Page 11 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
“It most definitely is not.” Maribeth stepped into the conversation, directing her attention to George. “As forwhoMr. Bridgers is, he is associated with my work.”
“Your work?” The raised eyebrow said all it needed to. The good doctor had made no secret that he disapproved of Maribeth’s spiritualism with about as much fervor as he did Perliett’s “quackery.” He was thoroughly unlikable and on so many levels.
“Have the authorities considered,” Maribeth said, ignoring the doctor’s censure, “consulting with me regarding Eunice’s passing?”
It had crossed Perliett’s mind, but suggesting it to George was not whom she’d imagined first raising the idea to.
He frowned.
“Perhaps she herself would share with us her last thoughts,” Mr. Bridgers said, breaking in.
“And who was responsible for her demise,” Maribeth added.
“Have you ever attempted to contact a murder victim before?” Mr. Bridgers asked.
“I have not,” Maribeth answered.
George tilted his chin up, lofty in all his religiously pious airs. “The devil can communicate whatever he wishes to you in whatever form he takes. I would no sooner trust his witness through an apparition than that of someone who is a perpetual liar.”
Perliett had had enough of George, frankly of the entire conversation, and she was determined to end it.
But Mr. Bridgers interrupted before she was able.
“I shall discuss this with the authorities. It is a curious and most interesting idea, Mrs. Van Hilton.” He offered Maribeth his elbow, and Perliett’s mother took it. Leading her forward, he engaged her in a conversation that drifted away with them but was as purposeful as the steps they took.
This time, George’s shoulder did brush hers, and Perliett would have stepped away had his fingers not grazed her elbow in what she was certain was an absentminded gesture meant to stop her. His touch irritated her skin while at the same time she noticed he was wearing cologne. Something he never had done in the past, and it smelled like ... cedarwood and juniper? Masculine. Disturbing.
“I would advise your mother not to become involved in the death of Eunice Withers.”
Perliett turned to look across her shoulder at the doctor. “Whyever not? If she can help—”
“Help?Hinderis the more apt description. Not to mention, if the killer believed there was any credence to her séances, then she may position herself in the center of his attention.”
Perliett winced at his logic. “My mother is a powerful woman.”
“In her beliefs, yes, but physically? Could she ward off a stronger person wielding a knife with the force of the manwho attacked Miss Withers?” George turned to her then, his fingers releasing their light hold on her elbow. Perliett felt their absence. He tipped his head toward her, and for the first time, Perliett had to credit him with genuine concern and not simply arrogance. “We disagree on most things, Perliett, but even you must admit there is danger in seeking after the dead. Their spirits. Whether from the devil himself or from his ambassadors here, who are very much alive and very deviant in their intent. Must you toy with either of them?”
Perliett had nothing to say. She stared into George’s black eyes and wondered, for the first time perhaps, if Dr. Wasziak might actually be making a valid point.
Thunder rumbled through the night sky, but the pounding on the front door had stolen Perliett’s attention. She tied her wrapper around her, passing Maribeth in the hallway. After an exchange of concerned looks, both women moved in unison.
Gaslights illuminated the hallway, making the furniture cast angular shadows across the floor. A large portrait of her grandfather eyed her like a ghoul as she passed him. She felt certain, as always, his eyes followed her from his frozen position within the frame. She met him only once as a child. He had made a dark impression on her. Even now, her mother’s father seemed to know things he shouldn’t—and he was dead.
She reached the door, Maribeth on her heels, just as another pounding added to the sudden downpour of rain.
“It’s Mrs. Withers.” The messenger was a gangly young man, puffing from his urgency. His hair was damp from rain. “She’s crying nonstop. Mr. Withers sent me to get help. We don’t know if she’s in pain or losing her mind since Eunice was killed.”
Perliett recognized the messenger as one of Mr. Withers’sfew farmhands. She waved him off the front porch and the rain that was spattering them from its ricocheting off the steps.
“Give me a moment. I will change and get my things.”
Maribeth interjected, “There’s lightning and it’s pouring rain out there. I should come with you.”
Perliett paused for a moment, considering. Then she shook her head. “I doubt tonight would be wise to approach Eunice’s spirit on behalf of her mother.”
Maribeth toyed with a ribbon at the neckline of her housecoat. “But if it would bring her comfort...”
“Or perhaps upset her further?” Perliett wasn’t of a specific opinion as much as she questioned the wisdom of the timing. For some, seeking the other side brought immense comfort, while for others it could be upsetting. And also upsetting if the deceased loved one determined not to make a connection.
