Chapter Six

Angel Rose stood frozen for a moment, her hand all but glued to the marks on Richie’s arm. In the span of six heart beats, she saw everything – a young woman sitting by a fountain, her walking along the lakeshore, grabbing Richie as he looked for her along a rhododendron-flanked path, and the desperate plea she made for help. When Richie tilted his head and frowned slightly at her, she sucked in a breath and pulled her hand back quickly. “That looks like it hurts.”

Richie shrugged. “It’s not too bad.”

“And you have no idea how this happened?”

Richie shook his head. No way was he telling this stranger about his dream. “Nope. No big deal; I’ve been tramping around the yard – I probably scratched myself on a bush or something. I’m sure they’ll fade in a day or two. Now, Marty said you’d be able to help pull together a history of the house? What did you call it? The Thompson estate?”

“Absolutely. The Thompson family was well-known and well-loved in this town, and most people know about the family who lived in the house way back when. I’m sure there must be reams of records upstairs in the stacks.” Hopefully not spooky ones, she thought. “Follow me. I’ll tell you what I know while we walk.”

Ang snagged her keys and a small pager-like device from the copper pot and led the way across the room to a locked, white door. She unlocked it and it opened onto a wide landing preceding a stairwell. She led Richie up a flight of stairs to the second floor, chatting as she went.

“The Thompsons made their fortune in London, and emigrated here sometime in the early 1700’s. The patriarch of the family, James, wanted a grand adventure, so he packed up his wife and daughters, and steamed across the pond to America. They did well here, growing cotton and fruit and such, and their fortune stayed solid, which was unusual back then. There were a few generations of Thompsons in that house before things got interesting.”

Richie nodded as they came to the top of the stairs. She led him up the hall to a nondescript door, unlocked it, and continued her story as they passed through and settled on a sofa situated along the wall next to the doorway. Richie was enthralled by what he was hearing, and didn’t even glance around the room; he merely sat with his full attention on Angel Rose.

“Most of the last remaining Thompsons to live in the house were all taken by a small pox epidemic. The only survivors were Elizabeth, an old spinster, and Geoffrey, the grandson of Elizabeth’s sister, Katherine Maddox. Elizabeth raised the boy like her own son and gifted the estate to Geoffrey when he fell in love and married. Geoffrey Maddox and Kirstin St. Claire married in 1855. It was true love at first sight. Most of their married lives are chronicled here in the stacks.”

Richie looked around, becoming aware of his surroundings for the first time. He whistled as he looked around the room. Along one side was a low table with computer work stations spaced out on its top. Discreet cameras in the corners of the room covered the whole expanse, and a small screen mounted on the wall showed an image of the front door. The rest of the room was line after line of filing cabinets. “Why so much of their story, and not their ancestors?” he asked.

“Ah, well, you see, their ancestors were boring. Geoffrey’s and Kirstin’s story involves an honest-to-goodness mystery.” She swallowed hard and continued. This was getting too close to what she wanted to avoid. “The Maddoxes had three children: twin girls then a son. The story goes that on Halloween afternoon in 1861, Kirstin left her house to go to a neighbor’s to help with costumes. The Maddoxes had hosted a Halloween celebration at the estate every year since they were married – even when the war broke out. Kirstin never made it to her friend’s house, and she never returned home. The sheriff, neighbors, relatives, and friends combed the estate and neighboring lands, and the road between the Maddox’s home and the neighbor’s, but no trace was ever found of Kirstin.” She looked at Richie’s face, seeing the disbelief there.

“Whoa,” Richie muttered under his breath.

“And we haven’t even really scratched the surface yet,” Angel Rose said. She debated for a moment about what to say next, then decided he’d find out anyway. “Strangely, the estate’s flowers won’t flourish and the trees won’t blossom – it’s almost as if the house is in mourning. The one exception Rhodie Row: the rhododendron trail that runs alongside the topiary maze, leading from the lake to the house. It yields flowers every year, which is unusual; rhododendrons usually alternate floral growth and foliage growth.” That was about as much as she wanted to tell him.

Richie’s gaze wandered around and landed on the computers in the room. Surprise registered on his face. Ang took the opportunity to redirect the conversation before he could ask her any more questions.

