Where There's a Will

by Virginia Hale

  Beth took off her jacket and slung it over a kitchen chair, lowering her laptop bag to the table. “Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me,” she chided.

  “Roses?” The smile in Dylan’s voice betrayed her. “I haven’t been sending you roses.”

  “You know I like roses.” She clicked her tongue. “It’s been three days in a row. My apartment looks like St. Valentine threw up.”

  Dylan slipped a bottle of milk from a condensation-skinned plastic bag. “Lucky you.” She threw a wink across the room as she opened the fridge.

  Beth took the sausages from the counter and moved to her. “I thought we’d moved past the whole rent thing. You’re wasting money.” She attempted to slip the trays into an empty space, but Dylan brushed her hand aside, mumbling about leaving space for the bacon.

  “I know what you’re doing,” Beth said as she peered over the fridge door at the top of Dylan’s head. “You’re trying to make up for the fact that I won’t take the rent money.”

  “Beth, that’s an interesting theory you have there.” She reached across the table for the packet of bacon in butcher’s paper.

  “Seriously,” she pressed. “It’s getting out of control.”

  Dylan chuckled.

  “It’s starting to look strange to Rose.”

  Suddenly, Dylan dropped the meat keeper shut and closed the fridge. “What does it matter what Rose thinks?” she asked, her expression blank. “She doesn’t know who’s sending you flowers.”

  Beth blinked, taken back by the defensive lilt in Dylan’s voice. “Exactly,” she stressed. “It matters because it looks like I’m either somebody’s illicit mistress or…” She trailed off at the sight of Dylan’s blank expression shifting into one of discomfort. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  Dylan’s jaw set hard. “I know Rose. Like, I’ve known her.”

  Beth quirked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve slept with her,” Dylan blurted. “A lot. A few times. More than a few times.”

  “You and Rose?”

  “Is that so hard to imagine?”

  “No, no,” Beth stuttered. She splayed her fingers against her breastbone. Her brain seemed to short-circuit as she tried to picture the two of them together, the oddly alluring rigidity of Rose, the delightful wildness of Dylan. It was an odd chemistry, but undeniably, chemistry all the same. The image was clear in her mind, and surprisingly unsettling. She licked her lips. “I’m just surprised that she’s your type.”

  Dylan’s eyes bore into hers. “I don’t have a type.”

  Her mental cogs turned, slow and heavy. Did Dylan have feelings for Rose? Did she still have feelings for her? “So when Rose acknowledged that you knew each other…” She paused, connecting the dots. “Right.”

  No wonder Dylan had left so quickly. And here Beth was thinking that Dylan’s sudden departure had been instigated by not wanting to discuss selling. She worked on filling the fruit bowl, her heart hammering at the realisation that she had been made the fool.

  Dylan propped a hand against the counter. “I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t know if she wanted me to.” She massaged the back of her neck and looked down. “It wasn’t serious, more of an on-off thing. We kind of put the brakes on it a while ago. She’s out of my league and both of us knew it.”

  She ignored Dylan’s self-pity. “You don’t have to explain it to me,” she said shortly. “It’s none of my business.”

  “Right. It’s just that it’s been playing on my mind since that night we went back to your place and…I just didn’t want for it to come out down the track and for you to wonder why I hadn’t said anything.” With a heavy sigh, she dropped her gaze. “Don’t tell her I sent you the flowers, okay?” she asked softly.

  Her blood ran hot. “Why not?” Her throat tightened around the words.

  “Because she’ll think it means something more.”

  An ache set low in Beth’s chest. “Fine.” She rationalised that Dylan had only been sending her flowers in lieu of paying rent, but she couldn’t deny that receiving flowers from somebody as young and attractive as Dylan was a welcomed attention that had secretly thrilled her.

  “And can you not bring this up with Rose?”

  “Believe me, I have zero interest in ever talking about this again.”

  The moment Beth’s response slipped through her lips, she looked up, alarmed. She had no idea she was capable of sounding like that. Her reply was thick with jealousy, and like a charge, heat burned low in her belly at the sight of Dylan’s stunned expression.

