The Box in The Cuts: A Supernatural Mystery

by Debra Castaneda

  I am now settled at the Wirth place and most conveniently situated. A better position could not be asked for, although I have seen but little of William. The property is large and there are an endless number of fine gardens that require his attention.

  The nights are long and tedious and while he has tried to come see me, as he promised, the housekeeper said she would not permit any carryings-on and turned him away.

  Still, I have been happy since arriving in Hillside.

  I have left behind the stench and filth that is the Barbary Coast. I have left the fog and infernal dampness that is San Francisco. I have escaped my mother, who was no mother to me. It is a wonder I am but a train ride away.

  On account of my teeth being good and that I am considered uncommonly pretty by everyone who sees me, I am made a parlor maid at this very grand home, with its four stories and halls that stretch in all directions. There are towering columns in the foyer and even a mirrored ballroom. I have counted no less than thirty chandeliers.

  I have had no occasion to meet the lady of the house, Mrs. Edith Wirth. She looks to be a very unpleasant sort of woman, tall, with a stern brow who insists upon wearing a ridiculously large bustle. Mr. Wirth is a jolly sort of man and very fond of whiskey. He once pinched my cheek and winked at me as I poured him a cup of tea.

  Mrs. Arundel, the housekeeper, says the villa—for that is what she calls it—can sleep one hundred guests and this I do not doubt as I have yet to account for the number of rooms in this almighty place.

  Each morning I rise early, before the sun is even up, and tidy the reception rooms. But my favorite place is the pretty enclosed veranda that's filled with wicker furniture imported all the way from China.

  For lunch, I put on a starched apron and cap and help serve refreshments and when I am needed, sometimes I serve at dinner. And while I have many other things to do, these are the most entertaining because the meals served in the banquet hall are very lively and there are often champagne frolics with the ladies dressed most beautifully.

  The ladies are accompanied by their older, fatter husbands who have amassed large sums of money in San Francisco. Some of these husbands make excuses to catch me in a hallway, alone, and press me up against a wall. One went so far as to hitch my skirt up around my waist, but Mrs. Arundel is a pesky sort of angel and she suddenly appeared and put a stop to this gentleman cow.

  William and I have managed to exchange kisses and a long embrace in the washroom, but the beak-nosed kitchen maid was most severe and said she would tell Mrs. Arundel if she caught us at it again.

  We are compelled to keep apart. William's whole mind is bent on finding some place for us to be together. Daily, hourly, I think of him. I prefer him to all the other men I have ever seen.

  My days are filled with endless tasks. Ten hours a day I do work. There are no days off for a woman without a purse. My fortune, William says, is my beauty. My handsome, handsome William with the bluest of eyes.

  And while I am but a humble servant, I am ever grateful for the room that I can call my own. It is small, but prettily furnished, and I do not have to share it like some of the lower maids must do. There is even a necessary at the end of the hall.

  And every day I discover something new. A grand piano. Rooms with beautiful floors of different colored woods. And this morning, Mrs. Arundel led me to the Grand Parlor and asked me to give it a good tidying up.

  There, above the fireplace, was a magnificent portrait of a very handsome young man with serious brown eyes and golden curls.

  “Why that is David Wirth,” said Mrs. Arundel. “The youngest son.”

  “But does he not live here?” I asked. “For I have not seen him once.”

  “Oh no. The young Mr. Wirth is rarely here. He is in San Francisco where he is learning the family business of banking. He is to take over, you see.” This Mrs. Arundel said as proudly as if he were her very own son. “The oldest boy has no taste for business. He's continued on in Europe.”

  And then she told me to stop asking questions and get working, but by the smile on her face, I could tell she was pleased to speak of David Wirth. I wonder about him now as I write this. What he is like. If he is as charming as his portrait.

  I have not written any letters to my mother as all my time is occupied. She does not deserve any news of me, her only daughter. For she would have had me join her in her lowly pursuits rather than see me free, happy and away from that unsavory den she calls home.

