“You look terrible,” Casey said as he beamed light on her face.
Kate was too upset to protest. “Thank you for bringing the groceries.” She nodded at two paper bags sitting on the kitchen floor. They had made the loud thump. She sat down weakly.
“Are you sure you’re able to cope with this place yourself?” Casey asked, eyeing her quizzically.
“Of course I am. I just wasn’t prepared and didn’t think ahead.”
He nodded and competently set about getting her organized. He showed her how to operate the kerosene lamps, quickly re-lit the fires, and put on a pot of coffee.
“You’ve been inside before, then,” she said, noting his familiarity.
“Yes. I’ve spent some time here,” he said shortly, offering no further explanation.
His visit was short and when he was gone, Kate quickly prepared herself for bed.
Chapter 4
She slept soundly. Once .she felt an insistent pressure against the small of her back. Too groggy to be alarmed, she reached out to find the cat stretched alongside. I must remember to ask Casey about you, she reminded herself.
It was eight o’clock. She lay still, enjoying the sounds of the day. How different from home where the day began with the sounds of people starting cars, the rush of running water, trucks and buses squealing past!
“Okay, manor lady. Time to wake up, smarten up, and get up,” she said to herself. “My goodness, one certainly doesn’t dawdle without central heating. I’m getting to be pretty soft.”
She quickly donned slacks and sweater and lit the cook stove quite proficiently. Within thirty minutes she had a promising-looking fire and not too much smoke. She put her groceries into the cupboards, taking time to admire their handcrafted beauty.
Casey had told her that there was a good supply of firewood in the shed beside the house. He had cut it himself for the Bourkes in the spring before the tourist season began.
“You don’t have time to tend to anything but catering to and watching those characters,” he had explained. “They think they have a God-given right to anything on the island. They don’t care where they chop a tree or light a fire. Sets everyone on edge having them around. We sure don’t encourage them to come back.”
“Oh, how foolish,” she exclaimed. “Surely, everyone who lives here depends to some extent on the tourist dollar. I’d assumed that was the major island industry—tourists, I mean.”
“We can manage fine without them,” he said with disdain.
She was thinking over this philosophy as she stepped through the door to get wood. As she turned toward the shed, she caught a glimpse of a figure slipping quickly behind the building. Kate stiffened.
“Hello,” she called tentatively. It had just been a quick, dark flash, but she was sure that it had been someone. She waited, straining for a sound or movement. She glanced apprehensively at the house, the woodshed, and the tangled garden, which still dripped from last night’s rain. Everything looked innocent and peaceful. Perhaps her imagination was running away from her, but all the same she felt an uneasy reluctance to go into the shed.
Well, I can’t hide in the house all day with no wood, she decided at last. Glancing about nervously, she flung open the shed door, quickly gathered an armload of aromatic birch wood, and hastened back to the kitchen door. She booted it with the toe of her sneaker. The door stayed firmly shut. With a sinking feeling of dismay, she deposited her load on the step and again peered anxiously about before reaching for the knob. She turned and pushed, rattling it demandingly. But the door was definitely locked. She fought the sudden urge to cry. Getting a quick grip on herself, she tried to decide if the door had closed automatically behind her and was of the self- locking type or if someone had deliberately locked her out.
Her only key was inside on the kitchen shelf. What about the closed living-room door last night? she thought with mounting hysteria. No, that must have been a coincidence—drafts in the house or perhaps the cat. Of course! she realized with a sigh of relief. The cat could easily brush a door shut. Perhaps he had even been trained to shut doors. She would ask Casey. Right now, she had to get into the house before the fire went out or she would have to start all over again.
Feeling considerably more optimistic, she surveyed her situation and began trying to pry open the lower windows. It was odd that there was only the one door. The windows were stubborn. The damp air, she supposed, caused the wood to swell and stick. At last, standing on an upturned log and wedged between a tall juniper tree and the house, she gained enough leverage to force a window up about eighteen inches.