  “Beth…” Dylan hesitated. “I’m sorry. It’s really no big deal. I just thought you should know.”

  She nodded. “I know, but she’s my landlord, and you’re my friend, and it makes things awkward for me now. It makes me look stupid. Feel stupid.”

  The gravity of Dylan’s stare was unnerving. “It really has nothing to do with you.”

  Dylan was right—it had nothing to do with her. So why were the blood red apples beginning to blur in front of her eyes? Why was she so angry?

  Beth looked out the window at a small van making its way down the driveway. The first of the two foreign bus tours they had booked for the day. At the sound of the engine, Dylan looked up from the groceries. “Do you mind finishing this?” she murmured.

  Beth shook her head. “It’s fine.”

  “Thanks.” Her pulse slowed as Dylan crossed the kitchen to the back door. “So, uhh…last tour is at two today, so we have a good three hours to get things ready before the sleepover group arrives.”

  She nodded, attempting to calm her breathing.

  “Have a good morning,” Dylan offered.

  “You too.”

  Beth watched through the window as Dylan crossed the turning circle to the gift shop, a grin plastered on her face for the first guests of the day. She exhaled deeply. Of all days that Dylan had to tell her about Rose, it had to be one where they’d be spending the next twenty-four hours together.

  As she tossed a plastic bag into the empty bin beneath the sink, she caught sight of a crumpled, yellow Post-it at the back of the cupboard. She bent low and reached inside for the piece of paper that had obviously missed the bin. She unfolded the note. Although the words had been scribbled out, the writing was still legible.

  I haven’t enjoyed a sleepover that much in years. –Miss Sarah Blaxland

  When it happened, Beth was alone in the parlour.

  The mower was a faint hum outside. She’d opened every window downstairs to ventilate their sleeping space, and the aroma of freshly cut grass danced on a crisp breeze throughout the first floor, down the hallway and into the sitting room. Beth couldn’t see Dylan through the opened parlour windows, but she knew she was close by, neatening the gardens for their impending overnight guests.

  Beth unwound the vacuum cord from its barrel and got down on her hands and knees to plug it into the power point between the mannequins. “Sorry Sarah, sorry Mrs Blaxland.” Her shoulders ruffled the wide skirts of the dummies. Sarah’s hard leg was pressed against her elbow, and as Beth pulled back, Sarah wobbled to and fro beside her stepmother.

  Beth flicked the vacuum on. She slid the head across the carpet, beneath the tables, under the claw-footed cabinets, around the mannequins. All the while, she tried to expunge her troubling thoughts.

  Hours had passed, and still, she couldn’t get Dylan’s revelation out of her mind. She’d moved on from imagining alabaster skin and Dylan’s long fingers closed in Rose’s hair, but the image had progressed to a more irritating consideration—at the mention of Rose, Dylan had seemed upset. How had it ended between them? Had it ended between them? Beth had never seen anybody come by Rose’s house at night, and she’d know if Dylan ever had company…wouldn’t she?

  She’d been spending so much time at the homestead with Dylan, especially the past few weeks. Weeks. Her chest tightened. Just how closely did Dylan’s breakup with Rose cross over with Dylan’s sudden inv
estment in Beth and their increasing closeness? They’d managed to get along in May, grown closer in June, but July was different. Was Beth just a distraction until Dylan found her way back to Rose?

  Judging by Dylan’s despondent claim that Rose was out of her league, Beth gathered that the relationship hadn’t ended by Dylan’s choice. Had Rose really made Dylan feel that way—undeserving, not quite good enough? Indignation sparked in Beth. How dare Rose? The thought was as weighted as the memory of Dylan calling it an “on-off thing.” She didn’t know what she hated more—the idea that they’d had a relationship, or that it was based on casual sex. If it were the latter, Beth’s consolation prize was that she had shared with Dylan what Rose had not—quiet dinners, a common interest, playful teasing and playing house. Sex was sex, but they’d built something special.

  So what do you think is going to happen when you decide to sell? Beth’s conscience toyed. How do you think your friendship’s going to hold up when you drive a wedge through it?

