by Ami Diane
Contents
Copyright
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
Author's Note
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organization, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2019 Ami Diane
All rights reserved.
Printed and bound in USA. First Printing April 2019
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author, except by reviewers who may quote brief passages
(200 words or fewer) in a review.
Amazon and the Amazon logo are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
Cover design by Ruda Studio. Images courtesy of Adobe Stock photos.
V.041519.1
Copyright © 2019 Ami Diane
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER 1
AS A WHOLE, people move into new houses every day. Some even transplant their families to relocate a few states away. A few brave souls move across the country. Libby Slade quit her job, broke up with her fiancé, and bought a house—sight unseen—using nearly all of the money from her mother’s trust.
When she had informed her fiancé, who was now her ex-fiancé, what she intended to do, he had called her, nuttier then a jar of peanut butter—which she didn’t think was that offensive. Peanut butter was great. Unless it was one of those Costco-sized, double-pack jars. Then, that was taking things a bit far.
“Welcome to Oyster Bay, Orchid,” Libby said to the recently inherited feline in the carrier beside her.
The Norwegian Forest cat, as cats were wont to do, blinked her luminous eyes in a way that conveyed she was not impressed with the new digs then rotated until her fluffy backside faced Libby.
Libby couldn’t blame her. Sitting in her car, she stared out the dirty windshield at the house that was to be her new home. Paint peeled along the sides, and a loose shingle beneath the gabled dormers fluttered in the wind like a feather. Crashing waves from the nearby ocean thundered from the cliff a few yards away.
Glancing sideways at her long-furred companion, she said, “It doesn’t look so bad.”
The shingle ripped loose and tumbled away.
“Nothing a few coats of paint couldn’t fix.”
The porch creaked ominously.
“Some landscaping, perhaps.”
A length of rain gutter dropped to the dead grass.
She heaved out a sigh. Welp, worst case scenario, the house could double as a haunted mansion come Halloween time and scare the candy corn out of kids. She was rather fond of candy corn and less fond of kids, so it would be a win-win.
After she drove the rest of the way up the circular drive, she parked her silver Honda Civic out front behind a blue Oldsmobile. Both cars, like the two-story Victorian, had seen better days.
Libby took a moment to admire the sweeping vista, inching towards the white picket fence that separated her from the edge of the rocky cliff. With her grace, it wouldn’t surprise her if she managed to fall through the fence and over the edge just standing there.
The Pacific ocean stretched to the horizon, swallowed by a gray sky. On the breeze rode the scent of salt and vacations spent combing the beach for shells.
Overhead, a gull squawked and surfed the wind. The moment was ruined when it suddenly dove at her head.
Ducking, she scurried to the passenger side of her car, cursing the avian the whole way. It’s possible it had mistaken her auburn hair for some sort of food or nest to land on. Regardless, she was taking it personally.
“Orchid, I hope you like birds as big as you.”
A high-pitched meow came from within the carrier. She didn’t speak feline—yet—but she was pretty sure the long-haired domestic wasn’t fond of the idea of going nose to beak against a seagull.
Hefting cat and box up the porch steps, she skipped one that looked iffy and decidedly ignored the groaning of protest from the boards underfoot once she’d reached the porch. Nothing passed a road trip like snacking, and she wasn’t going to feel guilty about it.
Orchid let out a softer cry that said she in no way was excited about her new home. The creepy, Adams Family exterior of the house aside, Libby was looking forward to this new adventure—and she’d given up a lot to be here. A mediocre job. An even less mediocre fiancé. Okay, maybe he hadn’t been mediocre, but his inability to support her decision had sealed the deal. Also, she’d spent nearly every penny pooled from her savings and inheritance to purchase the home. But if she found what she was searching for, it would all be worth it.
Her knuckles rapped on the door, causing several flakes of paint to float away on the breeze. The house could collapse down to the studs for all she cared. She’d only bought it for one thing.
“Where do you suppose he is?” Turning, she glanced back at the blue car she’d parked behind.
She’d only communicated with the realtor via phone and email. He was standing proxy for the estate since the previous owner of the house had recently passed. When the title company had finished handling the paperwork, he’d insisted on handing her the keys for the Victorian house in person, which was either his way of building rapport or his nosey way of glimpsing the crazy woman who’d bought a house, sight unseen.
John Waters had seemed genial in all their interactions, but she’d bet the rest of her Snickers bar he wanted to meet so he could get the scoop on her. Of course, that was a bet she wouldn’t actually take since she planned to eat the rest of the candy the moment she unpacked.
Besides, she had seen pictures of the house. Oh, the marvels of technology.
Testing the knob, she discovered it was unlocked. The hinges creaked as she nudged in the door, reminding her of nearly every scary movie she’d ever watched.
