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- Herausgeber: Next Chapter
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
All three books in 'Sara Mason Mysteries', a series by Mary Deal, now available in one volume!
River Bones: Sara Mason returns to her hometown to start anew, but is soon caught up in the terror of a serial killer who is stalking its residents. Battling her own traumatic past and haunted by memories, Sara becomes entangled in the investigation after skeletal remains are discovered on her property. As she volunteers to be a decoy for the sheriff's department, she must face her fears and confront the killer, putting her own life in danger.
The Howling Cliffs: Sara Mason is on a mission to solve a missing person case in the Vietnam jungle. Searching for Huxley's brother's remains, she is joined by her friend Esmeralda. But when she learns of a cold case involving a missing six-year-old girl, Sara discovers that someone wants the case to remain unsolved. Despite facing danger and attempts on her life, Sara continues to pursue the leads that take her on a perilous journey to uncover the mystery of the Howling Cliffs.
Dead To Life: In the third book in the series, Sara Mason and Huxley Keane embark on a dangerous journey to uncover the truth about a bullet-scarred key found in Vietnam that could reveal the fate of Huxley's brother. The search for the matching key leads them to Emma Ellis, Rocky's fiancée, who is determined to keep her secrets buried. As Sara and Huxley's lives are threatened, they uncover shocking truths about Emma that challenge their beliefs and threaten to shatter their very existence.
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SARA MASON MYSTERIES COLLECTION
THE COMPLETE SERIES
MARY DEAL
CONTENTS
River Bones
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Epilogue
The Howling Cliffs
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
To My Readers
Dead to Life
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Epilogue
About the Author
Copyright (C) 2023 Mary Deal
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter
Published 2023 by Next Chapter
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.
RIVER BONES
SARA MASON MYSTERIES BOOK 1
For Charley Ramirez
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to lifelong Delta friends…
Jim and Glenda Faye Emerson, Courtland, CA
Donna and Bob Nunes, Rio Vista, CA
…who offered valuable insights as we reminisced about our days along the River.
CHAPTER1
Blood-red letters filled the top of the news page on the monitor screen…
Serial Killer Victim Identified
Each time Sara Mason went online to read and learn about the Sacramento River Delta, the hometown area she never had a chance to know, her homepage featured headlines about the elusive psychopath. She read the Internet posts with concern and remembered the fear caused by the Zodiac Killer of the 1960s and 1970s. Like with the Zodiac, authorities had no direct clues as to who the killer might be.
Reading the updates always set her nerves on edge. Just after moving into her home she thought she had heard someone walking around her property late at night but could never find a trace of anyone being there. Was she imagining things?
The news went on to disclose…
The graves of two unidentified skeletons did not contain an ID or personal belongings, as was the case with previous burial sites found. Cat bones buried in the graves were the tie-in with previous victims, all found with bones of a small animal.
“A cat,” Sara said out loud. Then an intrusive old image came to mind: A pink dress and a small furry bunny.
Cold case detectives identified one of the two sets of remains as that of Paula Rowe, a convenience store night clerk from Sacramento. She had been missing twelve years.
Previous reports indicated the victims were placed in the ground with the belongings they had at the time. The killer dug the graves in remote areas near rivers and streams where the ground was soft and damp, promoting decay.
A police profiler indicated the perpetrator presumably lived within the crescent-shaped area where the graves were placed. Remains were found beyond Interstate 80 to the west, Roseville to the north, and east of Rancho Cordova along the American River. Within the crescent extends the entire Sacramento metropolitan area and suburb towns. Most of the victims had been missing for years, some for decades. Considering the graves discovered in recent times did not contain fresh skeletons, it is assumed the killer either left the area or simply quit killing, which law enforcement believe to be unlikely. Now and then, a new name is added to the growing list of missing people, the killer still unknown.
One last item in the Internet article disclosed…
Since victims are both male and female, and of differing races, it is difficult to determine a possible motive, except that authorities have an elusive madman on their hands.
If she was not careful, Sara's imagination could get out of hand. The break-ins were increasing in the barrio where she lived in Puerto Rico for the last three decades. This left her looking over her shoulder and the need to find a safe place to live life grew heavier. Some communities on the island were simply too dangerous, and her neighborhood had become one of them. She needed a place where she felt secure, but never guessed she would find herself clear across the country.
Once deciding to return to live in her hometown area, her first major decision was to look for a house along the river, but not confined to Rio Vista in Solano County where she attended high school. Many people moved into the Delta and built multimillion-dollar mansions along the river. That was not for her.
She slipped into town before Christmas a few months earlier and bought an older house, a present to herself. Wanting to own a Victorian mansion was a lifelong dream that never faded. She found one such place, and to the astonishment of the real estate broker, immediately signed the sales agreement for the full asking price. Upon approval of her offer, she paid cash by way of a wire transfer.
After signing the documents, she overheard the hotshot Sacramento real estate broker boast to someone in another office, “Some wealthy middle-aged blonde woman—a real looker outa' Puerto Rico—just bought that damnable eyesore down along the river.” Sara wasn't offended and smiled secretly. She knew she held her age well and knew exactly how she would refurbish the old mansion.
Next, Sara contacted her alma mater, Rio Vista High School, about class reunions. Through high school records, she located Daphine Whelan, her best friend back then. If anyone else remembered her, it was probably as a quiet, bashful girl with stringy blond hair.
“You know what they say about that house,” Daphine had warned over the phone.
“The real estate agent filled me in,” Sara said. “I don't believe most of it.”
Daphine's mood was upbeat, knowing her childhood friend was back in town. But her conversations about the house was somber. “Just be careful, okay? That maniac is still on the loose, and the previous owner of your house is still missing.”
