Red Water, Shadows of Camelot Crossing Page 6

  Twelve

  Gone were the days when boredom with the same old meals could be busted by a sit-down at a favorite restaurant or a quick roll through a drive-thru. On this occasion, Mom used the excuse of a sunburn after foolishly forgetting to use sunscreen to order in, again. Dad couldn't find tip money in the usual spots they left cash lying around. He scanned the foyer table, the kitchen island, the bookshelves in the family room, and came up empty-handed.

  “You still making an ATM stop on grocery pick-up day?” he asked Mom.

  "Yeah,” she replied. “I put fifty on the family room bookshelf yesterday. We should come up with a better place to keep it. I’m bad about just setting it wherever. You check the bookshelf. I’ll check my purse.”

  Mom only had a five in her handbag, and there was no money on the bookshelf. Dad went to his wallet, certain he would have some spare cash. As he did so, he marveled at how long it had been since he had actually placed his wallet in his back pocket, much less taken it out and used it. That daily habit had been abandoned since they were stuck at home. He was disappointed to only find a couple of ones in his wallet, not nearly enough for an adequate tip.

  “I know I saw a couple of bills on the entry table a few days ago. At least I thought I did,” Mom said, retracing Dad’s steps and searching in all the same spots he had looked, peering behind the table and searching the floor.

  Not satisfied with the paltry amount and growing frustrated, Dad pounded on Holden's door. Without waiting for a reply, he entered the room. "Hey, son. Have you been helping yourself to the tip money?"

  "Cash has lost all use for me, Dad. I literally have not set foot off this property since we moved in," Holden quipped.

  Losing patience, Dad moved on to Hazel's bedroom. She had already stepped into the hallway after hearing the harsh tone in his voice.

  "I haven't seen the cash, but I've got some birthday money you can have." Hazel handed over two twenty-dollar bills.

  "Thanks, Haze," Dad said, taking the money. "I'll pay you back as soon as the missing funds show up."

  Over dinner, Dad continued to fume about the misplaced money. Hazel decided this was the perfect time to suggest a search of the house—not for cash, but for someone who had taken it.

  "So, I was thinking, with all the weird things happening around here, maybe we should search the house. This might sound insane, but what if someone is living here … like a squatter or something? Maybe someone is living in the attic." As soon as the words escaped her lips, she realized how paranoid and weird she sounded.

  Dad was quiet. Mom was the first to respond. "That's ridiculous. We would absolutely know if someone was lurking about in our attic. How would they use the bathroom? No food has gone missing. Sorry, Haze, but that's a stretch."

  Finally, Dad spoke up. "It does seem far-fetched, but having a look around can't hurt."

  "I'm sitting this one out," Mom said, as Dad went over the obvious mechanics of only walking on crossbeams and not putting full weight on plywood.

  "You better be careful!” Mom admonished. “The last thing we need is for one of you to end up in the emergency room with a broken bone, or worse. I've seen what the hospitals look like. They are overwhelmed, full of people with the virus."

  "We'll be extra careful," Dad told her as he checked his flashlight and led the twins upstairs.

  Outside the future theater room door, Dad pulled the ladder down that led to the attic. The three realized the stranger living in the attic theory could be debunked right then and there. A large dust cloud blasted their faces as the ladder unfolded. At the same time, the ear-splitting cry from the springs provided definitive evidence. A musty scent escaped the dark, rectangular entrance. It would be impossible for anyone to pass to and from this point without all of them being aware of it. Holden gave the small search party a look that said what they were all thinking.

  "Let's go up and see if maybe there's some other access point, just to make one hundred percent sure," Dad said.

  When all three had climbed the ladder and gathered in the stale space, Dad found a bare light fixture and was surprised to discover the bulb still had life. In the waning light, they could see that the space was enormous but empty, aside from an ancient antenna that spanned an inordinate amount of space. "Now that I think about it, I'm sure Dave would have let us know if there was evidence of human vermin living up here."

