Chapter 13
THE SCENE OF THE CRIME
Idid not prepare myself for Jude Vandenberg in business attire.
So when he answers the door in perfectly tailored trousers, a crisp white dress shirt, and a slim black tie loosened at the collar, I’m a little caught off guard.
It’s a distracting ensemble, one he wears entirely too well.
I picture him at his prestigious boarding school, striding through an ancient stone courtyard somewhere in Europe, looking effortlessly put together while his classmates fuss with their blazers and ties.
He invites me in.
I step inside with my head on a swivel—this time, less out of obsessive curiosity and more to avoid ogling him.
“Is that it?” he asks.
I clear my throat and hand him the tome, taking excessive interest in the mahogany paneling that runs partway up the walls. I managed to smuggle the book out of Evermore inside my backpack while Maggie was upstairs in her office, clacking away on her typewriter.
Jude takes the book in both hands. “Tulane donated this?”
“In 1995, according to Maggie.”
The date isn’t lost on either of us.
It’s the year the Vandenberg four vanished.
He slides his thumb over the lock. “Let’s go find him.”
“What?”
“He might know where the key is.”
Protest bubbles up my throat. I have no idea how acquainted Mr. Denis Tulane and Maggie are. For all I know, they talk on a regular basis. What if he mentions the book being here, with me?
But Jude isn’t asking permission.
Our footsteps echo as I follow him into the west wing corridor.
Towering lancet windows line the exterior wall.
The waning daylight cuts through their narrow panes, creating bands of light and dark along the marble floor.
They rise up the opposite wall, where statues stand inside arched alcoves, half bathed in gold, half swallowed in shadow.
Here in the Vandenberg manor, even the hallways are extraordinary.
“I think he’s in the kitchens,” Jude says as we turn a corner.
I glimpse a regal sitting room through a set of opened doors to my left. We pass a set of closed doors to our right before reaching the dining hall.
My skin erupts in goosebumps.
Here it is.
The scene of the crime.
The room where it happened.
I stand on the threshold, taking it all in—a massive table with throne-like chairs, a fireplace at the far end, French doors that open to a terrace, and windows on either side.
They aren’t narrow and pointed like the ones in the hallway.
These are wide and arched, with an open view of the back lawn, where golden pink sky melts into lilac purple.
The house casts a wide shadow, turning the orchard into a darkening sprawl of tangled branches and overgrown grass.
I spot Dad near the far edge, a lone figure moving methodically, his pruning shears flashing in the fading light.
“Are you coming?” Jude asks.
But I can’t answer.
I can’t move.
My feet are stuck in the entryway.
I’ve studied the investigation so thoroughly, pored over every detail I could get my hands on, it’s almost as if that thirty-year-old scene unfolds before me now.
The family sitting down to dinner. Perhaps a terse conversation over Lily’s most recent rebellion, plates and silverware clinking.
Then, something … horrible. Maureen calls for help, but it’s too late.
There’s panic and chaos and pleading as the horrible, mysterious something descends.
“Selah?”
I blink several times, my attention returning to the present moment. I focus on Jude, standing there with Maggie’s tome in hand.
“I feel like Oda Mae Brown,” I say.
“Who?”
“Whoopi Goldberg.”
He looks at me blankly.
“From the movie Ghost?”
Still blank.
“You’ve never seen it?”
“Should I?”
“It’s only one of the best films of all time. Whoopi Goldberg plays Oda Mae Brown, who claims to be a medium, only she’s a total fraud. Between you and me, I think most of them are.”
“Careful,” he says. “Your podcast listeners might hear.”
“They already know.”
“So, not between you and me, then.”
But I hardly register the comment.
I’m too busy looking around at more of the room. An impressive sideboard with clawed feet spans the length of one wall. A pair of matching candelabras stand atop it on either end. Above, a gilded mirror reflects the sun’s lingering glow.
What has it seen—that mirror?
If I could look into its depths, if it held actual memory, what would it show me?
“If she’s a fraud,” Jude says, “why do you feel like her?”
“She was a fraud. Until Sam—he’s the ghost—starts speaking to her.”
“Is a ghost speaking to you now?” he asks, more than a little dubiously.
“Depends on your definition of ghost.” I look up at the crystal chandelier, where delicate cobwebs shimmer like spectral threads. “Do you think past events can leave behind an imprint?”
“An imprint?”
I look at him and immediately regret the decision, as I am flummoxed by his appearance all over again. Seriously, couldn’t he have changed into some sweats?
He slides his hands into his pockets and quirks one perfectly brooding eyebrow.
“There’s this theory in paranormal circles called the stone tape theory,” I say. “Basically, an intense event can leave a lasting impression on a location. Energy gets trapped, causing the event to be replayed over and over. Like a residual haunting.”
“Let me guess. You believe in this theory.”
“I don’t know.” I close my eyes, ears perked, as though the candles might whisper their secrets. “I can almost hear them sitting down to dinner. Their meal gets interrupted. Then the phone call to 911.”
When I open my eyes, Jude is staring at me like I’m something novel. An impossible puzzle. A book he’d really like to read, only it’s written in a foreign language.
“It’s like this space is caught between worlds.
This big thing happened here. Nobody knows what, exactly.
But the room does. It’s a bridge between the living and the vanished.
” My goosebumps multiply. The moment has grown serious.
And spooky. I shake it away and flash Jude a self-deprecating smile. “Like Oda Mae Brown.”
“Well, Oda,” he says, “let’s find Denis, shall we?”
Right.
Because we’re here, now, to chase down a different mystery. One that is separate from the Vandenberg cold case.
He slides open a discreet door beside the fireplace.
I hurry after him, through the butler’s pantry, into the kitchen.
There’s an iron stove and a brick oven and a long wooden table.
Above it, copper pots and pans hang from a rack.
Further back, in the scullery, Mr. Tulane washes dishes in a deep stone sink, his suit coat folded neatly on the workbench behind him.
When he sees Jude, he shuts off the water.
Then does a double take at the sight of me, like he’s the medium and I’m the ghost. Maybe he keeps looking at me this way because he’s seen the portrait, Ezra’s Obsession.
Or maybe he’s just wary of me in general, given my persistent, enthusiastic requests for an interview.
Jude shows him the book. “Do you remember donating this? It would have been thirty years ago.”
“To the historical society, yes.”
“Do you know where we could find the key?”
Mr. Tulane dries his hands on a towel. “All the items I donated came from storage on the third floor. If there is a key, I imagine it would be somewhere up there.”