by Anna Gerard
When I finally could speak again, the sole question I could manage was, “How in the heck am I supposed to get my Mini out of the garage with that thing in the way?”
“Don’t worry, I pulled it far enough over to the side so a car can get past. Which leads us to our next topic of discussion.”
He leaned back against the sofa, assuming a confidential tone now. “You can see the problem. I can’t sleep in the bus in this heat with all the doors and windows closed, because I’ll cook alive. And I can’t leave them open to catch a breeze, because that gives Lana the chance to sneak in while I’m sleeping and put a knife in my ribs. I checked, and every hotel and B&B in town is full because of all the press staying here. Bottom line, I need a place to stay … as in, I plan to stay here.”
Here? This last was less another punch line than a figurative slap upside the head. Now I was the one massaging my temples. Things were going off the rails very quickly now. The only way I could see to cope would be to indulge in a moment of WWTND—What Would The Nuns Do?
They, of course, would smile and invite him to stay, which I really didn’t want. On the other hand, if Lana truly was out there somewhere with another knife, I’d feel responsible if something bad happened to the guy.
On the third hand, since there wasn’t a spare room to be had in the place with the sisters still in residence, I had a legitimate out.
“Look, Harry,” I began, “I understand your dilemma, and I’d love to help you, but you’re going to have to figure out something else. The sisters are staying here indefinitely until the whole situation with the convent is settled. There’s literally no room at the inn.”
At my words, a flash of that slightly frenzied anger I’d seen at our first meeting darkened his expression.
“You realize I don’t really need to ask,” was his taut response. “As far as my attorney and I are concerned, the house is mine. You’re only here until we get all the legalities worked out. Technically, I could haul all my stuff inside and make myself comfortable, and there’d be nothing you could do about it.”
And there he was, back again … the genuine version of Harry Westcott. The guy I knew and didn’t love.
“Look, even if I believed your claim—and for the record, I do not—like I told you, I just don’t have a place for you. The nuns are using every single room already.”
“Not every room.”
I shot him a confused look that slowly morphed into disbelief as it occurred to me what he must be meaning. Without a doubt, he was an attractive guy and, crazy stalker women aside, probably had his share of females lining up outside his door. But no way was I going to join that number and let him turn my bed into his own personal casting couch.
In glacial tones, I informed him, “Sorry, my bedroom is not up for grabs … with or without me.”
Now it was his turn to look confused … and then, disbelieving. With a snort, he said, “I think you misunderstand. Not that I’m not, er, flattered, but what I actually had in mind was sleeping in the tower room.”
“Oh,” I managed, feeling my cheeks start to burn at the realization that I’d jumped to one heck of a wrong conclusion. But before I could wallow too deeply in my mortification, it occurred to me that I had no clue what he was talking about.
“Oh?” I repeated, this time in surprise. “Tower room?”
I pictured the cupola atop my house that was tucked between two eaves on the second-story roof, like a squat ice cream cone clutched in a child’s hand. I’d been more than a little disappointed when I’d first walked through the place and found no staircase leading up to it. Later, Debbie Jo had told me that the cupola wasn’t part of the square footage and instead was simply an architectural feature.
“Good try,” I told him, “but there’s no way to access it. That’s what the real estate agent told me. She even had an old copy of the floor plan, and nothing on it showed anything about it being living space.”
“Wrong.”
Jekyll/Hyde-ing himself back into the charming version of Harry, the man shot me a grin. “I practically lived up there for three summers when I was a kid. Believe me, there’s a way up to it.”
Then he grew serious again. “Look, I’ll cut you a deal. Like I told you, our friendly neighborhood sheriff has asked me to stick around, so I really need somewhere to stay. Let’s call a temporary truce on who owns the place. Let me stay in the tower room until Connie gives me the green light to leave town, and I’ll show you the secret stairway that leads to it.”
