by Corwin, Amy
Troublemaker. You wanted trouble and now you’ve got it. His knuckles ached with the memory of the sharp rap of the nun’s ruler.
As she examined him, Miss Lennox’s thin face expressed neither approval nor disapproval. His inability to read her only strengthened his feeling that he was an inexperienced kid again, unsure of himself and waiting for the adults to pronounce judgment. The fact that her short gray hair, dark gray pants, jacket, and white shirt perfectly captured the appearance of the drab-embracing nuns of his youth didn’t help, either.
A few steps ahead of him, Nora set her bag down with the snap of finality. Decision made. They were here and here they’d stay.
She shrugged, pinching the front of her jacket and shirt and holding them away from her body. Her brown hair hung straight down her back in lank, green strands, slowly dripping onto the marble floor.
The putrid smell of decay wafting around her made him back up a step. He bit the inside of his mouth to keep from grinning when Miss Lennox’s nose wrinkled and she eyed the puddle on the floor with distaste.
“I spoke to you on the phone, didn’t I, Ms. Lennox?” Nora asked.
The woman shut the door and, despite the fact that without the drawbridge, no one was likely to walk in, she locked it. The click of the metal tumblers sliding into place echoed in the hallway, with the chilling tone of a funeral bell tolling.
She shoved the key into her pocket and faced Nora. “Miss Lennox. Or Sarah, if you wish. Your uncle always called me Sarah. I don’t see no reason why you shouldn’t.”
“Like Gabe said, I’m Nora.” She flapped a hand toward Gabe, caught sight of a patch of wet, brown sludge on her wrist, and blushed furiously. “Sorry about the mess. Do you have any chlorine bleach? Disinfectant? Anything like that?”
“I’ll fetch the bleach after I’ve done shown you and your husband up to your room. You can change into clean clothes there.” Stiff-backed, Sarah brushed past Nora and walked briskly across the hallway, her low-heeled leather shoes clacking against the marble floor.
“Can I get the bleach now? Any disinfectant will do. Whatever you have,” Nora asked, wavering and looking first at Gabe and then at Sarah Lennox’s rigid back.
“I’ll fetch it after I’ve done shown you to your room.” Sarah had made a decision and apparently, that was that.
Red-cheeked, Nora flicked him an embarrassed glance. “Ah, we’re not married—we’re just friends. I hoped we could have two rooms. Two separate rooms? Now?” She shifted stiffly, her hiking boots squirting out another trickle of water, her elbows held out stiffly as if she were afraid of touching anything, including herself.
Her hair, hidden behind its veil of fibrous green algae, dripped with slow, monotonous insistence, the droplets bouncing off her shoulders and contributing to streams running along her arms to her wrists and down her back to the sagging hem of her jacket. The small rivulets merged and splashed down into the spreading pool forming around her shoes.
She looked unhappy and desperately uncomfortable. And the rank odor made him want to keep as far away from her as possible.
“I only made up the one room. There are already four of you. No one else brought her husband. Or his wife.” Sarah clearly only believed in two possible states: married or single. Take your pick.
Her attitude made him wonder if her unmarried status was her choice or if events had conspired to deny her love. There was something about her thin face and the delicacy of her chin and cheekbones that made him think she might once have been a pretty woman. Maybe she just didn’t like people very much. He certainly found it difficult to like her.
Worse, he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d just tried to kill Nora. Maybe Sarah Lennox wanted Autumn Hill all to herself.
“If there’s another room near mine,” Nora’s voice rose in increasing desperation, “or wherever, Gabe can use that. I need that bleach and a shower. Right now. I’ll clean up the hallway after I’ve changed, but I need to get cleaned up first.”
“I need a room near Nora,” he said. Nora might be independent, but he wasn’t going to let her waltz off into another dangerous situation. She needed protection, not from the ephemeral spirit realm, but from an agency much closer and much more human.
Sarah’s gaze dwelt on the fetid puddle seeping under and around Nora’s shoes for several seconds before she nodded. “You’re on the second floor with the others.”
