The Piper

FORTY-ONE




McTavish drove. Olivia winced because Hugh was holding her hand tight enough to hurt.

Patsy Ackerman lived three blocks over from Olivia’s place, a ranch style bungalow set back deep into Forest Hills, up a narrow winding street. The house had been built at the end of the nineteen forties – cheap housing for soldiers returning from war. Olivia was well aware that what went for cheap housing then was top of the line now. There would be hardwood floors, a central hearth that ran the length of the living room, heavy plaster walls. Lots of upkeep with the wiring and plumbing.

There was no car in the driveway, but Olivia looked with hope at the tiny garage set in the hill at the bottom of the house. A single door, narrow, windows murky, but there might be a car inside.

They parked on the street, and climbed the walk to the front door. The house was set on a hill, the yard tiered and overgrown with ivy. Heavy shrubbery blocked most of the windows. The back and side yard were encircled with a black iron fence that strained to hold in the hedges and flowers and trees. It gave the house a hideaway effect, like a charmed fortress. As if the person inside might be hiding, or afraid.

‘Let me,’ McTavish said, moving ahead. He had to knock three times, the last rather hard, before the door finally opened.

‘Enter the wicked witch,’ Hugh said, softly, in Olivia’s ear.

But this was no old crone. The woman’s face was turned away, so it was hard for Olivia to make out features, but she saw the shine of long blonde hair, and noticed the interested way McTavish cocked his head.

The woman’s voice was deep and it carried. ‘I’ve already talked to you people once today, and I don’t know anything else. I saw the dog. End of story. Please leave.’

‘Ma’am, we’re talking about a missing child. Her name is Teddy, she’s only eight. This is her picture. Look at it, please.’

‘I don’t do readings anymore, and you people made me very unwelcome when I tried to help in the past. I get it. I went away. So return the favor and get off my porch.’ She was already closing the door when she stopped. Walked back out of the house, shouldering past McTavish, to stand and stare at Hugh.

She was not what Olivia expected. She was not old, but she wasn’t young either. Late forties, early fifties maybe, impossible to tell. Her hair was shoulder length and that right shade of blonde that at her age meant expert hairdressing. Her eyes were large and blue, but red rimmed and clouded with the kind of exhaustion that Olivia recognized. The woman was an insomniac, like she used to be.

Tired though she was, her face was strikingly pretty even with the frown and fatigue. She wore a black sweater and jeans, and slouchy high boots with flat heels. In her ears were tiny pearl earrings, just like Olivia’s favorite pair.

She put her hands on her hips and glared at Hugh. ‘So here you are. Dammit. I don’t want to be involved in this.’

‘I don’t know you,’ Hugh said.

‘No,’ said Patsy Ackerman. ‘But I know you. You’d better come in.’

There was something very dominant about this woman, and the three of them went in meekly, like children who suspect they’ve been bad. They stood awkwardly in the living room, Olivia staring, taking it all in, the marvel of the house.

‘They said you were an artist,’ Olivia said.

Hugh walked to the fireplace, inspecting the mural over the mantel, the hand painted tile. ‘That’s an understatement.’

And it was. Even the wood step that led up to the kitchen was adorned with a hand carved fleur de lis.

‘Call me Ack,’ the woman said. ‘And come with me. There’s something in my studio that I want you to see.’

The kitchen made Olivia catch her breath, because it was the kitchen she had wanted all her life if only she’d been able to imagine it fully, to put it into thoughts and words. The countertops were some kind of poured concrete, stained a charcoal black, embedded with hand painted tile. The walls were French blue and terra cotta with accents of green and red, and the mural on the wall looked as if you could open the painted stone doorway, that it would lead to another room. The porch off the kitchen had been gathered in, and you stepped down to an indoor terrace of stone floors, plaster walls, and open beams of aged timber on the ceiling. A wood stove had been built into the corner of one wall, and before it was a small table and an espresso maker, and baskets with tomatoes, an eggplant, yellow squash. Cut flowers were piled in the sink.

Another doorway led to the left, and Patsy Ackerman call me Ack led them into a room that gave Olivia the feel of an enchanted nook. A leather loveseat, much worn and cracked, was against the far wall of the tiny room, there was a small fireplace, bookshelves with art supplies and books and bits of painted things on the walls. An easel and backless stool were set to the side of a floor length window that looked out to a gazebo in the back.

And pinned to the easel were ink portraits, three or four, with one charcoal drawing in the center, clearly a work in progress. All of them unmistakably Hugh.

‘Careful, Hugh, you better watch out.’ A squawky voice, coming from the corner near the window. And Olivia noticed for the first time the giant bird, the iridescent green, blue and yellow feathers of a parrot sitting high on a perch.

‘That’s Elliot,’ Ack said. ‘And you, of course,’ she said pointing, ‘have to be Hugh. I’ve had your face in my mind for three nights straight. Haven’t got more than an hour or two of sleep in one go.’

‘Be careful, Hugh,’ the parrot said, raising a claw.

Hugh cocked his head at the bird. ‘What does he mean by that? How does he know my name?’

