Hilary spent most of the next week either on the phone or sequestered in the library, pouring over records and local legends. The house itself seemed normal enough. It had been built by one of Pittsburgh’s many steel barons in 1885, who longed for grandeur and beauty away from Pittsburgh’s grime and bustle. The rose garden was a loving gift for his wife, who lovingly tended to them herself, assuring that the gardens were among the finest in Pennsylvania. But alas, the baron’s wife died young, and the heartbroken industrialist finally sold the house in 1920 before returning to his home in New York.
Trouble was, Hilary could find no other records as to who owned it now. Calling Doug Thompson again the week after they arrived didn’t help much. He was still digging through the red tape at City Hall. “Hilary, I really think you ladies ought to come home,” he said a few days later when she told him about the incident with the robbers. “I did read in the Daily Gazette that a group of common thieves were arrested in the woods, not a mile from where you are. Two were deeply clawed by what looked like a bear…and one had claw marks they’re still trying to decipher. The robbers claim they were attacked by monsters and a giant bear, but there haven’t been bears seen in Pittsburgh outside of the zoo for years.”
“Don’t tell the papers, but they weren’t lying.” She jotted notes on the yellow pad by the phone. “Saying Troll was furious that anyone invaded his property is being generous. I’m surprised he didn’t tear those men limb from limb.” Static burst across the line as she switched the phone to her other arm. “Troll said Bear was devastated when she and Maple followed me out the door. I don’t like it myself. The way he looks at her…it almost reminds me of a certain con-man of a manager who kept making brazen overtures at my baby sister.”
“Betty?” Doug’s voice was almost lost in a burst of static. “Is Betty there?”
“She’s downstairs, helping Mrs. Fox and Bear clean up from lunch.” She tucked the notes in the pocket of her skirt. “I’ll get her. I’m sure she’ll want to talk to you.”
There was no response from him before his voice was lost in a burst of static. She sighed. “I wish I could get those two talking. Doug’s a fine boy,” she murmured. “Betty could do worse. She’d be better off with him than with a con-man who would break her heart or a…a walking stuffed animal!”
That was when she heard what she thought sounded like…Herbert Hoover? “Freedom,” it intoned, “through which pours the sunlight of the human spirit and human dignity.” She looked around the library, trying to find the source of the sound.
“Hello?” She riffled through the newspapers and books she’d been reading. “Who’s there?”
“Ma’am, I’m here!” Now the voice was muffled under her hand…and it sounded like Walter Winchell. “Could you please remove your digits from this sea to shining sea, before you get newsprint on your fingers?”
“What?” Hilary jumped back, knocking one of the newspapers on the floor. “Who’s there?”
“Ma’am,” the voice said, now sounding more like Clark Gable, “your voice is music to my soul.”
“Well,” Hilary smirked, preening a bit, “whomever you are, at least you know how to flatter a girl.” She finally looked down…and screamed a bit when one of the photos from the newspaper on the floor smiled at her. “Wait. You…”
“I’m your Newspaper, ma’am, your roving reporter in the library.” The photo was of a round young man in a sweater and glasses, giving her a plump-cheeked smile. “I give you all the news that’s fit to be heard.”
“Well,” she picked him up, “maybe you can talk a little more about this curse. I keep asking everyone, and I either get the cold shoulder, crockery thrown in my direction, or blank stares from blocked bears.”
The young man on the front cover frowned. “Ahh, Bear,” he said in the softer tones of Lon Chaney. “Alas, poor Bear! The curse damaged him worst of all. He wasn’t…” There was that same cough… “always like that.”
“So we deduced.” She gently placed the newspaper back on the table. “You seem to be a bright newspaper. Why were all of you cursed? Please don’t deny it. It’s obvious.”
“Why? That is a word, ma’am.” His voice now oozed W.C Fields. “Ahh, the eternal question, ma’am! Yes, it all began with a woman, just as all the great stories do. Master said he was bringing a woman home, but the wrong one…” he coughed again. “Got her hooks into him first.”
“The wrong one? You mean someone,” her eyebrow went straight up, “married that dish-smashing spoiled idiot of a Troll?”
“Yes,” Newspaper coughed so hard, he nearly knocked himself off the table again. “But not the right one. Not the one he wanted. There was…there was a…” He finally shuddered before settling down. “Let’s say he did it to help a friend.”
She sighed. “That’s very noble, but there are better ways to help a friend.” That was when she heard the organ music again…but this time, she smiled. “Sounds like Maple’s getting somewhere down there. If she hasn’t been trying to get into Eagle’s rooms again, she’s been downstairs with that organ. I wish she’d teach her something besides ‘Roses of Yesterday.’” She patted Newspaper. “Thank you for your information. You’ve been most helpful.”
W.C Fields replied from the cover. “Come again anytime, my good lady! Bring the whiskey, and we’ll talk old times and new ones!”
“I’ll certainly do that.” She headed out, following the notes of “Roses of Yesterday” as they drifted in from downstairs.
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