The Bones of Marietta Read online

“Yes, and he or she sounds great. I hear the baby’s heartbeat!” The technician tinkered with the machine. “Here, you can listen too.” We sat in awe as the sound of the baby’s heartbeat echoed back to us. “Oh, the baby sounds perfect! Time to look around. Looks like this little one has his or her back turned and does not want to give us a peek.”

  Lily whispered impatiently, “Turn around, baby! I want to see.” She patted her jeans with her hands.

  “Don’t worry. Babies are never still for long. What do you think, big sister? Is it a boy or a girl?”

  Nobody bothered to correct her, although I could not help but see that quick glimpse of hurt flash across Lily’s face. It was a common mistake, and I knew the tech did not intend to cause harm. How was she supposed to know our family situation?

  “I say…boy,” Lily said with some hesitation. “I mean, I’m okay with either, but I bet it’s a boy.”

  “What about you, Dad?” the nurse asked me as she continued to move the wand over Carrie Jo’s stomach.

  “I go back and forth. Either one, but I think it is probably a girl. We have AJ and Lily, so we’re happy either way.” I hugged my niece briefly.

  The tech smiled and talked to the machine a minute. She was doing her best to get the little one to turn and reveal his or her identity. “Mom? What do you think?”

  “No predictions, but the suspense is killing me. Oof! That was a big kick—or something. Either she’s a ballerina or he’s a football player.”

  The technician, I already forgot her name, cheered. “The baby moved, and look! It is a girl. She is healthy and fat and wonderful. I love my job!”

  Katie! That’s her name. “A girl? Are you sure?” I asked as I stared at the screen. I had no idea what I was looking at.

  “Pretty sure,” she said with a laugh.

  I could not tell what in the Sam Hill I was looking at, but it was nothing less than miraculous. I immediately hugged Lily again and held Carrie Jo’s hand and kissed it. Somehow or another, my hand got into the goop, but I did not even care. At least I did not get a mouthful of it. I could not stop staring at the screen.

  The technician began snapping and printing photos for us. “Now for her face. Would you all like a picture of that?”

  “Yes, please,” Carrie Jo whispered without taking her eyes off the monitor. She was smiling too.

  Wow! Had I really wanted a girl so badly? I don’t know, but I was feeling emotional. Strangely enough, Carrie Jo was the calm and cool one for this pregnancy—so far. I was crying at the drop of a hat.

  Then I noticed Carrie Jo had gone as pale as a ghost. Yeah, she looked white, like something was wrong. “Are you feeling okay, CJ?”

  She squeezed my fingers and released them. “Yeah, just a little weak, babe. I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast.”

  The technician completed printing off the pictures and handed her some paper towels. “Well, let’s get you cleaned up so you can grab some lunch. I’ll forward these to your doctor, but everything looks great. She is a beautiful baby girl. If you do not mind me saying so, I think she looks like you.” Her comment to Lily produced a beaming smile.

  “Yeah, I can see it,” our niece said cheerfully.

  Carrie Jo added, “She’s right, Lily. She does look like you, and she’s definitely moving around. She must be hungry too. Let’s go find something to eat. Oof. I’m dizzy.”

  “No more skipping meals, Mrs. Stuart. We don’t need you fainting.”

  I helped CJ sit up and held her briefly as she clung to me. It was an urgent cling, not a joyful hug. My wife had something on her mind, but unfortunately, mind-reading was not one of my skills.

  I would not push her. She would share with me eventually. This may not be a conversation we should have in front of Lily. I hoped and prayed that her distress had nothing to do with Marietta, with this weekend’s adventure to the historic home. A recent hurricane revealed a disturbing secret—bones were found, an incomplete skeleton, bits and pieces of someone who died long ago. Since the storm blew through and uncovered the partial remains, paranormal activity had kicked up at Marietta. Hence the phone call for help.

  Deep inside, I already knew what was happening.

  The ghosts of Marietta knew Carrie Jo was coming. She knew it too.