Most of the sketchy information about the estate seemed mixed with rumors and gossip. “Daph, the real estate agent filled me in on some of the history of that house. He said that Orson and Esmerelda Talbot were the second owners. They named it Talbot House. The original owners built the house in 1928. Since it was only a copy of an original Victorian home, it was unable to be registered with any historical society. The Talbots wished to leave congested city life in the San Francisco Bay Area. Being that 1928 was the year Orson Talbot was born, they interpreted it as an omen to buy. Soon afterward, Mr. Talbot went missing.”
“Yes, I've heard the history of that dilapidated Victorian.”
“Daph,” Sara remembered saying. “Ramshackle or not, I've got my dream house, and nothing will keep me away. Just wait till you see what I do with it.”
Daphine's silence through the phone seemed more like a warning.
Though her hands remained at the keyboard, Sara found herself staring at her little sister's photos hanging on the wall covered with old blue floral wallpaper. Little Starla was long dead, but Sara always found a measure of peace just seeing her sister's face. Many times, Sara had placed photos of her youth next to Starla's pictures. Had they been born closer together in years, they could have passed for twins.
“I miss your laughter,” Sara said to the close-up of Starla's face. Would Starla's sunny blond hair have stayed that way, as hers had? Would Starla have had the same slender figure, been tall, and offered a chance to do some modeling, as she had? Would the sparkle in her large baby blue eyes have remained too? Or would it have diminished once Starla understood about their parents?
Later, after breaking away from the computer and climbing into bed, Sara became consumed with thoughts of remains being found. The need for caution instilled in her in Puerto Rico had yet to wear off and take its place in distant memory. But for the time being, her sense of self-preservation remained on high alert. The roads were greatly improved since she had lived in the area. The entire Sacramento and Delta regions could be covered by auto in little time. If the perpetrator left Sacramento, he could have gone anywhere. She rolled over and tried to clear her mind and visualize the old house remodeled and decorated. The wind gusted, and the back part of the house creaked. It was a sound with which she had become familiar.
She snuggled down and gave thanks for flannel pajamas, something unnecessary in the Caribbean. Just as she drifted off, she was startled by noises outside. Footsteps. She had heard them before. More like boot steps. On the sidewalk on the north side. Passing right outside her bedroom window!
“Dreaming,” she said, half asleep. “Must be dreaming.”
She couldn't just lie there if someone was trying to get in. She had been told that homeless people and vandals, at times, got inside. Whoever was out there needed to know the house was now occupied. She threw back the covers and was about to leave her bedroom when she remembered that all the windows were no longer boarded up. With the old heating system not yet working, little to no condensation accumulated on the windowpanes. Nothing to hide anyone inside. If that was not a homeless person seeking shelter—her mind flashed on the serial killer whose whereabouts were unknown—she wasn't about to throw on the lights and expose herself as a captive fish in a goldfish bowl.
“Should have left the windows boarded,” she said, whispering to herself. Her bedroom and bath were the only rooms where temporary curtains hung. She listened again but heard nothing else. She dropped to the floor and crept toward the sitting room, watching the windows to see if any shadows moved outside. She felt paranoid and wondered if this was what her neighbors endured in Puerto Rico when intruders broke into their homes. Paranoid or not, it was best to be safe. She watched the windows again.
Nothing moved.
She crept to the dining room doorway, studied the windows, and saw nothing. Passing the fireplace, she made it into the pantry where she waited and listened just off the kitchen.
She heard nothing.
A butcher knife lay in the dish rack where she had left it to dry. She crept low to retrieve it.
More noises… toward the front of the house at the opposite end.
She grabbed the knife, crept back into the pantry, and found a hammer where she had left it when removing old shelving.
If someone were walking around the grounds, she might be able to see them from an upstairs window. She began to climb the dark back staircase between the kitchen and dining room that was once used as the servant's access to the rest of the house. One stair squeaked, and the sound echoed off the walls of the enclosed stairwell.
Sara's heart beat wildly. She held her breath.
Upstairs, she moved quietly from room to room, peeping outside without getting too close to each window. She saw nothing but trees bending against the night sky and heard no sounds other than the wind rushing around the corners and gables of the house.
She felt isolated, sleeping alone in a monstrous four-level, forty-five hundred square foot house, where sounds reverberated off the walls of the empty rooms. Finally, she sat down again on her bed and made sure her cell phone was still on the nightstand. But what good would it do her if she was caught in trouble upstairs and her cell phone was downstairs? She clutched the phone and argued with herself about calling 911. The noises could simply be her imagination. Still, someone needed to know what was happening.
She hesitated, then punched the code, and waited till someone answered. “Buck, it's me, Sara.”
A yawn came through the phone. “It's after midnight, Sara. This old man doesn't stay up working late like you do.”
She had stayed briefly with friends Buck and Linette till escrow closed. She sighed. “Buck, I just read more about that psychopath, and now I can't get to sleep. I thought if you guys were still awake, I'd come over and—”
“Don't you dare go outside in the middle of the night!”
“So, you think that psychopath could be in this area?”
“I just want you to be safe. Learn to stay indoors at night when you're alone.”
“I-I guess I'm over-reacting.”
“You have a weapon?” he asked, through another yawn.
“Yeah,” she said, eyeing the knife and hammer lying beside her on the bed. 'I'll be okay.”
Finally, back in bed, the silence was deafening. How could she even think about letting someone scare her out of her house? To help her relax, as she often did, she thought of innocent little Starla, who loved to sing. Decades earlier, Starla had heard the obscure theme song from the 1960 movie, Circus of Horrors, on the radio and felt rapport because of her name. Sara imagined hearing Starla's sweet voice singing, “…when you feel there is no one to guide you… look for a star.”
Sara shivered, and it wasn't from the old house having no heat. “I hope I can sleep tonight,” she said softly. She sighed and glanced at the knife and hammer lying on the nightstand, strategically placed for a quick grab.
CHAPTER2
Worrying about the whereabouts of the serial killer caused Sara to lie awake too long. She rose late the next morning, running behind schedule, but finally arriving at her last stop of the day.
