She washed her face, brushed her teeth, changed into her softest T-shirt and shorts and scampered up the ladder.
In the loft, her sketch pad was next to her pillow. She turned on the light over the bed and fluffed up the pillows so she could sit up. She moved the pencil across the page. Images started to appear. She felt herself relax. The stress of the day faded as she drew.
She turned the pages quickly, filling them with images. She stopped when she realized she’d drawn pages of skulls.
The sketch pad looked like a Day of the Dead poster. Obviously, her psyche had been disturbed to see the skull, stirred in ways that her conscious mind hadn’t absorbed. She’d drawn grotesque eye sockets, gaping and wide, no life anywhere. Cavernous mouths. The proportions were all wrong, but she never doubted what her hand drew. Her mind worked with her fingers, in ways she often didn’t understand, recording images she hadn’t realized she’d seen.
She went back down for the scissors. Last Halloween she’d seen a string of skulls like paper dolls, cut from one piece of paper, and she wanted to see if she could duplicate it. She got her sharpest pair and a heavy-duty paper, and climbed back into the loft. April looked at the image and let her fingers do the cutting. The first one looked misshapen, but the more she worked at it, the more familiar the shape looked. She didn’t stop until she had twenty skulls connected. A deadly garland.
The activity had awakened her. She climbed out of the loft. Her brain was reeling with thoughts about the body. She decided to do her Internet research now and booted up her father’s computer.
While she waited for the booting to finish, she fished her cell phone out of her purse. It needed recharging. She plugged it in and saw the call she’d made to the Imperiale residence. No one had ever called her back.
She realized she hadn’t told her father what she’d found out about his employees. Three of four accounted for. Not a bad average. Chances were she’d find the fourth guy alive and kicking.
CHAPTER 10
“Do I smell lunch?”
April turned her head, one hand still working the cut onion into the mural. She sponged with her left hand, using a rag dipped in lemon juice.
She’d been working on an area behind the massive carved oak door for the past two hours. She’d tried this method on an inconspicuous spot first and had been surprised by the results. Apparently the Internet could be right sometimes. It hadn’t taken her too long last night to find an article about cleaning artwork. She’d been in bed by one.
Mitch leaned around the doorjamb, grinning at her.
She leaned back on her haunches and wiped the sweat from her eyes. Lemon juice dribbled down her arm to her elbow, finding a small cut and settling in. She blinked away the pain, noticing as she did her less-than-impressive work site. Half an onion lay on a paper towel at her knee, garnished with the squeezed hull of a lemon. A baguette was sticking out of the grocery bag nearby.
Mitch said, “I thought the poem was about a loaf of bread, cheese, wine and thou. I don’t remember one about onion, a lemon and what’s that—Italian bread?” Mitch’s eyes were dancing, his forehead well creased with laugh wrinkles. April had to admit this was her favorite kind of guy, one who noticed the comical side of life. But she wasn’t in the market for a man. No matter what Rocky thought.
“That’s right,” he continued. “You’re from San Francisco, it must be sourdough.”
She said, “According to this article I read, the enzymes in the onion break down the dirt and the lemon collects it. I think it’s working, don’t you?”
Mitch moved in to get a closer look. She stood and backed into the corner, feeling pleasantly trapped as he squinted at the mural. His clean, slightly woodsy smell fought with the noxious lemon-onion combination she’d been breathing in, and she felt slightly dizzy.
His khakis were crisp. He was wearing a matching safari-type shirt, the kind favored by news anchors on location in a war zone or presidents trying to look intrepid. The look suited him. His braided belt was real leather and matched his soft loafers. No steel-toed work boots for him. He managed to look fresh out of an Abercrombie and Fitch catalog. The old ones, before the teen set latched on. Casual, well-fitted, expensive.
Whatever crispness she’d possessed was long gone after spending the morning in the stuffy dining room. She’d dressed to look professional but comfortable. Her good jeans were stained with lemon juice that was forever changing the color of the denim. Maybe she could pass them off as designer jeans now.
Mitch squinted at the wall. “I see a difference.”
April was vindicated. “You do?” She looked where he was pointing.
“Right there,” he said. “Isn’t that moccasin brighter?”
“Damn,” she said, frowning at him. “I haven’t touched that part of the mural yet.”
“Oops, sorry.” Mitch looked penitent. He avoided catching her eye, studying the mural instead.
She ignored his critique. If he couldn’t see how much cleaner the mural looked, he was blind.
“What are you doing here today?” she asked him.
“More measuring—this time for the closet cabinetry. Have you seen the plans? My aunt’s powder room is the size of my living room. She’s putting in drawers and shelves that would put most kitchens to shame. About fifty thousand in wood alone. For a closet.” He sounded amazed. “All sustainable lumber, though. I’m insisting that she go green.”