  Chapter Two—Carrie Jo

  I dreamed about Marietta last night. Upon waking, my wet cheeks surprised me, but the tears had nothing to do with my new child. It had nothing to do with that at all. It had everything to do with Marietta and the spirits that surrounded it. When the idea first came to me to embrace my dream catching abilities as an actual business, Ashland was a little leery. But I made my case, and he agreed without much argument.

  I am a dream catcher—just like my mother and many of the other women in my family. I love being a historian and researcher, but at the core of my being, I am a dreamer.

  “I am embracing my gift, Ashland. I will not advertise the service; it will only be by word of mouth. We will be selective about which cases I take—I mean, we take. We can still run the restoration business; I know it pays the bills. But I want to do this. Okay?” Who was I trying to convince? Me or him? I hadn’t felt this unsure when I was rehearsing this speech. “It makes me happy. Really happy. Sometimes it is scary—as scary as anything—but what about the others?” Surely, he knew what others I was talking about.

  All the dead.

  All the lost.

  All the living who needed my help.

  To his credit, Ashland did not argue with me. He knew what I meant. There was certainly something magical about coming to a location on assignment and discovering that there were mysteries to be uncovered. Yes, very magical, but was it necessary? Why not go into each situation with our eyes open and not hide the fact that we work with the dead, Ashland with his ghostly sight and me with my dream catching skills?

  This had all been Rachel’s idea. Why not come at this in a positive way? That had been her suggestion. Why not come at it like it is my job, what I do for a living? Yes, I loved the restoration and the research and all the things that we had to do to get these historic places in shape—to put the spirits to rest—but people knew what we did here. They knew we were different. Why not just make it official?

  That had been one odd conversation, but it got me thinking. I joked and asked Rachel how I would do that. Buy black business cards? Put a black cat marquee out front of Seven Sisters?

  I guess there was a small part of me that still cared about what people thought. I shouldn’t, not after all we’ve been through, but what can I say? You cannot beat out what was born into you. It was not long before we received a discreet phone call from the owner of Marietta, a beautiful Greek revival located not far from home in Biloxi.

  Like with Seven Sisters, it was a miracle that the place was still standing. The historic home had managed to survive Hurricane Katrina and other major storms, but there was quite a bit of damage and the remodeling was not going as easily as the current homeowner had hoped. The most recent hurricane left more than sand and shells in its wake, more than broken trees and a damaged roof and cracked windows. The bluster of Hurricane Angel had uncovered old human bones inside the property line, and no one knew where they came from. Now that they had been uncovered, something disturbing had been awakened.

  According to Heather, who was rather skimpy on the details, the situation was dire; no contractor wanted to touch the place. Marietta already had a reputation as a place of tragedies—Heather’s description, not mine—but she made it sound profoundly foreboding. I shivered thinking about our many phone conversations.

  “I always knew this place had a reputation. I am a local. Marietta always interested me, even as a child, and I knew stories about the Lancaster family. But this…I do not know. What I feel here is so different since the storm. I cannot explain it. I heard good things about you, Carrie Jo. I would rather you come see for yourself. I would not bother you if this were merely my imagination.”

  The pull to Marietta was unmistakable. I had no choice—I had to see for myself.

  I was only four months pregnant, and thankfully the morning queasiness had passed. Ashland sounded a bit hurt when I insisted on running solo, but I pointed out that he needed to devote his time to podcasting. He loved the work and had quite the fan following, which proved to pay very well. But all that was only until we landed another restoration job. An official one, anyway. No, my husband would not come with me on this trip, but I would be fine. If I got there and the place put off bad vibes, I would be honest. Besides, someone had to watch the kids. Ashland could podcast from his home office. And the good thing was, I would only be an hour and a half away. I could drive home if need be, but I wanted to dream again. I wanted to get back into the swing of things.

  Speaking of which, I was almost there. I tapped on my swanky dashboard and called my husband. I loved this wireless Bluetooth thingy.

  Shoot. Went to voicemail.

