Embers

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  "No. Not there," she said tersely. Now what? Her father had obviously witnessed and foiled her plan. She felt she had to explain. "Uncle Billy wouldn't give me a loan," she said bitterly. "Your own brother."

  "You knew that before you ever asked him," her father said, lifting the crate of rags as if it were filled with rocks. He paused on his way past her. "The only reason you bothered with him at all was to justify — well, other moves."

  He took the crate outside and came back for the second one. "I don't know about you, girl, but I'll feel a whole lot better with these rags out in the open air. Because you never know. Let's say they — spontaneously — erupted in flames. The insurance company would be all over us like a cheap suit, charging negligence or who knows what. There could be complications — big, legal complications."

  He was so tall and thin and stooped and kind, the exact opposite of his brother. He gave Meg a sad little smile and said, "Besides, the dollhouse is all we got left, for better or worse, of your grandmother. You know?"

  Meg was so ashamed. Everett Atwells had never cheated anyone in his life. In his quiet way, he'd just given her every reason not to torch the house but one: it was wrong. That, he was letting her figure out for herself.

  "I don't know what I was thinking, Dad," she said with downcast eyes.

  "You were thinking we could use a change of luck," he said, and turned off the lights to the doll house. "Don't worry," he added, nudging her out of the shed with the milk crate. "It's bound to change."

  Chapter 23

  Their luck did change, but not for the better. Incredibly, Meg got a call the next day from the wife of a second cousin who happened to be the mother of a young man engaged to a secretary whose downtown lunch mate's sister-in-law worked for one of Bar Harbor's best-known probate attorneys. The word was that Joyce Fells was planning to challenge Orel Tremblay's bequest of the dollhouse to Meg.

  And there wasn't a damn thing Meg could do about it except hire an attorney herself to defend her prize.

  "You know, even for a nightmare, this is getting tired," she told Comfort, who had stopped by the Inn Between to check on their progress and feed them lunch. "It's like there's some big wet cloud above my head that won't go away. Sometimes it rains, sometimes it pours, and sometimes it just plain drizzles. But it won't go away."

  "Do you think Joyce Fells was right?" asked Comfort with a worried look in the direction of the shed. "That the dollhouse is rightfully hers, and that it carries a curse for anyone else?"

  "That's Allie's theory, not Joyce's," Meg said, pushing half of her huge tuna-fish sandwich on her sister-in-law.

  Meg added, "I think the dollhouse is something, though. Not cursed, exactly, but imbedded with some kind of energy. Although, who knows? Lately it just sits there, doing nothing."

  "Oh, it could be dangerous, Meggie, it could be; you don't know," said Comfort. "Come back with me to Uncle Billy's," she pleaded.

  How anxious Comfort looked to Meg; how beaten down by events. Her pale green eyes seemed to wash out to a lighter shade after every bout of tears. It was the pregnancy, of course; that was how she was with the twins, too. Meg should never have been so candid with her about the dollhouse just now. That was the kind of thing she could share with Allie, not with poor, misnamed Comfort.

  So Meg laughed reassuringly and said, "I think everything that could happen has happened. I'll be fine here, Comfort. I'm still working through the bookings — did I tell you I'm offering a half-price rate? — and now I'm making inquiries everywhere I can to sell the dollhouse."

  "Before Joyce Fells can stop you?"

  "You bet," Meg said dryly, and changed the subject. "Okay, tell me what this typing assignment is you have for me."

  Comfort took a letter typed on heavy stationery out of her bag. "I took this to the hospital because I thought it might cheer Allie up. I knew it was good news because I held the envelope up to the light and saw the words 'very pleased' in it," she admitted, blushing.

  Meg scanned through the letter, which was an enthusiastic job offer from the Castle Inn in Chicago — the first, no doubt, of two or three.

  "But Allie dictated this to me," Comfort said, taking out a note written on the back of the letter's envelope. "I don't know how to type business letters; can you do it? She's turning it down, Meg, I don't know why. She don't have to see him. It's a big city. And look, they offered her so much money, more than she could ever get around here. Why don't she take it?"

