by Lucy Ness
“I’ll put an ad online today for a maintenance man,” I told Muriel in no uncertain terms. “With any luck, we’ll have someone new aboard by next week.”
“If I approve the hiring.” She had the nerve to add a tsk to the statement. “After all, the board has a final say in who works here and who doesn’t. If you’re smart, you won’t forget it.”
She made to leave, but I wasn’t finished yet, and my words stopped her in her tracks. “If the board has final say, why were you the one who fired Bill Manby? Seems to me no one else had any say in it at all.”
Her eyes glinted like steel in the early morning light that flowed from the windows behind me. Her patrician nose (small and straight and as delicate as a rose) lifted a tad. “No one else knows the whole story.”
“Then maybe now is a good time to tell it. You said you would. After I’d officially started. Well . . .” I lifted both arms, then slapped them back down to my sides. “Here I am. On the job.”
“For now,” Muriel reminded me.
My smile felt stiff, but I think it was pretty convincing. Cold and calculated, just like the knife-edged grin she shot back at me. In that one moment, we understood each other, me and Muriel. We both knew neither one of us would ever budge an inch.
“Start talking,” I said.
Muriel did. “It’s actually a kindness that I’ve kept my mouth shut this long about the whole Bill Manby incident. You see, I didn’t want to ruin his reputation. Bill was stealing from the club.”
I pulled in a breath but stopped myself just short of apologizing. I know, immature of me. After all, stealing was a serious offense, and Muriel had done what she had to do when it came to firing Bill. I wasn’t prepared to own up to the fact that I’d judged her too quickly. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t be a grown-up about the whole thing.
I swallowed hard.
“I didn’t know. I can understand why you fired him. What did he take?”
To Muriel’s great credit, she didn’t look smug at winning this round. At least not too smug. She clutched her hands at her waist. “Two stained glass lamps. A porcelain ewer and bowl. White, decorated with pink roses. And an oil portrait of Hortense Dash’s little Percival. Sweet child. Golden ringlets. Angel smile. As difficult as it apparently is for you to believe it, I did my homework. And my research. I thoroughly investigated. I wouldn’t have gotten rid of Bill if I hadn’t. No one could have removed those items from the club except him. He was . . .” She glanced away, collecting herself, and darn if I didn’t have any choice but to think she was sincere. “He was a good and conscientious worker and he’d given us years of loyal service. I don’t know what happened to make him change, but after I discovered what was going on, I didn’t have any choice. As much as it pained me, I had to let him go.”
And there I was, frozen again, feeling like a fool for challenging her when obviously she’d made a tough decision because she knew it was the right thing to do.
I actually might have admitted it if I had the chance. But just as I opened my mouth, the lights flickered off. Ten seconds later, they flashed on again.
Muriel didn’t seem surprised. In fact, she didn’t even comment until she sailed out of the room and was already in the hallway. “The fuse box in the basement is testy,” she called back to me. “The lights go out all the time. We’ve got flashlights on the windowsills of every room, just in case. When you’re finished fixing the grill in the kitchen, that fuse box should be the next thing on your repair list.”
In that one moment, I felt Quentin Cruz’s pain.
If there were a pot holder nearby, I would have thrown it.
Then again, if I did throw a pot holder, I wouldn’t have hit Muriel because just that quickly, she was gone.
And I probably would have kerthunked Jack Harkness, because the next thing I knew he strode into the Lilac Lounge.
He had three rolls of wallpaper under one arm, a briefcase packed to overflowing under the other, and if he heard me muttering to myself, he ignored it. Just like he ignored it when, too agitated to keep still and wishing there was a pot holder handy, I slapped a hand against the nearest delicate writing table.
Jack juggled everything he was carrying and one of the rolls of wallpaper slipped to the floor. “No desk?” he asked.
It’s the kind of question that needs to register before it’s answered, and once it did, I propped my fists on my hips. “No desk. Not yet. And there won’t be one if you’re not willing to help me find one and move it in here.”
He plopped the other two rolls of wallpaper and his briefcase on the floor before he pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “Of course. Only before you commit the club’s resources and any more time or energy into this project, I think there’s something you should know.” He cleared his throat and steadied his shoulders and I swear, he looked like a kid who’d been asked to give a book report up in front of the class.
“I was wrong,” Jack said.
Apparently this was something of a momentous announcement, at least if the tightness of his jaw and the stiffness of his shoulders meant anything.
It was enough to make me wish I’d had a third cup of coffee.
I shook my head, hoping to clear it.
It didn’t help.
“Wrong about what?” I asked him.
He cleared his throat. Again. “The wallpaper in Marigold. I said it went into production in 1945. I checked my research last night and I thought it was important for you to know right up front before we went any farther with the project. The wallpaper was actually printed in 1946.”
I didn’t even bother to stifle my laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”
He actually had to think about my reaction for a minute, and while he did, his mouth settled into a thin line and his forehead furrowed. “You mean you don’t mind that I was inaccurate?”
