She frowned, seeing Jackson, and murmured something that seemed to be a prayer against curses.
Angela swiftly came running to the door, catching the woman’s hand. “Hi, I’m Angela. Jackson is just dusty—can we help you?”
“Gran–Mama!” Whitney cried. “You’re early.”
Jackson spun back to look at the old woman. Angela had reached out a hand to invite her in.
“Who are you?” Jackson demanded.
“I am Mama Matisse. Whitney didn’t tell you that she asked me to come?” the woman asked. “Whitney, child! I don’t come where I’m not invited!”
“Gran–Mama,” Whitney began, her face chalky, “I just haven’t had time to talk to them yet.”
“No, she didn’t,” Jackson said. “You’re a priestess? A voodoo priestess?”
“Yes. But I am also Whitney’s great–grandmother,” the woman explained.
Jackson wasn’t sure whether or not to be indignant at her demeanor. But he had the feeling that this woman could help them, and that the wisdom in her eyes ran deep. He bowed his head slightly. “Whitney didn’t mention you, but, please, yes, stay, help us.” He cast Whitney a frowning glare; she lifted her hands helplessly.
“Gran–Mama—Mama Matisse—was friends with both the maids who worked here. And she knew Regina and the senator. I thought you might want to hear what she can tell us,” Whitney said.
Jackson nodded at her. “I’ll run up and take a two–minute shower. Mama Matisse, Whitney will take you into the kitchen and get you some coffee or water or whatever. Please?”
“I am here to help you,” Mama Matisse said with tremendous dignity. “I will do my best. You see, the police have not much cared for what I’ve had to say, but I can tell you this—the very day that Regina Holloway died, her maid, Rene, came running over to tell me that there were ghosts in this house. There were ghosts, and there is tremendous evil, and whether or not they are one and the same, that you must discover.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Mama Matisse drew a long bony finger down her teacup as she sat at the kitchen table. “Whitney asked me to come here today because of the maids—and because I was here, and worked with Regina Holloway,” Mama Matisse explained.
“You worked with her?” Angela looked from Mama Matisse to Whitney.
“Regina Holloway was very fond on my great–grandmother, and believed in her wisdom,” Whitney explained.
Mama Matisse nodded gravely. “The maids will not come back in this house, Trini or Rene,” she assured Angela. “They are afraid. They have taken money from the senator to live on while they look for new positions. They need to keep working in this city, so if you were to try to call them and ask them questions, they would not come to you with a ghost story. They don’t mind if I speak to you in their stead. If you question them, if the police question them again, they will not speak about the ghosts, and that is all that there is to it. But they have talked to me, and I don’t believe they care that I talk to you.”
“Thank you,” Angela said.
“They are afraid that people will think that they are crazy,” Mama Matisse said. “Loco, as Trini says,” she added.
“My great–grandmother is considered to be extremely wise,” Whitney said. “Many, many people come to her. Whether they are voodooists, Jewish, Buddhists, Christian or whatever.”
“I promise you, we’re not going to repeat anything that you say,” Angela assured her.
Mama Matisse looked at her. “If you were to repeat what I say on behalf of the maids, it wouldn’t matter. I have said it, and not them.”
Angela nodded. Mama Matisse did not easily trust people, but Whitney had asked her to come, and so here she was.
“The women, both Rene and Trini, worked here the day that Mrs. Holloway died,” Mama Matisse said.
“Did they tell you that they saw something?” Angela asked.
“Yes, they saw a ghost. Or they thought they saw a ghost. He was in the hallway, Trini told me. They saw a man, and then he disappeared. They didn’t tell Mrs. Holloway. She had said that she didn’t believe in ghosts. And the man disappeared, so he couldn’t have been real. Mrs. Holloway had told them that she was going to lie down. They later heard that she was dead, that she had killed herself, going over the balcony. They were very upset.”
“Of course,” Angela murmured.
“I didn’t believe it,” Mama Matisse said. “I didn’t believe it a minute when they said that she committed suicide. Neither did her maids. She was Catholic. She went to church every Sunday morning, and sometimes, during the week. Her faith was strong. To a Catholic, it’s a grave offense to God for us to take our own lives.”
“But she was very upset about the loss of her little boy, right?”
“She was sad, yes,” Mama Matisse said. “So sad—I was here when the senator told his wife that they always wanted more children, and that they would try again, that they would have several. Mrs. Holloway told him that they couldn’t replace Jacob. The senator said no, they would never try to replace him. But they had always wanted more children and they would try. And she said that yes, she loved children,