Flashback Page 5

  It was a warm September afternoon, and a light breeze caught her hair. Birds sang over the musical sound of the river below. Taking a deep breath and closing her eyes, Laura found the air fresh and clean.

  She walked down the porch stairs and onto the lawn. A few red leaves clung to the otherwise green oak trees in the yard, and a faint yellow-green persisted in the dying grass. Iron benches, a gazebo, and two iron statues decorated the front lawn. Laura meandered to the east side of the mansion where voluminous English boxwoods surrounded a cement terrace on the crest of the lawn. Below the terrace, a footpath wandered across the sloping lawn to a misty, wooded grove where Laura could just make out a small cottage.

  Looking back at the mansion, Laura recognized the blue curtains in the second floor window. Her new room would provide a nice view. She couldn’t see the river from there, but she could watch the changing colors of the oak, elm, and maple trees. Under her window grew pyracantha bushes like the ones at the school where she taught back in St. Louis. She knew that planting thorn bushes under windows was a clever if old-fashioned deterrent to intruders. Two blackbirds sat in the bushes eating bright red berries and nipping at each other as they crossed paths. Nearby, a heavyset old man raked leaves into a pile, and when he saw Laura, he approached her quickly. “Hello,” he said in a friendly tone. The sun had given his skin the look of dried leather, and his long white hair fell to his shoulders. Laura guessed him to be in his late sixties or so. He removed his broad-brimmed, crudely-woven straw hat and wiped at his brow with his sleeve. Squinting at Laura, he said, “You must be Miss Laura.” He gave her a wide smile. “I’m George Walker.”

  “Hi,” Laura said with a grin. “This is a beautiful yard, but there should be steps here, going down to the path in the lawn.”

  George scratched his head as he studied the vast boxwoods rising in front of the terrace. “There once were steps there,” he declared. “Concrete fell apart, I believe.”

  “What’s that little house there in that grove of trees?” Laura was glad there were obvious questions to be asked so she didn’t have to come up with small talk.

  George replaced his hat and peered out from under the brim. “That would be the gardener’s cottage.”

  “You mean your house?”

  George turned from side to side, glancing over each shoulder. “I’m the only gardener around here, it seems.”

  Laura smiled. He made her feel right at home, and she was grateful for that.

  George grunted. “I suppose Agnes will be looking for me to help out. I’ll be back soon. It’s good to see you.” Then he walked away past the pile of leaves.

  Laura turned and looked back at the house, glancing at her bedroom window. The curtains were open, but the glare on the window kept her from seeing into the room. Still, she thought she could almost discern a form standing in the window, watching her. Probably a reflection—an oak tree, perhaps, she thought, but a shiver ran down her spine.

  She moved quickly around to the mansion’s front, which faced south toward the river, and gazed across the vista beyond the water. The rolling green hills were speckled with orange and yellow, and in the far distance, Bufordville’s steeples and rooftops pierced through the foliage. She eyed a boat on the river, and she almost wished she were on it, gliding smoothly away from Bufordville.

  As she turned back northward to face the house, she decided that Buford’s Bluff stood proudly, almost arrogantly, on the hilltop, looking down on everything before it. King of the hill, she thought.

  To the west, where the driveway curved up from the river to circle back around the mansion, stood the massive stone stables. A mass of trees grew between the stables and the mansion, no doubt protecting the house from both the odor and noise. To the east of the house, the lawn sloped sharply down to the grove of trees that surrounded George’s cottage.

  Agnes stood on the porch with Roger, both of them looking so worried that Laura wondered what they were thinking. Perhaps they had decided that she was a bit crazy and that they would have to confine her to the mansion to keep an eye on her. Indeed, Laura knew she had problems—the panic attacks and the nightmares were proof of that—but she was quite sure she was sane. Still, she thought the mansion seemed more full of gloom than splendor, and it might as well be an asylum for the way she had felt inside it just now.