Winter debris littered the graves. Sara gathered a fistful of small branches and faded leaves, clutching them so tight the twigs cracked in her hands. She pitched them vengefully against the larger marker.
Three white marble headstones stood side by side in the older, forlorn section of the Elk Grove Cemetery south of Sacramento, unchanged and visible, like her memories. She stared at the inscription on the double-sized stone that said:
Mason
Quincy Everett and Petra Lou.
“Both born the same year and died together. Two of a kind.” She grimaced. “I often wonder if you're in heaven… or hell.” She stooped down and touched the ground in front of a smaller marker inscribed:
Starla Gay Mason.
“Hi, Sis,” she said. “I'm here. It's payback time.” She remembered her sister lying in her coffin, her body whole, but ghastly pale. She always thought of her that way. Whole and sleeping, in her only dress, pink with white bows. At the last minute, Sara had stuffed Starla's favorite toy, a fluffy white rabbit, under her sister's arm.
Sara positioned the arrangement of pink tulips in the built-in vase beside the headstone and waited till the tightness in her throat eased. After moving to Puerto Rico following the deaths of her parents and sister, she imagined her own ashes eventually being strewn in the crystal clear water of the Caribbean Sea. Having returned to her hometown, that plan may change. She always had difficulty thinking of Starla lying in the cold ground. Sara couldn't imagine herself lying beneath the headstone beside Starla, pre-marked for her:
Sara May Mason.
After the purchase of the other two, her headstone was a gift of pity from the marble company; given to a poor family who had nothing and whose only teenage survivor had even less.
She glanced at her parents' marker. “Poor no more,” she said. The thought of them depressed her. Sara needed to put the past behind and focus on her exciting new life.
She stared at her sister's name. “I saw him again,” she said, smiling and feeling hopeful. She thought about the man she had recently seen on several occasions in a restaurant in Sacramento. The first time, he and his group sat in the booth behind her where she sat alone. His voice was distinct but not boisterous. He spoke of an older brother who had taught him to ride a bicycle and who, long ago, would teach him to ride a motorcycle after the brother returned from Vietnam. The man spoke of his sister as if she were a financial genius. He spoke lovingly of his siblings and parents. Clearly, family meant everything to him. Sara tried not to eavesdrop and felt guilty listening, but his family seemed the kind she could only dream of.
Their group departed ahead of her. As they passed her booth, the man turned and looked her straight in the eyes. He had short dark wavy hair and deep-set brooding eyes like blue-topaz sparklers! Their eyes locked into the kind of stare that made a connection long before words were spoken. He slowed his pace, and his intensity softened. He finally smiled, and his curiously sad expression melted.
Sara had gone back to the restaurant several times and each time saw the man leaving with a couple of other men. Her timing always seemed off. On another occasion, she had walked out of the restaurant just as they walked in.
“Hello there,” the man with the blue-topaz eyes had said.
“Hello,” Sara said. All she could do was walk away because making an excuse to go back inside seemed contrived.
On yet another of her jaunts to a furniture shop in Sacramento, that same man walked down the street with others. While she sat at the light and wondered how they might meet, he walked into a building on the next block. As she drove past, she saw that the building housed government agencies. She wondered about the man until she realized she was quite taken with him. Or was it his love of family?
“The next time I see him at that restaurant,” she said to Starla's headstone, “I'll start the conversation.” Sitting at Starla's gravesite allowed her to relax and sort out her thoughts. She had not seen man in the three weeks since. She had to overcome her shyness about meeting men. Some part of her childhood programming still wanted her to believe she didn't measure up. She knew it was wrong to think that way and vowed this was another flawed aspect of her personality that she would overcome. It was never too late to change, and she really did wish to find a new love one day.
Since returning to the Delta, she wondered if anyone would recognize her after thirty years. Would they remember her? Other than her family's deaths, that were considered just more river drowning, her life back then had been unremarkable.
Another image that stayed with her from her teen years was when the Sheriff had to inform her about the accident. The horrible pictures and images flashed in her mind, fresh as yesterday.
She had stayed home alone to work on a class project. Her parents were late getting home, with Starla. When they drank they were always late. Unbeknownst to her, while she sat doing homework, deputies searched the Sacramento River with grappling hooks just a quarter mile down the levee. They found the old family sedan at the bottom lodged in silt under eighteen feet of water. Her mom and dad, still in their seatbelts, probably drowned easily, having been too intoxicated to know they had inhaled river water instead of air. The divers found scrawny little Starla floating with her eyes wide open in the air pocket inside the top of the car.
“Little Sis,” Sara said to the headstone. “You've been my guiding star all these years.” She grabbed more twigs and withered leaves and cast them aside without caring, onto her parents' graves. Her fingertips turned red and numb. The gigantic tree nearby was just a sapling when Sara buried her family. She sat cross-legged on the cool grass and stared at Starla's name. Patches of fog slipped in with dusk.
“I learned something else,” she said. “We never were poor little white trash girls like they used to call us.” She wished she could talk to her sister like they rattled and played when they were young. Memories flooded her mind and jumbled her thoughts.
“Today's Valentine's Day.”
Sara remembered that particular holiday as being nothing more than a popularity contest in grammar school to see who would receive the most Valentine cards from classmates. She was lucky to get one or two. Perky little Starla had been deprived of learning how popular she would have been.
“Your name's famous now.”
She closed her eyes and then finally opened them. “Mandy died,” she said quietly. “But you've been up there watching everything unfold, haven't you?”
Sara felt a chill and huddled inside her jacket. The breeze whipped her hair across her face and wrapped it around her neck. When she looked up, she could no longer see the grave markers in the rows ahead through the oozing white haze.
She remembered the fog of the California Central Valley. The scientific name was Advection Fog. Locals called it tule fog. The condition originated in the San Joaquin Valley. Rains and irrigation would saturate the agricultural area and when a cold mass of winter air invaded the wet valley, moisture in the air thickened and turned into fog. The low-lying blanket of white could cover nearly half of the state for days at a time. In bad years, patchiness in low areas could last well into spring.