The housekeeper led the way to the broad, overly elaborate mahogany staircase that clung to the right-hand wall like a drunk in evening clothes hooking his arm around a light post for support. A leering, obese cherub stood on one-foot in mid-dance on top of the newel post, and other fat little mahogany creatures eyed them between the railings and from every available corner. Overblown red roses with nastily thorny stems and intertwining dark vines writhed over the velvet-flocked wallpaper above the time-darkened wainscoting in an oppressive design that Gabe immediately loathed. Victorian monstrosities and excesses at their worst.
He looked around with increasing disgust as he picked up his bags and strode after the women. Why did anyone—particularly a man—want to live in a place like this? Not a single clean, straight surface, or cheerful color relieved the grotesque splendor. The bright yellow and red doors of Nora’s car flashed into his mind. A smile lingered on his mouth as he followed her and the dour housekeeper up the stairs.
Sarah halted in front of the second door on the left, pulled a key out of her pocket, unlocked the door, and stood aside to let Nora enter. “There’s a bathroom behind the door on your right.”
“Great.” Nora dashed into the room, through the indicated door, and slammed it shut behind her. The squeak and rumble of water being turned on pounded through the thick wooden panels of the bathroom door.
As Gabe hesitated in the hallway, the housekeeper reached through the doorway and set the brass key she held on an ornately carved dresser nearby. “I’ll fetch the bleach.”
“Is there a connecting room?” he asked before she could stride away.
“This room is big, and there’s a king-sized bed. Should be enough.” She gazed at him with pale, expressionless eyes, her red-knuckled, work-worn hands clasping her sharp elbows.
“Nora snores so we can’t share a room. Is there one nearby?” Sorry, Nora. But she’d probably find an accusation of snoring preferable to sharing a bed with a stranger.
And even if he found her attractive—normally—he’d probably agree about sharing a bed if the soap and bleach couldn’t get rid of the putrid stench of the moat.
Sarah’s stare grew more intense. The back of his neck began to itch. The distinct feeling that she was weighing the truth of his words grew until another flashback filled with disapproving nuns crept over him.
What was it about her that kept reminding him of his misspent youth?
An apology rose to his lips for his claim that Nora snored. Liar, liar, pants on fire. Maybe he could sleep on the floor next to Nora’s bed if Sarah was intractable.
“I don’t—”
“I want to stay nearby.” He smiled at her. “I’m sure you understand.”
“The room on the other side of the bathroom isn’t used. It’s a Jack-and-Jill bathroom.” She frowned despite his attempt at friendliness. “We never use that second bedroom. I haven’t cleaned it.”
“That’s fine. I can clean it.”
“The bed isn’t made.”
“If you give me the sheets, I can change the bed.”
“I have to fetch the bleach for your wife.”
Gabe opened his mouth to protest again that Nora wasn’t his wife, but one look at Sarah’s hard eyes made him stop. He walked past her to the next door on the left. “Is this the room?” When he tried to turn the brass knob, it firmly resisted his grip.
“Yes. It’s locked.” She didn’t move. “No one likes to use it. Mr. James always said it was the locus.”
“Locus of what?”
She shrugged, her mouth tightening. He could
n’t tell if she disagreed with her deceased employer but didn’t want to contradict the dead, or if she believed him, and his words had scared her too much to discuss the matter.
Either way, Gabe didn’t care. If there was a bed in the room, he was happy.
“Can I have the key?” His patience was wearing thin, and he suspected she was enjoying her tiny moment of uncooperativeness and rebellion. “You don’t really believe in ghosts, do you?” he asked abruptly, hoping surprise would trigger an honest response.
Her face finally betrayed an understandable, human emotion. Her gray eyes crinkled with amusement, and a slight smile curved her pale, thin lips. “They’ve never bothered me none, and I’ve lived here for over forty years. I’m only repeating what others have said. Mr. James said Autumn Hill was haunted because the moat attracted spirits and trapped them here.” She pulled a ring of keys out of her jacket pocket, selected one, slid it around the ring to release it, and handed it to him. “But I haven’t never been bothered.” Her gaze flicked up to his face. “I’m not a James, though.”