  She knew her feelings didn’t make sense. This was her beautiful new home—or at least it would be in a few years—and living here was a great blessing. Yet somehow she couldn’t shake a feeling of foreboding, a sense of mystery that she didn’t know if she would ever be able to decipher.

  7

  After bidding farewell to Roger and telling Agnes not to bother with dinner, Laura called Megan to let her know she had arrived safely. Of course Megan was full of questions, so Laura described the house and the grounds as best she could. Barely able to contain her excitement, Megan made Laura promise to report back later in the week.

  Laura relaxed on the front porch until dusk, too exhausted to unpack. Finally unable to put off the task any longer, she went up to the room she had claimed earlier and opened her suitcase. Laura picked up some clothes and moved to the closet to put them away. Suddenly she froze, recognizing the same inexplicable panic that had seized her earlier. She tried to reach for the knob on the closet door, but her trembling hand refused to move. What’s wrong with me? she thought.

  “Laura?” Agnes knocked at the bedroom door, and the panic sensation left as abruptly as it had come.

  “Yes?”

  “I brought you a little snack.”

  Laura opened the door. “I’m not really hungry,” Laura declared, surprising herself with her testy tone.

  Ignoring her objection, Agnes stepped into the room and carried the tray to an empty table by the window. “No matter. If you choose not to eat the food, just leave the tray, and I’ll take it when I make your bed tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m sorry, Agnes. I didn’t mean to be sharp. I’m just tired, and it’s going to take some time to get used to this place, as nice as it is.”

  “Well,” Agnes began, marching to the door, “I shouldn’t be surprised. This room is hardly suitable for a grown woman.”

  Sighing, Laura wondered if she could learn to accept Agnes’s overly direct approach. “Sleep well,” Agnes ordered, then closed the door behind her.

  Laura walked to the table by the window. Gazing out at the lawn where the crescent moon cast an eerie glow, she could see the lights in George’s cottage. Nestled among the trees, the small house appeared snug and warm, and Laura almost wished it was vacant so she could live there instead.

  From the corner of her eye, Laura caught a glimpse of a moving shadow. She strained her eyes in an effort to see, but she couldn’t distinguish where the shadow disappeared into the hundreds of other shadows on the lawn. It could have been a deer or other large animal—or just her imagination. Or maybe . . . maybe the stalker had followed her to Virginia! She hadn’t seen him after their encounter on the street several weeks ago, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there. Maybe he was here now, watching from the shadows, hiding behind trees, peering into windows. Laura’s room would be one of the few with lights on in the house, so he’d have an easy time figuring out which room she was staying in. She wondered how secure the mansion was; after all, it was an old house, so it might not have any of the latest security features. Did Agnes even bother to lock the doors? Buford’s Bluff was several miles from town—practically in the middle of nowhere—so perhaps the housekeeper didn’t worry about such things. Shaking her head as if to rid herself of her paranoia, Laura pulled the curtains closed, walked over and locked the bedroom door, then sat on a small chair by the table. Despite her lack of appetite, she ate everything Agnes had brought her.

  Laura needed to finish unpacking, and as she turned and looked at the closet door, she couldn’t dismiss the eerie feelings she’d had earlier. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but she did believe in spirits, and she kne
w that spirits sometimes appeared to warn people. What if her mother was trying to warn her? But Laura couldn’t imagine what her mother would need to warn her about; after all, Aunt Laura wouldn’t have lived in the mansion herself if it weren’t safe here.

  As she walked over to the closet and reached for the doorknob, Laura paused, then grabbed the brass knob and opened the door. The closet was very small, with built-in shelves. Breathing a sigh of relief, Laura couldn’t imagine why she’d felt so fearful earlier. Megan had noticed that Laura’s panic attacks were more likely to occur when she was tired or particularly stressed, and Laura had come to recognize the same thing. But she was puzzled about the anxiety the closet had inspired. At the moment, she was exhausted, and it had been a stressful day, yet she hadn’t previously experienced panic that felt quite like this.