Sara gritted her teeth, remembering. Living in Puerto Rico for the last thirty years hadn't dimmed her memories. Tule fog was what surely blinded her drunken father, whose speeding car went flying off the levee road south of the town of Ryde.
She stood, then bent over and scraped more small debris from Starla's grave onto those of her parents. She picked up a spindly dry branch from in front of her own marker and tossed it onto the rest. During a fog, it wouldn't be safe to be on the roads at night. “I'll be back,” she said.
With that, she turned to leave and couldn't see her white SUV. She walked carefully in the direction she remembered having parked, arms outstretched to feel her way. A break in the fog came, and she found she had walked past it.
CHAPTER3
Sara drove cautiously as she made her way home. When fog blanketed the I-5 in the Central Valley, it could easily cause a multi-car pileup. She strained to see through the windshield and slowed thinking she had found the turn-off. She quickly realized she could have driven into a ditch, and her pulse rose.
“The reflectors,” she said, mumbling in frustration. “Where are those…?”
The fog separated momentarily. The faint outline of tombstones in the older, mostly abandoned, Franklin Cemetery came into view in the fading evening light. She breathed easier knowing she had turned onto the correct road.
Several small lights ahead was being cast in different directions as she continued her crawl toward home. Three people with flashlights walked the road, laughing and jumping around on the pavement, inviting havoc into their lives should a speeder come upon them. She stopped to avoid hitting them as they cavorted in her headlights. She could tell they were teens by the way they playfully banged on the hood and peered into her passenger window, yelling like Halloween ghouls. The red flame from one of their cigarettes dragged across the side window. She swerved and accelerated to get past them.
Something vague appeared up ahead.
“Look out!” she said, yelling and stomping on the brakes as a man stepped onto the road a couple feet in front of her. She gave the horn a good long blast. Her SUV spun around, and she felt the front tires drop off the pavement.
An old man's face popped out of the shadows of the fog and headlights and then disappeared again into the gloom. Then a face popped up at the driver's side window, made ghoulish by the haze, with a wide-eyed, open-mouthed, penetrating stare. Sara screamed. Her knee banged the steering wheel when she nearly jumped out of the seat. The face leaned closer.
From out of the darkness, a young male voice yelled, “Hey! Get outta there!”
The old man darted away carrying something with a handle, maybe a hoe or a shovel, as the fog swirled in and erased every trace of him.
Sara remembered the sound of the tires kicking up gravel on the shoulder. “Great! Just great. Now which direction was I headed?”
Someone pounded on the back window. She jumped again. A flashlight beam shone around. It was those teens. One appeared at the driver's side window and knocked. “Hey, you okay?” the boy called out. When she opened the window a crack, he said, “C'mon, we'll get you back on the road.” His marijuana breath floated in.
She sighed with relief as the other teens flashed lights and stood along the right shoulder of the pavement. Carefully, the first teen told her how far to back up and then banged on the rear window to tell her to stop, then to pull forward.
When the tires told her that she was back on the pavement, she yelled out the window, “Thank you. I'm grateful.”
“Hey,” the boy said. His face was a lot less threatening as he came close again. “That's Crazy Ike. He gets off on digging in graveyards.”
“And running people off the road,” Sara said. “He digs in graveyards?”
“Yeah, he's pretty bizarre,” the boy said. The other teens came to stand behind him. “This graveyard's not used much anymore.”
“He has a mean dog,” the girl said. “A little mangy mutt.”
“Oh, yeah,” the other boy said as they all leaned in close. “If Crazy Ike sics him on ya, you're supposed to call the cops.”
“People go missing out here,” the girl said. She shook her head doubtfully. “Never hear from 'em again.”
“Nah,” the first boy said with a wave of his hand. “That's BS.” They stepped away.
“Thanks again,” Sara said. She closed the window, waved, and started off, cautiously. Her chest heaved with a long sigh of relief. Perhaps she should have offered the teens a ride, but they were out there, evidently because they wanted to be. She didn't need to be picking up strangers, least of all, any who smoked dope. She continued to strain to see through the fog. “Perfect cover for a serial killer, if you ask me!” she said, realizing her fright was partially caused by the elusive madman newscasts.
The fog came steadily without much clearing between one blanketing haze and the next. Sara had not wanted to be on the roads at dusk at a time like this. She had no experience driving in a fog other than being a passenger in her parent's car. Maneuvering through the blinding white that reflected back the headlights' beams was a frightening experience.
She finally made it onto the narrow winding levee and crept along. She opened the window listening should her tires leave the pavement. She didn't wish to follow her family into the river.
CHAPTER4
“A mile and a half to go.” She sighed wearily. She hoped never again to be on the narrow, winding levees in such a blinding situation. Her hands were clammy on the steering wheel. River roads weren't equipped with streetlights. “Danged if it isn't dark during a New Moon,” she said. Just that one night of the month, even the carefree drove cautiously. Locals who navigated the levees all their lives thought it reckless to hurry along during the dark of the moon.
“The trees,” Sara said, straining to see along the levee. “Where are those trees?”
Talbot House was situated about two miles north of Courtland, where Buck and Linette lived.
“Somewhere along here.” She leaned forward over the steering wheel. The left side tires suddenly dropped off the pavement and onto the soft shoulder. Screaming, she cut the wheel to swerve back onto the asphalt and realized she had been driving in the oncoming lane. She took a deep breath to calm her pulse and slowly continued to inch her way home. Thinking it was her driveway, she turned the wheel but quickly stopped, before turning too soon. Had she done so, her SUV would have slid or rolled thirty feet down the embankment. She mentally added purchasing driveway lights to her “must buy immediately” list.
“Not exactly the way I wanted to come home again.” In her fright, she talked out loud. “Where are those trees?”
As the wind momentarily cleared the fog, the stand of tall eucalyptus trees loomed over her, like foreboding shadows slithering past.