I considered his offer. Could this secret staircase have been the mysterious whatever that Jack Hill had been looking for? If he was the experienced carpenter he claimed to be, he likely knew about old houses and their architectural mysteries. Maybe he’d been up there before and knew something of value lay within its circular walls … something that I, the clueless new owner, had no knowledge of.
Swiftly, I debated the benefits of having access to this hitherto unknown room—maybe filled with treasure!—against allowing a somewhat broken actor—and possibly his equally crazy stalker—having free access to my house.
On the “against” side, I had no guarantee that Harry would keep up his end of this so-called truce. And depending on local ordinances, nonpaying guests who stayed a certain length of time were automatically deemed tenants. Once that happened, the only way to roust them was through a formal eviction process that could take months. I could be risking that situation should I let Harry stay.
But on the “for” side, the possibility of accessing the tower made for an equally compelling argument. And maybe it was more prudent to have Harry where I could keep an eye on him rather than wondering what he was doing behind my back.
“Here’s my counterproposal,” I cautiously told him. “I’ll agree to this truce, which does not mean that I think you have any sort of claim to the house, just that we’re not going to argue about it. You’ll show me the way up to the tower room, and if it’s still habitable, you can stay there … but only for one week. And you’re not my guest, you’re a short-time renter. I’m going to write up a bill and charge you a token rate to stay there. Say, a hundred bucks—in advance—but that’s only for the room. You’re on your own for food. Oh, and you’re not getting a key.”
I had to give it to Harry; the man had one heck of a poker face when it suited him. I couldn’t tell from his expression if I’d demanded too much or settled for too little. After a long moment, he nodded.
“I accept your counterproposal. Though it would have been kind of you to throw in breakfast. This is a B&B, after all.”
“Hey, be glad I’m not charging you extra for parking that heap of a bus in my driveway. Now, show me the secret staircase.”
A few moments later, we were upstairs in the hallway near the front of the house, not far from Sister Mary Julian’s room. Fortunately, the sisters were all still in the kitchen or else in the parlor for another round of prayers. Even so, I made the effort to keep my voice low. I’d inform them about Harry’s stay only after we determined that the tower room was fit for sleeping.
“Okay, the cupola should be just about on top of us. So where in the heck is your mysterious secret stairway?”
“Voilà!”
With a grin, Harry reached for the wall beside me and twisted a bit of trim on one of the raised panels, like he was turning a knob. That section of the paneling abruptly popped open, revealing a narrow doorway.
I stared in amazement. Because of the dim light and the raised-panel style of the wood, the door’s outline was neatly camouflaged. I’d walked down this hall any number of times and never noticed the slightly wider spacing in the beveling surrounding that particular panel, or the gap in the trim that allowed the makeshift knob to turn.
Harry reached into the opening and tugged a length of string dangling there, lighting a bare bulb of minimal wattage mounted on the inner wall. Now I could see that the doorway gave way to a closet-sized room enclosing a wooden staircase.
I
use the term staircase loosely. In reality, it was more like a heavy ladder which, though solidly mounted above and below, had a pitch far too narrow for it to be climbed without using both hands and feet. Peering up into the gloom, I could see what appeared to be a section of railed landing above.
I shot Harry a doubtful look. “Are you sure it’s safe to climb up there?”
“Of course,” he replied with only the faintest hint of boyish scorn in his tone. “I told you, I pretty much lived up there for a few summers when I was a kid. Come on, follow me.”
Stepping inside, he nimbly mounted the first rung and confidently started upward. I proceeded a bit more slowly. Mattie, who had followed us upstairs, apparently realized that the stairs were beyond even her climbing abilities and retreated downstairs again to rejoin the sisters.
Heights and climbing never had been two of my favorite sports. Luckily, I was provided with sufficient distraction—the denim-clad butt above me, which, in all fairness, was about the only thing I could see as we made our climb.
Even in the meager twenty-five-watt glow, it was obvious that Harry had the glutes of a man who either (a) had been blessed by nature, or else (b) hit the gym on a regular basis. Since neither (a) nor (b) applied to me or my posterior, I made a mental note to (c) never climb ahead of him on these particular stairs and (d) seriously consider joining one of Cymbeline’s two gyms.