“Look . . .” I drew in a long breath and let it out again on the end of a sigh. “I’ve got a kitchen grill that isn’t working, a electrical system that likes to go on the fritz, a former maintenance man who is also a thief, and a club president who would like nothing better than to serve my head on a silver platter. You really think I care what year the wallpaper was printed?”
He glanced over his shoulder, out into the hallway, where only minutes before Muriel had been standing.
“Silver platter, huh? What’s her problem?” he asked.
“Apparently she wants her granddaughter to get my job. And just for the record, I’m not going to let that happen. I’m stubborn like that.”
He smiled and some of the Muriel-induced tension that had knotted my insides like a tightly wound rubber band eased up just like that. “Good for you. Don’t let her push you around.”
“I have a feeling before Marigold is back in shape, I’ll be offering you the same advice.”
“Muriel?” He made a face. “She doesn’t scare me.” He gave me a wink. “She doesn’t know how to hang wallpaper, and I do.”
It was something of a shock when I realized Jack Harkness had a superpower completely opposite Muriel’s. She could freeze with a glance. And Jack? He had a smile and a warm sense of humor.
“So . . .” He rubbed his hands together. “Where will we find my desk?”
“Upstairs, I’ve been told.” I pointed toward the ceiling. “In my part of the house.” His blank expression meant he didn’t need to ask. “I live here,” I explained. “At least, I’m going to live here until I can save up enough money to buy a house of my own. I’m staying in the old servants’ quarters.”
“Cool.” His eyes glistened, but then, I guess talking about the interesting ins and outs of old mansions is a sure way to a restorationist’s heart. “Maybe . . .” He took his time gathering the words. “Maybe we can get together sometime?”
A date?
Even I was a little surprised he’d
come right out and asked so quickly. But now that Jack was smiling and animated, now that he was actually engaged in conversation rather than pressing his nose to the vintage wallpaper in Marigold, it hit me that there was a lot about him that was attractive.
Great smile. No denying that.
Right thinking. He’d encouraged me not to give into Muriel’s bullying.
Good taste. He had, after all, seen something in me he found appealing.
That being said, I’m grateful I never let the word—date—slip from my lips because the next thing out of Jack’s mouth was, “I’m fascinated with light fixtures from the early twentieth century, when this house was built, and my guess is as time went on, they weren’t updated in the servants’ quarters like they must have been in the rest of the house. Maybe sometime I can come upstairs and have a look?”
I ignored the little spurt of disappointment that reminded me that jumping to conclusions was always a bad idea and made sure I added a smile so he’d never suspect that I’d nearly made a royal fool of myself. “That’s what you meant by getting together?”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to go up there without your permission.”
“Whatever,” I mumbled to myself and then, louder, told him, “Sure,” when I headed for the door.
Jack followed me. “Great.” He rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. “Let’s get to work.”
Work we did, and thank goodness Quentin wasn’t busy in the kitchen and was able to help. By early afternoon, we’d brought a desk, two worktables, a desk chair, a guest chair, and three bookcases into the Lilac Lounge, and we’d taken away the furniture that was in there before the transformation and carried it upstairs. I put one of the pretty little writing desks in my own rooms. The rest went into storage in the vast, drafty attic.
The unpacking and arranging, that was up to Jack, and watching him get to it, I stepped back and wiped a long cobweb from the front of my shirt. It was the first I realized that I had a smudge of dirt on my sleeve—I swiped at that, to no avail—and that my shoes were coated with dust.
“I’ve got a chamber of commerce meeting to head off to,” I told Jack. “Looks like I’ll need to change before I go. You’ve got everything you need?”
He’d already been down to his car for a crate of books and he was bent over it, emptying it book by book, peering at the spines, arranging them on the shelves. “I’m good,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”
* * *
* * *
The rest of the day passed at the speed of light. A quick shower. A change of clothes. A trip across town (I only got lost once) to the restaurant where every month, members of the Portage Path Chamber of Commerce got together to network. I was the new kid on the block, and as such, they gave me five minutes to introduce myself to the group and talk about my background. While I was at it, I reminded them all that the building that belonged to the Portage Path Women’s Club was beautiful, historic—and ideal for meetings, weddings, and retirement parties. By the time I talked one on one with members over dinner and listened to a guest speaker who touted the benefits of social media for small businesses, I was whooped. But my day wasn’t done. I stopped at the grocery store for basic supplies like peanut butter (in my humble opinion, the most perfect food on earth), sparkling water, canned soup, a bottle of wine, and some snacks.
It was early October, and by the time I arrived back at the club, it was dark.
No worries. The light above the main entrance went on dusk to dawn and, of course, I had a key. I went inside, rode the elevator to the second floor, then climbed the steps from there to my rooms on the third floor.
Once upon a time, the third floor had bustled with activity. When the Dennisons, the family of prestigious moguls who had built the house, were in residence, I imagined they had an army of servants, and there was room after room up there, some of them once used as sleeping quarters, others with brass plates outside their doors that said things like, Ironing Room, and Linens. According to what I’d been told when I hired on, my suite—a sitting room, a bath, a tiny bedroom, and a kitchen just big enough for a microwave and a mini fridge—had once belonged to the housekeeper, and as such, was the finest set of rooms on the floor.