  Chapter 17

  The shuttle has come to a stop in front of the Wirth Mansion. It takes forever to let some old ladies on. The mansion is a popular place to have tea. The kind with silver platters loaded with cucumber sandwiches and fancy little cakes.

  Just looking at the place makes my hands clammy. There is something not quite right about it. The windows are a little too tall, a little too skinny. The area under the three arches is always dark, as if the light can’t reach there.

  I think of all those long creaky hallways and rooms with dark furniture and heavy drapes. But Madison, being Madison, had just laughed when I asked if being in that big old place made her nervous. “Staying home alone makes me nervous,” she'd said. “My parents are never around. At least there I've got people around me. They even gave me extra hours.”

  When I glance over at Destiny, about to ask her what she thinks of the place, her eyes are closed and she's taking deep breaths. I reach over and touch her arm. “You okay?”

  She gives a tight little nod, clears her throat. “Just a little carsick.”

  If Destiny gets carsick, this is the first I have ever heard of it. Her eyes remain closed until the next stop, when a bunch of noisy middle school boys pile in, no doubt headed for the Youth Center.

  There is the usual pushing and shoving as they scramble for open seats. They pay no attention to the bus driver or the old woman who tells them to behave.

  Chloe's looking at her phone. “Mary's story on spontaneous combustion is getting lots of hits,” she says loudly so she can be heard over the boys. “Almost as many as Alfie's.”

  A fuzzy headed blond kid turns around and stares at us. We stare back and he finally gets the hint.

  “That's great,” I say to Chloe. “How's Not-The-Clarion doing? Overall, I mean.”

  Chloe taps away. “Page views have shot up. Better than the school site. Way better. Buskin may have done us a favor. I think everyone thinks it's more interesting now that we've gone rogue.”

  We look at each other and laugh. Laugh that the two of us—the least likely to stir things up and get in trouble—are involved in something “rogue.” That for once, we are not entirely predictable. And for once, it's not so scary. In fact, it feels good. Destiny is still off in her own world, paying no attention to us.

  The kid in front of us whirls around. He's maybe around twelve. “I know what you're talking about,” he says. “That spontaneous combustion stuff. I've read about it. In Tales of Unexplained Mysteries.”

  “Did we ask you?” Chloe says. But it doesn't come off half as rude as if Madison had said it.

  “No,” the boy admits. “But I know something you don't know.” He's twisted around to face us, on his knees, gripping the top of the seat. His brown eyes are shining, practically begging us to ask.

  “Oh yeah?” I say. “And what's that?”

  “My dad swears it’s spontaneous combustion. Swears.”

  Now he has our full attention. Even Destiny has snapped out of it and is listening. “Who's your dad?” I ask.

  “He's a firefighter. Here in Hillside. He's been seeing some crazy stuff. Even before they found that first girl.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Lots of fires. Yesterday, a microwave exploded and caught on fire. Last week, it was a lamp. And last night, some car started on fire when it was just sitting there, parked, and no one could figure out why. Spontaneous combustion. Except no people. And my name is Kendall Carter. In case you want to put that in your news story.”<
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  The three of us exchange looks. Interesting considering that my dad's been getting calls about appliance fires, too.

  “Can you give me your dad's number, Kendall? I should probably talk to him first,” I say.

  When I see his shoulders sag with disappointment, I add, “We're not supposed to interview minors without their parents’ permission.”

  He nods and sighs as he enters his father's contact information on my phone. He's just settled back into his seat when someone at the front screams, “Fire!”

  Suddenly we're swerving off to the side of the road. There are no seat belts so everyone is hanging on as best they can. When we come screeching to a halt, Destiny slides off her seat and tumbles into the aisle.

  Smoke is pouring out from the back of the bus.

  “It's going to explode!” Kendall yells.

  “Stay calm everyone and move toward the exit,” the bus driver says. He’s middle age with a kind, chubby face, wearing a sleeveless vest over a blue shirt.