“Is Mr. James the only one who saw the spirits?” He accepted the key and unlocked the door. When he opened it, the disturbed air, smelling musty and dry, brushed past him like a living entity.
“No. That handyman, Mr. Bain, he won’t come in the house, but he won’t say why. But Mr. James’ visitors used to say they saw things when they had to stay here. Overnight.”
“But you never saw anything?”
She shrugged again, staring at the worn, wooden floor at her feet.
So she didn’t believe in the spirit world, but didn’t want to lose her position by appearing to disagree with the prevailing wisdom of the James family.
Smart woman.
And it probably made her job easier if folks didn’t want to spend the night at Autumn Hill because they were afraid.
Even smarter.
“Why did you say the accident at the bridge was caused by ghosts if you don’t believe they exist?” He pocketed the key and faced her.
“I never claimed they don’t exist. I just said they never bothered me. And what else could it’ve been? Who’d want to hurt that girl? She’s never even been here before.” Her face hardened. “She’s not one of them cousins who hung around Mr. James, waiting to see what they could get out of him before—or after—he died. Vultures.”
“Did his other relatives do that?” Had one of Nora’s greedy cousins set a trap for her? It was possible, and certainly more reasonable than believing that a ghost had tried to prevent her from entering Autumn Hill.
Or tried to murder her. He could still hear the clanking, sliding sound of the chain rattling into the water.
That heavy chain falling behind her could have cracked her skull like an egg. While he might have accepted that the rotten boards in the drawbridge had finally given way, he couldn’t accept both decayed boards and a loose chain failing at the same time.
He rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn’t done a damn thing to protect her except stand there with his mouth hanging open. Despite his best efforts, she’d saved herself. And she’d done it before he could even get his shoes off to dive in and rescue her. Or drown both of them with his ineptitude.
His frustration tasted as dry and dusty in his mouth as the stale air in the unused room behind him.
“Some hung around Mr. James, some didn’t.” Sarah shrugged, clearly regretting her previous comments about her employer’s family. “I have to fetch that bleach.”
He glanced at the lumpy, hard-looking bed. “And sheets?”
“And the sheets. I’ll change your bed when I’m done and give the room a good dusting. Open the windows. Fresh air will help.” She left abruptly, her heels once more clattering over the wooden floors in a staccato rhythm he was starting to recognize as her brisk, no-nonsense walk.
The room wasn’t too bad when he looked around.
At least there was a bed, a double bed, in fact. And in the corner on his right was a small wooden desk and chair, the kind you used to see in old-fashioned elementary schools. The desk had a narrow cavity under the top where paper, pens, and books could be stashed, although at the moment, the dark hole looked uncomfortably like some wild animal’s den. He kept expecting a snake or something to poke its head out and stare at him. Finally, he walked over and stuck his hand inside the opening. Nothing but a few scraps of yellowing paper and a half-chewed pencil.
The other corner embraced a three-drawer bureau. All its drawers were empty and relatively free of dust. He unzipped one of his bags and filled the drawers with his clothes, noting the lack of a closet.
Not exactly luxurious, but he’d survive.
He’d just lifted his gadget bag and placed it on the top of the bureau when the bathroom door opened. A hot, thick cloud of chlorine bleach-scented steam billowed into the room. Nora stepped out of the mist, coughing into a fisted hand. She was wearing a pair of gray fleece sweat pants and a blue long-sleeved tee shirt. His gaze dropped to her feet.
She wore fake-fur-lined booties with rubber soles.
Above the ensemble, her long, brown hair hung down her back in wet strands, and he would have sworn that it was several shades lighter than the milk chocolate brown it was earlier that morning, even considering it was wet. Her face was as red and shiny as a polished ruby.
“Couldn’t Miss Lennox find you another room?” Nora glanced around, a puzzled frown growing on her face.
“This is another room. It’s my room. You went through the wrong door.”