At that point, fine was the last thing on my mind. I was bone tired, and I’d promised Aunt Rosemary I would call. First I’d check in with my aunt, then I’d celebrate surviving my first day on the job with a glass of wine and some cheese and crackers.
It wasn’t until I pulled out my phone that I realized it was nearly out of juice. So the cheese and crackers and wine would come first, I told myself, while the phone was on the charger. And that wasn’t such a bad thing.
Smiling, I pushed open the door to my suite, touched a hand to the switch on the wall.
And stopped dead in my tracks.
My room had been trashed!
I looked around—at the suitcases I had yet had time to empty now spilled on the floor, at the books that were once a neat TBR pile and were now strewn everywhere, at my notebook computer, open and running, even though I knew I’d shut it down before I left that afternoon.
My stomach bunched. My throat soured. The front door had been locked when I arrived back at the club and the security system was activated, which meant this had happened sometime before the last member had left for the day and locked the door behind her.
But who could have done such a thing?
And why?
I’d barely had a chance to wonder when all the lights flickered.
They winked.
They blinked.
And they finally went off.
CHAPTER 5
I counted to ten.
The lights did not come back on.
I waited longer.
Nothing.
“Don’t panic. Don’t panic,” I reminded myself and maybe I would have actually listened to the advice if I could hear my own voice above the noise of the jackhammering inside my chest. Someone had been in my rooms. Someone had been pawing through my things. Someone who might still be lurking—somewhere—in the dark.
My first thought was to grab my phone, to call the cops then activate the flashlight app. But no juice, remember.
My second thought?
Sad to say, it was Muriel.
Well, not exactly Muriel. More like something Muriel had said to me earlier in the day.
“Flashlights!” The word bumped along on my uneven breaths, and I carefully maneuvered my way through the dark, over my spilled suitcase and my tumbled books, toward the windows that looked out at the back of the building. “A flashlight on every windowsill. That’s what Muriel said.”
It wasn’t on windowsill number one. It wasn’t on windowsill number two. I’d pretty much convinced myself that the servants’ quarters and the business manager who lived in them weren’t deemed worthy of a flashlight when I groped around the sill of window number three and my hand met cold metal.
Like I was drowning and it was a life preserver, I grabbed it and held on tight, then turned on the flashlight.
Nothing happened.
People everywhere know there is only one cure for a nonworking flashlight. With the flat of my hand, I gave it a thwack.
The magic worked.
The flashlight flicked on.
The beam of light was yellow and anemic, but hey, it was light, and I followed its feeble shaft over and around the mess, and got down the stairs to the first floor. I’d never been in the basement of the club, but I knew the access door was just off the main entryway. While I stutter stepped my way there, I realized that for the first time, I was grateful for the undependable electricity in Aunt Rosemary’s house, the weird flickering of lights, and the fact that they sometimes turned on or off all by themselves. Aunt Rosemary, bless her wacky little heart, attributed it all to the influence of Spirit. I knew better, and early on, I’d l
earned to change a fuse like a pro.
All I had to do was hope that the flashlight wouldn’t poop out before I found the fuses and the fuse box and that the person who’d made a mess of my possessions wasn’t waiting in the shadows to ambush me. Finally where I was supposed to be, I pulled in a breath, steadied my shoulders, and yanked open the basement door.
A current of chilly air slapped my face. The scent of mildew and history wrapped around me and made my nose twitch. I started down. The railing on my left was wobbly, so I didn’t dare hold on too tight, but I glided my fingers along the surface, using it as a guide, inching my way down, my light barely strong enough to illuminate the next step in front of me.
When I stepped on something big and soft, I sucked in a breath of surprise that turned into a screech when my feet went out from under me. I made a grab for the railing, but it bowed and that threw me even more off-kilter. After that, it was impossible to keep upright. My feet tangled, my knees gave way, and then everything was a blur.
I wheeled. I tumbled. With a thud, I landed on the basement floor on my butt.
It took me a while to catch my breath. A minute, two, maybe more. At the same time my head spun, I thanked my lucky stars I hadn’t landed on it. I was sore, sure, and I’d be black and blue by morning, but I was pretty sure nothing was broken.
To test the theory, I wiggled my toes and stretched my arms over my head. It was the first I registered the fact that when I’d fallen, the flashlight had jumped out of my hand. It was ten feet across the basement, spinning, spinning, its light making crazy pinwheel patterns on the paneled walls. It stopped finally (which was a good thing because I was already dizzy from the fall and the whirling light didn’t help), its pallid glow illuminating a small patch of plain, unremarkable wall.
That is, until that patch glistened like moonlight on water.
My eyes were playing tricks on me. I was sure of it. I rubbed them, but that didn’t change a thing. In fact, it only made the weird lights brighter. The glistening settled into a shiny smudge, the smudge came into focus around the edges. It formed a picture. A picture of a woman.