  But there are way too many middle school boys for that to happen. Kendall and the kid next to him have thrown open the slider window and are scrambling out. Some other boys have discovered the roof escape hatch and are hauling themselves up and out. This is done with a lot of whooping and yelling. It's probably the most exciting thing that's ever happened to them—and the noise just adds to the chaos.

  The driver—carrying a fire extinguisher—calls through an open window and asks us to help the old ladies. They are still in their seats, looking around as if they're not sure what to do. The three of us get them to their feet and guide them a safe distance from the bus.

  The hood is open. The driver is blasting out foam like it's something he does every day. It doesn't seem to be doing any good because the engine is now on fire.

  Kendall is jumping up and down in front of me and waving his arms. “It's spontaneous combustion! I know it is!”

  Ignoring Kendall is easy because I am too busy looking around. We've stopped on a quiet street in the flats. It's familiar from my childhood.

  The houses are big, on wide lots with trees so large the branches meet in the middle of the road forming a canopy. It's around three o'clock so not everyone is at home, not at this hour, but a few people run out their front doors to see what's going on. Chloe is taking pictures of the shuttle bus, which is now, as the news cliché goes, fully engulfed in flames. Destiny is with the old ladies, watching the commotion.

  As the ear-splitting sirens get closer, I recognize where we are. It's the block where Nicole DeSilva lived, burning victim number two.

  Chapter 18

  Someone from my past appears by my side.

  Gabe DeSilva.

  I haven't seen him in years. He has the same curly black hair, still on the long side, large black eyes and warm brown skin. Except he’s much taller. And now he is skinny buff instead of just skinny. He's Nicole's older brother, the one who tried to teach us soccer, the one who helped us with our math homework, the one who drew pictures of fairies and unicorns at our command.

  “Sammie?” he says, moving to stand in front of me. I nod. No one has called me Sammie since elementary school. My hands fly to my chopped hair. “Samantha Reyes?”

  “Hi Gabe,” I say weakly. Weakly because my voice is strangled. Strangled because Gabe is officially now a Hot Guy.

  Then he hugs me. Just like that. A full body embrace that goes on a bit longer than necessary. Not that I mind because the whole thing is strangely comforting. As comforting as when he bandaged my knee when I wiped out on the back steps.

  “What happened to the bus?” he says, glancing over my shoulder.

  I shrug. “I don't know. The driver says the bus is brand new. It shouldn't have caught fire like that.”

  Off in the distance, Chloe and Destiny are staring. Everyone is waiting for another shuttle bus to arrive. The firefighters are standing around, shaking their heads, talking quietly. It's obvious they're mystified.

  The next thing I know I'm inside the DeSilva's house, alone with Gabe. Chloe and Destiny turned down his offer of a ride, but not before jabbing me in the ribs and wiggling their eyebrows when his back was turned.

  The house is one of those sprawling California ramblers with large windows. I pause in the entryway, take stock. Just as bright and cheery as I remember.

  A horrible thing happened in this house. The stuff of nightmares. But there is no sign of that. No alarm bells start ringing in my head, no feelings of dread are triggered, no urge to run screaming from the house because I'm suddenly uneasy.

  Gabe stops, stares at me. “Oh, hey. I didn't even think. You don't have to come in. My aunts won't. They think the house is cursed or something.” I’m already inside, so it’s a little late for that.

  I shake my head. “No, I'm fine, really.”

  “The family room is on the other side. We won't go over there, don't worry.”

  “I'm not,” I say. While I am not worried, it's impossible not to wonder how Gabe can stand living in the same house his sister died, especially like that, no matter how normal the place seems now.

  I follow him to the kitchen. It's had a serious remodel since I was there last. White marble everywhere, stainless steel appliances. French doors open to the big backyard. The pool is still there, unchanged. The kind you'd see in a magazine. Water fountains and glass tiles the color of a tropical ocean.

  When I was invited over for my first play date with Nicole, I thought I'd gone to heaven. After that, it was harder to say what was the real attraction: the amazing pool or Gabe. Nicole wasn’t so easy to get along with. She was equal parts funny, moody and mean.

