Page 57 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
“I don’t discount it,” Detective Poll replied gravely. “I merely leave for God what is His to know, and trust that He has not revealed it to me for my own good—and even my own safety.”
“Respecting your position,” Mr. Bridgers said with a dip of his head, “I politely disagree.”
Detective Poll had warned her to always have a chaperone. To avoid night calls to homes. To lock her doors and windows, which was a tad impractical considering it was nearing the end of August and hot and sticky even at night.
Perliett adjusted the fingers of her gloves as she stepped onto the sidewalk outside the police station. She sensed Mr. Bridgers’s presence behind her, and she waited politely as he shut the door and joined her in his rolled-up shirtsleeves, as if they were two very familiar friends with a relaxed intimacy between them. She averted her eyes. He really should wear a jacket, but then he was also practical since she was already sweating in the small of her back from the late summer heat.
“Disconcerting, isn’t it? All the suspicion and fear being raised by one unnamed person with a violent tendency.”
Perliett glanced to her right at the man and nodded. “I’ll be honest, Iamunsettled.”
“As you should be!” He nodded, a strand of dark hair falling rakishly over his left eye. “Anyone brazen enough to leave a dead bird on a woman’s porch deserves to be tarred and feathered. No pun intended.”
Perliett stifled a giggle. “Tarred and feathered? It’s been some time since anyone resorted to that old practice of discipline.”
“Wrongdoers should be punished aptly.” Mr. Bridgers grinned.
Perliett returned it, then dropped her gaze. The man madeher almost as nervous as the Cornfield Ripper, only it was a far different sort of nervous. It sent her stomach into little swirls of pleasure, and she quite liked it. In moments such as these, she quite liked Jasper Bridgers, for all his mysteries. Besides, his own explanations made him a tad less dangerous now that he had grouped himself in with the likes of her mother. Those involved in the spiritualist movement were often misconstrued for something other than they really were—which was simply a curious lot with a great respect for the afterlife.
“Mr. Bridgers?” Perliett ventured.
“Jasper,” he responded.
“Yes. Jasper.” Perliett dipped her head in acquiescence and allowed Jasper to steer her away from a bicyclist who was riding on the walk. The cyclist rang his little bell, but it didn’t stop Jasper from admonishing him as he rode past.
“You should be on the road and not running young women down with your contraption.”
Perliett offered Jasper a grateful smile, both for protecting her and for calling heryounginstead of something that made her feel more rightly the spinster that she was.
“Where are you from, Jasper?” Perliett eyed a beautiful navy-blue hat in the window of a store they passed. She attempted to be more interested in that than truly agonizing over the questions that were becoming stronger and more necessary to know about Jasper Bridgers.
“Ah, you finally ask what has been on your mind for some time.” Jasper had a way of calling out the unspoken so blatantly it caught her off guard. His fingers touched her elbow, and he steered her toward the small green yard of Kilbourn Park. It had a cast-iron bench resting beneath a large oak tree. Someone had planted pots of flowers at each end, and their perfume wafted in their direction. A sweet beckoning to come and rest amid sheer chaos.
Perliett was surprised Jasper didn’t answer her question.He seemed intent on leading her to the bench, so she went along, lowering herself onto it when they arrived and arranging the draping of her emerald dress.
Jasper settled next to her, crossing his legs, his arm casually stretching across the back of the bench and behind her shoulders. Surprised at his familiarity, Perliett’s instinct was to resist, but her nature conflicted with both propriety and reason, and she found it to be a bit exhilarating.
“I was born in Massachusetts,” Jasper offered, “but my father moved our family to Chicago when I was quite young.”
Perliett nodded. Chicago. It explained why he had no discernable accent, seeing as he was from the Midwest. It also explained his more polished airs. He wasn’t a farmer or a country boy. He was obviously accustomed to socialization and interaction on a scale much larger than small Kilbourn. Still, the cavalier attitude he exuded intrigued Perliett, while she determined simultaneously that the name of his home city could probably explain it. Chicago. To each his own, and yet a melting pot of a bit of every culture known to man, not unlike a smaller version of New York City.
“Do you have a family?” Perliett ventured.
Jasper’s mouth twitched in a slight smile. “My parents have both passed away. I have an older sister, who returned to Boston after she married. I myself am not married.” He turned and leveled his eyes on her, and Perliett inwardly protested the blush she felt creeping up her neck.
“Why Kilbourn?” she asked.
“Why not Kilbourn? It’s such a quaint little town.” Jasper swept his arm through the air as if to encourage Perliett to take special note of where she lived and had grown up. “A farming community, the simple quiet of country life. Even the businesses are small and don’t require boardrooms to run them. The buildings go no higher than two floors unless they’re a barn. And no one is attempting to outdo the other by adding more levels to their structures. Your biggestboast are the acres of cornfields and your cows and little churches.”
“You almost mock Kilbourn, Jasper.” Perliett eyed him. She couldn’t interpret whether Kilbourn sincerely captivated him or if he found it to be beneath him.
“On the contrary. I admire Kilbourn. Small treasures are hidden in small places. Like your mother.”
“My mother.” Yes. He had expressed his fascination with Perliett’s mother.
“She is gifted.” He seemed to search her face for something, although Perliett wasn’t certain what. “She knows how to communicate with the beyond. It has honored me to be a sitter for her twice now, and I daresay I’d like another go at it.”
“Why are you so intrigued by those who have passed away?” Perliett toyed with the edge of her glove, noting a thread had come loose from the decorative tatting at its edge.