  “Ashland? It’s me, babe. I am almost at Marietta, about to turn off Beach Boulevard. Traffic isn’t too bad. I’ll call you after I get settled in. Love you. Kiss the kids for me.” I sighed as I tapped on the dashboard again. That was much safer than texting and driving. I never did that. Too dang dangerous.

  I was glad I went ahead and made the ride to Marietta. Turning the leather-covered wheel, I held my breath. Wow, this place was amazing. The homeowner seemed like a lovely lady with a lot of anxiety about the gruesome discovery of bones after the hurricane. If we could put those bones—and the restless spirits—to rest, I will have done my job.

  The plan was that I would stay at Marietta this weekend. Heather refused to stay in the house. I liked it that way. I was a bit of a loner and unafraid, at least according to Ashland. He would have preferred
it if I had a bit more fear, but he accepted me for who I was. I mentioned my dream the other night, a dream related to Marietta, but we had not had a chance to really talk about the details. Life ran fast and furious at Seven Sisters. Lily had endless hobbies, and AJ was always go-go-go.

  Oh, yes. Marietta was an impressive place. At some point in recent history, the house had been raised and placed on a platform, probably to protect it from storm surge. I read somewhere that this had not been the original location for Marietta and that it had been moved here about 100 years ago. I wasn’t sure, but I knew that Rachel and I would get to the bottom of that story. We excelled at that.

  Like Seven Sisters, the front of the one-story Creole-style home was flanked by columns and wide porches. It was a reflection of a more graceful yet brutal time. Strange how the elites back in those days were so obsessed with luxury that they were willing to inflict immeasurable human suffering on others at any cost. I shuddered at that thought. We cannot rewrite history, but we don’t have to exploit it either. Whatever I discovered, whoever haunted Marietta, I would not pretty it up.

  That was one of the reasons Ashland and I were so committed to maintaining the slave quarters at the Seven Sisters complex. It was important to both of us that the true history of the families be told every day. As I got out of the car, I experienced a strange sort of solemnity, like the kind you feel when you walk into a cemetery or even some churches.

  I’d viewed pictures of Marietta online, but my gifts weren’t at their best with just images. I had done it before, back when I searched for Calpurnia Cottonwood. However, my abilities worked better in person. I enjoyed feeling and sensing and listening to the history all around us, and history was always around. Thankfully, Seven Sisters, our family home, was a historical landmark in Mobile. Alabama. It used to be full of ghosts, but it had been cleared of most of the paranormal activity. Yes, things were quiet around our place…but here?

  “Hi, Heather. Yeah, it’s me in the driveway.” I put the car in park and waved at the woman on the porch. “I’m ready to get started.” I smiled and got out of the car, locking it behind me. I would bring my overnight bag inside in a bit, but for now, I needed to greet the client.

  Electricity buzzed around me. This did not feel right at all. Usually, when a dream portal opened, I saw the world through a sepia-colored filter. A honey hue, an invitation to see into that other world.

  And see, I would…

  Chapter Three—Mary

  Perhaps I should have paid more attention to the letter’s address before I set out on this journey, but I was in the thick of it now and would make the best of it. Without much ado, the coach hurried away toward a dark destination down the street, which I assumed was a livery stable. I suppose I could follow it, seek out the unhappy driver and ask for further directions. That is when I saw the man. He was standing on the other side of the street, his hat in his hands. His bright white hair fluttered about his face as he stood motionlessly, watching me.

  Watching me like an owl sizing up a plump field mouse. I shivered at that thought but refused to slink away in fear. I lifted my chin and stared back.

  “Miss Mary Fairbanks? Forgive me for staring, but you are not quite what I expected. I hope your trip was pleasant.”

  I walked to the edge of the sidewalk, my shoes thumping loudly on the damp wood. I kept my face a mask even though my hands nervously clutched my black bag. I was sure he could see the pale skin beneath my gloves. The flush always gave away my true feelings. What if this encounter ended badly? It was truly a brazen act, wasn’t it? Everything depended on these next few moments.

