The Ghost Women

Day 1

The Autumnal Equinox

Friday, September 22, 1972

Lola

Dead man in forest. East entrance. Meet you there?-Colin

"Brutal" was one of the words heard most often that September of 1972. Brutal murders. Brutal hurricane. Brutal temperatures. In the Deep South, Septembers were notorious for scorching heat and fierce storms. Those of us born and bred on Waverly Island understood how to handle temperatures well into the hundreds. As children, we were raised not to light matches too close to the forest, play high-energy sports outdoors for more than twenty minutes at a time, or lean our bare thighs against shiny automobiles. As adults, we knew to have extra fans on hand to cool our homes in the event one or two conked out, cover our necks with cold, wet rags if we felt heatstroke coming on, and board our windows at the first mention of a hurricane. But what we didn't anticipate that autumnal equinox of 1972 was that we'd be cutting a dead body down from a tree.

I had just stepped foot in my office at the Waverly Island Police Station and was turning up the air-conditioning window unit when I saw Colin's note on my chair. I'd barely finished reading it when the phone rang.

"Lola," a frantic voice said, "it's Alice Landry, from St. Luke's. I've been trying to reach you. One of our students, Abel Montague, was found dead in the forest. He was a Second Year, only nineteen years old. So tragic."

Founded in 1948, and named for Saint Luke, the patron saint of painters, St. Luke's Institute of the Arts was a privately endowed visual arts college that ran like a secret society. The members of its board of directors weren't disclosed. Its location wasn't listed on any maps. Students didn't apply-they were recruited. Attendees were guaranteed fame and success and promised a significant stipend upon graduation. Tuition, room and board, and all living expenses were covered. Past instructors were rumored to include the likes of Larry Rivers, Mark Rothko, and Willem de Kooning. I myself had spied such greats as Lee Krasner and Helen Frankenthaler visiting the island. Though if you researched any of these artists, there was no mention of them having knowledge of St. Luke's existence.

"I just saw Colin's note," I replied to Alice.

"Yes, I understand he's on the scene. But I want you there. It's delicate. The victim-oh, I hate calling him that. Anyway, his father is the chairman of our board of directors."

"I'm on my way."

Waverly Island was located a few miles off the coast of South Carolina. While South Carolina's barrier islands were primarily sand and sediment, Waverly Island was formed by uplifted bedrock, a remnant of ancient geological activity. St. Luke's was situated on the island's highest elevation. A wall of large boulders stepped down to the ocean and the sandy beach below. The water could be angry there, crashing against the rocks with a force that sent it thirty feet in the air. The main campus was surrounded by a twelve-foot-tall, ivy-covered brick wall, a veritable fortress. Classes were held in the mammoth, four-story stone monastery where the monks had once lived and worshipped. In fact, that was what the students called the building: the Monastery. A covered walk, known as a cloister, formed a quadrangle around the Monastery. Also inside the brick wall were the Tower, the ancient monks' sepulchers, and a row of newer storage-unit-type buildings complete with garage doors. These were the students' art studios. There were rumors that a series of underground tunnels had once connected all the buildings, but I had never personally seen them. Six additional cottages were located outside the brick wall. These were granted by lottery to a select few. St. Luke's went to great lengths to present itself as just another expensive private school, but curiosity about what went on behind the redbrick fortress abounded. More than once, island kids, motivated by rite-of-passage dares or juvenile curiosity, had tried to climb the ivy walls and test these rumors, only to be met by men wearing dark sunglasses, carrying two-way radios, and clad in black suits bearing only the school's insignia on the lapels. These men, generally referred to by students as "Luke's Lackeys," or "Lackeys" for short, were the Institute's security detail.

Per Colin's note, I parked in the lot closest to Dead Witch Forest's east entrance. The forest encompassed about a quarter of the island's land and had four designated entrances, north, south, east, and west. While my house was north of the forest, I generally used the east entrance on my morning runs so I could avoid the Garden of Angels, an ancient cemetery with squeaky iron gates, creepy and crumbling tombstones, and a reputation for being haunted. As I neared, I eyed the two student cottages situated near the entrance. I had passed by them many times on my way into the forest, pausing to admire the garden of the one closest, but never took notice of their residents. I made a mental note to find out which students occupied them. Perhaps they'd seen something.