  “I'm sorry I missed Nicole's funeral,” I say, as Gabe opens the refrigerator. His hair curls at the base of his neck. I look away before he turns around and catches me staring. He slides a cold bottle of unsweetened iced tea toward me.

  “You didn't. They haven't released her body yet,” he says. “It's taking forever, whatever they're doing.”

  So Nicole's body is still at the coroner's, along with Emily Miller and Monica Goodman. And still no answers for the DeSilva's or the other families.

  “I can't even imagine how awful it's been for you. All of you.”

  He shrugs. “What can you do, you know? At least they've let us back in. We're going to sell the house. That's why I'm here, to pack up. But to be honest, I'm not sure who's going to want to buy it after what happened. I sure as hell wouldn't. I keep telling my mom we should wait, but she just wants to get rid of it.”

  The house is quiet, except for the faint rumbling of the fire trucks out front. We must be alone. Mrs. DeSilva is the type of mom who never sits still, constantly cleaning, offering you something to eat every twenty minutes. At least that's how I remember her. But it's been a long time. Mr. DeSilva I hardly ever saw because he worked in San Francisco. The suit and tie kind of dad.

  “How are your parents, by the way?” I ask.

  Gabe takes a swig of tea before answering. “My dad's okay, but he hasn't really been around much. He left a couple of years ago. Met some woman at work and he was out of here. And just when my mom was beginning to get over it, she walked in and found Nicole. She's not doing so great. Had a nervous breakdown. Had to call 9-1-1, that sort of thing.”

  My mouth drops open. Gabe suddenly looks embarrassed. “Sorry. Didn't mean to overshare.”

  I clear my throat, scoot to the edge of the stool, anxious to reassure him. “No! You weren't. I'm glad you told me. Where's your mom now?”

  “At my aunt's. She's been in and out of the hospital.” A shadow crosses his face. There's something more, something he's not telling me.

  Gabe drains the rest of the iced tea and stands up, points over his shoulder at the glistening pool. “Want to swim?”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  “I don't have a suit.”

  “There're some extras in the laundry room,” he says, opening a door off the kitchen. He disappears.
The sounds of drawers opening, frantic rummaging follows. Then Gabe emerges, holding up what looks like a pile of strings in one hand. “One of these should work.” He's smiling now. A genuine smile, like a kid. The same nice boy from all those years ago.

  In the bathroom, I have a choice between a bikini that exposes my entire butt and one that requires waxing everything, everywhere. It’s a little insane to be going for a swim with someone I haven’t seen in years, at a house where an old friend died. But nothing has seemed normal for a long time.

  Chapter 19

  Technically, both tiny bikinis fit. Sort of. I wonder who they belonged to. Maybe left by some friend of Nicole's. Or Gabe's. Not the kind I'd buy or wear in public, because I'm too chickenshit to get a Brazilian. It's an agonizing choice. Agonizing because I haven't shaved above my knees in weeks and my thighs are a hairy disaster. In the end, I go for the ass-baring suit and wrap a towel around my waist.

  Gabe's already out at the pool, scooping up leaves with a skimmer. His back is to me so that gives me a few moments to recover from seeing him without a shirt. He turns around. His shorts hang low from his waist. How many crunches does it take to get that look? I drop my towel and quickly slide into the pool, my butt scraping the side as I go in. The water is the perfect temperature, not too hot, not too cold.

  We swim around in the warm, fall sun, not talking. The silence isn't awkward. Far from it. Neither of us seems in any rush to start a conversation. But I can see him watching me as he paddles around, his well-toned arms crossed on a bright pink pool raft.

  “I should have called her,” I finally say. It's something I've been feeling guilty about, how easily I'd let the friendship go. Once we hit middle school, it was like we had moved thousands of miles apart.

  Gabe shakes his head. “I don't blame you. You lasted way longer than most of her friends. Honestly, I don't know how you put up with her.”

  I feel my eyes widen, but keep my mouth shut, mostly because I’m not sure what to say.