  "To be fair, you asked the man to search for squirrels and raccoon; there was no obligation to tell you about human life. Plus, if the boogeyman in the attic is the same person who gets his cardio on the staircase every night, well, he's a speedy dude. Anyone who can make it back up here as fast as him would have no trouble using his elite abilities to hide from the Critter Getter," Holden said, looking at his twin, his expression betraying his annoyance, his tone leaving zero doubt.

  Feeling foolish for even suggesting someone would have been living in the attic, Hazel began her backward climb down the ladder. "Sorry. Waste of time. Dumb theory."

  "Nothing ventured!" Dad called down.

  Holden mumbled, punctuating key words under his breath, "Lame! Waste of time!"

  Dad swept the beam of his flashlight through the vast space, finding nothing out of the ordinary and, most convincingly, no other visible point of entry. He pulled the grimy string, extinguishing the unnatural light and climbing down. The harsh cry of the springs underlined their failure.

  Hazel and Holden were prepping to take the dogs out when they heard Mom's gasp followed by the sound of smashing glass. The twins rushed toward the noise.

  In the dining room Mom stood, her bare feet surrounded by shards from a shattered wine glass that had slipped from her hand, and was forgotten about when she saw a jar in the china hutch. Inside a Ball Mason drinking mug were all denominations of paper money, neatly folded. The bottom of the cup was filled with loose change.

  Dad entered the room from the opposite direction. He first saw the broken glass; then his eyes drifted to Mom's face, down her outstretched arm, past the tip of her extended finger.

  "I don't know which one of you thought this stunt might be funny," he bellowed. "We will talk about this tomorrow. For now, get the dogs out and get ready for bed while I help Mom clean this mess up," he instructed with finality.

  Mom heard her children laughing as she descended the stairs the next morning. She found Hazel and Holden hovering over cereal bowls staring intently at a viral video, eating paused for a moment of particular amusement.

  Before she could speak, Holden started in. "Mom, I swear, it wasn't me! I wouldn't do anything like that. It wasn't even funny!" He pleaded his defense and pardoned himself at once.

  Hazel angrily, but internally, applauded his straightforward approach, establishing innocence while simultaneously throwing her under the bus. Well played. She glanced at him, her face expressing a mixture of awe, anger, envy, acceptance.

  "Don't look at me!" Hazel chimed in. "Look, Mom, we don't know how the money got there, but it wasn't us."

  Mom looked at her children. She knew their tells, and could sense their sincerity. She believed their propensity for honesty far outweighed their ability to lie, and knew they were being truthful.

  Holden didn't think Mom was convinced, so he pressed on. "Come on, Mom. Think about the things that have happened. The noises on the stairs, the disembodied alarm at the garage door, the way Bailey was found, the creepy setup on her grave. Something strange is going on. How much weirder is it for money to show up in a jar?"

  "It's absurd, but consistent," Mom agreed.

  "No more absurd than all the other stuff, really," he replied.

  That statement gave her pause before she redirected her attention to Hazel. "So, what are you suggesting? We have a ghost? Is that what you think, Hazel?"

  Hazel shot Holden another look, this one imparting shock, confusion, and disadvantage. "I don't know, Mom. All we are saying is we didn't put the money in the jar. Why would we lie about something so lame?"
/>
  "Well, hopefully your father will have forgotten it today. What else could this house have in store? None of it makes any sense. It's not as if we can just pop over to the neighbors and ask about any of it." Her words were delivered in a choppy, rapid-fire style. She paced the room, twirling a ringlet of her hair around and around her finger in perpetual motion.

  As if the virus wasn't enough to stress anyone out, things weren't getting better in the world. Quarantine fatigue was setting in. The end of the pandemic loomed before them, months, maybe years away, the experts warned. Add to it the strange, unexplained occurrences inside their bubble where all was supposed to be safe, and it took stress to a whole other level. Hazel got up and gave her mom a hug.

