Chapter 19 #2
“It’s not really a stretch,” Jennie said. “Fine art has always been a pursuit of the wealthy. Those who appreciate it are not only drawn to classic artists like Leonardo da Vinci but to contemporary artists too, painters who have proven to be a new inspiration.”
“Like Cassatt would have been in Traeger’s time,” Hannah finished. Her eyes sparked with an unspoken pleasure, and Jennie was following her line of thinking. “An artist who was making her mark on the art world, who would likely become famous within those circles and beyond.”
“Which Cassatt did,” Jennie concluded. She looked at Zane and explained, “I went to school to study art history. I spent two years in France and one in New York.”
“Bruh.” Hannah’s surprise was mixed with a suppressed grin.
Jennie laughed even as she pulled small bits from her past that she felt she could safely share.
“My mom instilled a love for the arts in me when I was young. It’s one of the primary reasons she didn’t sell Traeger Hall after my father passed away.
Because of the legend that art is stored inside the mansion somewhere—art of great value. ”
“Monet.” Hannah released a longing breath. “Or I’d take a Degas. A Cassatt?”
Zane shook his head. “The odds of Traeger leaving behind an art collection of that caliber is—”
“Small,” Jennie affirmed, interrupting him. “Still, it is possible.”
“Then why,” Trixie interjected, “would someone leave a note in Hannah’s locker, threatening her if Traeger Hall was opened? Wouldn’t people want to find out if there’s priceless art inside the place?”
“Or they just want it for themselves. If Hannah is right—and if Allison was right—by opening Traeger Hall, anything discovered would be rightfully claimed by the owner. And that’s Jennie.” Zane’s words gave Jennie pause as a little thrill shot through her.
What if she did find classic art that Traeger had invested in hidden in the attic, or stored in a spare room, or hung on the walls of Traeger Hall itself?
This was why her mom had been so interested in Traeger Hall.
The hope it might be true, the very possibility was intoxicating when Jennie let it sink in.
“But how,” Trixie pressed, “would this school stalker get these supposed paintings if Jennie didn’t open Traeger Hall?
There’s no way inside the house. Yes, they’d risk Jennie claiming said art collection, but whoever threatened Hannah—and whoever maybe killed Allison—they’d have no way of obtaining the art anyway if Traeger Hall was kept sealed up. And why threaten Hannah of all people?”
Hannah perked up, her back straightening and her hands waving as her tablet balanced precariously on her knees.
“Hold up, Mom! You’re getting ahead of things.
” Jennie noted that Hannah was disregarding her mom’s concerns.
“I remember when I was a kid and Allison was still with us. She believed there was a way to get into Traeger Hall—a way people didn’t know about. ”
“A secret entrance.” Zane nodded. “That’s been as rumored as the fine art collection or the safe in the house that’s stuffed with Traeger’s money.” He paused for a moment and then eyed his sister. “Does someone think Allison told you about this so-called secret entry?”
“I dunno. But don’t you get it?” Hannah seemed unimpressed that someone had threatened her with a note in her locker. “Now we can find out if there is an entrance somewhere,” she chirped. “Think about it. You asked what happens next? Bruh, it’s obvious. You go back to Traeger Hall and find out.”
Outfitted with headlamps, flashlights, and respirator masks, Jennie felt a little bit more prepared this time as she approached the front entrance of Traeger Hall.
Zane had pulled down the plywood he’d used to block the hole in the brick they’d made with the sledgehammer.
There was no evidence of tampering overnight, but then the heavy rain had probably helped with that.
Hannah had begged to come with them. She’d even offered to skip school today as though it were a big favor to them.
Jennie couldn’t blame the teenager. The excitement of a treasure hunt was intoxicating.
But Jennie also agreed with Hannah’s parents.
The idea that someone had targeted Hannah with a threatening note was beyond concerning.
Now Jennie was back inside the tomb of a mansion, and she stared again at the woman in the portrait, focusing on her blue eyes, her dress that appeared to be from the late 1800s, and the wisps of reddish hair painted into an elegant chignon.
Contrary to Hannah’s hopes, there was nothing to indicate it was the stylistic efforts of any known artist from that era.
“I wish I knew who she was,” Jennie mumbled. This time she didn’t hear whispers or feel cold air on her neck, but that didn’t leave her feeling any less uneasy. She knew she could only attribute the whispers to her overactive imagination, or yes, perhaps something in the air.
Zane stood shoulder to shoulder with her, the staircase rising to her left, his flashlight’s wide beam illuminating the wall.
He studied the edges of the painting, taking his gloved hand and rubbing years of grime from its corner.
“There’s an artist’s name here in the corner.
” His voice sounded almost robotic as it came through the respirator.
A thrill surged through Jennie as she stepped closer to the painting to read the artist’s signature. “Vallée,” she whispered.
“Do you know of the artist?” Zane inquired.
Jennie frowned. “No. He—or she—isn’t one I’ve heard of.”
“Then I guess this isn’t one of Hannah’s Cassatts hidden in the Hall,” Zane declared with a bit of sarcasm in his tone.
It definitely was not a Cassatt. It resembled the style of a Degas, but the name, while most definitely French, was as unfamiliar to Jennie as if a stranger on the street had painted it.
“If there are any works from famous artists in the house, I would imagine they’d be in a more secure environment than near the front entrance,” Jennie said.
“Why?” Zane side-eyed her. “What better place to show off your wealth and appreciation of fine art than to display it right here? It’s the first thing a guest would see after entering the house.”
Jennie considered that and then nodded. “I guess you’re right. And back then, they wouldn’t have necessarily taken into account such things as humidity, temperature, and sunlight to best preserve the art.”
“Art was for show. It was about status,” Zane mused.
