by Molly Greene
Showtime.
A middle-aged woman jumped from the cab and waved. “You must be Harriet,” she said.
Harriet? Really? Why had she let Oliver talk her into using that name? Too late now.
“Yes, I’m Harriet,” Gen replied. “And you must be Melanie. Thanks so much for giving me the work, I appreciate it.”
“Hey, I need the help. You’re doing me a favor. Why don’t you climb in and we’ll drive on in together.”
Melanie slid open the side door. Six women occupied the double row of bench seats, each decked out in a green apron with the company’s name stitched across the bib.
“Rhonda, slide over and give Harriet here some room and an apron, will you?”
Rhonda followed instructions.
“Harriet, why don’t you introduce yourself to the girls and get comfortable. We’ll be there in a jiff, and I’ll fill you in on the job while we set up inside.”
They were chatting like old friends when the stand of pines parted and the house came into view. From this direction, the structure looked less like a home and more like a mythical castle built of driftwood that had been coughed up by the sea. The turret room was in the front. Gen bet the windows that ran around the top provided an amazing view of the waves that rolled into the cove.
She’d been right about the outbuildings, one was indeed a garage. It was fitted with a double set of eight-foot doors painted to look like castle entries, instead of the overhead jobs you’d find in a suburban neighborhood.
The function of the building she’d christened the studio on her last visit was still unclear, but one thing was certain: its glass eyeball was hidden from this approach. The front side sported a covered porch and a red door. The door was closed.
Heathcliff was nowhere to be seen. She crossed her fingers and sent up a silent plea that her luck would hold. The fellow might not recognize her, but the sound of knocking knees when she caught sight of him might make him curious about the racket.
She didn’t need the stress.
Melanie parked the van. They poured out and milled around and set to their tasks. Some collected ladders and clean cloths and implements necessary for the job. Sadly, she’d never been much of a housekeeper, and that fact didn’t give her a lot of confidence that she’d be able to bull her way through.
“Harriet, are you okay with holding a ladder?”
“Sure,” Gen replied, half a beat slower than she should have. She hadn’t tuned her internal radar to respond to the new name yet.
That would have to change, and quick.
“You’ll be my floater today. I want you to stand below the climbers and take the rods as they come down. I’ll send you from crew to crew as needed. Make sense?”
Uh, right. “Absolutely.”
“We’ll set up a staging area to gather all the curtains that need to be laundered. I want the girls on the ladders to dust the walls behind the rods, then the ladies below them will hand up a vacuum wand to catch any daddy long-legs that might be hiding. Any scuff marks near the ceiling will need to disappear, as well. Got it?”
Half a dozen heads nodded in unison.
“Okay. We have three teams of two girls each, plus Harriet and myself as floaters. Each team will take a different room. We’ll collect the drapes in cloth bags in the first-floor hall. Several of us have been here before. The rest will take their lead from the repeaters. Let’s keep quiet and cause as little hubbub as possible. That means no loud talking. Be on task today, ladies. Let’s go.”
They trooped inside single file, like a bunch of Girl Scouts after a new badge. Gen heard a few of the other newbies catch their breath at sight of the posh entry. The place was simple, elegant beach chic, with a sandstone floor and whitewashed everything topped by ceilings that were painted the palest blue. It reminded Gen of Martha’s Vineyard.
The long vestibule they were in had probably been designed as a central gallery to showcase Gregory Prentiss’s work; his paintings hung at intervals from the front to the back. Logic told her the open door at the end led to the kitchen. A staircase rose to the second floor halfway down the length of the main entry.
The teams peeled off from the queue one by one, into rooms that opened off the main shotgun hall. Gen peered through each open door as they passed, noting a living room and a library and, finally, what appeared to be an office just short of the stairs. Team number three stopped here.
She went with them.
Within minutes the others had put up the ladder, plugged in the vacuum cleaner, and established a no-nonsense routine designed to take care of business. Gen took the first rod that came down, stripped off the drapes and folded them neatly, then carried the stack back into the hall and stuffed it into the waiting bags.
Over the next hour she drifted purposefully from one team to the next, assisting wherever she saw a need, and at the same time clandestinely checking out the house.
Prentiss paintings hung front and center in every room, but not a single resident showed themselves. Other than the maids, this part of the place was deserted. Whoever lived here had opted to give the cleaning crew a wide berth.
Two hours after the project began, Gen checked the hall for occupants. Empty. She moved away from the activity, poking her head in doors along the way. There was no one but the maids behind her, working away. She moved to the open kitchen door and heard voices.
They’d taken refuge there, whoever they were.
She wondered what was happening upstairs. And just like that, she made the decision to bound up the staircase and find out.
Her nerves pricked as she gained the upper landing. No going back now. She’d settled on incompetence as the only plausible excuse for her actions. If she was caught, she’d say she thought they’d be doing the upstairs rooms, and came up to begin.
Only three doors were accessible from the upper hall, all ajar but one. She slid along the wall, silent in her rubber soles, and listened at the threshold of the open rooms.
