When Alan arrived at his antique shop, Cat O’ Nine Tails, the heat was running and there was an oddly metallic, moldy smell coming from the vents. When he went downstairs, he found that boiler had given out, and water had soaked through the bottoms of dozens of cardboard boxes, perhaps damaging many of the items he had in storage.
Sheer bad luck. The boiler had been two days past its warranty.
Upstairs, he kept the door open to let the smell out. A strange whistling noise filled the street and he went out onto the sidewalk, searching for its source. A few seconds later, it stopped, and he shrugged and turned to go back inside.
On the street corner there stood the biggest black dog he had ever seen. It stared at him. Though it did not growl or bare its teeth or even take a step nearer, Alan felt waves of menace coming off of the dog.
He closed the door, and went about opening windows instead.
CHAPTER 6
Rose woke with a gasp, as though she’d stopped breathing in her sleep and only panic had brought her awake. Eyes open wide, she drew several long breaths and her heartbeat slowed almost to normal. Her head felt stuffed full of cotton, almost as though she was hung over, but she hadn’t been drunk last night.
An image flashed across her mind like the fragment of a dark dream — the silver stag, so breathtakingly beautiful, completely ethereal — dragged down by massive, slavering black hounds. She squeezed her eyes together as though that might make the image go away, and was surprised when she was at least partially successful. Still, it lingered just below the surface of her thoughts like the echo of a nightmare.
A knock came on the door. Recognition sparked in her, and she felt sure that this was not the first knock, that the sound had been what had actually roused her. Certainly it was not that she was ready to wake up. She still felt exhausted, dull-witted, and heavy, but she forced herself up out of bed.
In boxers and tank top, she padded across the floor of the cabin.
“Who is it?” she called.
“Rose. Open the door.”
Grandmother. As always, so impatient and imperious she would not even identify herself. Like Rose should have been able to see through the damned door and prepared a banquet for her arrival, with trumpeters and a red carpet strewn with flowers.
Be kind. Her husband’s just died.
So why did Rose feel that Pappy’s death hurt her far more than it did her grandfather? Hard-nosed as she was, the woman had loved him. Rose was sure of that. Pappy was the only one her grandmother had ever seemed to love, and even then the emotion had never shown in her face or in physical affection, only in the way she had listened when he spoke, and kept close to him wherever they went.
For his sake, be kind, Rose thought.
With a sigh, her heart a tight fist of grief over her grandfather’s passing, she unlocked the door and pulled it open.
The old woman had tired eyes, pinched at the corners with what might have been sorrow. Her jaw was rigid as ever, chin high. She wore a black skirt and a cream colored blouse beneath a black sweater, and looked more than a little like a nun. The grieving widow. These were mourning clothes. Her grandmother had always been a stickler for traditions.
“Good morning, Grandmother,” she said, stepping aside. “I guess I overslept. Can I make you a cup of tea?”
“Don’t trouble yourself on my account,” the old woman said, brushing past Rose as she entered the cabin. “I’ve just been making funeral arrangements for your grandfather and thought you’d like to know what I’ve planned.”
Rose shut the door. Her grandmother strode across the living room and into the quaint, country kitchen. She sat in one of the two chairs at the small, round, rustic table and clasped her hands in front of her. Rose went past her, filled the tea kettle, and switched on the burner.
The old woman would never ask for anything, but she’d want the tea — would be insulted if Rose didn’t serve her something.
“It’s thoughtful of you to come,” Rose said.
Her grandmother sniffed as though it had been an insult.
Rose reached up into the cabinet for a pair of teacups and reluctantly fetched saucers as well. Tradition, after all. Her hands shook a little and a little twist of nausea hit her. She really did feel hung over. Her face felt slack and she looked at her funhouse-mirror reflection in the tea kettle — she was pale, dark crescents beneath her eyes.