  Laura thought maybe she should just go back to St. Louis, but then realized she couldn’t live with herself if she gave up so quickly. Buford’s Bluff wouldn’t be hers to sell unless she lived here for three years. Throwing away that kind of money—millions of dollars—would be extremely foolish. She would have to serve her time. At the moment the thought of living in this place for three years seemed overwhelming, so she tried to put it out of her mind while she finished unpacking,

  By the time she had put everything away, Laura felt so tired she could barely move, so she prepared for bed. She knew she should brush and floss her teeth, but there was no way she was going to unlock her door to walk to the bathroom. Besides, Agnes’s room was near that bathroom, and Laura didn’t want to wake her. The room Agnes had prepared for Laura had its own bathroom, but there was no way she was going to change rooms now. She could see the smug look on Agnes’s face, just hear her haughty I told you so.

  Once in her nightgown, Laura crawled into bed and turned off the lamp. A sliver of a moonlight cast frightening shadows across the room, and the toys became gigantic, dark creatures on the floor and walls. The dollhouse appeared dark and cold, and Laura imagined the stalker as an action figure sneaking around the dollhouse, looking in the windows. Laura felt anxious to get out of the mansion, but that would have to wait. She’d get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow she’d find a way to get to Bufordville so she could explore the town.

  After tossing and turning for an hour, Laura finally fell asleep.

  * * *

  On Thursday morning, Laura woke around nine. Usually she only slept so late when bad dreams plagued her sleep, but surprisingly, she couldn’t recall any nightmares this time. The smell of bacon made her hungry, so she dressed and went to the kitchen, where Agnes stood at the stove, finishing breakfast.

  “Are you feeling better this morning?”

  “Yes,” Laura answered with a tentative smile. “I suppose I was overly tired from the long trip.”

  “It’s to be expected,” Agnes remarked. “Your aunt always ate breakfast in the kitchen. I hope that suits you.” She walked to the place setting at the table and began pouring coffee into a cup.

  “If that’s for me, I don’t drink coffee,” Laura informed her.

  “Oh.” Agnes yanked the cup away, knocking over the saltshaker. “Oh, dear!” She placed the coffee pot and cup on the stove, then picked up a pinch of salt from the table and threw it over her left shoulder.

  “The orange juice is fine, thank you.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Agnes,” Laura began, “I would like to go into Bufordville this morning to do a little shopping. Is there a car I can use?”

  “I’ll have George drive you in.”

  “Oh, no. That’s not necessary. Maybe I can get a taxi. I prefer to shop alone, and I definitely don’t want a man waiting while I decide.” Laura thought that Agnes could certainly understand that.

  “Suit yourself. I’ll get you the keys to your aunt’s car.”

  * * *

  Laura didn’t enjoy the drive to Bufordville. She had no trouble finding her way, since George had explained things well, but she kept getting stuck behind slow-moving tractors and farm trucks. Besides, Laura found her aunt’s big car difficult to maneuver; she decided it was probably similar to driving a tank. When she finally made it to Bufordville, she parked on the street near the drugstore.

  “That looks like Laura Buford’s car,” the old man behind the counter remarked as Laura entered the drugstore.

  “It is—or rather was,” Laura mumbled awkwardly.

  “You work there?”

  Laura hesitated. “No, I’m Laura McClain, Laura Buford’s niece.”

  The man eyed her more closely. “You don’t say! You must be Sarah Buford’s girl.”

  Laura smiled. “That’s right. You knew my mother?”

  “Of course I knew your mother—everyone knows the Bufords. Your mother went to school with my boy, Leroy.”

  “Really?” Laura approached the counter cautiously, then gulped and forced herself to speak. “Did you know my father, John McClain?”

  The old man’s animated smile faded. “No,” he murmured hollowly. An awkward moment followed before the man began placing bottles under the counter.

  Laura turned to look at the items on the shelves. The store wasn’t as well stocked as the drugstore she frequented in St. Louis, but it had the basics. When Laura selected some lotion and tissues, she realized her hands were trembling. I can’t even go to the drugstore without becoming a nervous wreck, Laura thought.

