Lasting Shadows Read online

  “Mr. Tilman,” she said. “Good day.”

  “Well, hello there, angel. Have you seen a cute cashier around here? Beautiful smile, gorgeous hair, blue eyes I could swim in forever-oh wait, that’s you.”

  She giggled.

  He put on his suave face and sidled up to her, pulling his sunglasses off and slipping them in his shirt pocket.

  “Are you looking for something I can help you with?”

  Her voice was a little breathless. He leaned against the counter.

  “I’m sure you could help me with anything,” he said. He stared right into her eyes. She blushed. He stood upright again, straightening his shirt. “But actually, I need to get some bottled water.”

  “Ah.” She smiled, relaxing back into work mode. “Third row, at the back, with the soda.” She pointed to his left.

  He bowed his head to her and winked before turning and marching that way. As he did he noticed three older ladies all carrying baskets up to the register. One of them stared at him.

  “You know who that is?” Her whisper carried all the way to the back of the store. Quinn smirked. He heard one of them gasp and glanced back in time to see the first woman holding up a paperback book.

  “But Anni Litmun writes those. Anni Que.”

  “It’s a pen name, Janet.”

  The third woman gasped. “Oh my gosh!”

  “You can’t be serious,” Janet said. “A man? Writing those books?”

  “But they’re so good,” the third woman said. He glanced back to catch her staring at him with doe eyes. He turned back to the water and grinned.

  “Tamara Holt,” the first woman said, lowering her voice. “You have to tell us. Is he staying here?”

  Tamara made an agreeing noise. She leaned in and whispered.

  “At the Wilder house.”

  Two of the three women exclaimed.

  “Oh my gosh!”

  “For certain, he’ll get material from that place,” the first woman said. “So tragic.”

  “But won’t he be in danger from Miranda? I mean the curse…”

  “Shh!” Janet turned to her. “Hush! Don’t bring that down on yourself, April. Let it play out.”

  “My God, so close,” the first woman said.

  Quinn felt her staring at the back of his head. He lugged up a large bag of bottled water and carried it to the counter. All three ladies watched him and moved a little out of his way. He nodded at them.

  “Ladies.”

  The first one turned so pale he thought she might faint.

  “Grace,” Janet said, elbowing her. “Will you please pay Tamara so she can ring up mine?”

  “Oh! Oh! Yes, of course. I apologize, child,” she said, clearing her throat. “Got a little frazzled there.”

  “Perfectly understandable with the present company,” April said.

  She smiled at Quinn. She was a bit younger than the other two, her body much fitter and pleasing to the eye. Her gray hair still had long streaks of brown, her hazel eyes large and curious. He held her gaze as they waited for Tamara to check them all out. She finally blushed and turned away with a little faint gasp, fanning herself.

  “It is so hot in here,” she mumbled to herself.

  Janet smirked.

  “Only because you can’t keep your eyes off the-”

  Grace shoved at her. All three ladies smirked, holding back laughter as they gathered up their groceries and carried them out. April glanced back at the door, catching his eye again. She grinned and turned away.

  He flashed a smile at Tamara before again seeing the shadow box on the shelf behind her. It was of the store, a long counter, a cut out of a different cashier, the store manager, and two customers.

  He handed her his card and she checked him out. He smiled at her again.

  “Okay beautiful,” he said. “See you next time. I’ll have to run out of something later so I can make an excuse to come back and look at you.”

  He winked at her and carried his groceries out as she giggled and blushed.

  As he stepped into the sun he noticed a man pinning something to a huge bulletin board in front of the store. He went and put his groceries in the car before coming back and looking the thing over. He took a picture of it with his phone and then carefully read everything he saw.

  Five church newsletters hung there, an announcement for a family yard sale, two trucks for sale, a lost kitten, and interspersed throughout, prayers and wards against evil. A horseshoe hung at the top of the thing beside a few small pouches much worse off from the weather, sagging and dripping, the contents making a long discolored patch like mascara tears.

  A man walked up next to him, pinning an announcement about trash pickup before turning to Quinn and offering his hand. Quinn turned to him.

  “Dean Christmas,” he said as he shook Quinn’s hand.

  “Quinn Tilman.”

  “I’m the mayor here. Well, mayor, police and fire chief.” He chuckled. “My brother mentioned you were renting the Wilder place. Everything to your liking so far?”

  “So far,” Quinn said with a nod.

  “Nothing, you know, unusual?”

  Quinn squinted at him.

  “Is there something I should know?”

  The man-made a pained face and tilted his head to the side. He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated.

  “Some things are a little peculiar here,” he said. “But so far on my watch, everything’s been running pretty good.”

  “Were you expecting trouble?”

  “Well, you are a celebrity…”

  Quinn smirked and made a little breathy laugh.

  “I mean, my brother had to tell me who you were, in case, you know, trouble or something,” Dean said. “We don’t know much about how you folks live.”

  “I’m not that well known.”

  The mayor thrust a thumb back towards the parking lot.

  “You’re better known than you realize.”

  Quinn blushed and grinned, looking away.