“I spoke to your mother this morning,” her grandmother said. “She and your father will be coming home for the funeral, of course. But it will be several days before they return, and I can’t wait for them to have the wake. Even so, I think it’s hideous when people have days of a wake, two sessions a day, like it’s a Broadway play and they need a matinee.”
Her upper lip curled back with repugnance.
Rose took teabags out of the cabinet and dropped one in each cup. She turned to face her grandmother. “People have hectic lives. Providing different times for them to pay their last respects means makes it easier for them.”
“Why should it be easy for them?” the old woman asked, genuinely mystified. “My husband . . . your grandfather is dead, Rose. If the timing of his passing isn’t convenient for people, to hell with them.”
Her voice had gone a bit shrill on the word dead. Rare proof of her love for the man.
“We’ll have one wake. Friday night. And on Saturday morning, we’ll have a funeral mass. Father Cahill is young. I wish Father Hughes still ruled the roost at St. Margaret’s, but there’s nothing to be done for it. Still, I’ve told our young priest that I won’t stand for any short cuts. It’s a full funeral mass, not some benediction and then a burial. If we don’t do the entire mass, we might as well bury him in the yard next to the piss-happy dog your mother doted on as a girl.”
Rose felt her mouth hanging open, but couldn’t force herself to close it. Her grandmother had always been an opinionated woman, but she’d never been so crass. Quiet and stern, quick with a judgment, yes. But this brutal frankness was a surprise, even from her.
“Oh, close your mouth, Rose. You’ll catch flies.”
She did as she was told.
“You look like hell, by the way,” the woman said, sitting so primly in her cane chair, haloed by the morning sunshine coming through the kitchen window.
“Oh, thank you,” Rose replied, giving a supermodel turn as though to show off the latest fashion. “It’s a new look I’ve been cultivating. Glad you noticed.”
Then she faltered, dizziness weakening her, and had to catch herself on the edge of the counter.
“Rose?” her grandmother said, her tone more accusation than concern. “Are you all right?”
With a scowl of disgust, she clenched her teeth and turned her back on the old woman. To keep from saying something she’d regret, she busied herself with the tea, though the kettle had not yet whistled. She made her grandmother’s just as she liked it, with a single dollop of milk, and then carried cups and saucers to the table. Still silent, she went back for spoons.
Her grandmother was dipping her tea bag as though fishing for something, but her eyes were locked on Rose.
“What is it?” she asked, and if Rose had been the type to fool herself, she might just have been able to imagine she heard actual concern in her grandmother’s voice.
Instead, Rose laughed softly, darkly.
“You know, I’m sorry if I show my emotions more than you do. I know you probably think it’s obscene or something, but I hurt, inside. I’m screaming, inside. All my life, Pappy was the only one I ever thought really saw me when he looked at me, instead of what he wanted me to be. He talked to me about what was in my heart, not what he thought should be there. Now you’re going to tell him that he was your husband, and no one can miss him more than you do, no one can grieve as much as you. And maybe you’re right. But I can’t hold it inside like you! I think about never hearing his voice again, and I just can’t —”
Her voice broke. Hot tears ran down her cheeks. She
shook her head in frustration and turned away, wiping her eyes. All she wished for at that moment was someone who truly loved and understood her to be there and just hold her while she cried out the pain in her heart, but the only one who’d ever really fit that description was the one she was crying for. Her grandmother would not embrace her. Rose would never have expected it.
A chill went through her and she shivered.
“I know you loved him,” her grandmother said. “And he loved you.”
Rose shook her head again, at a loss. “But you don’t understand why I look like hell?”
The old woman picked up her tea cup in her right hand, and the saucer in her left. Daintily, she sipped her tea, just as she’d been taught by her mother when she was a tiny girl.
Lucy, finally roused from her doggy slumber, ambled out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. She made several circles and then plopped down on the floor.
