Page 17 of We Live Here Now
I move on, the years skipping by in seconds, but there’s not much else other than an entrant to a village garden flower show in the eighties, and then it just mentions the house name, not who was living here. I search for murders in the village and only onecomes up—a drunken domestic gone too far on a local farm in the seventies—but other than that the locals of Wiveliscoombe seem remarkably murder-free. Could there have been a killing that was brushed under the carpet? Someone who went missing perhaps?
A search of missing persons brings up far more results but none that really give me any information I can use. Over the years several young girls and a couple of men and two elderly residents suffering with dementia have vanished, but as far as I know—aside from the old pair—they could have just jumped on trains to escape the rural life or marriage or family or any of the awful reasons young people run away from home. Nothing.
I’m stumped, and then I remember. Sally and Joe from the pub said they’d lived here but not for long. Maybe they’d felt the haunting too.
23
Emily
Wiveliscoombe is larger than a village but is still only a small gray-stone Devon town with narrow streets, and the woman in the general store–cum–post office merrily points me in the direction of Joe Carter’s art studio as I pay for a box of chocolates and a bunch of flowers. I find it—a stylish one-level barn conversion—a few streets away. There’s a beautiful large thatched cottage alongside, with the house number in the same brushed steel as the sign sayingJC Artist, so it must be their home. There’s music coming from the studio, so I go there first.
Sally opens the door, her blond hair thick and long over her shoulders, a loose sweater over her leggings, and her feet bare apart from a silver toe ring and perfectly painted nails.
“Emily!” Her face lights up. “Come in, come in. Joe’s working through there but is always happy to have a break.” She waves me inside. “And I’m packing up canvases, which is my least favorite job, so this is perfect.”
With white walls and white painted floorboards the room should feel cold and austere, but there’s a bright Moroccan rug, several beautiful large potted plants, a couple of blue sofas with colorful scatter cushions, and a stylish art deco red floor lamp that’s taller than me. There’s also a very modern and sleek desk with paper littered all over it and four paintings in Bubble Wrap leaning against it.
“This place is gorgeous.” I was expecting something quaint given the locale, but everything here oozes style and cool.
“Thank you. The art is Joe’s, obviously.” There are three large modern canvases on the walls. One is a portrait of Sally, and theother two are nudes, both women, one very old and one much younger.
“Joe’s fascinated by the female form.” She looks up at the painting, almost wistful but in awe. “Come on, let’s let him know you’re here.”
I follow her through a connecting door into a second space that reminds me of drama studios at a school, the walls and floor black, the complete opposite of the brightness of Sally’s office area. Several lights of different brightnesses, like a photographer might use, are dotted around the room, creating a mosaic of light and shade. It’s humidly warm, and the air smells sweet, and it takes a moment before I recognize it as weed. There’s so much to take in, I don’t know what to say.
Two young women—the dark-haired one I’m sure I recognize as a waitress from the Lamb—are naked on the large sofa, their perfect bodies entwined with each other, on the verge of a kiss, and on the table in front of them is an open bottle of wine, two glasses half-drunk, some white powder, and a rolled-up twenty-pound note. I don’t know if they’ve consumed any of it or if it’s part of the setup, but my skin heats with the wildness of it all.
“That’s beautiful, Jess. Can you keep your mouth open like that?” Joe’s behind the easel, holding a joint in one hand and moving the brush in quick strokes with the other. “Perfect.”
He looks up to see us there and puts the brush down and smokes the joint, adding to the pungent air.
“Well, this is a nice surprise.” He smiles, all angular cheekbones, and there is such a rakish handsomeness about him, I feel suddenly awkward. It doesn’t help when behind him the girls start kissing and giggling, touching each other for real. I don’t realize I’m staring until Joe laughs gently.
“Youth will youth. Let’s leave them to it.” He takes my elbow and leans in, adding softly, “It’s the aftermath I want to capture anyway. The languid glow. All that contented joy.” He sees the chocolates and flowers I’m carrying. “Are those for us? That’s very sweet.”
“I wasn’t sure what to bring.” They seem ridiculous now, prudish,but back in the brightness of the office area, I put them down on Sally’s desk anyway.
“Peonies are always a delight.” Sally takes the joint from her husband, draws on it, then holds it out. “Do you?”
“No thanks.” I shake my head. “It was never my thing.”
“I’m intrigued.” Joe perches on the desk and nods me to the sofa. “What brings you here bearing gifts?” Despite the drugs, his blue eyes are clear and thoughtful, and I find the wordmesmerizingcoming to mind. Sally is beautiful but Joe has so much charisma he could have been a movie star.
“It’s about Larkin Lodge. You said you’d lived there. And I wondered if you knew if the place had any—well, history.”
“History?” Sally’s on the other sofa, knees under her chin. “That sounds ominous. Like mass murders or something?”
I shrug. “One murder at least, I guess, yes.”
“A murder? Not as far as I know. But I only owned the house for a few years and that was nearly twenty years ago.” Joe takes another toke on the joint and then points at me with it. “But I’m curious as to why you ask.”
“I know most people don’t believe in ghosts.” I shrug, uncomfortable. “But I do a bit. And there have been strange noises. A weird sensation. That kind of thing. I wondered if you’d noticed anything when you lived there.”
“You think it’s haunted,” Sally says, gleeful.
“Or perhaps it’s simply an old house with old bones.” Joe stubs the joint out.
“That’s what my husband, Freddie, would say. He’s always very rational. But I thought I’d ask.”