Her voice echoed around the small foyer as she called out, “Hello?”
Despite being vacant only a month, the place smelled musty from the climate. The house came fully furnished, which was a large factor in why she’d chosen not to bring any of her furniture.
Apparently fully furnished included knickknacks and bric-a-brac, specifically in the form of dozens of cat figurines. She would have to make a trip—or twelve—to IKEA. Still, it felt homey in that visiting-your-grandmother sort of way.
“Mr. Waters? Are you here?”
She shuffled deeper into the house, turning left into what appeared to be a living room. The pet carrier bumped against her thigh with every other step.
She stopped short. Directly in front of her, attached to a floral-papered wall, was a sink. In the living room.
Tilting her head, she blinked a couple of times to be sure her contacts weren’t fogging up and also, for some strange reason, causing hallucinations. She had only had four hours of sleep the night before, been driving for several hours, and had had only two cups of coffee, so hallucinating wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.
Libby brushed
a hand along the porcelain mirage. Nope. There was definitely a sink attached to the living room wall. Well, that would be the first thing to go.
She set the carrier down and released Orchid into the stuffy wilds of the cramped, overly decorated room. Setting out a paw, the feline sniffed the air, her whiskers working back and forth, probably in an effort to decipher the myriad of scents. Then, she promptly darted under the sofa.
“Figures.” Orchid had been her mother’s cat, named after their favorite flower.
Libby ran a hand along the wallpaper, trying to decide if she wanted to keep it, as she wound deeper into the house.
“Mr. Waters, if you’re here, please say something. I saw this thing on Dateline once—or was it Sixty Minutes?” She shook away the question, sure that the house was empty and that she was talking to the dusty air.
“Anyway, there was this realtor who would pretend to show houses but that was really a cover to kill his victims. So, on that note, please don’t kill me. Also, if you aren’t a serial killer then disregard everything I just said.”
She paused beside a table lamp sitting in the middle of the hallway then shook her head before proceeding. People sure had a funny way of arranging their furniture. Once she looked past all the cat figurines, dated wallpaper, and sink in the living room, it was quite a charming house.
She passed a bathroom and found herself in the kitchen. As far as kitchens go, it was your standard, run-of-the-mill kind, save for the ginormous armchair in the breakfast nook where a table should be.
Scratching the back of her head, she slipped through the backdoor. The white picket fence she’d seen out front ran the perimeter of the yard, delineating the short Kentucky bluegrass from a tall, hearty pampas grass. The longer, invasive grass was non-native to the region and appeared to be trying to take over the whole cliff like ants took over a picnic.
The salty breeze was a welcome reprieve. However, before she could savor it, her mouth dropped open at the sight of a ginormous greenhouse at the end of her lawn.
Figuring the realtor might be inside there, she nudged aside the greenhouse door and peeked inside. There was no sign of Mr. Waters, but she did find more plants than the Amazon rainforest that sent her little horticulturist heart pattering.
She’d met the previous homeowner, Arlene Castillo through an online message board while trying to help the woman with her soil pH. Therefore, the presence of a greenhouse didn’t surprise her, but what did was the sheer quantity and variety of plants.
Libby slowly walked past beds of garlic, mint, chicory, elderberry, clover, mallow, toothwort, and even prickly pear cactus. Arlene’s choice of plants was as eclectic as her interior decorating had been.
This, Libby decided, was heaven. Although, she’d have to make a few changes. Arlene had planted cucumbers next to basil. Most lay gardeners knew not to plant aromatic herbs next to vegetables.
As Libby neared the back of the large structure, beads of sweat already gathering from the warm humidity, she discovered that, overall, the vegetable selection was quite small with triple the herb that most people grew.
Leaves shuffled behind her, whispering over the overhead fan and roar of the ocean. She whirled around.
“Mr. Waters?”
A planter the size of a kitchen table, full of English ivy, sat in the corner. The leafy vines trailed up a trellis that rose to the peaked roof. The noise had probably been from a mouse rummaging through the thick carpet of leaves. Why anyone would grow such an invasive plant was beyond her. Then again, judging by their online chats in the botanist group, Arlene had admitted that although she loved plants, she didn’t know much about them.
Considering where Libby now stood, she’d felt Arlene hadn’t given herself enough credit.
After a long, wistful gaze over the treasures before her, Libby reluctantly returned to the house, still in search of her key—and the elusive realtor.
Perhaps he’d left his car out front and had decided to wander down to the beach? She considered just going inside and waiting for him. After all, his car was parked out front, so he couldn’t go too far.
She snapped her fingers. This was silly. Why didn’t she just call him?
After making her way back to the house, she stood in the kitchen, flitting through emails on her phone in search of one that included the realtor’s phone number.