“Surprised to see we’ve joined the 20th century?” Angel Rose chuckled. “This building was the original saloon from when the town was founded more than three hundred years ago, but we really couldn’t protect all this history without some major renovations.”

She went on to tell Richie about the year that the building was converted to the Historical Society, thoroughly distracting him. “The building was hoisted up onto trucks, and backed away so that a cellar and temperature-controlled vault could be built underneath. Once that was done, the building was gently put back into place. The rooms on the upper two levels were converted into file rooms, and in the last couple years, we added a computer system. A battalion of high school kids had spent the better part of last summer transferring everything from zillions of index cards to the computer.”

“Wow, I woulda liked to have seen the move of the building. That must have been cool.” He smiled widely, and Angel Rose couldn’t help but smile in return.

“It sounds it, doesn’t it? I hear it was something. They say some of the older men actually brought out brooms and swept the road clean before the trucks rolled, so there wouldn’t be any jostling of the building.” She smiled. “I would have liked to have seen that. It was before my time here, though. I’ve only been here a few years.”

Richie laughed. “There were several older men in the diner this morning – I can just imagine them with push brooms, cleaning dust off the street.” He shook his head to clear the mirth and looked at Angel Rose. “I hope someone took pictures of that; I’d love to see it.”

She laughed. “This is the Historical Society – of course there are pictures. Do you want to find them?”

“No,” Richie answered, shaking his head. “Not right now – first things first. So, where do we start on the Thompson estate?” Richie asked.

She smiled sickly at the word ‘we’. “Actually, you start with the computer. Everything in here is indexed. You just have to look up ‘Thompson estate’ and it will tell you where all the records are. Your search should also yield information on the surrounding properties, and the newspaper accounts of the disappearance, as well as any recent information we may have.” Ang put finger-quotes around ‘recent’.

“Recent?” Richie asked. “How recent?”

“Oh, we’re probably online current through the late seventies to early eighties. Anything later than that will have to be done the old-fashioned, slow way.”

“Cool,” Richie said distractedly, looking despondently between Ang and the computer. As excited as he was about the thought of digging into an honest-to-God mystery, he really didn’t want to use the computers, so he tried a stalling tactic. “Say, you don’t have a southern accent, and you said you weren’t raised in the South. Where are you from?”

Ang was thrown by the abrupt change of subject, and her breath caught at the smile that split Richie’s face at her consternation. She couldn’t help but return the grin. “I grew up in Boston, went to UNC, fell love with the South, and stayed on after college. What about you? I mean I know where you’re from; why come down here?”

Richie chuckled. “Promise not to tell?” Ang nodded. “I’ve been on the road for pretty much the last eighteen months, and I felt burned out – needed to recharge. I couldn’t do that at home, so I went to New Orleans and wound up making a solo record, and hell.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I guess I got bit by the bug, too. I love the pace, the people, and the history of the South – always have. Now I have the time to spend more time here, so here I am.”

“And you had to buy an estate to do that?”

“Didn’t ‘have to’, darlin’,” Richie said, in all seriousness. “Wanted to. And was able to.” Richie shook his head and sighed. “I guess I can’t put off the inevitable any longer – would you give me a crash course in the computer stuff?”

“Sure,” Ang answered. “It’s really just a matter of cross referencing the relevant dates and topics on the computer. The interface is quite simple.” She started to explain how the indexing program worked, and about the labeling scheme, and struggled to suppress a chortle when she saw Richie’s eyes glaze over. “I’m sorry; I guess you don’t like computers?”

He chuckled. “It’s not so much I don’t like them, as I have a pathological fear of them.” He was so sincere that Angel Rose lost the battle with her laugher and it rolled from her. Richie’s grin widened, and he continued. “I don’t like machines that are smarter than me.” He noticed she had a nice laugh: full bodied and genuine. He also noticed her eyes danced when she laughed, and she had a small dimple under her left cheek.

“I guess can help you,” she said, trying to keep the reluctance out of her voice. “It’s the least I can do to make up for jumping to conclusions about you earlier. The older records, from the War Between the States and earlier are all upstairs. We’ll print out a list of everything we need here, and can go up and get the older stuff first.”