  Holden joined in, wrapping his long arms around them both. "I'm getting in on this hug-fest. Don't worry. It isn't a real problem until the house starts saying, 'Get out!' or the walls start bleeding."

  Thirteen

  Hazel set about to learn what she could about the house and its former occupants, certain there had to be a nugget of information online that might answer some questions. After all, the internet knew everything. She coerced Mom into assisting in her cause by having her email the president of the Homeowners Association. Mom was beyond reluctant, not wanting to come off as seeming crazy. In the end, all she could commit to was requesting a copy of the neighborhood directory and making a few random inquiries.

  Hazel believed the vague and broad quality of Mom's questions rendered the whole effort pointless. She didn't share her feelings with Mom, as she knew she was already stretching far beyond her comfort zone.

  Coincidentally, the same day the two rookie sleuths began their investigation, the Weizaks had their first visitor at the Shrek house. Late in the morning, Alexa unexpectedly announced, "Motion detected at the front door." The report was followed by the electronic chime of the doorbell. This drew everyone but Holden away from their current preoccupations.

  There was a constant flow of packages delivered to the house, setting off a front door alert once or twice a day. Alexa would announce motion, but the arrival had already been given away by the lumbering of a truck easing over the bridge. Sometimes the driver would rap gently on the door, but they never rang the bell.

  A ringing doorbell used to be a standard event but now felt ominous, almost dangerous. If the fear in the air weren't so palpable, the family's reaction to something so reasonable would have been humorous.

  Mom was thrown off her game. She didn't ask Alexa to show her who was at the front door. Instead, she quickly made her way to the entryway where she met Dad. He slowly approached the door, Mom behind him, clutching the back of his shirt as if they were facing down a masked intruder in the dark of night. In actuality, they were answering their door in the middle of a radiant day in a safe, secluded neighborhood. Dad even used the ridiculous hatch in the door, arguably the world's most conspicuous peephole, to check to see who stood outside their home. Upon opening the medieval aperture, Dad let out a discernible sigh of relief, coupled with a chuckle. Mom relaxed a bit, and choked out a nervous laugh too as Dad closed the hatch, slid the locking mechanism and opened the door to the least intimidating visitor one could imagine.

  "Good morning, neighbors! My name is Lula Clarkson. I live next door," she said. She held a small package in her hands. Her full face was exposed. "My apologies for not wearing a mask. I promise to keep my distance. I forget the darn thing all the time. This virus has robbed me of my manners too. I'm not sure I'll ever get used to not extending a hand upon meeting new friends."

  Mom and Dad stumbled over words, both apologetic and empathetic.

  Hazel listened from the stairway landing where she had corralled the dogs, embarrassed for her parents.

  "I used to welcome new neighbors with a plate of my oatmeal cookies, but these days it seems everyone is allergic to something, so I gave up on that. But I didn't come empty-handed," she said, handing over the package. "The carrier delivered this to my house by mistake. It belongs to you, Mr. Weizak. Is that how it is pronounced?"

  Her words came out quickly and boldly and without the slightest bit of hesitation. She couldn't have been more than five feet tall, even taking into account the slight hunch of her posture. A long, thick braid of white hair draped over her shoulder, strands escaping in a halo around her face. Her skin was the color of rose rock, and she wore thick, round glasses that seemed far too large for her petite face. Perhaps their bright purple hue made them seem bigger than they actually were. She had draped herself in turquoise jewelry in a myriad of shades … rings, bracelets, necklaces of varying lengths and large, dangling earrings that drooped so heavily, they looked as if they would be painful. An oversized denim sundress swallowed up her tiny frame, and sand-colored Birkenstocks completed her look.

  They transitioned outside, away from the airless interior of the house, to where the circulation of fresh air seemed safest. Mom and Dad made an awkward show of hosting a surprise guest while social distancing.

