In the Shadow of Blackbirds(72)

“That was the day we were there for my most recent photograph,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Did you see Stephen when he was up in his room?”

“No, I stayed away from him. I didn’t want to see him that way.”

I rubbed my eyes, which throbbed and burned with phantom smoke. “Stephen says he often sees creatures watching over him while he’s strapped down. No one tied him to his bed, did they? Either in that East Coast hospital or at home?”

“Oh, heavens. I don’t know. He may have been chained to that hospital bed. I didn’t ask Aunt Eleanor how they were keeping him calm after he kicked her.” Gracie tugged my hand away from my eye with a firm grip. “Is he here? Does he know what I’m saying?”

“I think he’s trying to come, but I don’t want him to get any closer until you answer the most important question—the one that may help him rest in peace.” My throat and mouth ached from the smoke and the fight to hold back tears. I realized the cause of his death, spoken aloud, might make him disappear from my life, so selfishly I let a few more seconds tick by before I asked my question: “How did he die, Gracie?”

Gracie’s face contorted again. She tried to hold on to my hand, but her tears ran down to the bodice of her black dress at such a rate, she had to let go to wipe them. My aunt just sat there, stunned and mute.

“What happened?” I asked. “Please tell him. He needs to know.”

“Stephen …” Gracie lowered her eyes. “My poor cousin … You shot yourself.”

My head slammed against the table. My neck simply refused to hold up my skull any longer, and I found myself lying there with my cheek pressed against the wood. A terrific headache erupted in my left temple.

“Are you all right, Mary Shelley?” Aunt Eva grabbed at my shoulders. “I told you not to do this. Sit up. Sit up, and tell me you’re all right.”

“How did he get a gun?” I somehow found the strength to ask.

“Julius kept one to protect the house from intruders,” said Gracie.

“Where was Julius?”

“He slept at our house that night. He rode over from Coronado on the last ferry and showed up at our door after getting a drink in the city. He said he needed a break from taking care of Stephen.”

“What time was that?”

“I don’t know—maybe eleven o’clock. He’s always coming over to stay the night so he can be in the city.”

“And he was there all night?”

“Well … he was in San Diego all night, I know that for sure. I went to bed shortly after he arrived, and I found him lying on our living room floor early the next morning. He was … he and Grant … they sometimes …”

My eyes widened. “They sometimes what?”

“They sometimes go to—please don’t tell Grant I’m telling you this …”

“Where do they go?” asked Aunt Eva for me. “Please just tell her so she’ll sit up and act like a normal person again.”

“I’ll wake up in the morning,” said Gracie, “and find them passed out in various parts of the house, and their eyes don’t look right. They’re like pale sleepwalkers who can barely move. Grant says he’s only been smoking pipes in that den with Julius since our mother died—he says it helps him with his grief. Please don’t call the police on him. I know it’s opium, but he’ll stop using it soon. I swear he will.”

I tried to piece the timeline together in my head. “So … after you found Julius on the floor that morning, Grant must have driven him home to Coronado. Aunt Eva and I saw Grant drop him off when we were waiting to pick up my picture.”

“Yes.” Gracie nodded. “Then Grant drove straight back to our place. Julius didn’t feel like opening the studio that day.”

“Why not?”

“More and more people were hearing Stephen upstairs. Customers got frightened. Some of them left before sitting for their photos.” Gracie pressed her handkerchief over her eyes and exhaled a long sigh. “Julius telephoned—later that Monday morning. He was in tears. He said their mother had found Stephen, dead, with the gun in his hand, and there was blood everywhere. The police had to come. My aunt hasn’t been the same ever since.”

I massaged my temple and kept going. “Where is Mrs. Embers now, Gracie?”

“In a local sanitarium … one of those health resorts with fresh springwater and relaxation treatments. She probably needs more care, but we couldn’t imagine putting her in an asylum. Not after she fought so hard to keep Stephen out of one.”

“Is she any better?” asked Aunt Eva, now clinging to my shoulders as if her safety depended on it.

Gracie shook her head. “I’ve gone to visit her every day. She grabs my hand and mutters something about poison and a gunshot and her strong sleeping pills. Other times she’s quiet and looks like a lost little girl. I wish I could help her. I don’t know what I can possibly do to make her come back to us.”

I knitted my brow. “Why is she talking about poison?”

“I don’t know.” Gracie mopped her face with her cloth. “Maybe Stephen tried poisoning himself first.”

“You’re sure no one else was in the house when Stephen died?” I asked.