A few of my guys and some Lackeys hovered at the opening to the trail. "He's at the Ghost Tree," one of my guys said. "Follow me."

I thanked him even though I and every island resident knew exactly where the Ghost Tree was located. Deep into the forest we went, steering off one path onto another. I felt the same foreboding sensation I had the first time I walked this particular path as a child with my father years earlier, his idea of how to dispel my fear. The Ghost Tree was the stuff of legend and folklore. It was said that the spirits of the burned witches had flown to this particular tree to rid themselves of the cruelty of their deaths, and in so doing had infused the tree with magical powers. Dead-witch stories were told at slumber parties, over campfires, and in barbershops and hair salons. At night, children and teenagers grabbed flashlights and snuck out of their homes in search of the tree, and the Ghost Women who were said to still live inside it. There were those who insisted they had seen the wispy specters walking or flying in the forest, but most spoke of feeling their presence or knowing unfortunate happenings were attributed to them. Everything from missing pets to unexplained deaths to financial problems were blamed on the Ghost Women. The local Gullah population, who practiced a form of folk magic called hoodoo and were highly superstitious, believed that dead witch sightings foretold good fortune.

I tried to contain an audible gasp when we arrived at the tree. The entire scene looked like something out of a demonic ritual. The tree was surrounded by a circle of black candles that had obviously burned for a while. The wax curled like waves over the edges. A handmade burlap poppet, roughly six inches long, had been placed on the ground directly under the victim. A black pearl-tipped pin was stuck into its red-painted heart. But it was the repugnance of the victim's pose that stole my attention and curiosity. The body was hanging upside down, the rope attached only to the ankle of his right foot. His left leg was bent at the knee and fashioned into a ninety-degree angle by tying his left calf behind his right knee. His hands were tied behind his back. His feet were bare. A mane of blond hair hung from his head. Flies buzzed about his face.

I smelled death as I approached. Up close, his face appeared even more grotesque, lips blue, face and neck swollen, skin discolored, most likely due to blood pooling in the head. He had been there for a while. I put on my gloves and crouched down to take a better look. The tongue was protruding and dry. Lifted his eyelids. Eyes bulging, pupils dilated, corneas clouded. Who shut them? That was usually a sign that the murderer cared for the victim. I rose. Rope burns were present on the left ankle and wrists but not as apparent as those on the right ankle. Hanging by one foot would be particularly painful. Death would be slow, and joints would get dislocated, akin to the body being stretched. I checked his mouth. No signs of a gag. Even this deep in the forest, someone might have heard his screams. I would have to rely on Rebecca to determine the exact cause and time of death. Rebecca Beach had only recently taken over as the island's medical examiner following the death of her father, Winston. This would be her first murder autopsy.

"Hey, boss," I heard someone behind me say as I stood. "What do you think?"

Colin was my second-in-command. When I took over as lead detective of the Waverly Island Police Department two years earlier, I worried Colin might have wanted my job, which could have made our relationship uncomfortable, but he dispelled my concerns immediately. "My wife and I are busy having babies," he'd said. "The last thing I need is any more pressure than I already have."

"Interesting choice of location for a murder," I said. "Not to mention the theatrical staging."

"Yep," he replied. "We found some fake coins, and this in the kid's back pocket."

"The Hanged Man," I said. While the card was in good condition, its larger size, gilded imagery, and lack of an identifying number or name indicated it was from a very old deck. "You said you found coins?"

"A bag of fake gold ones," Colin said. "Like something you'd find at a five-and-dime. We didn't see it at first." He pointed at a small black velvet pouch three trees away. I squinted.

"Judas Iscariot," I said.

"The disciple?"

"The story goes he hung himself after being paid thirty pieces of gold for betraying Jesus. Some say he was found upside down in a pose very similar to our victim's, and that the illustration on the Hanged Man card was originally based on his suicide. I wonder why all these disparate clues. Sure seems like the killer was trying to overwhelm us."

"I was thinking the same thing," Colin said.

"Who found the body?"

Colin checked his notes. "A student named Karla Gardyn. She's a Third Year. Lives in that cottage closest to the forest's east entrance. She was also the victim's neighbor. Said she was going for a morning walk through the forest when she came upon him. She ran all the way to the administration building to tell Dean Landry. Apparently the cottages don't have phones."