“Another quarter mile.”
The imposing image of Talbot House presented itself. Its tall roof spire pointed upward out of the opaque white mist, and dark clouded windows gave an eerie sense. Had she not already seen the house in daylight, she would have been tempted to drive away from the wretched scene and return in the morning. Sara found her driveway just beyond, on the south side of the property, turned, and headed down off the levee. The crunch of gravel under her tires had already become synonymous with being home. She listened, relished the sound, and felt relief. Finally, she pulled into the garage.
The house was built on an elevated earthen pad that sat below the height of the levee but higher than the level of the surrounding fields. It sat back far enough from the levee to showcase an expansive front lawn. She had plans to build a gazebo beside the flagpole under the tall old Pin Oak shade trees. The remainder of the five-acre estate spread south around the garage and east beyond the rear yard. Sara wasn't sure what to do with the empty field. When she described the place to Daphine on the telephone, Daphine had suggested she plant a garden.
“The Delta's loaded with fresh produce,” Sara had said. “That's what the Delta's all about.” She would plan something else. But first, the rock pile at the back edge by the canal needed to be cleared. The two rusting cattle troughs for holding the salt lick and water would be removed. They were the last evidence of Orson Talbot's use of the property to raise a few heads of beef cattle.
Thoughts of renovating the old house filled Sara with happy anticipation. She burned a lot of incense to rid the place of its stagnant, tired smell. Remodeling was expected to take months, but for her, it couldn't happen fast enough. She liked the name Talbot House and wondered if she should let it stand. What mattered was that she had her river mansion. Having grown up in a rental cottage in shambles, where the roof leaked and the walls groaned with the wind, forced her into dreaming impossible dreams. She clung to those dreams and didn't mind that this house was not an original historic property. She now owned an 1896 Queen Anne Victorian style mansion that deserved a better fate than to stand neglected despite rumors of an alleged resident of the supernatural variety.
“So much for driving in the fog.” She intended that time to be her last.
She grabbed the flashlight from the car door pocket and made her way through the empty workshop, situated between the garage and the steps to the back door off the porch and kitchen. It was a good night to stay home. She had plenty of work to do. The company that bought the computer programs she created provided the funds to purchase Talbot House. Now they sent requests to learn her progress on the second half of their deal. She had a year to complete two more programs but might have been crazy for relocating across the country from the Caribbean to remodel a home while completing the contract.
On the steps, the monstrous house with its full basement and attic, and many gables and windows like darkened eyes, loomed above her. She felt dwarfed and wondered if she should have stayed longer with Buck and Linette. Maybe she should have made the Victorian more livable instead of moving in as soon as escrow closed.
After hearing all the rumors about the house, the first thing Sara did before moving in was to re-key the locks. Waking from her first night in the house and hearing questionable noises, the next morning she searched to find what made the intermittent rustling sounds that kept her awake. She stood in the back yard and watched the winter winds whisk dried leaves and twigs up under the eaves. The Delta was rural, with trees and shrubs plentiful. Small branches were easily buoyed along by brisk seasonal wind gusts.
Most of the house noises were repetitive and became familiar. Occasionally, she heard hard thumps in the middle of the night and was unable to find the source. One tree sat too close to the north wall. In its present state of neglected over-growth, the wind might be knocking the branches against a gable, but trees didn't make the sound of footsteps.
CHAPTER5
The Asian Festival took place on the first Saturday in March. It would be the first in a string of celebrations throughout the year as Delta residents paid tribute to themselves and their heritage. Sara never had a chance to attend festivities in her younger years, but that was about to change.
Heavy equipment dropped the last concrete roadblock into place where Isleton's Main Street intersected H Street. The sign on the equipment said Eldon's Crane and Rigging. Sara smiled and tried to get a look at the operator. She wondered if he might be the same Eldon she knew in school. She could be mingling among former acquaintances and not recognizing them. She wouldn't hide but didn't wish to be seen earlier than planned. She wanted to save what surprise she could for the class reunion. Daphine had said gossiping was the same as it had always been. Out of control. So, word that she had returned might get around anyway.
Seeing old classmates meant a lot. She wanted them to know she had transcended her downtrodden youthful image. She had also grown an inch taller since graduation. Actually, she had nothing to prove. She came back to carry out a life-long dream of owning a Victorian along the Sacramento River. Still, she had a great surprise in store.
Isleton's streets and lanes were narrow and crowded. Tall trees shaded every yard. The closeness enhanced the town's ambiance. Sara found Daphine's house number and parked under the spreading arms of a couple of old maples.
Daphine came outside to greet her and, not wearing a sweater, wrapped her arms around herself in the chill. “Like a lot of homes in this town,” she said. “This rental's been refurbished.” She seemed self-conscious about her house. Overall, she seemed happy, but hidden in her more revealing moments of conversation was the fact that she struggled to support her lifestyle. Daphine had moved to Isleton after her divorce and rented the house next door to where the movie actor, Pat Morita, grew up. The Morita home melded in on the block with no signs or markers to show that a famous actor once lived there.
“Spring fever's hit me,” Sara said.
Daphine's house was full of art canvasses, supplies, and easels too numerous to count. It looked like she had some exceptional pieces of furniture underneath it all. The house was clean, just cluttered. A tiny, crowded corner of the living room, near the window, looked to be where she did her painting.
“Got lots of these in garage sales,” Daphine said, motioning to half a dozen easels standing in a corner. “Just when I think I shouldn't buy another, I end up seeing a bargain.”
“Surely, you spend most of your time at your store,” Sara said, teasing and alluding to the crowded space. They felt instantly comfortable with each other, as before when they were teens. The larger bedroom was glutted with storage articles and didn't invite entry.
“That's my daughter's room.”
Daphine nudged her toward the smaller of the two bedrooms, tastefully decorated in pastels of purples and greens. It was the only uncluttered room. In fact, it felt serene and smelled of expensive women's fragrances. “After all these years, you still favor the same color scheme,” Sara said.