Finally, she clenched her jaw and turned the handle of the closed door, grateful that she managed to work the knob without a sound. The hinges did not creak. No one called out as the door moved inward.
So far, good fortune was on her side.
It was an empty bedroom and a lovely one at that, with the same blue ceiling that reminded her of a cloudless day in May. A white armoire graced one wall. Another held a queen-sized bed with a low foot that made it easy to sit down and lace up your shoes.
Books spilled across the wicker side table, several with marked pages, indicating they were in the process of being read. Gen picked one up and noted the title: Landscapes in Provence. The leaves were filled with photos of the French countryside.
She put it down and warned herself to return to the teams below before she was missed. She was about to do it when she caught a movement on the deck, outside the sliding doors.
A hand was reaching for a drink on a low table.
She moved closer. The hand was attached to a man, and the man was in a wheelchair.
Who would house someone who couldn’t use his legs on the second floor?
She slid open the door and stepped onto the deck.
He was painting, although the wrist that held the brush trembled slightly. His easel was low and close to the chair so he didn’t have to stretch to reach the surface. A full-color photograph was clipped to the top left of the canvas, and he was working on the right side.
It was a gorgeous day. The sea was glorious and peaceful, free of boats or surfers or anything else. The breeze was refreshing, the sun was warm. The scorcher she’d been worried about had not materialized.
Gen hoped her presence wasn’t about to heat things up.
“Gregory Prentiss?”
A pair of clear hazel eyes swung to her. They were set in a lined face that reflected surprise and something else. Anxiety? One glance at the stitching on her apron and he understood who she was.
His face screwed up with concentrated effort. He
lowered the brush and moved his left hand, then saw that he still held the plastic glass. Water nearly sloshed over the top. When he tried to return it to the table, his fingers shook like leaves in a stiff wind.
Gen stepped close and took the tumbler from him, then pulled the sheaf of photographs from her pocket. “Mr. Prentiss, I’m sorry to disturb you. But I bought this painting a while back and I believe you know whose work it is. Will you take a look?”
She spread the photos across his lap. When his eyes dipped to study them, Gen noticed the thinness of his legs. He dropped the brush into a waiting jar of water, then gripped both arms of the chair and surveyed the scenes depicted in Gen’s pictures.
Before long his shoulders shook, and his body began to shudder.
Gregory Prentiss was crying.
Gen felt a pang, but she wasn’t willing to lose her chance. She pointed at the figure. “Do you know her?”
He didn’t say a word, just sat and stared, snuffling and shaking his head.
“You do know her.”
Prentiss looked up into Gen’s face. His mouth contorted. He seemed to be trying with all his might to form a reply.
But nothing came.
A stroke, she realized. He must have had a stroke. That would explain the chair, and his lack of speech, and the quivering arms and useless legs. She felt a rush of pity and disappointment and regret.
She’d pinned her hopes for moving forward on this meeting.
Now what could she do?
Chapter Thirty-Two
Gen used her key card to open the door and found Oliver lounging with a magazine. An ice bucket stocked with a sweating bottle of chardonnay sat on the dresser. She tore off the wig the minute the door was closed.
He took one look at her face and said, “Rough day,” then filled a glass to the rim and gave it to her.
“Oh, man,” she said. “That’s putting it mildly.” She took the wine and downed half in a single pull, then handed the glass back to Oliver and turned around.
Her skirt was up to her waist in a heartbeat. She ripped off the batting, then pitched the wad of cotton on the floor and flung herself face down across the mattress.
Livvie poured a refill and set it on the bedside table, then brought the bottle over to the other side, propped the pillows up against the headboard, and settled in.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
She groaned. After one long deep breath she turned over, made her own backrest, then reached for the vino. Two long pulls later she started to talk. “Looks to me like Prentiss had a stroke.”
“Damn.”
“He’s in a wheelchair on the second floor. He was painting, and he moved the brush so slowly it was excruciating to watch. I didn’t see a phone anywhere. No computer, no nothing. I have no idea how the poor guy communicates with the world.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to.”
“If he did want to, he couldn’t.”
“Did you show him the pictures?”
Gen nodded and took another sip, then held out her glass. Oliver topped it off and waited.
“He cried when he saw her.”
“Oh God, Genny.”
“I know. It broke my heart, too, but it’s frustrating. I have no clue why he was crying. Does it mean he knew her? Did he kill Corey all those years ago in New York, and my questions somehow brought it back? Or is he just a sick old man, and he remembered Shannon and was reminded of a time when he wasn’t? Still, it must mean he knew her, right, Liv?”
“You would think.”
“So he hired her, maybe. Or he knew Noonan, or my idiotic theory that he is Noonan or Noonan is his son is correct, and he met Shannon through his kid or his alias. Crap, Liv. I knew today was a gamble. There was only a slim chance anything would come of it, but I was praying for a break all the same. Now it’s muddier than ever.”
“Well, you got to see the inside of that magnificent house. And you have a little cash in your pocket, and a new entry for your resume.” He was trying to make her laugh, but it would take more than that. He went for distraction instead.
“How about you take me out to celebrate?”