"Our victim lived in the cottage next door to her?"

"Yep," Colin said. "Weird coincidence, don't you think?"

"When will Rebecca be here?"

"She's on her way."

"Make sure she takes lots of pictures. You okay to manage the scene? I'm going to go talk with Dean Alice Landry, and hopefully this Karla Gardyn. Radio if you need me?"

"Will do. Take care of yourself, okay? Whoever did this is a brutal SOB."

Pearl

I knew from a young age that I had the gift of sight. I could perceive truths beyond what was apparent to the physical eye. And yet I was blind to you. It took seeing you and her together to discover your deception.

The morning sun is streaming through the blinds as I lie in bed.
I keep playing it over in my mind. I didn't plan to confront you.
Not yet. I needed to think it through. We were so entwined.
The cottage. Our stuff. Our routines. Our love-I thought.
I wanted so badly for it not to be true. And so I waited and I pretended. But then you said you were working late in your studio. You'd said that before, but this time it was different. A stiffness.
A dismissive tone. And I heard myself blurting it all out. "I saw you," I said. "You were holding her hand, touching her cheek, kissing her." I was losing control, asking why, why her, telling
you to leave, my heart and body shaking at that thought, crying, whining, then forgiving you, begging you to stay, to love me
again.

And then you left. You didn't say anything at all. You just turned away from me and walked out the door.

That's when my gift of sight returned. After you left, I saw you lying dead on the floor of your studio.

I hear someone knocking on the front door of the cottage. I know Karla's knock. It's urgent. Insistent. Everything about Karla is urgent and insistent. Karla is the type of person who isn't afraid to take up space in the world. "Pearl, are you awake?" she asks. "It's early. Something has happened." I hear the turn of the doorknob, the creak of the door opening. There are no locks on doors at St. Luke's. The buckle of the wood floorboards. She enters the bedroom, sits beside me on the bed, starts blabbing about finding you, about your face and your hair. "Pearl, did you hear me? Abel is dead."

"Did you say the Ghost Tree?" I ask, and for a moment, I'm confused because that's not what I saw.

"Yes, it was just awful," she says. "The police will want to talk to me, won't they? I won't say anything about your poppets."

"Poppets?"

"There was one lying on the ground under the body," she says. "More like carefully placed. Just because you make them doesn't mean it was one of yours. Anybody can buy one at Priscilla's. Are you okay? Can I get you anything? I have some valerian root. It will help calm you. I'll bring you some tea."

After she leaves, I pull the bedcovers over my head and try to sleep. Maybe it isn't real, I tell myself. Maybe it's all a bad dream.

Lola

The murder weighed on my mind as I turned onto the drive that led to St. Luke's. Its brutality was disturbing enough, but the fact that it had happened at the Ghost Tree felt like a warning. Security was tight at St. Luke's. I waited for the guard who regularly manned the iron gate to verify whether my name was on the VIP list, which it always was. Finally, the gate opened. I drove through, parked in the Monastery's guest lot, and went inside. Christine, Alice's secretary, nodded when I walked into the school's main office.

"Go right in," she said. "She's expecting you."

Alice was on the phone arguing with someone about the air conditioning not working. As usual, she seemed oblivious to my arrival. The students at St. Luke's often referred to Dean Alice Landry as Alice in Wonderland. She considered it a term of endearment, completely missing the term's derogatory implication. I sat in the chair opposite her and waited. I had forgotten she was a chain-smoker. The ashtray on her desk was overflowing with cigarette butts, and the room was so thick with smoke and the scent of tobacco that I coughed, a few times. Alice was one of the first women I'd met when I moved back to Waverly Island. We were both members of the Waverly Island Women's Club, a luncheon group that hosted "powerful women speakers" on a monthly basis. Neither of us were regulars. Alice continually referred to me as a good friend, but I had never felt close to her. She wasn't the type of woman other women got close to. She was competitive where men were concerned. The type of friend who dragged you along to parties, only to leave you behind when a man caught her eye. I had read somewhere that she was thirty-four years old, just two years older than me, which felt young for a person, especially a woman, in her position. She looked much younger than her years. With her slight frame, wavy dark hair, and youthful energy, she could easily pass for one of St. Luke's students.