  She placed the items on the counter, and without looking at her the man began to ring them up on the cash register. Finally unable to stand the silence, Laura remarked, “I suppose you may have attended some of the harvest moon festivals at Buford’s Bluff years ago.”

  The man’s head shot up, and though Laura couldn’t read his expression, she knew it wasn’t good. He didn’t seem angry—it was more like fear. But that didn’t make sense either. Whatever the case, he apparently saw the shock on Laura’s face and attempted to soften his own visage.

  “When you get to be my age,” he said, “you don’t remember much.”

  Laura paid for the items and walked toward the door. She paused, glanced back, and said, “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Same,” the man responded without even glancing at her.

  Outside, the brisk, clean air swept across Laura’s face. She loved the scent of fall, and the trees made a beautiful red, orange, and yellow tapestry against the brilliant sky. Across the street, a historic house had been converted to an antique shop, and as her mind started conjuring images of all kinds of exotic bottles, she crossed the street.

  The boards on the stairs leading to the wide porch squeaked under her weight. A modern-looking wind chime of glass and metal clinked and clattered in the breeze. The window by the door read “Julie’s Antiques” in curly black-and-gold letters. On the porch stood two rocking chairs and a shelf of fifty-percent-off knickknacks that looked like they’d seen better days.

  A cowbell clanged as Laura opened the door. “Good morning,” the young woman behind the counter called.

  “Good morning,” Laura replied, smiling nervously. She told herself she wouldn’t buy anything—she’d just look.

  “Can I help you with something?” the woman asked.

  “Just looking,” Laura answered. “I saw your sign and couldn’t resist. I love antique shops.”

  “I can’t resist either,” admitted the woman. “That’s how I got into this. I saw the For Sale sign on the shop, and the rest was history.”

  Laura laughed at the explanation and took a better look at the shop owner. Tall and thin, the woman was all angles and no curves. Long, red hair surrounded a plain yet pleasant face. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, possibly younger. Rings covered her fingers, and bracelets decorated her arms.

  Laura breathed in the musty, waxy smell of the shop as she walked to a shelf full of curios, running her fingers along tabletops, chair rungs, and a ceramic cat along the way. Momentarily forgetting her promise not to buy anything, she briefly considered purchasi
ng the cat. She glanced over at the shop owner, who wore a hopeful expression. Laura suddenly felt a bit sorry for the woman. While pretending to study another ceramic figurine, Laura managed, “I’m Laura McClain.” She thought she sounded about as natural as a salesperson reading from a script.

  “Julie Morgan.”

  “How long have you been in the antique business, Julie?” The question felt forced and awkward, but Laura was determined to make friends in Bufordville.

  Julie brightened. “I found this town three years ago while traveling the parkway. It was like something out of a travel brochure. Then I saw this little place for sale and fell in love. I always wanted to own my own shop, but that was pretty unrealistic in New York City.”

  “That’s where you’re from?” Laura asked.

  “Yeah,” Julie replied.

  Laura made her way to a display of candles that, according to the sign, had been locally produced. Some of the candles in jars were lit, and the mix of scents—cinnamon, mint, and something fruity—smelled quite pleasant. Laura noticed that the price on the candles had been reduced several times. “So, what did you do before you came to Bufordville?”

  “Well, my dad teaches at Columbia, and I went there for two years. I was going to major in film, but I found out studying movies isn’t as fun as watching them. What about you? Where’re you from?”

  “St. Louis.”

  “Are you on vacation or something?”

  “Not exactly. My aunt died recently and left me her property.”

  “You mean Laura Buford?” Julie’s eyebrows shot up.

  Approaching the counter, Laura nodded. “Yes. Did you know her?”

  Julie flipped her long hair over her shoulder, and Laura noticed that she had a sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks. “She used to come in here once in a great while. She liked old dresses, and she had good taste.”