“Good for you.” April was impressed. Most of what she’d seen in this house had been built with woods that were no longer available. She suspected the paneling was ebony.
“Measuring’ll take me most of the day. Do you want to meet up for lunch?”
April blushed. She shouldn’t be ashamed of brown bagging her mother’s leftovers, but she was.
“I brought my lunch,” she said.
“Me, too. I’m not suggesting we go out, just meet out back about noon.”
He was smiling at her invitingly. She didn’t want to lead him on, letting him think she was available or interested in dating.
“What about Mrs. H.? Does she approve of lunch breaks?” That was another concern—April couldn’t afford even the look of impropriety. Picnicking with the owner’s nephew might fall into that category.
Mitch said, “It’s Wednesday. Women’s golf league at the club. She’ll be gone all day. I’ll come back in an hour or so. What do you say?”
“Okay,” April agreed. What was the harm? Just having lunch with a coworker.
But why did he want to have lunch with her? She pushed a hand self-consciously through her hair. She must look like a mess. She’d sweated through her clothes, and the hair at her temples and neck was damp with perspiration. And she smelled like an Italian deli.
He didn’t seem to notice. He smiled. “All right then,” Mitch said. “Carry on.” He walked away, and she watched his cute butt disappear around a corner.
Why did the good guys always appear at the wrong time? Hold on a minute. She didn’t know if Mitch was one of the good guys. She reminded herself that Ken had been adorable once upon a time, too. The first time she’d met him, he’d been attentive, insistent and charming. Over time, she’d learned to distrust such charm.
Before going back to the mural, she tried her dad’s cell. No answer. That was the third time this morning she’d called with no result. She didn’t leave a message.
Detouring into the study, she heard the men talking before she got there. There were only four of them. She greeted them.
“No John today?” she asked Mike.
“Out sick,” he said.
At the same time, Butch said, “He’s on Lyle’s job today.”
Mike jerked his head toward Butch. April caught the look between them.
“My bad,” he said, shrugging. “Yesterday he said he was coming down with something.”
April waited a beat but no one said anything else. She wanted to ask which was it, out sick or on another job, but she’d leave it to E
d to sort out.
She asked, “Everything going well back here? Got everything you need?”
Mike said, “I’ve got a list for the supply house. Things we’ll need for tomorrow. Do you want to look it over?”
April took the list from him, reading the items on it. Nails, brads, just the small stuff that every job required. She said, “How does it usually work? Don’t you just charge what you need? Does my dad or Vince approve everything?”
He shook his head. “I usually run my needs by them. If it’s something we have in the shop, then I just get it there. But I broke the last drill bit this morning.”
April considered. She couldn’t run to her father with every small problem. This seemed innocuous. “Just go ahead and pick up another.”
He put the list in his breast pocket. “I’ll go get it after lunch.”
“Well, okay, call me on the walkie-talkie if you need me. I’m in the dining room.”
True to his word, Mitch came back an hour later. She felt as though she’d made progress, the onion doing its magic. The area she’d worked, small though it was, was definitely cleaner. She took heart. She might be able to accomplish this task after all. The work was tedious beyond belief, but at least it was paying off. She rubbed the small of her back, feeling the workload in her tired muscles.
She deserved a break. And she was hungry.
Mitch led her outside. “It’s a great day, not too hot. There’s a nice spot under the sycamore tree out back.”
The sun was shining, and the air was warm but not humid. Clouds, soft and white, so unlike San Francisco’s gray fog, punctuated a picturesque blue sky. She’d forgotten how perfect an early summer day could be in this part of the world. There was a lush greenness that existed only for a few weeks, after the rainy, too-cold spring and before the too-hot summer.
Mitch led her across a large expanse of green lawn to a gazebo. Clematis vine climbed up the wood supports. Inside the octagonal-shaped middle was a glass-topped table with six wicker chairs. The paint was well-worn along the arms and she could see that the wicker had been repaired several times, but it was obviously the real stuff. She could picture it on an English Colonial house porch.
April sat down, feeling a little uneasy being on Mrs. H.’s lawn furniture. She looked around to make sure there was no sign of her golf cart. Pennsylvania was so different from San Francisco. The class wars were still being fought here. Was it improper to sit at the mansion owner’s picnic table?
She decided she didn’t care. She’d been on her knees all morning, stooped over a bucket of foul-smelling concoction, scrubbing. Besides, Mitch had invited her. This had been his place. He was her ticket to the show.
Mitch and April unpacked their lunch. Mitch had a reusable sandwich container and a peanut butter and jelly on rye inside. He unpacked a bag of Sun Chips. He offered her iced tea from his thermos, producing two paper cups.
“Thanks,” April said.
Mitch nodded his head in the direction of the Castle. “What do you hear from over there?” he asked.
“Not much,” April said. “My dad’s not answering his phone. I’d like to go over there and talk to him.”