With a sigh, Rose slumped in her chair. The sight of Lucy had brought back the terror she’d felt last night, and her revulsion at the sight of those hounds tearing into the stag. Another twist of nausea hit her, and she took a sip of tea to try to settle it down. She rubbed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to cleanse the memory.
“Is something else troubling you?” her grandmother asked, taking another sip of tea.
Rose glanced away a moment, then met her gaze. “Bad as yesterday was, last night only made it worse. I had a little scare outside. More than a little, really. I’ve never been so scared.”
Her grandmother knitted her brows. “What do you mean, scare?”
“Lucy went a little crazy during the night, barking like a nut. She ran out into the back yard and in the woods I saw this deer. A stag. The most beautiful animal I’ve ever seen. It was huge, twelve points at least, but in the moonlight it looked almost silver. It took my breath away.”
Rose cringed at the memory, which rose again as she spoke of it.
“It was standing there, and then it bolted. I don’t know if it heard them coming, or smelled them, but it started to take off the way animals do when there’s fire coming, or something meaner than them on the hunt. Two black dogs came out of the trees, so dark they could have walked right up to me and I wouldn’t have seen them until the last second. They were huge, bigger than any dog I’ve ever even heard of, and wild. The dogs attacked the stag, dragged it down, and just tore it apart right there.”
The tea cup tumbled from her grandmother’s fingers. Tea splashed as it struck the edge of the table, breaking off the china handle. Then it hit the ground and shattered into gleaming shards in a spattered puddle of tea.
“The Whistlers,” her grandmother rasped, her gaze distant, the china saucer still held firmly in her left hand.
“What? Grandmother, what? Are you okay?”
The old woman blinked and looked down at the mess she’d made. “Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry, Rose. Your mother loves this china set.”
Rose got up and fetched the dustpan and brush from under the sink and set about sweeping up the shards.
“Don’t worry about it, grandmother. What about you? Are you all right? You looked like you’d just kind of gone away for a minute there. I thought you were having a stroke or something.”
Regaining her composure as Rose got a dish cloth to wipe up the spilled tea, the old woman waved such concerns away.
“I’m fine. It’s a stressful time, that’s all. And what a horrible nightmare for you to have.”
Rose blinked and stared at her. “It wasn’t a nightmare. I saw it happen, right outside. Lucy was with me.”
“You must be confused, dear,” the old woman said. “Grief and exhaustion will do that. It must have been a dream. Just a nightmare, Rose.”
Pretty vivid for a nightmare, she thought. But she said nothing, just finished cleaning up the mess. There was no point ever in arguing with her grandmother. Time to change the subject.
“You’re sure you’re all right?” Rose asked.
“Perfectly.”
“What was that you said before? When you were zoning, you said something. Whistlers?”
“I don’t know what you mean, dear,” her grandmother said. “Now, about the funeral. I’d like you to do a reading at the mass. I’ve got it all picked out. And if you don’t have anything appropriate to wear to the wake and the funeral, please tell me, and I’ll take you shopping to pick something out.”
Rose stared at her. “I have that black dress I wore to your anniversary party a few years ago. I’m sure it still fits.”
“Good. Good.” Her grandmother stood, smiled thinly, and started for the door. “I’m off, then. I have to bring a suit to the funeral home for them to dress your grandfather. He’d want the red tie, I think. Something dashing.”
“That’ll be nice,” Rose said, though she was barely aware she was speaking. The conversation had been surreal. She drifted across the cabin and stood by the door, seeing her grandmother out.
The old woman climbed into her car, waved once, and drove away.
Rose didn’t remember her grandmother ever calling her “dear,” before. Now she’d done it twice in as many minutes. Yet there was nothing intimate about it. She’d seemed distracted, almost nervous.
Dear.
Weird.
CHAPTER 7
The Red Oak Inn was quiet. The breakfast room was almost empty and the tables were slowly being bussed. Rose went through the room and into the kitchen, where she found Jenny scraping the grill and cleaning up her work space. Jenny was the best chef the inn had ever had. Everyone said so, and Rose didn’t doubt it.