Though, actually, navigating this stairway a few times a day would be a nice little workout, I told myself as we reached the landing above. Harry gave me a hand the last couple of steps, though I wasn’t certain if he was simply being gentlemanly or if he was worried that I might not make the climb.
Once I was safely settled, he flipped a switch on the wall, which added sixty or so watts to the ambient lighting, and then gestured grandly. “This is it, the best view in all of Cymbeline.”
Staring about the circular room that was perhaps twelve feet in diameter, I was inclined to disagree. Unless, of course, one’s definition of the best view included sheet-draped furniture and a thick gray layer of dust on the wooden floor. As for the tower’s half-dozen windows, they were shrouded in still more sheets, giving the place a faintly sinister air. And since the central air wasn’t working up here, the room was almost oppressively hot.
Harry didn’t notice my initial disappointment, however, for he was busy whipping sheets off the furniture and raising a cloud of dust in the process. The bed, side table, and chest of drawers he revealed were oak, just the sort of furnishings one might have found in a boy’s bedroom back around World War II. Plain, but serviceable, and able to withstand roughhousing. There were also a couple of armless upholstered chairs of indeterminable vintage that, with their brown-and-yellow plaid upholstery, also fell into the plain-but-serviceable category.
While I sneezed, Harry tackled the windows, leaving a trail of sandaled footprints in the dust. Once the sheets were removed, I could see the delicate lace draperies that were visible from the outside. Close up, they were yellow with age and almost matched the faded striped wallpaper. Both definitely needed replacing.
Looking around, I saw a small porcelain sink standing on metal legs against the wall across the room from me, next to what appeared to be a closet door. A metal-frame shaving mirror, vintage World War I, hung over the tiny basin. Curious, I walked over and twisted the white china handle marked with a black cursive C, not expecting much. To my surprise, after a few gurgling seconds, a steady stream of somewhat rusty water poured from the vintage faucet.
Harry, meanwhile, was making a second round of the windows. This time, he opened all eight of them, letting in a warm breeze that didn’t do much to lower the temperature but definitely dispelled the room’s oppressive air. He paused after the last one and stuck his head out the screenless opening, then glanced back at me.
“C’mon, take a look,” he urged, gesturing me to join him. “You can see the square and half the town from here.”
I left my own set of footprints in the dust as I joined him to take the requisite look … and was instantly smitten.
“This is the best view in Cymbeline!” I exclaimed, echoing his earlier sentiment. “You’re right, I can see most of the town square, and every backyard for blocks. Look over there, where one of the news crews is getting ready for an evening broadcast.”
Oddly fascinated, I continued to search the area for signs of life.
“Why, that’s old Mr. Jamison walking his bull terrier,” I said, glimpsing one of my neighbors.
“And not using poop bags,” I added accusingly as I saw the pair scamper off from where the dog had just left a sizable deposit.
I went from window to window, taking in the changing view. “This is amazing. You can see what everyone’s doing, and unless they’re looking up, they’ll never see you. Talk about an opportunity for blackmail. Was that what you did all summer when you were a kid, spy on people?”
“I prefer to call it studying human nature. Besides, it was great training for my career.”
“Career as what, a Peeping Tom?”
“No, as an actor,” he retorted, while I tried not to snicker. “People are more honest when they don’t know they’re being watched. They dawdle, they scratch, they sneeze without covering their mouths …”
“They leave dog poop behind instead of bagging it,” I finished for him. “So what’s that have to do with acting?”
He sighed, as if I’d just asked him to explain rocket science to a three-year-old.
“Think of how a chef keeps a well-stocked kitchen with all the basics: eggs, flour, milk, butter. Put those ingredients together one way, and you get a cake. Put them together another way, and you get a soufflé. But instead of food, an actor stockpiles physical expressions, gestures, accents.”