  At the very thought, the vacuum cut off.

  Beth was stricken by the sudden silence. She stared down at the head of the vacuum cleaner—paused directly under the loveseat on which Garland Blaxland had lain dead.

  The parlour air thickened. Beth’s stomach turned. She swallowed, trying to focus on the groan of the mower around the side of the house, but the pulse in her ears roared.

  She leaned down and flicked off the dead vacuum. Her hand shook as she flicked it back on again. Nothing. She stepped toward the wall. With a hand on each Blaxland woman’s hip, she peered between the mannequins. Her mouth went dry. The plug was still firmly in the wall.

  Had Elma done this? Had she somehow known what Beth was thinking?

  Beth sprinted down the hallway, through the kitchen, pushed open the back door and took the south steps two at a time.

  She was halfway across the lawn when Dylan looked up. She pushed her ear muffs back, her smile falling at the sight of Beth’s frightened expression. “What’s up?” she called over the deafening rumble of the mower.

  Before she could stop herself, Beth shot a trembling arm toward the house. “I think somebody’s inside,” she shouted.

  Dylan’s hand shot up to push her sunglasses to the top of her head. Her eyes were wide. “Are you okay?” she yelled.

  “I’m…”

  Dylan was already charging toward the homestead, the mower left roaring.

  Oh god, she thinks an actual person is in there. She felt dizzy, like she had as a child after throwing her head backward off a swing. “Wait! Dylan!” Beth chased after her across the uneven ground. “Dylan! There’s nobody in there!” Louder this time, she called her name again, flushing with confusion and embarrassment as she watched Dylan tear open the front door. “I just…the vacuum cut off,” she called out. “There’s nobody in there!”

  Dylan spun on the veranda. Completely perplexed, she looked down at Beth like she was crazy. “What the hell, Beth?” Her head whipped from her view of the hallway of the homestead to the driveway. “You said there was someone inside!”

  Beth panted as she came to a stop. She gripped the veranda railing and pressed a hand to her heaving chest. “I’m sorry, I freaked out.”

  Dylan blinked twice. “I don’t understand…” She glared back into the house. “Is there anyone in there or not?”

  Beth blanched. “No.”

  “No?” She locked eyes with Beth. “Are you sure?”

  “I…I pushed the head of the vac under the loveseat in the parlour. Like right up in the corner…and it cut off.”

  Understanding dawned on Dylan’s expression. “Okay.” She traced her teeth with her tongue and looked into the house. “Come on, then. Show me this poltergeist.”

  Heart pounding, she led Dylan down the hallway and into the parlour.

  Dylan circled the vacuum. “It just cut off?”

  Hovering in the doorway, she watched as Dylan crouched before the possessed appliance and flicked the white button on the front of the barrel. Nothing.

  “Did you try changing power points?”

  “No.”

  “That could be the issue.” Shuffling between the mannequins, Dylan sank to her hands and knees. At the disturbance, Garland Blaxland wobbled beside his wife and glared back at Beth, his glass eyes taunting.

  “Be careful, Dyl.”

  “God, this socket is tight,” Dylan groaned, her shirt tightening across her back as she worked on yanking the cord out. Beth watched as the muscles danced beneath her shirt. She sat back on her heels and flicked the outlet on, the click catching on the thick air of the parlour like flint to steel.

  Nothing.

  Dylan crawled back past the Blaxlands. She unlocked the barrel, shifted the lid back on, and tried the switch again. “I think the fuse blew,” she muttered. “Vac’s ancient.”

  Beth licked her lips. How could she begin to explain her fear, the genuine awareness of something there? “I feel silly now.”

  Dylan shook her head. “Nothing to feel silly about.” She rubbed her palms on her thighs and stood. “Look, I’m sure Mrs Blaxland wouldn’t pull the plug on you vacuuming. God knows I don’t clean this room enough,” she joked.

  Beth sighed, unable to shake the feeling. If Dylan knew that she’d been thinking about selling when the vacuum had died, she’d understand. Of all the spots in the room, the vacuum had died under that seat. Beth wrapped her arms around herself. “I just…I felt like it wasn’t a fuse, you know?” Silence settled. Her face heated. “Honestly, I feel so stupid.”