“Oh.” She nodded and smiled in relief. As she talked, astringent, mint-scented puffs of air fluttered through her lips.
He could smell the mint two yards away.
Then she turned around and went back into the antiseptic fog. He followed her through a white bathroom, largely hidden by the thick clouds of steam still rising from the sink and bathtub, and through the connecting door into her room.
Rococo. Extreme Rococo. He stared around in shock.
If he’d thought the grand staircase was a brilliant testament to bad taste, this room was the perpetrator’s ultimate achievement. More fat-cheeked cherubs stared down from the corners of the room, gracing (if he could apply that term to anything in the room) crown molding that had been carved from some dark wood into twining, snakelike ivy. Some fool had taken gold leaf, or gilt, and touched just the edges of the ivy leaves, making them glitter damply in the pale streams of daylight that managed to elude the heavy curtains.
The gilded ivy molding also crawled along the baseboards and over the top edge of the almost-black wood used for the wainscoting. More hideous crimson roses slunk through more ivy on the wallpaper, and the bed in the center of the room was a monstrosity of carved wood and blood red draperies hanging down from the bed posts and capping frame.
A white bureau, a dressing table with a mirror, and a chair stood against the far wall. The furniture was elaborately carved and enameled white, with gold highlighting the grooves and edges of the furniture. The pieces looked feminine and out of place against the dark richness of the ornate bed and wainscoting.
An oriental rug in shades of blood red covered the middle of the wooden floor.
His room seemed positively cheerful in comparison to the suffocating ornateness of this chamber. James was obviously no fan of Danish modern.
Nora looked around and gave a half-hearted laugh. “Well. It is, uh, luxurious, isn’t it?”
He nodded. A sense of unease grew in him as he studied the room in more detail. The elaborate furnishings could hide anything, any kind of booby trap. He glanced at the heavy draperies surrounding the bed and the wooden canopy frame. An old ghost story about an inn with a bed with a canopy like that rose to mind. Those who slept in the deadly bed were suffocated when the canopy descended during the night, operated by the thieving owners of the guesthouse.
“I don’t like it. You were almost killed once already—there’s no telling what little surprises might be planted in here,” he said
. She’d be better off—safer—in his room.
“You want to change rooms?” Nora asked, as if reading his mind.
Wary of triggering her stubbornness, he said, “Not really.” Besides, one night in here and he’d be a raving lunatic and no good to her at all. “But if you get frightened, my bed is a double. We can both stay in there.”
“Yeah, well, there’s also the floor in your room. I’m sure you’d be comfortable enough there if it becomes necessary,” she replied in a dry voice. She kicked at the edge of the red area rug with a slippered toe. “The rug’s certainly thick enough.”
He chuckled and leaned closer to give her shoulder a squeeze. She was so easy to be around when she wasn’t arguing with him. His grin widened. Much as she might hate the comparison, she was like an old, comfortable jacket, the kind that would see you through any kind of weather and slough off any accidents.
“I need some vodka,” she said out of nowhere. She looked at him with a speculative gleam in her eyes, as if she thought he might carry a bottle around with him.
Please, dear God, don’t let her be one of those who drank almost constantly to “settle her nerves.”
“Do you think that’s really a good idea? Now?” He didn’t point out that she’d emptied her stomach after her plunge into the moat.
“Yes. I think it’s a great idea. Though it’s probably too late,” she added bitterly. “I’m sure I’m already seething with microorganisms, despite that shower.” She glanced around unhappily and then fixed her gaze on him. “Do you think I should take a prophylactic course of antibiotics, anyway? Not that they’d really help for most of the parasites swimming around in that nasty water. I knew I should have brought some drugs with me, I just knew it.”
So she was a germ-a-phobe. He should have guessed it the minute she stuck her finger in her mouth after the accident. He sighed. So much for his idea that Nora was easy to be around.
“Maybe Miss Lennox has some vodka,” he suggested reluctantly.
“Any good alcohol will do, but vodka would be best.” She stepped towards the door.
He stopped her with an outstretched arm. “Your accident—that chain could have killed you.”