  Meg scanned the gracefully worded refusal. "Because money isn't everything, Comfort," she said, sighing. "Even though it seems that way right now to you and me."

  ****

  Comfort left with her newly typed rejection, and Meg went back to her phone work. Through her open window she heard Tom's Cutlass pull up; Lloyd had mentioned that Tom would be coming back to help. Meg was careful to stay upstairs for as long as they stayed downstairs. Later in the day she watched from her window as both men loaded the pickup for a dump run, then said good-bye to each other.

  Tom had his hand on the door to his car when he looked up suddenly at Meg's lace-covered window. She stepped back quickly, like a nosy neighbor caught in the act. It was wrenching to have him so close. Couldn't he see that? Did he have to behave so reasonably — helping just because they needed help? He was supposed to have gone back to Chicago by now. If he was going, then he ought to just — go. Why drag it out?

  With a heavy heart she dragged herself back to her list of potential saviors. Meg had thrown her net wide and far, and so far she hadn't caught a thing. It was almost unnatural. She'd left tempting messages on answering machines of miniatures dealers and collectors all over the country; they couldn't all be out of town. Still, for the moment there was nothing to do but wait.

  That was hard. For one thing, Meg wanted to run out and double-check the shed. She couldn't shake the fear that Joyce Fells was going to steal the dollhouse — lock, stock, dolls, and bedboards. But Meg was a hostage to her phone. So she brewed more tea, and paced from room to room, stopping once in a while to stare through a window into the foggy night, and tried to pretend that the house didn't stink to high heaven.

  The silence, inside and out, was unnerving. Meg missed the random shouts of the twins, and the quiet murmurs of the guests, and the bouncy laughter of their latest chambermaid, a college girl from Ireland. She missed Lloyd's gentle grousing, and Comfort's call to supper, and Allie's high-spirited babble.

  She felt so alone. Even the pets were gone. The cats had passed through the house and decided, apparently, to stay with friends. Meg would've liked to keep Coughdrop with her, but Terry, convinced that the dog would come down with asthma from the fumes, had talked his great-uncle into taking his pet too. So now Meg was left with the sound of her own silence, broken only by the squeaking of the old oak floors under her bare feet, and the low moan of a foghorn drifting through the open windows.

  When the phone rang, she jumped sky-high. Praying for a fairy godmother to be at the other end, she said eagerly, "Yes?"

  "Mrs. Hazard?" asked a voice that sent shivers through her. "This is Gordon Camplin. We met at the Children's Charity dance at Fairlawn."

  Not a fairy godmother. Meg took a deep breath and said, "I remember."

  "I'm glad," he said pleasantly. "Do you remember singing the praises of the Eagle's Nest miniature? You invited me to come by and see it. I confess I didn't have much interest at the time; but now I understand that the replica is being offered for sale. Is it?"

  The answer was almost impossible to get out: "Y-yes." Not him! Anyone but him!

  "Have you fixed a price?"

  "I ... I'm open to offers," she forced herself to say. This can't be happening.

  "The reason I ask is, I'm flying to Nice tomorrow to visit my daughter. We were talking earlier, and I happened to mention the miniature, and she was very curious to know what condition it was in — whether all the pieces were still there, that sort of thing. She seems to remember it quite well, or to
think she does. Of course it was never a toy; but a three-year-old sees things differently from an adult. In any case, she was thrilled to know it was being made available."

  "She's welcome to look at it," Meg said faintly. "Naturally."

  A daughter. Meg couldn't deny an innocent daughter.

  "She's asked me to look at it and advise her. "I told her I wouldn't have the time; but as it turns out, I do. It's terribly short notice, I know. But if I could have five minutes —"

  "I was just about to go to bed," Meg blurted stupidly. It was eight thirty.

  "Oh? Well, maybe someone else is available to show it?"

  "There's no —" But she was loath to admit she was alone in the house. "When ... when can you be here?" she said, struggling to handle this unexpected twist. Her mind was reeling; the sound of his voice was making her completely irrational.

  "I'm just downtown," he said, sounding relieved.