Mitch took a bite of his sandwich and washed it down with iced tea. “Don’t bother. I tried but the staties turned me away.”
April felt the futility in their actions. She wished her dad had never heard of this job.
“What’s the story? What happened to the Castle? Why was it never finished?” April asked.
Mitch leaned back in his chair, taking the bag of chips with him, and ripping it open. “You’d have to know my dad. He was not a happy man when I was growing up. He was never challenged by his job. So he’d have these projects going on all the time. The Castle was supposed to be an apartment for my sister and me.”
“An apartment?” It was as big as a California bungalow in her San Francisco neighborhood that had sold for over a million dollars.
“Dad’s idea was that once we were out of the house, we were out for good. He’d give us a roof over our heads but no more.” Mitch continued. “My dad was a hippie. You know, one of those privileged kids with no reasonable thing to rebel against. He hit the sixties with a vengeance. At the beginning of the decade, he was a crew-cut ROTC jock at Penn. By the end of the decade, he was a long-haired dude living on a commune in Colorado, growing pot and spending money like he’d made it. In the early seventies, his father made him come home, marry my mother and go to work in the family business.”
“Which was?”
“Banking,” Mitch said.
April knew about unhappy fathers. She wondered if they were like unhappy families: all the same.
He stood abruptly. “Sit tight. I have a surprise for you.” He wiped his hands on the napkin he’d brought. He shook off the memories.
Mitch bounded across the lawn to where his Jeep was parked. He was like a dog, a golden retriever, full of curiosity and pleased by everything he encountered. The talk about the Castle was seemingly forgotten.
She wasn’t interested in a relationship, but she wasn’t going to lie, it was nice to have a man’s attention. He was charming, funny and easy to look at. The consideration felt good, balm to her Ken-battered feminine psyche.
A surprise might be nice. It had to be better than Bonnie’s surprises, anyway.
Mitch reached over the open top of his Jeep parked next to her car. He pulled a leather portfolio out of the back seat. He was untwirling the small orange tie as he walked, and smiling at her.
“I brought pictures of the main house in its heyday to show you,” he said. “I thought you might get inspired.”
April smiled at his thoughtfulness. Seeing the house in its original décor could help her devise her wall coverings. He pulled out a large black scrapbook.
“Any baby pictures?” she teased.
“Not mine, my dad maybe,” he said, opening to the first page. “I brought the oldest album I could find. I figured you wanted the history.”
“Mirabella has always been in your family?” she asked.
He nodded and laid the book on the table and leafed through the pages. April saw posed families for whom smiling was not an option. One showed a quartet of women in the gazebo she was sitting in right now.
In the third or fourth picture, April caught sight of the dining room. She brought the book in for closer scrutiny.
The table was set for fourteen, six on each side and two on the short ends. The damask tablecloth was hand-embroidered with entwined flowered vines, and the matching napkins were folded so that a fancy “W” was in view. Each place setting had three crystal glasses and rows of forks. The china had to be Meissen. A tiny rosebud vase held a place card, the gold lettering ornate.
The shot was taken from the adjoining living room. April said, “I can’t see the mural.”
“It’s on this side.” Mitch pointed to where the wall would be. “The wall in the living room used to have access to the dining room. Your father unearthed those pocket doors. They’d been covered with wallboard sometime in the seventies. My parents didn’t use this room much. Our dinner parties ran more to hot dogs than haute cuisine.”
April said, “Darn. Even in this picture, the walls of the dining room have been painted. I would love to see what was on the walls before that.”
Mitch closed the scrapbook. “Maybe I can unearth older pictures. My mother dumped all the family photos in my spare room when they hit the road. If you want to come by my house, I’ll dig them out.”
April hesitated.
He sensed her reluctance. “Or I could bring them by the job tomorrow.”
She agreed to that. April finished her iced tea and gave the cup to Mitch. She should get on with work, but she was enjoying being outdoors so much, she didn’t want to go back in just yet. She breathed in the fragrances of the grass and flowers. She looked around to make sure Mrs. H. wasn’t watching them.
April remembered Ed asking about Mitch’s dad yesterday. Car
efully asking. So she said lightly, “So your father is, um, traveling?”
Mitch laughed. “Yes. My parents went into the Peace Corps on his sixty-fifth birthday. That was four years ago. He sold Mirabella to his sister, Aunt Barbara, who always loved it, and put his money in trust and took off. He and Mom come home every six months or so, to drop off more swag and continue round the world. According to the e-mail I got yesterday, they’re building straw yurts in the Gobi desert right now.”
“Do you mind that he didn’t leave you the house?”
“God, no. It’s a money pit. I don’t have the kind of fortune that Aunt Barbara has. She married a superrich guy and has no kids. She can afford to dump a million dollars into fixing it up.”
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