  Hazel scrambled up the stairs to the spare bedroom which now housed their home gym equipment. The room was an oddity among oddities in this house. It held its own bathroom and washer and dryer. Its window sat directly above the front porch. She slid the window up silently, stifling a cough as the heat of the outside pushed its way in to her face, and listened to the conversation below.

  "You folks settling in nicely? I noticed your Colorado plates. Don't think you could have picked a worse time to move now, could ya?" she said with a chuckle.

  "It certainly wasn't ideal, but the ball had been rolling before the virus crisis. We've hopped around a bit, this time from Colorado. But this is where we are putting down roots and hanging up our hats," Dad told Mrs. Clarkson, who insisted on being called Lula.

  "I've lived in Stillwater my whole life. My husband, Roy, five years passed, rest his soul, built out here in Camelot Crossing when we were almost empty nesters. Our two daughters moved onto campus while attending the university, so they weren't too far."

  Hearing she had lived in the neighborhood since it had first become a neighborhood, Hazel crouched below the window in the upstairs room and silently willed Mom to ask prying questions, hoping against hope Mom would go out on a limb and find out what she could about the house they resided in. It was apparent the pandemic isolation had worn on Lula, and she was grateful to have people to talk to. How lonely living alone during this time would be. Finally, Hazel heard her Mom say the words she had hoped she would. In a tentative tone, Mom asked, "So if you've lived here since the beginning, you must know a lot about the neighborhood?"

  Hazel whispered, "Go, Mom!" and leaned closer to the window.

  "Well, I do think I've known just about everyone who has come and gone from this neighborhood over the years. I am the chairman of the Welcoming Committee, after all," she replied. "Back in the day I used to welcome the newcomers and recommend butchers, tire stores, hair salons, you know, those kinds of things. These days nobody needs that stuff. The internet can tell you all you need to know in a few clicks. So mostly I am responsible for providing people with the neighborhood directory."

  "That's funny; I emailed the HOA president requesting the directory just this morning," Mom said with an ironic laugh.

  "Oh dear. Well, I hope he doesn't fire me for shirking my duties." She paused in anticipation of laughter, and Mom and Dad obliged after skipping a beat. "I will put one in your mailbox tomorrow," she went on to say.

  Mom thanked her and segued into her next question with a smoothness that impressed Hazel. "Since you are the one in the know, you must know a great deal about the history of this house. The past residents and such," she said, striking the perfect balance of inquiry and flattery, not too awkward considering the awkward nature of the transition. This question seemed to give Lula pause, which intrigued Hazel.

  For the first time during the conversation, she was lost for words and unsure how to proceed. After a moment, she gathered her thoughts and said, "This hou
se has seen more families than any other house in the neighborhood. People never seem to stay here too long for one reason or another."

  Although Hazel couldn't see Mom's face from her position, she could picture her mom's expression as she pressed Lula to continue.

  "Really?" Mom questioned. Her eyes widened as she nudged Dad. She was certain this was some important piece of the puzzle; subtlety was never one of Mom's strong suits.

  Hazel did have to admit it was an interesting tidbit, but on its own wasn't all that telling. She hoped one of them would push for more details, but neither had to.

  Lula continued to recount the former inhabitants one by one, beginning with the man who built the house. He had been a professional golfer. The mansion's walls shrunk as rapidly as his rankings and bank account grew. His status demanded a grander house than the massive Tudor. At this point the house slipped into its first hibernation, one of many.

  "The house sat empty for a time. No offense, it is a bit unusual. It takes a person with certain tastes to see the beauty in a house like this," Lula said, vastly understating the obvious.

  "It certainly is unique," Dad agreed, not at all offended by the woman's bluntness.

  "It changed hands many times after that. I'd say no family ever stayed here more than two or three years. I remember because I brought more Welcome Wagon packages to this house than to any other. Must've brought dozens of cookies through this door. There was a dean at the college, and a coach of the Cowgirl Softball team, I recall. And then a doctor, maybe. I was never really close with any of them.