Ack settled in the chair in front of her easel. ‘I was hoping you could tell me. He’s been chanting it for the last ten days.’

McTavish picked up one of the pictures. ‘Why haven’t you drawn a mouth?’

Ack rubbed the back of her neck. ‘It worries me too. That’s just how I see him. I don’t know.’

‘I would sue you,’ Hugh said. ‘If I could figure out what for.’

Olivia looked at the ceiling and sighed. ‘Don’t mind him, he’s from California.’

‘Yes, my darling, and this is all nice and lovely and creepy, but this woman could have researched you, and found our marriage records, and drawn all this ridiculous stuff.’

‘Spoken like a true narcissist,’ Ack said, looking up at him with a mean little smile. ‘And don’t forget the part where I taught my parrot to say your name. You came to my house, remember? That was you on my front porch?’

‘Ma’am,’ McTavish said. ‘You told my officer this morning that you’d seen a stray German shepherd, hanging around Teddy’s house? You know which house I’m talking about, right?’

‘The stone cottage with the double chimneys. Yes, I know which one. I’ve only seen the stray a couple of times.’ She looked over at Olivia. ‘I actually thought it was your dog. I couldn’t figure out why you kept the golden retriever in and the shepherd out. I got the impression he was some kind of guard dog.’

‘And you saw him day before yesterday? Do you remember what time?’

‘I take a break at lunch time, and go for a walk. So maybe a little before one.’

‘About the time Amelia died,’ Olivia said.

McTavish frowned at her. ‘We don’t have an official time of death. Were there any cars parked in the driveway, ma’am, do you remember?’

Ack nodded. ‘Yeah, I was thinking it over, after I talked to your guy. There was a Jeep in the driveway, the one that’s been there the last few weeks.’

‘My car,’ Olivia said.

‘Was that the only one? Was there a car you didn’t recognize? Maybe parked on the street, around the corner, just in visual range of the house.’

‘Could have been, but nothing I remember.’ She looked over at Olivia. ‘So you live in that house?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Interesting, that’s all.’

‘But it’s more than interesting, isn’t it? I’m Olivia James, and my brother, Chris, used to live there. Wasn’t he talking to you before he died? Didn’t he come to you for help?’

Ack looked down at her feet. ‘Yes, he did, but he told me he was keeping our discussion confidential. Which is one of my requirements for my clients.’

‘So he was a client?’

Ack shook her head. ‘Look – what do you want me to say? I’m sitting in a room full of strangers who call me the woo woo woman.’

‘How did you know that?’ Hugh said.

But Ack kept her attention on Olivia. ‘Your brother was in way over his head. But he opened that door. Don’t make the same mistake, Olivia.’

‘My brother made a bargain and he paid for it. My daughter, Teddy – she didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘You sound aggrieved, Olivia. Like somebody broke the rules. Like this thing we’re talking about plays fair. And that’s the one thing I could never make your brother and his buddy Bennington understand. This thing doesn’t play fair. It just plays.’

‘Is it a demon?’ Olivia asked. ‘Teddy called it—’

‘Don’t.’ Ack stood up and waved her hands. ‘I don’t want that name in my house. I live here, this is my refuge, don’t track your mud in here.’

McTavish ran a hand through his hair. ‘Demons don’t kidnap little girls.’

‘That’s true,’ Ack said. ‘As far as I know, demons are a myth. I don’t believe in demons and I hope like hell they don’t believe in me. People create evil all on their own, they don’t need any help. But I’ll tell you this free of charge, Mister Hugh. Be careful, because something out there knows your name.’

Hugh clapped his hands. ‘Bravo, bravo, drum roll please, here comes the not so veiled threat. How about a protection spell? Maybe you’d like to sell me one of those.’

Ack folded her arms and grimaced. ‘Don’t talk to it, Hugh. Don’t challenge it. Don’t listen to it and don’t let it lure you in. Whatever you’ve got going on there, Olivia. Over in that house. Whatever it is, it’s off the charts.’

‘There are charts?’ Hugh said.

‘Enough,’ Ack said. ‘This is my studio, I haven’t had my coffee, and I don’t like your brand of rude. I’ve warned you, I’ve done everything I can do—’

‘Have you, really?’ Olivia said. ‘Did you help my brother when he came to you for help? Because you can tell me it was all his fault as much as you like, but you went to the Waverly yourself, didn’t you? I’ve googled you on the Internet. You did a ghost hunting there fifteen years ago, right?’

Ackerman folded her arms. ‘So what?’

‘And Chris told you, didn’t he, that’s where all this started for him?’

‘He told me.’

‘And it’s bad there.’

‘It’s sad there. The problem is that a place like that . . . eventually it gets noticed. Think of it like a watering hole in the jungle, where everything comes to feed.’

‘My little girl is missing and she’s eight years old. You’re a psychic, Ms Ackerman. Do you see anything? Please.’

‘It doesn’t work like that, I’m sorry. It doesn’t come on demand. And anyway, I’m not that kind of a psychic. I’m a medium. And I can’t seem to talk to the good things. I can only talk to . . . the dark. Be glad I can’t find your daughter. If I could find your daughter, she’d be in a really bad place.’