The Uninvited

Tyler stood there for a minute. You didn’t need to be a Krewe member to “feel” a house, a battlefield or any other historic place. He’d seen the most skeptical, steel-souled Texas Ranger take on a look of grim reverence when standing at the Alamo. It was a feeling that touched most people on the battlefields at Gettysburg or in the middle of Westminster Abbey, Notre Dame or other such historic places.

This house had it. That feeling. It was a sense of the past, a past that was somehow still present. Perhaps the energy, passion and emotion of life that had once existed here lingered in these rooms.

This was a beautiful house and maintained in a period manner that no doubt added to the feel.

Tyler didn’t stay in the entry long. He could hear Adam and Allison following behind him, Adam explaining that what they investigated was history rather than ghosts.

He knew that Julian Mitchell’s death had occurred in the old study, and he strode down the hallway toward it. He stared at the old maple desk; blood stained the wood and the Persian rug beneath it where the deceased man had been found. A few spatters lay on the reproduction ledgers and account books covering the desk. Initial contact with the blade had caused a spurt, and the blood had drained straight down. A lot of it.

Tyler tried to picture the scene as it had been described to him—the young man seated in the chair, the musket between his legs, the bayonet through his throat and mouth as if he’d used it to prop himself up. He had bled out quickly, according to the pathologist who’d first examined him. He hadn’t appeared distressed and he didn’t appear to have fought with anyone. He had simply sat down, set his chin upon the bayonet as though to rest on it…and skewered himself with it.

Who the hell accidentally put a bayonet blade through his own chin?

But he hadn’t cried out. Tourists leaving the premises would have heard or, at the very least, Allison Leigh would have as she locked up for the night.

Tyler remained near the entrance to the room, noting its location. There was the door that opened off the entry hall, and another that led from the study to the next room. This meant there were two points of access, as well as a way to exit.

But how did you get someone to die on a bayonet in such a position and leave no sign of a struggle? Talk him into it?

He looked at the paintings on the wall, which were authentic period pieces. Two men had been depicted at somewhere between the ages of thirty and forty. Beneath one, he made out the name Angus Tarleton; the other was labeled with the description Brian “Beast” Bradley.

The eyes of the latter seemed to have an unusual power. The artist had managed to depict a handsome man—and also a cruel and cunning one. He’d read that the Mona Lisa’s eyes seemed to follow her viewers. Bradley’s did the same, apparently focusing on him as he moved about the room.

He turned to the hallway. Allison Leigh was pale as she stood next to Adam, who watched and waited for Tyler to take the lead.

“Allison, can you tell me exactly what happened leading up to your discovery of Julian?” he asked her.

She winced. “I should’ve written it down earlier, I’ve had to repeat it so many times,” she muttered. She was hostile again, he thought. Hostile and angry, but that was good. If she’d fallen apart, broken into tears, she wouldn’t have been much help.

“I didn’t run into a bloodthirsty ghost,” she told him.

“I would’ve been surprised if you had,” Tyler said. “I’m sorry, but you do want to catch the killer, right?”

She stared back at him with eyes that were as clear and beautiful as a summer sky.

“I don’t think there was a killer,” she said. “Julian could be a clown. He was full of himself, an entertainer. He had a tendency to piss the rest of us off with his unwillingness to accept responsibility, but he also made us laugh and…he was a friend.” She took a deep breath. “It looked as if he sat down, started fooling around with the musket and set his head right on the blade. Yes, we use real muskets and bayonets, and never, ever, have we had a problem. The costumed interpreters don’t carry bullets or gunpowder and no one’s ever gone crazy and tried to bayonet a tourist. Who’d imagine that anyone could die on one?”

“He wasn’t in any way suicidal?” Tyler asked.

“Julian? He was convinced the world was waiting for him,” she said. “No, I don’t believe he committed suicide.” She hesitated for a moment. “We were all angry with him, figuring he’d had some kind of great offer and decided just to disappear.”

“He was supposed to be working—and he wasn’t?”

“Yes. Well, he showed up for the morning tours. He took off after lunch, probably for an audition.”

“But you found him in his period costume?”

She nodded. “He was with a bar band that had higher aspirations. They did a lot of auditioning and sometimes they had permits to play in the historic areas, so it wasn’t uncommon for him to stay in his work clothing.”

“But none of you saw him after lunch?”

She shook her head.

“Are there places in the house where he could’ve been and you wouldn’t see him?” Tyler asked.

She glanced at him. “A closet?” There was a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Or,” she said, her tone serious, “the attic. We don’t go up to the attic with any of the tour groups.”

“May I see it now?”

“If you want.”

“Shall we?” Adam suggested.

Allison seemed to go back into tour-guide mode as she led the way. She pointed out the ladies’ parlor, the music room and, across the entry, the dining room and parlor. As they walked up the first flight of stairs she talked about the owners of the house and the bedrooms used by the family—and by the British invaders.

Tyler paused at Lucy Tarleton’s bedroom; from the doorway he’d noticed another painting of Beast Bradley.

It was different from the one in the study. The light of cruelty wasn’t apparent in the eyes. He’d been depicted in a more thoughtful mood, his eyes conveying wisdom and strength rather than cruelty.

“One more floor to the attic,” Allison said. “If you’ll—”

“I’m curious about this painting,” he interrupted.

“It’s Beast Bradley. I don’t really know why the painting’s in here. Bradley took over the master bedroom while he was in residence at the house.”

“This is a nice painting of him.”

“I’m sure he had friends.”

“It’s interesting that the foundation chose to keep the painting here, since he moved into the master bedroom,” Tyler commented.

“The house was owned by the family until it was turned into a nonprofit institution,” Allison said. “That’s where the painting was. The board determined to keep everything as it was, getting rid of modern additions and buying a few authentic pieces to bring it back to the Revolutionary period. But in the 1930s, when the work was being done, the painting was in Lucy’s bedroom and the board at the time decided to keep it there.”

“Adding insult to injury for poor Lucy. The original family must be rolling in their graves,” Tyler said. He tried to keep any irony from his voice.

A derisive sound escaped her. The expression might be a common one, but in her world, people did not roll in their graves.

Some old houses had stairs that were pulled down for access to the attic. Not the Tarleton-Dandridge House. At the end of the upper hallway he saw a staircase leading to the door; a sign on it read Staff Only! He assumed the door was usually locked, and he was right.

“The front door key opens the attic, as well,” Allison explained.

He used the key and pushed the door open. It led to a few more stairs. He climbed them and found himself standing on the attic level of the house. It was dark up here, but the moonlight and streetlamps offered some relief from the black shadows as his eyes grew accustomed to the change.

Someone had been there. Someone had tossed the place, rummaging through the old boxes and trunks and the modern equipment that had sat on a desk. A computer lay on the floor, along with a printer. Letters and correspondence were everywhere and, scattered among them, posters for special events and other paraphernalia.

“My God!” Allison breathed.

Tyler turned to Adam. “We need to get the crime scene techs back here. I doubt we’ll find fingerprints other than those that belong here, but you never know.”