“There’s a room just down the hall that you can use for the duration of your research. It’s climate controlled, there is really good light, and it locks with a separate key from the stairs, so nobody will disturb your progress; not that we get too many researchers in here or anything. There’s also an intercom that connects with my desk in case you need something.” Richie looked at her with surprise. “Yes, all of your research has to be done here. This isn’t a library; I can’t let you take this stuff out. Some of these documents and artifacts are priceless. They all are irreplaceable.” She led him up the hall to the room in question and flipped on the lights. The room was ringed on three sides with long tables. Overhead, incandescent light fixtures illuminated the space. In the middle of the room was a desk with a computer, printer, phone, and intercom speaker.

“Ready?” she asked him.

“Lead on.”

Angel Rose worked the computer and soon had a two-page printout of material for them to find. “Let’s head upstairs. There’s a cart up there we can put into the service elevator, so we don’t have to carry everything down the stairs.”

The third floor was just as cool and dry as the second, thanks to the air-conditioning system. The rooms all had little signs on the doors listing the years of the documents inside. The sign on the third door they came to read, “1860-1875”.

“This is the room,” Angel Rose said. She fit yet another key into the lock.

“Why are these rooms locked, but not the ones downstairs? Doesn’t the lock on the stairwell protect these rooms, too?”

Ang shrugged. “The older the documents, the more precious they are, I guess. It’s always just been that way.” She looked around the hall and spied the cart she wanted at the far end, near the elevator. It looked like a room-service cart, with a wide top and a shelf underneath. “Can you grab that cart down there? Just leave it outside the door here.”

Richie went for the cart as Ang opened the door and turned on the lights. He left the cart outside the room and followed her inside, closing the door behind him.

“Everything in this room is extremely fragile,” she cautioned. “To help protect them, all the documents have been put into polypropylene sleeves. Please leave them in the sleeves, okay?” Richie nodded. Ang continued. “Don’t worry about mixing up the documents; each of the sleeves has a tab on the end that has an index code so they can be re-filed quickly. The multi-page items, like old magazines and newspapers, are all here but they’re also on fiche. It’ll be easier to scroll through them on the machine. We can print out the relevant articles, and you can make notes on them.”

“Whatever you say,” Richie said, perusing the list. “This is a lot of stuff to find.”

“Then let’s get started,” Ang answered.

They worked together; pulling files and boxes from various places throughout the room, and piling them up on the table closest to the door. By the time they were done, the stack was formidable, and Ang was happy that the twinges and whispers she heard earlier were absent. Instead, she heard a growling noise, like an angry bear. Cautiously, she turned and saw Richie look at his watch, and pat his rumbling stomach. “Miz Summerlin, it sounds like it’s way past my lunchtime. Why don’t we plan our next phase of the attack over a big, juicy burger? My treat. It’s the least I can do to repay you for your help.”

Next phase? she thought to herself. The research hadn’t triggered her curse, and she had to admit it was fun. She loved digging into a new project. Some of the tension eased from her shoulders as she chewed on the decision to help Richie with his research. It felt like the right decision. Lunch felt like a good choice too -- she had to eat anyway; may as well do it with a gorgeous man. “Please, call me ‘Ang’, and lunch does sound good. Let’s drop this stuff off in your research room first, then we can go.”

“Where should we go? I’ve only seen the one eatery – that Diner. Is their lunch any good?” He was pushing the cart alongside Ang as they walked toward the elevator. She unlocked the control panel with the same key that let them into the stairwell, and pushed the call button.

“Depends on the day. Let me think on that a minute.” She ran through the menu in her mind. Today’s ‘Lunch’ was not burgers so the Diner was out. “If you’ve got a hankering for a good burger, we could go to The Farmhouse,” she said, naming a restaurant in the next town. “They’ve got the best.” The elevator doors slid opened, and the two of them, with the cart, filled the small space.

“’Hankering’?” Richie teased. “That is not an East Coaster talking.”

Ang blushed. “So sue me, alright? I picked up some of the vernacular. If you stick around, I bet you’ll be saying ya’ll by the time the summer’s over.”