  “In any case, just let me know if anything strange happens at the house. I’ll send one of my men around to check up on you.”

  “Thank you kindly.”

  “I know some of the locals can get a bit strange about the place.”

  “Can you explain some of that to me?” Quinn asked. He pushed on his sunglasses. “I see some odd behaviors, particularly around the house-”

  “Yeah,” the big man said. His thick brows crushed together, the gray poking up and catching the sun. “Wards. Signs.”

  He made one himself with his right hand toward the direction of the house.

  “Why do they do that? What’s wrong with the house?”

  Quinn followed him as he walked across the street, motioning for Quinn to join him.

  “You need to talk to my ma,” Dean said. “She can explain it best.”

  He led Quinn to the door of the little metal building that served as the town post office. A blast of ice-cool air took his breath as they entered.

  “Ma, brought you company,” Dean said. He walked around the counter. An elderly woman sat behind a computer, peering through reading glasses. The sagging wrinkles on her face reminded Quinn of a Shar Pei, but she smiled with a broad genuineness that made him smile back in kind.

  “My gracious,” she said, breathless and blushing. “You’re Anni Que!”

  The mayor turned sheepishly to Quinn and shrugged.

  “News travels a bit fast around here I’m afraid, Tilman.”

  She stood and held out her hand. In his most charming form, Quinn lifted her hand to his lips and planted a kiss. She giggled and patted her chest as she lifted her hand away from his, batting her eyelashes. They both laughed.

  “Rosie Christmas,” she said. “And don’t worry, I’ve heard them all.”

  Quinn laughed.

  “Quinn Tilman,” he said.

  “You are a heck of a writer, Mr. Tilman,” she said. She held up three of his books, dogeared and yel
low. “Of course these days I’m reading them on here.” She held up an electronic tablet shrouded in a cover printed with tulips. “What you did in ‘The Silent Lights’…oh!” She fanned herself with a manila envelope. “My goodness!”

  Quinn glanced up at Dean, catching him chuckle and shrug.

  “As I said. You’re a celebrity.”

  Quinn grinned and looked down a moment, flashing them a modest blush.

  “Ma, Mister Tilman here is asking about the Wilder place.”

  “And any other colorful history in the area,” Quinn said. He fished his voice recorder out of his pocket and held it up. “Research for a couple of upcoming books.”

  “Oh my! Well! I’ll help any way I can!” She motioned to a chair behind the counter. “Please have a seat.”

  Dean shuffled around, giving Quinn room to get by him before shaking his hand one last time.

  “Any trouble,” he said. “Just let me know.”

  “Will do,” Quinn said, giving him a nod.

  “Now you sit right down there, turn on that recorder, and I’ll start gabbing.” Rosie handed him a bottle of water as he made himself comfortable.

  “Alright,” Quinn said. “Please explain to me about the Wilder house first.”

  She tilted her head to the side, her permed hair looking like pale cotton candy.

  “Well, in order to do that, I have to go back quite a bit further. You see, this town began as miner camp. Coal miners. The railroad passes through in several places in town, all because of the mine. And see, they put in a station to haul it all away. The station sat right next to where that house is now. See, the miners were bringing their families here. It was fast becoming a settlement. A town. And the town needed a school. The man running the station married a young woman. A school teacher from the state capital. She moved into the back of the station with him. It wasn’t much, but he tried hard to make it a home for them.

  “Well, there were so many things that went wrong with that mine. Bankruptcies, collapses, explosions. But the final nail in the coffin for the place was a fire. Caused a second major collapse and killed most of the miners. These were men and their sons, you see? Whole families destroyed.

  “They thought they had the fire under control. It was night. Harmond Wilder was out trying to help, but it just kept spreading. Caught the neighboring trees and as it was a particularly hot and dry year, the house caught.

  “The building was designed as a public place,” she said. “It wasn’t meant to be lived in. There were two front doors, but no back or side exits. This was long before things like that were made standard. The windows in the back were small and high for privacy. Miranda most likely died from the smoke inhalation before the flames ever got to her. She just never woke up.

  “She died in the house and Harmond was heartbroken. The fire took out most of the homes in the town, but Miranda was the only one who died like that, trapped in her own house.”

  Quinn stared into space as she spoke, imagining the fire.

  “Here,” Rosie said, turning around and fumbling through papers till she found a small map. She placed it in front of him, pointing a well-manicured finger at the spot between the railroad tracks. “This is where the house stands now. This is where it stood before the fire. And here’s where the mine was located. The fire spread fast, jumping all the way from the entrance to here and here before catching up the railroad house.”

  She looked over her eyeglasses at Quinn.

  “She was well-loved. Not only by her husband but by the town and of course, the children at the school. They all chipped in and helped out Harmond, building a second railroad house next door to where the original house burned down. He was afraid to put it there,” she said. “He felt it was sacred in a way. Originally the place had three rooms. Public office for the railroad, a living space, and then a bedroom. He made sure all three rooms had doors leading to the outside. The front has the two you see now, though I know one is boarded up.”