  “The trip was pleasant enough, Mr. Lancaster. I am grateful for your kindness and have been looking forward to this moment.” I said nothing about his expectations and chose instead to feign confidence in myself. What good would it do to say otherwise? No, I was not the prettiest woman in the world. Not the cleverest. But I was honest—most of the time—and faithful. I would be a faithful wife, a steady rock on which he could rest all his cares and worries. I smiled and gently tilted my head.

  “There is no reason to be so formal with me, Miss Fairbanks. We are to be married; I think that means we can use informal names with one another. Shall I call you Mary?” To my surprise, he laughed and joined me on the walkway. Oh, he was a handsome man, with a pleasant face and hair that practically glowed beneath his black silk hat. “You may call me John or John Lamar, as my mother does.”

  “I think I like John.” My Irish tongue revealed my accent a bit.

  “Mary…you are going to be my wedded wife.” Then after a moment he added, “You are Irish? I did not know that. You have a few mysteries, don’t you? I like that; I am a man who appreciates a bit of mystery, but please only a few, Mary. As you have probably gathered from my letters, I have my reputation to think of. And a good name goes a long way here in Biloxi, Mississippi.”

  I lowered my head and said solemnly, “I understand.” What a strange thing for him to say, but I knew he meant it.

  “My mother will be pleased to hear that you come from the Land of Green Hills. She shares your ancestry. You will have much to talk about.”

  I quietly scolded myself. The real Mary had no accent at all. Maybe that would not be an issue since it was impossible to determine accents on paper. But what if she came to Marietta?

  I wasn’t sure I had done the deed. I wasn’t actually sure. Oh, God! What have I done?

  Mary was mildly attractive except for the scars on her face from an unfortunate bout of chicken pox. If she had been foolish enough to send a painting or portrait of herself, I would certainly be tossed into jail, but I would never imagine her going to all that trouble. No, I knew better than that.

  Mary Fairbanks never planned to get married. She’d found a rube, a mark, a man who had believed her pretty lies, and she’d answered his ad with a perfectly worded reply. My reply, actually. Was this man a fool? He did not seem halt or unusual, except for his bright white hair that crowned a youthful face. From the tone of the letters, I assumed that the two had never met in person although he tried.

  “What should we say to one another? Should we declare our love? Speak sweet words that we can share with our children in years to come?” John’s soft voice sounded both playful and serious. I did not know him well enough to discern his level of sincerity. I remained speechless while John kept his peace as he approached me. “Fair enough. There is time for all that later. I am happy to meet you at last, Mary. Let us seek shelter from the weather. We will stay in town tonight and then travel to Marietta in the morning. Where are your bags?” he asked with concern as he extended his elbow to me. I slid my skinny arm through his, but I looked like a child compared to his frame.

  Despite his bright white hair, I could see that John was still a young man. Some young men did go white early. It was a rare thing but not unattractive. Yes, I found John Lancaster to be extremely attractive indeed. “Just the one bag, John. I do not have much.”

  “And your servant. Didn’t she travel with you?”

  “Vienna decided to stay behind, and I am sad to say that evidently some of my bags did too. I never took her for a thief, but I am happy to be here with you, John. I do not need much. I am content.”

  “Nonsense. We should file a report with the sheriff. It is not right that your servant should steal from you. All your clothing, Mary?”

  With John’s arm through mine, we walked slowly down the sidewalk and headed down the darkened street with a few poorly lit lamps flickering against the snow. If I were a romantic, I would certainly find this moment memorable.

  I hurried to match his long strides as effortlessly as possible. I in no way wanted to be deemed unworthy of him. I did not know as much as I would like about John Lancaster, but he was a wealthy man and had an eye to marry. But why go outside his social circle? Why advertise for a wife in the newspaper, and a newspaper as far away as Summit? Could it be true that Mr. John Lamar Lancaster had his own secrets to hide?

  Yes, why settle on Mary Fairbanks? That is a question that troubled me. Why would such a man resort to marrying a prostitute? Did he know what she was? And if he did, what did he expect of me?