Jennie met the vacant eyes of the young woman in the painting, “If that’s true, and if Traeger did dabble in the art world, where are the rest of the paintings, and why is this portrait the first to greet us after a century and not one from a revered artist?”
“No clue.” Zane shook his head, then swung the flashlight’s beam to the room to the right of the painting. “Ladies first.”
Jennie smirked and took the lead, stepping into the ray of light cast there by Zane.
With Traeger Hall being shrouded in darkness, Jennie wished they’d taken the time to sledgehammer more holes where the windows once were.
But then that would open up Traeger Hall in a way that could prove more difficult to control.
“This must be a parlor.” Zane shone his light around the room.
Jennie grabbed his arm.
He stilled. “What is it?”
“Back in the day, people used to lay out the dead in the parlors of their homes. That’s where the name funeral parlor came from.”
“Where’d you learn that?”
“History, Zane. History.”
Zane pointed to Jennie’s flashlight. “Turn yours on too.”
Jennie hadn’t done that yet. For some reason, the one flashlight made her feel as though there were some element of control. To turn on more lights meant the house became that much larger, the shadows deeper, and the ghouls more real.
She reluctantly switched on her flashlight, and between their two lights, the parlor was fully illuminated.
They stood in silence, staring.
“If I ever wondered what it would feel like to be in a time machine,” Zane observed, “this is it.”
Jennie couldn’t respond. She was tongue-tied. The room appeared just how it must have looked the day Traeger Hall had been sealed shut. Evidence of dust and time aside, it was completely furnished, a haunting memento of the distant past.
The far wall was draped with tattered black tulle cloth, funeral shrouds that had stood the test of time enough to still cover the mirrors.
She swung her light to a clock on the mantel of the cold fireplace.
Its hands had long since stopped turning, and she couldn’t help but wonder what or who had stopped them.
Was it time itself, or had someone marked the exact moment a death occurred?
Aside from the stuffed chairs and end tables covered in gray dust, the lamps swathed in cobwebs, and a tea set sitting on a side table as though company were expected to come calling, the most interesting items were the two pedestals in the middle of the room.
They were long enough to have held the bodies of Leopold and Cornelia Traeger.
“Wow,” Zane said as he approached them. His footsteps echoed in the room, leaving prints behind him. Plant stands, set in groups at the head and foot of each pedestal, held pots that still contained the remnants of what must have been flower arrangements that had decayed long ago.
Leopold Traeger’s will came to mind, and Jennie said, “Traeger had insisted that his and his wife’s bodies be laid out here for seven days before being taken to their mausoleum in the cemetery. Someone was to keep vigil at all times in the event they ‘woke up.’”
“That’s creepy.” Zane rounded one of the pedestals, bending to look beneath it.
“My mom wrote in her notes that it was common to preserve the bodies in the days before the funeral.”
“Well, at least they removed the bodies before bricking up the Hall,” Zane said. His expression was hidden by his mask, and the flashlight cast shadows that hollowed out his eyes. “Otherwise, we would’ve had to report it to the state, and that’d be a whole other set of issues.”
She hadn’t thought of that. Their coming upon human remains from a century before—especially associated with so much history and intrigue—would have resulted in a flurry of renewed interest.
“There’s no hidden treasure in here by chance, is there?” Jennie half teased. She swept her flashlight across the parlor walls. There were more paintings, mostly landscapes. Not one was in a style she recognized. Jennie neared one and eyed the artist’s signature. Another Vallée.
“If it were only that easy,” Zane said.
“Where to next?” Jennie was anxious to continue on. The allure of finding lost art was as addictive as the desire to run from the ghosts of the past—from the mystery surrounding murder and tragedy that seemed bent on resurfacing in the present.
“Let’s head back—” Zane’s words cut off by a crashing sound coming from the entryway.
Jennie grabbed for Zane’s arm. He raised the flashlight, shining it back in the direction they’d come.
“Who’s there?” he shouted.
No answer.
“Show yourself!” Zane yelled, and Jennie jumped. She hadn’t expected the forcefulness of his voice. They left the parlor, and both of them swept the entryway with their flashlights.
It was empty—at least of other humans. Nothing appeared to have fallen or been broken. The woman in the portrait eyed Jennie through the darkness. She could feel her. Sense her. The only thing she couldn’t do at the moment, thankfully, was hear her.
A creak from a side room opposite them made Zane freeze. He held out his arm as if to stop Jennie and shield her simultaneously.
“Who’s there?” he repeated.
A shuffle. Then, emerging from a darkened doorway, the pale skin of an arm. Its hand was extended, an index finger pointing at them. A low moan filtered through Traeger Hall.
Jennie leaped forward, burying her face into Zane’s back. She couldn’t do this anymore. The place was haunted! There were demons and ghouls and specters and poltergeists and zombies and—
“Milo?” Zane’s incredulous exclamation filled Jennie’s ears. “What are you doing in here?”
Jennie peered around Zane, and sure enough, the young boy had slipped from the darkness of the other room, his arm reaching for his father.
His eyes were wide with fright, his glasses cockeyed on his little face.
He moaned again, and Zane launched forward to comfort the boy who had come out of nowhere so unexpectedly.
But Jennie wasn’t watching Zane, nor were her eyes fixed on Milo.
She was looking beyond them to where the shaft of her flashlight shone into a sitting room.
A sitting room in perfect order, with chairs and draperies, along with the large, looming portrait of a man she could only assume was Leopold Traeger.
The man’s eyes were but narrow slits in his painted face.
His mouth was set in a grim line, split in half by a jagged slice across the entire canvas.
It was a callous act of vandalism, ripping through the portrait with an unspoken vengeance.
Leopold Traeger had been despised. And before they sealed Traeger Hall, someone had seen fit to make sure his memory would be marred forever.