Richie laughed. The elevator dinged and the doors opened onto the second floor. Richie pushed the cart into his allotted research room, and re-joined Ang on the elevator. They smiled at each other through the short ride down to the first floor.

He watched as Ang gathered her purse and keys, and led them outside. He waited for Ang to lock the door of the Historical Society, and then led the way to his truck; a hand automatically moving to hover at the small of Ang’s back. He opened the door for her, and she climbed up onto the bench seat. Ang’s eyebrows rose. “Southern-bred manners,” she commented.

Richie just shook his head. “Nope. Good ol’ Jersey-bred survival skills. My Ma would skin me alive if I didn’t open a door for a lady,” he said. “And she’d know, too, even if nobody told her.”

Ang laughed. He really was delightful and not at all what she’d thought a famous rock star would be like. She expected aloofness and a ‘do it right now, and do it may way’ attitude, but Richie was respectful and considerate, had a sharp wit and a wicked sense of humor, and in no time at all, she felt like they’d been friends for ages. She had a strong feeling that he had never in his life met a stranger —she’d have to be careful not to let her guard down too far.

As they drove the short distance to The Farmhouse, Ang pointed at buildings or people and shared stories about her town. Richie threw in a few of his own anecdotes, and had Ang in stitches by the time they hit the town line. She was partway through a story from her college days when they pulled into the half-full parking lot of the restaurant.

Richie playfully grabbed Ang’s hand as they crossed the lot, and Ang went ramrod straight, stopping abruptly and pulling her hand away. In that brief contact, she saw a flash of Richie listening to an answering machine someplace that definitely wasn’t the Thompson estate. There was some sort of music playing through the phone followed by a familiar voice saying, “Man, we should get together, see if we can do something with this. Call me when you’re back.” She shook her head slightly to try to clear the image.

“Sorry darlin’,” Richie said, spinning around to face her. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Ang shook her head. “No, I’m sorry,” she answered. “I’m just not used to being touched.”

Richie nodded. If he knew her better, he’d make some sort of remark about maybe needing to change that, but he wasn’t getting that vibe from her. He was getting some sort of vibe from her, but not the ‘flirt with me’ one.

“Shall we?” he said, sweeping his arm toward the restaurant. She nodded and started walking. They were quiet until they were seated at their table. They placed their orders, and chatted a little bit more about the Maddox Mystery.

After a short time, a waitress approached with their drinks and appetizer. Richie waited until she had left to change the subject.

“So,” Richie said, “how did a computers major,” he shook his head and shivered at that, “end up working at a historical society?”

“Well, I sorta fell into it,” Ang said, sipping her sweet tea. “I had my freshly minted degree, and no desire to go lock myself in a cubicle for twelve hours a day. I toyed with the idea of teaching, but I didn’t want to spend more time in school.” Ang grabbed a crab puff and ate it in two bites. She moaned, licking her fingers and closing her eyes. “So, I – ” she broke off when she opened her eyes to see Richie staring at her. “What?” She felt around her face, sure she had spilled something on it.

Richie’s eyes darkened as he watched her stroke her cheeks and pat her mouth. “Nothing. You were saying?”

“Uh, oh yeah. I needed to do something to earn some money, and taking over at the historical society came with a small apartment across town.” She laughed. “Apparently, this was not a job anyone wanted. When I got there the records were a mess. I spent the whole first year sorting and filing and nursing hundreds of thousands of paper cuts.” She laughed and had more tea. “Once it was done, I brought in the computers and wrote the programming that we use now.”

Richie examined Ang’s proffered. “Looks like you healed pretty nicely,” he said.

“Yeah,” Ang said, “I heal quickly.” They were staring at each other for several moments when the waitress came with their burgers, and another round of sweet tea.

Richie picked up his burger and sunk his teeth into it, letting its juices run down his chin. “Oh my God, this is good,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

She took a bite of her own burger, and moaned. “These are the best burgers around,” she said, her mouth full. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“You sure did,” Richie answered. “I will believe anything you tell me, darlin’.” He took another bite and looked at Ang. Mouth full, he said, “Anything at all.”

“We’ll see about that,” Ang said under her breath.