  Shuddering, Meg said, "I'll give you directions."

  "No need," he said cheerfully. "I know just where you are."

  Meg hung up in a state of shock. The one thing she hadn't anticipated was the worst thing: that Gordon Camplin might still care enough to pay hard cash for the dollhouse. It was a hideous thought. She didn't think for a minute that he was looking at the house for his daughter's sake. He was coming because he couldn't stand not to, because the rumors and stories had begun to pile up.

  Meg knew Bar Harbor. Her uncle had told everyone about the secret compartment, trying to drum up interest in a sale. That, coupled with Tom's remarks at the dance about the dollhouse being haunted, was enough to bring Gordon Camplin scuttling to the Inn Between. Maybe he was merely curious; after all, he was leaving for Nice and couldn't be sure the dollhouse would still be around when he returned.

  Maybe he had thoughts of hiding behind his daughter's skirts and buying the dollhouse for himself, now that he knew it was for sale. Maybe he wanted to relive the moment over and over in the privacy of his fantasies. Meg had heard of sicker things.

  Maybe he wanted to know if Meg had found his letter. What if he'd figured it all out — where Margaret Atwells had stuffed the letter at the last minute? He might have forgotten all about the secret compartment until Uncle Billy went blabbing around town about it. All these years, he hadn't known the dollhouse even existed; there'd been no cause to worry. But now he had a reason to worry, and an excuse to come.

  And she was alone.

  She went into a subtle panic, not enough to be considered hysteria, just enough for her to change quickly into a smock with big pockets and drop a small folding knife, with the blade open, into the right one. This time, she thought, I'll be prepared. And then she realized: there'd been no other time.

  So her grandmother was still around, after all.

  Meg raced through the house, turning on every lamp; the place was as bright as a baseball park for a night game. After that she took up a post in the front room near the window. She remembered Tom's words at the Children's Charity dance:

  "You watch and you wait."

  He hadn't told her it would be in a state of terror.

  Get a grip, she told herself. He's an old man; why should you worry? Old men don't kill. They certainly don't rape.

  Still, at the last minute she dashed into the sitting room and turned on the television, then swung through the kitchen and turned on the radio there. She wanted the Inn Between to look as though it was up and running, a happy place to be. By the time she got back to her post, a dark gray Mercedes had pulled up and Gordon Camplin was walking to the front door. In the golden light of the porch fixture he looked younger and fitter than a man his age was supposed to look, and far more grim than would be expected of a man running a pleasant errand for his daughter.

  The effect on Meg was overwhelming. Her stomach constricted as if she'd taken a vicious blow, and her heart began to hammer violently. This was a dreadful form of fear, utterly new to her, more intense even than the fear she'd felt when she was unpacking the little dollhouse bed. She was in danger of fainting on the spot and had to grab the doorknob to steady herself. At the same time, Camplin was lifting the brass knocker on the other side and dropping it in three firm raps.

  The result was electric. A current of terror seemed to make a circuit through the door, leaving her limp from the jolt of it. Her head told her there was nothing to fear on the other side, but her spirit — her spirit was making another connection altogether. She rallied herself and swung the door wide, ready for the dread engagement.

  "Hello; I see you found me," she said with a lift of her chin.

  "There wasn't a doubt in the world," he said amiably. He seemed much less startled by the sight of her than he'd been at the Children's Charity dance. Whatever he'd felt there, he obviously had that emotion thoroughly under control. He began to say something, then suddenly stopped and grimaced.

  "Oh, my — kerosene, is that it?" he ventured.

  The smell. She'd forgotten completely about it. So much for her illusion of a fully booked inn. "It's just a little problem we had with our oil tank," she said quickly. "It's all fixed. Everyone's been very understanding. Well, shall we take a look at the dollhouse? It's out back," she said, stepping around him and closing the door behind her. She had an intense aversion to letting him enter her family's house; she'd sooner let in a mangy pit bull.

  "Lead the way," he said.

  As they walked around the house from front to back, Camplin made small talk about the difference between historically correct miniatures and dollhouses, which he explained were merely children's toys. His manner seemed tense and on guard.

