Wicked Deeds. Heather Graham

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СКАЧАТЬ studied Poe’s family tree and felt she got a sense for why he loved the Virginia and Maryland areas so much more than Boston. Both of Poe’s parents had been actors. He’d been born in Boston, but his father’s grandfather had been a Revolutionary hero and the Poe family had settled in Baltimore even before the fighting had begun. And while his foster father had been in Richmond, Poe had found love in the arms of his cousin, Virginia Clemm. His mother-in-law/aunt had loved him, too. He’d formed a family here. According to one exhibit, Poe had considered himself to be a “Virginia gentleman.”

      And yet, in the end, Baltimore had claimed him.

      She was reading another placard when she felt an uneasy sensation. The mother and little boy were near her, along with an older couple and a small group of young women who appeared to be high school age. She looked around.

      And then she saw him. He was standing behind the young women. He was watching her with what seemed to be tremendous enjoyment. As she stared at him, he smiled deeply, and then gave his attention to the pocket watch he drew from his waistcoat. He pointed a finger at her, as if he was mocking her. And then he disappeared.

      She blinked.

      She had seen him. She had definitely seen him.

      And she was suddenly angry; he was playing with the two of them. Somehow, he had haunted her when she’d been sleeping! And now he was playing the mystery out with his appearances and disappearances.

      If he had something to say, he needed to say it!

      She turned and strode across the room, eager to get down the steps—very eager to leave the house. On the very narrow stairway, she felt something—as if a hand pushed her. She gritted her teeth, really angry—until she realized that she hadn’t been pushed, she’d been grasped.

      Vickie managed to swing around just in time to catch the little boy, who had hurried ahead of his mother and tripped on a step.

      She steadied him, mentally mocking herself.

      Poe’s ghost had not been trying to push her down the stairs. She was glad to have rescued the overanxious boy and was quick to assure the boy’s mother that it was nothing—she might have tripped on the stairs herself!

      Outside the small museum, she muttered beneath her breath as she headed for her car.

      Glancing up, Vickie couldn’t help but note that while it was afternoon, the sun was still up in the late-summer sky. It had been a long day, and it seemed almost ridiculous that so much could have happened and it still be the same day. But it all had moved quickly. They had gone from the wine cellar at the Black Bird to see Monica Verne. From her house, they’d gone to Poe’s tombstone, then to the station, and from there, Griffin had gone on to the morgue and she had come out to the museum.

      The afternoon was waning, but...

      There was still sun.

      And shadows, she thought, going into the parking garage. For a moment, she paused, turning quickly. She had felt certain that she was being followed.

      She saw no one. But since she couldn’t see anyone, she spoke aloud.

      “You wretched little bastard! If you’re following me, just show yourself. And if you can’t have the manners to do so, well, shove the hell off!”

      No one replied. She tensed, hearing a footstep. It was just a man in a hoodie, hands deep in his pockets. He looked up at her as if she was crazy, shaking his head. He didn’t speak to her, but muttered beneath his breath.

      “I’m not following you, lady. Take a pill.”

      Wincing, Vickie let out a breath and hurried to the elevator at the parking garage, and then across the asphalt to her own car. She got in and set her key in the ignition.

      It was then that he spoke.

      “Good afternoon, miss.”

      She nearly broke the key in the ignition, switching it off, turning to stare at the ghost.

      It wasn’t that she was in the least afraid of the dead. Dylan Ballantine—the teenaged ghost who had saved her in high school—had taken it upon himself to be her near constant companion and torment her through a great deal of her college years. Now, he had a lovely girlfriend, Darlene—a young woman sadly lost to killers, but who had reached out to Vickie to help solve her case. She was used to having spirits around.

      It had nothing to do with fear. It had everything to do with Poe’s ghost following her around and popping up in her car.

      He was now seated next to her in his suit, waistcoat and an ascot. A curl of his dark hair fell over his forehead.

      “Ass!” Vickie muttered, so startled that she was shaking. She was glad—at least—that he had spoken before she’d driven out into traffic.

      Then she realized that she had just called a man who had created work she had admired all her life an ass.

      But he did not seem to be offended.

      Rather, he grinned at her with sheer pleasure.

      “Wonderful! You do see me, and quite clearly!” he said. “I mean, one must face it. There were times, indeed, when I might have been compared to the lowliest of the beasts of burden! But I beg of you, believe this! I can be charming and sincere and offer the utmost assistance as well. And, my dear Miss Preston—oh! First, forgive me being so forward, but I observed some of the most recent events and heard your name. I am, of course, Edgar Allan Poe—and I do believe that you need assistance!”

      “Sir, I will tell you this,” Vickie said, irritated and amazed that a ghost could make her feel so aggravated, “I see you clearly.”

      His pleasure increased; his dark eyes twinkled. “I’m quite overcome—so deeply pleased. Why, it hasn’t been since...perhaps 1921 or so, when Mr. Abraham Grisham was in the city that I was able to speak so simply and easily with the living. He was a charming man—quite well lettered. He spoke to me at the burial ground. Oh, you mustn’t think that I spend my days sitting melancholy in the cemetery—despite the words I wrote. I... Well, I’m not at all sure what I’m doing here, but, my dear young woman, I dearly hope that you realize I wrote fiction, and that I was no ghoul!”

      “No, of course not. I had a dream about you, about the day you died,” Vickie said.

      “You seem like an intelligent young woman. I’d not have whispered in your ear as you lay sleeping had it not appeared so. I listened at the restaurant... You were knowledgeable. I was so pleased. So many people see me in such a sad light. As if I did nothing but haunt old, decrepit, decaying houses crumbling apart! Graveyards by night... They seemed to think I was a drunken, broken man, even in death, wasting away on a tombstone. That was that wretched Griswold—Rufus Griswold.” He stared at Vickie, as if waiting for her to say something.

      She did. “Rufus Griswold. You attacked him with some rather pointed criticism of his work. When you died, he found his revenge. But you see, in the end, of course, you won. People became enamored of your work more and more with each year. I can assure you, very few people today would know the name Griswold—but there is probably no one who has ever attended a school in America who has not heard of Mr. Edgar Allan Poe.”

      “Bravo, Miss Preston, and words most kind. Far sweeter СКАЧАТЬ