A loud squawk came through a doorway behind her that she hadn’t yet explored. Libby jumped, dropping her phone. Her breath hissed between her teeth as she crept towards the noise.
Peeking her head through the doorway, she found a room lined with rows and rows of books along three walls with the fourth taken over by two windows and gaudy curtains.
She was so taken by the discovery of a library that she overlooked the crow in the corner until it moved. She shrieked. It flapped its black wings then took flight from a perch, cawing like a contestant on American Idol.
Ducking, she grabbed the nearest object—a book—and covered her head. Auburn hair did not look good with bird droppings in it.
She quickly fled and slid into the kitchen. Turning back, she searched for a door to slam shut, only to discover that it was missing—literally. Empty hinges were screwed to the wooden frame.
What was with this place and birds? And how had that wretched thing gotten in?
As her pulse rate lowered and she could think clearer, she vaguely recalled that it had been sitting on a bird stand, which spoke of intention. If that godawful thing had been Arlene’s pet, why hadn’t any of her friends taken it away? More importantly, who was feeding it?
“Knock, knock,” a female voice called out from the front of the house several rooms away.
Libby retraced her steps back through the house, nearly tripping over a pile of books in the living room that she could swear hadn’t been there before.
A woman in her mid to late sixties stood in the entry with the door open. Her hand paused on the doorknob when she caught Libby’s expression.
“Sorry, is this a bad time?”
“What? Oh, no. You’re fine. I just was hoping you were someone else. Come on in.” Libby smiled wide, hoping to make up for her less-than-friendly welcome.
“My name’s Marge. I am—was Arlene’s best friend.”
“Liberty Slade, but I prefer Libby.” They shook hands. Libby was surprised by the woman’s firm grip. She stood an inch shorter than Libby and was a few pounds heavier. “We spoke on the phone, right?”
The woman bobbed her head in a nod. Her short, silver hair stood like porcupine quills, but the look suited her. But Libby’s eyes were drawn, or rather blinded, by the woman’s sweater which had more bling than a rapper’s mouth.
One of Marge’s veiny hands rummaged in what looked to be a small suitcase-turned-handbag and pulled out a glass figurine. “Cat? It’s a sort of ‘welcome to Oyster Bay’ present.”
Caught off guard by the usual gift, Libby accepted the feline with a murmured thanks. Now, the decor was starting to make sense.
“Won’t you come in?” She gestured aimlessly at the living room. “Also, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about birds, would you?”
Marge’s eyebrows climbed towards her forehead. “I know they’ve got two wings and one beak. Usually, they have two eyes, but I’ve seen this one gull down by the marina—mean little sucker. Attacked my sandwich when I set it down. Anyway, he’s got one eye.”
“Oh. Well, since you seem to know so much—
“I don’t.”
“—could you help me get a crow out of the library?”
“Is it about this big,” Marge said, holding out her hands, “with a dark gleam in his eyes like he wants to take over the world?”
Libby blinked at her. “You know, I didn’t get a good look, but that description seems to fit the bill. Ha, get it? Bill.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, he a friend of yours?”
“God, no, but Arlene loved him. And now he’s yours. He comes with the house. His name’s Jasper, a
nd he’s actually a raven. Congratulations.”
“What? Seriously?” Libby didn’t know the first thing about taking care of a bird. Assuming it ate and drank like most animals, then it stood to reasons that it also defecated. And that was the part that was causing her concern.
She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Fan-freaking-tastic.”
Marge patted her shoulder sympathetically. “Don’t worry. He’s not much work, and she trained him to relieve himself in a litter box.”
Well, there was one problem solved.
After mumbling several choice words under her breath, Libby asked Marge if she knew of a nearby path down to the beach.
As Marge led Libby out back, she was waxing poetic about the house. “It’s really a special place. It’ll take some getting used to, of course.”
“I’m getting that impression.”
The wind whipped Libby’s hair around, and she battled with it a moment until she’d secured it in a ponytail.
At the edge of the fence, she and Marge peered over the side of the cliff. A path meandered between boulders and tenacious grass, full of grayish brown sand.
Squinting against the cloudy light and wind, she searched for the realtor. A few figures wandered the beach below like overgrown ants, but they were either families or couples. She told Marge who she was searching for.
“Strange. That’s not like John to flake out.” Marge’s hair rippled like the grass, and her sweater caught the light, causing Libby to have to look away.
“I’m really sorry about Arlene,” Libby said gently.
Marge searched the horizon. “Me too. She still had so much ahead of her. We grew up together and had a whole bucket list of things we were going to do.” Her voice broke. “We were supposed to get a boat and sail the west coast. It’d been our dream since we were little girls.”
Unsure of what else to say, Libby squeezed the woman’s shoulder in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. They had just met only a few minutes prior, so she didn’t think hugging her would be appropriate.