The tiny house was so full of artist paraphernalia, that Daphine had to move a stack of shrink-wrapped canvasses so they could sit. “There'll be a lot of food up at the fair,” Daphine said. Her kitchen didn't look used at all. Soon, she grabbed a video camera and a well-traveled leather tote, which served as both a purse and art supplies bag. During the few times, they had been together, since her return, a drawing tablet always stuck out of Daphine's carryall. When Daphine would see something interesting, she would sketch quickly. It didn't matter where they were. Ideas to paint later, she would say.
They heard the revelry as they walked toward Main Street at the foot of the levee. Sara pulled her jacket close and was thankful she wore comfortable low-heeled boots.
“You that excited?” Daphine asked. “Slow down.”
Sara's heart raced. “First-time thrills!” She looked forward to experiencing events she had only heard of when younger.
“More thrilled than when I almost got you a double date for the junior prom?”
“At least now I have something to wear.”
They exchanged glances as they walked along, sharing memories and evaluating where they now found themselves in life.
Booths were set up in every available nook and crevasse along the street with the main attractions being in Old Town. Twelve-foot-long grills were filled with various meats cooking. Smoke billowed, and odors teased the senses.
“Let's sample them all,” Daphine said, gesturing to some of the booths.
At least one stage was erected on either side of each block. Local talent took turns in the limelight. Bands from Dixon, Sacramento, and Lodi would play. Martial arts masters gave demonstrations and instructed young children. Traditional cultural dances would be performed.
“Mostly, visitors to the area snap up the local arts and crafts,” Daphine said. Every store in town did brisk business. Other groups, like the Humane Society, played to the happy attitudes of people in a relaxed frame of mind to find homes for animals.
Sara stooped down to calm a caged dog, a street mutt of a varied mix. It was less than friendly. Dogs with mean temperaments were always the last ones chosen, if ever. She turned to say something to Daphine and found she had wandered off.
A man's large hairy hand eased over her shoulder and into the cage to pet the animal. “Oh!” she said, jumping in fright and falling back on her hands.
The man moved aside. “Didn't mean to scare ya, Missy,” he said, smiling strangely. The gangly man's waistband was held too high by suspenders, looking like his pant legs were cut for high water. He wore a knitted dark blue skullcap and seemed out of place among the crowd. He reminded her of old pictures of her long-dead mid-west uncles in worn-out farm clothes shrunken from too much washing. The dog continued to bark. “If people looked after their pets, animals like this one wouldn't have to be put down,” he said in an accusatory tone.
He had a point, but the truth was, this dog had been born and deserved a home. The man moved away as Daphine approached.
Later, Sara and Daphine saw him again. He leaned against the corner of a building groping his genitals as a woman walked past. They looked away before he caught them watching.
“I'd say he has a problem,” Daphine said under her breath. “And it isn't necessarily on his south end.” Daphine hadn't changed much. She had always been straightforward. She could be serious and laughable at the same time. Yet, many of her remarks stretched thin her aura of elegance and sophistication.
They saw the gangly man again in another location down the street. Sara caught him watching them, but he turned away quickly. He didn't participate in any activities, just stood alone watching people and taking long pulls off a cigarette.
After firecrackers exploded and the Chinese dragon parade wound its way out of the area, rolling and thunderous drumbeats sounded.
“Is that what I think it is?” Sara asked.
“C'mon,” was all Daphine said as they hurried back toward F Street. People converged on one of the staging areas where a huge banner had just been hung and announced Taiko Drummers.
“I always wanted to bang on those,” Sara said as the drummers warmed up. The Latin music Sara came to understand in the Caribbean taught her much about rhythms. Taiko drumming was high on her list of things yet to experience.
The lean yet muscular, costumed drummers, including two women, beat out a rhythm as they exploited their instruments and choreography. While Daphine filmed a bit and then sat on the curb and watched, Sara found it difficult to stand still.
After they had the crowd enthused, one of the drummers called out, “Who would like to beat on the drums?”
Sara's arm shot up and she was chosen with others. Daphine positioned herself to film the event. Sara gave it her all and felt entranced.
Afterward, the lead drummer stood in front of her and bowed.
She wanted to scream “Yes! Thank you!” but doing so would be disrespectful. She handed the sticks back and bowed in gratitude.
Once off the stage, a young girl stepped up to her and offered her a pair of sunglasses. “They're yours,” she said. “They fell off your head.”
Sara bent down to give the girl a hug and watched her timidly run away. Then Sara saw the vulgar man standing in the distance watching.
“Over there,” Daphine said, gesturing discreetly with her eyes in the opposite direction. “Look. That's Crazy Ike. Stay clear of him. He was investigated for all those murders. Hasn't been cleared as far as I know.”
CHAPTER6
The March rains hadn't fallen all night. Sara was already up. The sun shone brightly. Tule fog had vanished, but frost laid down a blanket of sparkling white in the very early hours.
While orchard, field crop, and equipment maintenance went on all year, when the weather began to clear in March, more and more farm vehicles glutted the levees.
Sara stayed busy with remodeling plans. No former acquaintances sought her out. After thirty years of being away, a whole new generation of residents had evolved.
Gravel crunched. Someone honked. A curious dream about a man pointing to something dissipated from memory. She had been having that evocative dream off and on for the last several years. She thought the dream would change or vanish after having moved across the country, but it seemed to have followed her. Light footfalls ran up the concrete steps at the side of the house, and someone knocked at the porch off the sitting room.
“Sara? Sara May, you up?”
Sara crossed the sitting room and stepped into the entryway. Through the stained glass window of floral and birds, Daphine's dark hair shone like sheen in the bright morning light.
“Hi, Daph,” she said as she opened the porch door. She and Daphine hugged again, like schoolgirls.