I wondered if this was an explanation he’d made up long after the fact, or if he’d actually used this as an excuse back when he was a kid. Still, it explained how he was able to do his Grampy Westcott routine so well.
I turned from the window and said, “All right, the room looks like it’s safe to sleep in. We’ll give it a try for one week, like I said. I’ll pull out some spare linen you can use, but you have to do the dusting and vacuuming yourself. And no talk about the house being yours. You break that rule and I can kick you out, no refunds. Do we have a deal?”
He hesitated for so long that I thought he’d changed his mind. Finally, he agreed, “Deal,” and stuck out his hand. “I’ll run out to the bus later and get you the cash.”
We shook, and I pretended I didn’t feel a little tingle at that brief contact. For his part, Harry seemed more interested in reclaiming his boyhood space, for he swiftly let go of my hand and hurried to grab the dusty broom propped near the closet.
While Harry did his thing, I went downstairs to round up cleaning supplies. By now, all the sisters were gathered downstairs. They’d seen the bus and were all atwitter to know what was going on. I gave them a rundown on Harry’s current status, prompting a chorus of knowing hmms and ahs. Then I told them about his stalker, in case the woman showed up at the house. This brought a refrain of stern tsks and ohs. And when I explained that Harry would be staying at the house until he could make other arrangements, they all nodded and smiled.
Sister Mary Thomas clapped her hands.
“I can’t believe we have a real live movie star staying with us,” she gushed. “This is almost as exciting as the time Dolly Parton’s tour bus stopped by the convent and her manager bought some cheeses for the stage crew.”
Mother Superior shot the nun a stern look.
“Calm yourself, Mary Thomas. From what I understand, Mr. Westcott’s acting roles are hardly suitable fare for God-fearing persons. We should give him his space, but also treat him as someone in need of our help and guidance, so that he may make better choices in both his personal and his professional lives.”
Which sentiment drew a fervent “Amen” from all the nuns. I found myself rather agreeing with them.
While they plotted to save Harry from himself, I carried the cleaning supplies upstairs and left them at the foot of the ladder.
“Why don’t I wait on the linens until everything is clean?” I called up to him through the drifting cloud of dust that was filtering down.
His reply was muffled; then he stuck his head over the railing, and I saw that he’d whipped off his bandana and tied it over his nose and mouth, bandit-style. Probably the first and only time the bandana would see practical use, I thought with an inner smirk.
He pulled the bandana down to his chin and said, “Hang on, I’m coming down.”
Joining me, he swiped the sweat from his forehead, leaving a dusty stripe behind. Despite the grime, he looked far more cheerful than earlier. He grabbed the mop and bucket I’d filled with rags and spray cleaners.
“I found an old box fan in the little closet up there,” he told me. “I’m going to put it in the window facing out to help clear some of the dust and heat. I’ll close the door so you’re not trying to cool the whole block.”
“But what if the door sticks and you get trapped up there?”
“Don’t worry, that can’t happen. See, there’s a matching twist knob on the inside of the door,” he replied as he showed me where it was on the back of the door panel. “Once everything is clean, I can shut the windows and open up this door again so the cool air can start filtering in. Unless the landlady wants to spring for a window AC unit?” he finished with a hopeful look at me.
“Since this is a temporary arrangement, that would be a no,” I told him in a pleasant tone.
He nodded, not discouraged. “There used to be screens on those windows. Someone must have taken them off last time they cleaned the outside panes, and they didn’t bother putting them back on. We can check around tomorrow for them.”
“Sure, you can. Oh, and when you take a shower after you’re done, don’t hog all the hot water. The sisters all like to take their showers in the evening.”
On that note, I left Harry to his chores. Then, since supper was a couple of hours away, I decided to treat myself to one of the chocolate muffins left over from that morning. With the temperature outside bearable in the shade and breeze, I planned to settle on the front porch swing with the muffin and a tall glass of iced tea, along with the cat cozy mystery Gemma had loaned me the previous week.