  Quinn nodded.

  “But there were two more,” she said. “Over the years the place was remodeled and changed a few times, and of course, indoor plumbing was added, thank goodness.”

  She patted her chest again, right over her heart. He laughed with her.

  “Harmond never remarried,” she said. “He died a number of years later.”

  “Fascinating,” he said.

  “There’s more to the story of course,” she said.

  He studied her eyes. She stared back at him with hesitation, as if not sure she should speak her thoughts.

  “The history here is just an odd thing, Mister Tilman,” she said. “There’s just so much of it. I think the best thing you could do to understand even more of it would be to visit the cemetery. We have a very large graveyard here. There’s more folks buried there than actually live here at this time. The dead can tell you their stories.”

  He watched her fingers slip down to a silver charm on a long chain. The rest of her jewelry sparkled in gold, including the numerous rings on her fingers, but the medallion was silver.

  Saint Christopher.

  She rubbed it as she spoke, almost unconsciously. Her eyes stared past him at something else. A tickling sensation nagged at his right shoulder and he glanced over it. A bookshelf filled with small shadow boxes sat there crowding out the books. He turned around in the chair.

  “I saw one of these at the store…”

  “Mmm,” she said nodding. “Yes. Miranda. She used them to teach her students. She was teaching several grades at once, and it was a bit of a struggle at times, keeping them all understanding. Her answer was for the class to help her make shadow boxes. They made them of historical periods and events, at first, then science and math, and finally she began using them to teach nearly everything. It became the most important thing she did. A few you see there are from her school days.”

  Quinn bent over, peering into the little rooms, seeing children and historical figures. He smiled at them, but as he looked higher on the shelf, he saw darker themes. A man standing by himself while a woman lay covered with a blanket over her head on the bed. A child in a wheelchair surrounded by flowers. A noose hanging from the ceiling where a man knelt on the floor beneath it. His brows crushed together. He turned back to Rosie.

  “She’s still making them, Mister Tilman. She’s been dead for more than a hundred years, but she’s still leaving them, telling stories with them, all over town,” she said in a hushed voice. “She tells us good news and she tells us bad news. She’s a silent witness to everything that happens in this town. The locals are either afraid of her or consider her an angel. You’ll find many, if not all of us here have a story about a shadow box.”

  Quinn felt himself growing a little sick.

  “Of course, there’s many who don’t believe it,” Rosie said. “Dean’s one of them. He thinks it’s all silly superstition.”

  “And what do you think, Rosie?”

  Her eyes met his.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “She’s never left one for me or my boys. And I count myself very lucky.”

  She leaned forward and patted his hand.

  “That should give you plenty to write about,” she said with a little chuckle. She turned and fished around, handing him a folded brochure. “The caretaker had these made up a decade ago. He’s passed on, but the information is still good.”

  He looked down at it.

  The words ‘Nock Cemetery’ in a bold font crossed the top above a badly copied photo of headstones.

  “You should go have a look,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “And if you have any more questions, just ask. If I don’t know the answer I can find out.”

  “Thank you, Rosie.”

  She smiled at him and he took her hand, planting a little kiss on her fingers again. She giggled and jerked her hand away.

  “You are something else, Anni Que.”

  He laughed as he left, pushing his sunglasses back on his n
ose. He said the date and time into the recorder and hit stop as he walked back to the parking lot across the street.

  Tamara leaned against the wall just in front of his car.

  “You have fun talking to Rosie?”

  “I certainly did,” he said. “Gathered up a mountain of inspiration for more books.”

  She took a drag of a cigarette, blowing it away as she squinted at him. He walked right up to her, standing very close, looking down into her eyes.

  “You know that’s a really bad habit,” he said in a soft voice. “Drains your beauty away.”

  She frowned and huffed at him.

  “Pfft,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “I’m sure your boyfriend doesn’t enjoy kissing an ashtray.”

  She pouted. He smirked and moved in a little closer. She glanced up at him, irritated. She took one last drag on the thing and dropped it to the pavement, smashing it with her shoe. She folded her arms across her chest.

  “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “What? A goddess like you?”

  “Pfft…” She rolled her eyes again.

  He grinned.

  “So Tamara Holt, how old are you?”

  “Old enough,” she said, glaring at him. Her blue eyes seemed a little dewy.

  “Old enough… To buy alcohol? To vote? To get Medicare? Social security?”

  She rolled her eyes again, her lips cracking into a smile.

  “Twenty-one,” she said. She pushed at him. “What about you?”

  “Forty-seven,” he said. “Too old for you I suppose. Pretty angel like you would never find an old fart like me attractive.”

  He watched her expression change. She blinked at him, her lips parting.

  “You’re not an old fart,” she said.

  “But I’m too old for you,” he said.

  He stepped a little closer, slipping his hand to hers. He lifted it to his lips and kissed her skin, staring into her eyes. She blinked at him, blushing a little.

  “No,” she said. “You’re not too old.”

  “No?”

  He studied her eyes, so much makeup, but so blue.

  “Do you have your own place?”