Daphine's sharp classic features held the years well. Her sea green eyes still sparkled. She walked in talking and shrugged out of her jacket as it rustled with the sounds of rich, soft leather. Her sweater and brown pleated slacks accentuated her flat stomach and slender figure. Like Daphine, Sara, too, stayed slender from all the outdoor activities she enjoyed in Puerto Rico, and her hair remained sun-streaked.
“I can't believe you bought this creepy old place,” Daphine said as her gaze darted about. She slipped back into her jacket. “How you gonna keep this behemoth warm?”
“Lucky for me, the Talbots installed an elaborate heating system. It was the newest thing they did before… All I have to do is bring it up to code.”
“Or wear winter clothes indoors.”
“You always were a clothes hound.
Daphine stepped back and looked her up and down. “What about you, Miss Designer Jeans.” She smiled and got a far-away look in her eyes. “You know what I remembered about us just now?”
“Tell me,” Sara said. “Since I've remembered things I haven't thought of for decades.”
“Your mom used to collect cast-off clothes to make those country style braided rugs to sell.”
“Oh, my goodness!” Sara shook her head. “You remember that family with all those kids?”
“We used to sneak clothes from the rummage bag to give to them before your mom could shred them into strips to braid.” She shook her head. “What memories.” They stood a moment, studying one another. Finally, Daphine said, “I want to see this place again.”
“Bought one big old house.” Sara forced a crooked smile. “Had to hire a cleaning team just to remove the build-up of dust and rat droppings.”
They stepped into the sitting room. Daphine studied the antiquated fireplace. The room contained few furnishings, an old but comfortable sofa, a chair, and one end table.
“Compliments of the Aldens,” Sara said. “To hold me through the renovations.”
“Buck and Linette did well with their retirement home.”
“With all those antiques and that swimming pool?”
“Buck said he didn't care that some of the neighbors—our own classmates, mind you—gossiped about the way he remodeled that historical place.”
“Now it's my turn,” Sara said. “And I don't care what people say about what I do to this house either.”
Daphine looked up like she expected grand lighting in a house of that design. Capped off wires hung out of the scrollwork in the center of the ceiling where a fixture once hung.
“Missing,” Sara said. “Used to be a chandelier in the dining room, this room, and the parlor.” She pointed toward the front room of the house.
“Oh, it's the parlor now?” Daphine asked, feigning a hoity-toity attitude and flipping her hand in the air. “I have a living room at my house.”
Sara laughed. The empty house gave their voices a hollow quality. “This old castle will look like a showplace when I'm done.”
“If you don't end up jumping out of your shorts.”
Sara regarded her with a keen eye. “If there's a ghost hanging around, it's about to get evicted.” She remembered learning about the voodoo and magic phenomena that permeated the diverse cultures of the Caribbean. Such practices were real, and she had even attended one such event. Sara wasn't afraid of ghosts, but she needed to proceed with caution.
“Remember, they think that's old man Talbot's spirit floating around,” Daphine said. “He was never found.”
Sara had heard the story more than once. “I'm not about to abandon my dream because of rumors.”
“Talbot was much loved,” Daphine said. “Did you know that?”
“Heard a few things.”
“Anywhere he found a mug and a chair, he sat and talked about Delta politics, coffee grinds, or gold panning. Always with humor.” Daphine looked around. “Let me see the house. I looked at it when it was on the market years ago.”
“I take it you believe in ghosts.”
“Well, I didn't, but a few years ago, I was driving by on a clear night….”
“And?”
Daphine's eyes opened wide. “I saw a light floating around inside here.”
“The house was boarded up, wasn't it?”
“Yeah, but that's what made it scary. Dim light filtered through cracks of some of the window boards. No one was supposed to be inside.”
CHAPTER7
Sara led Daphine through the rooms on the first floor. In the dining room, she said, “This fireplace will be removed.”
“Taking it out?”
“Why do I need two fireplaces? We'll be knocking down some walls to showcase these servants' stairs between the kitchen and this room.”
“Servant's stairs?”
“You've never heard that term?” Sara rolled her eyes, but proceeded to explain anyway. “In Victorian houses, servants occupied the back bedroom and used these cramped staircases to access the various floors. The homeowners wouldn't think of using this staircase.” Sara laughed while Daphine pranced around, shielding her eyes behind a hand, and pretending to be too good to even look at the back staircase.
They peeked into the temporary bedroom on the north side where Sara confined herself, pending renovations. Other than the Alden's loaned twin bed and dresser, she had purchased a new stereo system to enjoy her music. A commercial grade computer and peripheral equipment, also new, filled one end of the room. She needed to complete her obligation of two more games. The new equipment better served her programming. She also wanted to start traveling and could now afford to do plenty of it.
Several years earlier, she realized her only accomplishment was becoming a San Juan tour guide, herding people around to see landmarks. Life had to offer more than that or she would go loony. Her frustration built, at times, to such a frenzy as to render her immobile. Then, out of boredom, she tried her hand at using a computer at an electronics expo. Doing so felt as if a dormant part of her mind exploded into activity.
“Oh, there's little Starla,” Daphine said as she stared at the small framed photos that hung near the window. Daphine's expression sobered. She felt the tears rising and slipped out of the room silently.
They continued down the hallway to the front foyer with its traditional black and white flooring squares.
“You leaving these in?” Daphine saw everything through the eyes of an artist.
“Replacing them with more of the same. Every mansion I've seen and liked had these entry tiles.”
The large empty parlor sat to the left on the south side of the house along the driveway and also overlooked the front porch, yard, and levee embankment to the west. They climbed the front staircase. “Careful,” Sara said. “Some of the spindles are missing. The handrail is weak.” Halfway up, a window on the landing provided another view west, and north along the levee to the stand of eucalyptus.
Daphine snooped around like she was a potential buyer. She walked into each of the three bedrooms and into the only lavatory on the second floor, which didn't have a tub or shower.
“I'm claiming half of this linen pantry to enlarge this bathroom,” Sara said, measuring back down the hallway several feet. “Got to be able to bathe on this floor too.”