“Celebrate what?”
“An honest day’s work. Let’s commemorate the fact neither one of us has to do it. Ever.”
“I don’t think I could bear to wrap that padding back on.”
“Sure you could. Besides, you’ll be halfway buzzed by the time we leave and you won’t even notice. Let’s go up to the village. That way we can really test out our disguises. Maybe we’ll run into someone you’ve met and you can pull the wool over their eyes. You’d get a kick out of that.”
“How much more wine do we have?”
Oliver tipped the rest of the bottle into her glass. “This is it.”
“Then it’s a no-brainer. I want more, and the village is the only place to get it.” She rolled off the bed and retrieved the batting. “I need a shower and a change of clothes. I should be ready in about half an hour. No, wait, make that twenty minutes.”
“Okey doke.” Oliver headed for the door between their suites. “I’ll change into one of my Dora outfits and meet you here in twenty minutes.”
“Dora?”
“Yeah. That’s what I’ve named my character.”
“Dora and Harriet. Splendid. See you soon, Big D.”
* * *
Happy Hour was almost over when the matronly duo walked into one of the more upscale local swill joints. It was Friday night. One look around told them most of the patrons had been here a while and shouldn’t be driving home.
They wedged themselves into a table that was crammed tight to the back wall and tried to get the attention of one of the harried cocktail waitresses, but they were all busy taking last-call orders. From the sound of it, most of the drinks were doubles.
While they waited, Gen gave the crowd the once-over and noticed Laura Ingburg weaving back from the ladies room. She made it to a nearby table and nearly fell into the chair. To say she was blotto would be a stretch; it looked like she’d been guzzling from a liter of scotch and had managed to make a pretty good dent in the bottle.
Gen gave Dora an elbow and tilted her head in Laura’s direction.
“I saw,” Oliver murmured. “Somebody’s tied one on pretty good for so early in the evening. I wonder what she’s celebrating.”
“More like drowning, from the looks of it.”
“Perfect. It appears she’s drinking alone tonight. Let’s put Dora and Harriet to the ultimate test.”
Oliver went to the bar and whispered something to a server. The young lady rolled her eyes and spoke to the bartender, then nodded at Liv. He came back to the table with an extra chair he’d sweet-talked from a table of three that had a spare.
“I asked her to send Miss Ingburg another round of whatever she’s drinking. They said they were about to cut her off, but she’s on foot so they figured what the hell. As long as she isn’t getting behind the wheel, they don’t seem to care how bad a hangover she wakes up with tomorrow.”
“What’s your plan?”
“Send her a double vodka rocks and invite her to join us.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“We’ll join her.”
“And if she doesn’t want us to?”
“Geez, Genny. Relax. The woman is drunk as a skunk.”
“Skunks can make a stink.”
“Be more optimistic, will you? Your impersonation will work, if that’s what’s worrying you. She’ll be seeing two of you anyhow.”
Oliver was right, there was nothing to worry about. Laura got her drink, the waitress pointed them out, Harriet and Dora waved innocently, and Laura weaved over, working like hell to keep the booze in her glass on the way.
She reached the table with only a minor spill and put a hand on the back of the empty chair to steady herself. “Thank you, ladies,” she said.
She spoke as if she was talking around a mouthful of glass, but you had to give her kudos for spe
ech control. Not a single word was slurred.
Gen indicated the extra seat. “Won’t you join us?”
“Thank you, I will.” Laura labored to sit and finally managed it. “Where you from?”
“Salinas.” Gen’s eyes flicked to Oliver. “Just over the hill.”
“What brings you to Carmel?”
“Dora here needed to get away from her kids. I came to help a maid service work on a project. We were out at the Prentiss place today. Boy, did I get an eyeful of how the other half lives.”
Laura’s eyes dropped to her drink. She took a sip, then licked her lips. “I know it well,” she said.
“Do tell.” Gen leaned forward like a gossipy girlfriend. “The old guy doesn’t look like he’s in any shape to enjoy it anymore.”
“Greg? What do you mean?”
“Mr. Prentiss. He was in a wheelchair, couldn’t speak.”
“No.” Laura shook her head slowly. “Can’t be right. They tell me he’s fine. That he’s painting. He’s happy, he just wants to focus on his work.”
Gen’s eyes swung to Oliver again, then back. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“He was my stepfather. Long time ago.”
Just like Francie said.
“Noooo,” Gen whispered. “Did you live in that house?”
Laura nodded. “For a while. We were happy, for a while.” Her eyes lit up with whatever memory her mind was replaying. Judging by the joyful look on her face, it was a doozy.
“Who’s ‘we?’”
“Mom and Greg. Patrick. Me.”
“Why just for a while?”
“Patrick and I–”
Gen held her questions while Laura gulped down an impressive mouthful of vodka. When she was done, she pushed the glass out of the way and crossed her forearms on the table, then leaned heavily on them. She looked like the weight of her life was on her back.
Gen felt a twinge of guilt, but once again she would not allow it to sway her. She was just opening her mouth when the artist picked up the thread and continued.