“Hey.”
Jenny turned around, a soft look of sympathy on her face. “Hey. Don’t tell me you’re working today.”
“No. I just thought I should come in and talk to Max in person. I’m scheduled for tomorrow. I can work that shift. But the wake’s on Friday and the funeral Saturday, so —”
“He’ll be fine. I spoke to him already, and I talked to Cheyenne as well. She’s going to take whatever shifts you need. I explained how close you were to him.”
She didn’t have to say who him was.
The Red Oak Inn sat on the mountainside just outside of town, with a perfect view of the picturesque little New England village spread out below. The church steeple and the pond at the town center and the old-fashioned railroad that ran right through downtown were like a postcard, viewed from the front windows of the inn. But it was the best of both worlds. The touristy village was a few minutes’ drive, but the inn fronted more than a hundred acres of wooded hills that was part of their property, and there were horse trails all through it.
Rose had worked with the horses for three years, and loved them all. Cheyenne was the horse trainer, and the boss when it came to the stables. But Rose had learned a lot from her about how to care for them, and how to deal with the inn’s guests who paid to ride the trails.
“You going to go and see Trouble?” Jenny asked.
Despite her sadness, Rose smiled. Trouble was her favorite of the horses; a persnickety mare with a love of Granny Smith apples that knew no bounds. The temptation to go and see her, brush her down, the peace that would bring was a strong lure. But the image of those dogs tearing at the stag last night still lurked in her mind.
Jenny wiped her hands on her apron and came over to Rose.
“You need anything?”
Rose nodded. “A shotgun and a good shrink.”
“What?” Jenny said, a dark look crossing her features.
“No, no, the shotgun’s not for me. I loved Pappy, but I’m not in a hurry to join him. Just, something weird happened last night, and I can’t get it out of my head.”
For the second time that morning, she recounted the terrible, bloody scene from the night before.
“My grandmother thinks it was a dream,” Rose said with a short, humorless laugh. “It wasn’t any dream. She got all freaky when I talked about the dogs, though. Kind of spaced and dropped her teacup,
and she said something about whistling. I thought she was having an aneurysm or something. I’m still not sure she didn’t.”
Jenny was nodding even before she finished. “Yeah, yeah. The Seven Whistlers. I’ve heard that one.”
Rose cocked her head. “What one?”
“It’s a story. A legend. Giant, black dogs. Hellhounds or something. They bring bad luck, I guess. I mean, obviously it’s just a story. But you know how your grandmother is about traditions and stuff —”
“Yeah, but not superstitious traditions. At least, not that I ever knew.”
Jenny shrugged. “I’m just saying, that’s what your story reminded me of, too. Maybe it freaked her out. Old people can get like that. And with your grandfather just passing . . .”
She let the words trail off and shrugged again.
“I guess. But how come I don’t know the story and you do? I’ve never heard that legend before.”
“It’s an old thing. Celtic, maybe. I don’t know. I’m sure I only know it from my Aunt Arlene. You know how she is with all the folklore and stuff. With her painting and her whole earth-mother thing, she’s the town oddball. But she loves all that stuff, knows all the folklore, local and otherwise. It’s her hobby.”
“I thought painting was her hobby.”
Jenny shook her head. “You’d think, right? But no, she makes a living painting. I told you she sells some of her paintings as book covers.”
“Guess I never thought much about it. Never took her all that seriously.”
“Nobody does. It’s her charm. She seems so dippy, but she’s serious about her passions. Plus she’s sweet as anything, and she makes the world’s best cookies.”
Rose thought about it, but only for a second. The memory of the previous night was haunting her. Maybe it was good, keeping her mind off of her grandfather’s death. Whatever it was, she couldn’t stop seeing it in her mind, the dogs savaging that silver stag.
“Do you think she’d talk to me?”
The Seven Whistlers Page 4