They came to the bedroom at the back.
“Victorian homes had bedrooms this large?” Daphine asked.
“Used to be the servant's room. The Talbots doubled the size by extending over the back porch.”
“So, the renovated bathroom is for the master bedroom quarters,” Daphine said. “The rest of your guests will have to use the downstairs john?”
“Actually, no. I'm dividing that northwest bedroom and installing a third bath.”
They climbed the narrow staircase only high enough to push open the attic access so Daphine could peak in. The attic had been cleaned as well, but still looked forlorn. They returned to the first floor via the split staircase into the kitchen with its borrowed table and chairs. The staircase provided access to all four floors, from the basement to the attic access.
“This house is a maze,” Daphine said. She never stayed still and sometimes turned circles in the room taking in one continuous view.
Sara smiled, amused at her lifelong friend, who was even more delightful to know. The house was much bigger than Sara had hoped for, but the third owners who purchased from the Talbots decided to unload the tormented mansion, instead of refurbishing.
The smell of fresh coffee filled the air. Clean mugs sat upside-down on a kitchen towel on the old linoleum-covered countertop.
“Seen any ghosts?” Daphine asked, accepting and sipping. “You seem a little rattled this morning.”
“I've been visiting Starla.” Sara wasn't sure about revealing her recurring dream.
“That spooked you?”
“Not really, I guess.”
“Your hands were shaking just now. You eat anything this morning?”
“Hey, I'm fine.”
“I don't hear it in your voice.” If Daphine was anything, she was as persistent as when she was a teenager.
“Let me show you around the outside,” Sara said, heading for the back doorway with her mug.
Sara led the way down the concrete steps to the workshop between the house and garage. Streams of sunlight intermittently broke through the clouds from the east. The air was fresh and smelled of rain. “Talbot added this,” she said, pointing to the workshop, which was a little wider than a single-car garage.
“Strange,” Daphine said, placing her hands around the warm mug. She turned and studied the direction the Sun would pass. “Men usually build a workshop to catch the south side sun, to get as much daylight as possible, so they can enjoy longer hours at their work or hobby. Should have been built behind the garage.”
“The real estate agent said Talbot didn't want to build out into the field,” Sara said. The workshop sat adjacent to the garage side. The roof connected over the back steps and porch off the kitchen and nicely covered the walkway. “The house has a full basement. I might tear this shop down.”
They walked up the driveway as gravel crunched underfoot. More steps led to the basement entrance underneath the entry where Daphine knocked earlier at the sitting room doorway. Sara opened the lower door. Light filtered in from horizontal windows just above ground level on the opposite side of the building. “No way am I coming down here to do my wash.” The large dingy room smelled musty. “I'm setting up the laundry area inside the back porch.” The basement contained what was left of the built-in tables and workbenches Talbot installed to process his gold and make jewelry.
“So, seen any ghosts?” Daphine seemed not about to let up.
Sara closed the door, and they headed toward the front yard. “Heard something.”
Daphine jumped back and nearly spilled her coffee. “Who? When? Some people have both heard and seen the ghost.”
“I thought I heard,” Sara said, smiling. “I probably imagined it, since everyone's prepped me for it.”
“What did you hear?” Daphine's eyes were intense. She hugged herself.
“Could have sworn I heard someone walking around the property when I first moved in.” She rolled her eyes. “Buck says it's my imagination.”
“The spookiness won't stop till you leave the place.” Underneath it all, Daphine seemed to enjoy the mystery surrounding Talbot House.
“No chance. I'm staying.”
In the front yard, Daphine said, “Every old mansion has one of these.”
The tip of the flagpole poked up as high as the winterized branches of the tall old Pin Oaks. Stone steps between the trees led up to the mailbox at the top of the levee. Next, they walked around the north side of the house, passing the wrap-around front porch.
“Hey, look at that,” Daphine said, pointing at the ground level basement windows.
Sara bent in closer. Pry marks rimmed the window frame. “Someone must have gotten locked out at one time.”
“Those look fresh to me,” Daphine said. “See the difference in the wood tones?” The artist in Daphine would notice that.
Sara looked again. The window frame was old, weathered and gray, while morning sunlight across the interior of the marks exposed a light brown. “Would be hard to say how old those are,” she said. “With the house standing vacant so long, the curious, or the homeless, might try to get in.” She motioned for Daphine to follow. “I'm replacing all the windows anyway.”
Daphine gasped. “Wait!” She stooped down quickly and ran fingertips across the concrete. “What are these?”
Sara turned to look where Daphine pointed and only recognized the old concrete walkway. “So?”
“Fresh marks,” Daphine said. She sat her coffee mug on the walkway beside a mark.
“Marks?” Sara asked, amused. “What marks?”
“I'm not kidding, Sara. Look.”
The concrete had been hit with something that formed a fresh scar with a gentle crescent shape that showed whiter concrete underneath the surface. Daphine ran her fingers across the mark again and then found others. “Why here? Why outside these windows with the pry marks?”
Sara bent down. “What do you suppose made those?”
“Clearly, a shovel,” Daphine said. “Someone pounded a shovel down in anger when they couldn't get inside. The marks are fresh. Look, here's a chip of concrete that the wind hasn't blown away.”
Sara remembered Buck's admonishment and wasn't sure she wanted to hear any more. “Maybe the cleaning people made the marks.”
A lawn of weeds struggled to grow around the back, over the house pad and down into the field. Without having had regular care, the ground felt hard-packed and dry underfoot.
“With those marks on the concrete, maybe you really heard someone,” Daphine said.
“Ghosts?” Sara asked, playfully reversing her suspicions. “Maybe we should go hear the details straight from Esmerelda Talbot herself. Isn't that when people say the ghost stories began, when her husband went missing?”
“Hey, I'm game,” Daphine said, grinning ear to ear. “Let's go visit Mrs. T.