  No more than hers. Meg said curtly, "I like calling it a dollhouse."

  She hated being in front of him, but the fog was thick and parts of the yard were unlit; she had no choice but to go first. She had little reason to assume he meant to harm her; what she was feeling, she decided, was an inherited dread.

  Finally they reached the shed. Jittery from the nearness of him, all her senses on hyper-alert, Meg reached into her left pocket for her keys and opened the lock, then stepped inside the shed and turned on, first the dim overhead bulb, and then the dollhouse lights.

  "This is it," she said unnecessarily.

  She was not prepared for the intensity of Camplin's reaction. He let out a gasp, a kind of "oh-h" sound that had an undercurrent of emotions she couldn't begin to understand. He took a step back, as if he truly had seen a ghost. Suddenly the burden of fear seemed to shift from Meg to him. She watched with increasing fascination as he stood there slightly open- mouthed, staring at the dollhouse. The lattice pattern of light from its windows played on his body like the web of a spider, pinning him to the spot. "Uh-h-h," he murmured, stricken.

  The light from the dollhouse seemed to pulsate, like the rhythm of a heartbeat: stronger, fainter, stronger, fainter. At the same time, each rhythmic beat became brighter and more penetrating, until the air crackled with energy.

  Camplin's face became contorted with fear. "Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God," he kept repeating. He wiped the sweat on his brow backward into his carefully groomed gray hair, then dragged his hands down across his cheeks, pulling his lower lip out in a grotesquely distorted expression of horror. His eyes were wide open, yet unseeing.

  The pulsating light became more intense, dazzling Meg completely, preventing her from seeing any more of his reaction.

  Fearful suddenly that the dollhouse was about to burst into flame in some ghastly ritual reenactment, Meg reached for its cord and yanked it out of the shed outlet. The dollhouse became dark once more; the crackling air around it became quiescent.

  Stunned by the intensity of the event and yet feeling strangely, deeply triumphant, Meg said in a low voice, "I don't think it's lost any of its potency over the years — do you?"

  Camplin was breathing heavily, still trying to recover. He looked to Meg like a man who's had one leg caught in hell and somehow managed to escape, leaving his shoe behind. "What?" he said, slac
k-jawed. "Potency? It's a ... a dollhouse," he said, almost slurring the words. "That's all."

  "Oh, no," she argued gently. "You were quite right. It's a very accurate miniature. Of Eagle's Nest. I'm sure it brings back memories for you? Of the good times ... and the bad?"

  He looked at her with a haggard, sideways glance. Then he seemed to pull himself together and straighten his spine. It was as if he was re-forming himself after being torn apart. She was in awe of that ability in him; of the phenomenal power of his will.

  "It brings back nothing at all," he said in an ugly croak.

  "How odd," Meg answered, her own spine stiffening in response. "It evokes so many memories for me — and I wasn't even there. But I can see my grandmother rushing around in her lavender dress on the day of the fire: reassuring your children, gathering their things, packing their favorite toys for the evacuation.

  "I can see her hurrying through the nursery," Meg went on, "grabbing your daughter's little blanket and wrapping it around her shoulders to keep her snug and warm. It's all so crystal clear to me."

  Camplin stood in hostile amazement on the other side of the dollhouse from her, refusing to rise to her bait. But she wasn't finished with him.

  Bolder now and more contemptuous of him than ever, she said, "Everyone assumed that my grandmother was overcome by smoke when she supposedly returned to the nursery for something or other, because everyone knew how much she loved your children. What was it you told the press — that she must have been looking for your daughter's teddy bear? How plausible that must've sounded."

  "Because it was plausible," he said, stepping deliberately away from the dollhouse.

  Meg watched him warily. "Plausible, but not true. My grandmother wasn't in the nursery when she died," Meg said. "The nursery wouldn't have had a lock on the door. But I know the room she died in was locked; she couldn't escape from it. She was trapped in your bedroom."

  Meg watched Camplin's jaw clench and a minimal smile form on his lips. "My bedroom? You're suggesting she was a thief as well as a poor nursemaid?"