  Dylan’s expression twisted empathetically. “Look, I’ve had stuff happen in here…”

  “You have?” She pressed off the doorjamb and moved into the room. She’d asked the question weeks before in the gift shop and Dylan hadn’t given her a straight answer. Instead, they’d argued about Elma’s funeral. “What’s happened?” Beth asked softly.

  Dylan rubbed the back of her neck. “You really want to know?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ve heard footsteps at night. Sometimes things rattle. Sometimes there are foul smells.”

  Their eyes locked. It was true. Dylan wasn’t making it up to make her feel less idiotic. “That doesn’t frighten you?” Beth asked.

  Dylan dropped her gaze and summoned a breath. She released it with puffed cheeks, as though she were haunted by something else entirely. “No. I don’t really think any Blaxland ghosts lingering in here would see me as a threat.” She paused. “And I don’t think they’d see you as a threat either,” she said, so certain, so believing. “You’re too sweet.”

  The trust in that dimpled smile dizzied Beth with shame.

  “You all right, Beth?”

  She nodded.

  “I really do think the vac just blew a fuse. It’s had it.” Dylan looked around at the small tables Beth had shifted to get to the skirting boards. “You want me to help you finish up in here? There’s a spare vac in the hall closet. I could grab it and give you a hand?”

  Yes. “No, no, you can go back to mowing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  No. “Yes.”

  Dylan studied her for a moment. “Well, I’m outside if you want me.”

  The press of Dylan’s hand as it drifted across the small of her back was meant to ground her, comfort her, but it only wired her all the more, the loss of touch reminding her that she was alone. Her awareness sharpened as she stood stock-still in the centre of the room, listening as the screen door slammed behind Dylan. The rhythm of the mower changed as Dylan got back to work.

  She thought about trying the other vacuum in the outlet, testing if it really was just a fuse, but she couldn’t be in the parlour any longer.

  Hurriedly, she shifted the pieces of furniture back into place, trying to focus on the sound of Dylan working outside, reminding herself that she wasn’t as alone as she felt. She rolled the vacuum into the hallway and swapped it for the other, relieved when it rumbled violently the moment she plugged it into t
he outlet behind the hallway table.

  Finishing the stairs, Beth hauled it up to the second floor. From Sarah’s bedroom, sunlight poured across the hardwood floor of the upstairs hallway. She paused, rested the vacuum against the bannister and moseyed inside.

  Strangely, of all places, she had always felt most relaxed in the murderess’ bedroom. Nobody had died in there. Beth had written two chapters of her thesis hunched over Sarah’s desk, Elma bringing her cups of tea as she worked.

  Beth toed off her shoes and lay atop the covers, the mattress firm beneath her. She linked her hands over her stomach, felt the rise and fall of her breath, and suddenly everything caught up to her at once. No longer was the hum of the mower comforting. It only served as a reminder that Dylan worked so hard, and that she adored the homestead like its history belonged to her. What would happen to Dylan if they sold? The house was her life, her work, her home. When Elma died, she’d gifted Beth a million-dollar property and a prosperous business—to Dylan, she’d left purpose.

  She blinked back tears. From the moment they’d met, she’d known Dylan would never suggest selling. Regardless of what Dylan wanted for herself, even if a small part of her wanted to move on, she cared too much about protecting the house and its future. But so did Beth. It wasn’t as though they were selling to developers who would bulldoze the house—the property had been listed on the State Heritage Register decades ago. And with Brian and the Association, they were guaranteed that the house would remain open to the public, just as Elma had wanted. Maybe knowing that would make it easier for Dylan. Maybe.

  The mower shut off, and the sudden silence screeched that Beth was only lying to herself.

  Blurry-eyed, she stared up at the ornate, dust-covered lightshade. The sunlight caught the crystal drops of the chandelier, throwing coloured orbs across Sarah’s bedroom walls. Money could drive people to do terrible things. But in the grand scheme of things, was what Beth wanted so very dreadful?