She scrambled through, brushed back a tangle of drapery, and found herself in a room that she had not yet explored. She gasped in surprise. The room was crammed with Indian artifacts; enough to fill a museum room. Despite being upset, she was enchanted with the strong simplicity of the ceremonial masks lining the walls. Beaded leatherwork, tools, furs, baskets, and even a canoe were among the objects. Here was the complete history and culture of the people who were once the only inhabitants of the island.
She stopped her musings as she heard the unmistakable clatter of the stove lid. Reaching impulsively for the only door, she was astonished to find that it was merely a closet, packed with elaborately beaded and fringed Indian garments. There had to be another door.
“Who’s there?” she called. “What do you want?” No answer but the sound of movement, the door opening and then the crunch of footsteps on the shale of the garden pkth. Hurrying to the window, she again caught the fleeting figure of a man hurrying through the woodlot beyond. He was quickly lost from view.
Confused, she turned her attention back to the curious room. She tentatively skimmed her hands along the walls—they were definitely solid. Gingerly, she removed the garments from the closet, draping them over the canoe. She plunged into the depths of the closet until, after a few yards, she came to more hanging garments—but these were woolen and redolent of mothballs. Ducking through them, she found a doorknob and emerged shakily in the living room. She paused breathlessly; the house was still and quiet. To her right at the end of the living room she could see double paneled doors slightly ajar. She walked quickly over and peered into what looked like the library. As she had not noticed the doors last night, they must have been closed then, she surmised. The man in the house must have been in there. Had he slipped in while she was getting wood? Why and what had he put in the stove? She scurried to the kitchen and peered into the fire in time to see shreds of curling paper burst into flame.
The door was open, she noted almost with satisfaction. It was tangible evidence that she hadn’t imagined the whole thing. But what was the purpose? she wondered grimly as she stacked the wood in the cupboard. After carefully propping the door open, she made several trips to the woodshed. She felt rather foolish as she backed out for each load, never taking her eyes off the door. At last the cupboard was full. She examined the doorknob. It was the self-locking type. She would simply have to be sure to keep the key with her always.
As she puttered about making breakfast, she suddenly realized that Casey had come in last night. He had opened the door and come in. The implication hit her with full impact. He had simply walked in. He had a key. Had he been her visitor this morning? If so, why had he been so furtive?
The cat rubbed against her ankles. “Are you the mischief-maker around here?” she asked, but he didn’t appear too interested in her. She poured a saucer of milk. “Here, kitty,” she called as she sat it on the floor beside the stove. The cat sniffed at the dish in a desultory manner before stretching lazily.
“Why, someone has been feeding you. You are fat and sleek!”
She heated dishwater and straightened up the kitchen a bit. It really was cheery—a warm, lived- in room. Nearly all of the dishes were of exceptionally fine quality. It seemed indecent to use them for such a mundane meal. Perhaps she could find a few flowers to put on the round oak table. It was a kitchen after her own heart, so muc
h at odds with the sterile efficiency of her chrome and plastic apartment kitchenette.
Digging out a notebook and pen from her bag, she began a quick inventory of the house. On a separate page for each room, she noted its approximate dimensions and its use and contents, for all but the Indian room. She also made a note of needed repairs. She was in the fourth room before she realized that the heating ducts in each room signified that somewhere there was a furnace. Central heating. In her mind’s eye she could see the real estate advertisement and felt a pang of depression. She felt a personal involvement in the property that precluded any monetary gain from its sale. She had a hazy image of living there herself. “I’m an idiot,” she chided herself. “Here I am pussy-footing about, nervous as a cat, and at the same time fancying I could live here. I’m not being very sensible.”
She recalled how much Grev seemed to love the place and wondered if he would be content to actually live there. Her mind flipped back to Lynn’s disturbing words about him. She felt torn and confused whenever she thought of that conversation.
She continued with her task, her activity successfully dispelling any thought of the two people closest to her. Despite her determination to make only a quick preliminary survey, she continually stopped to examine and admire interesting curios. The library in particular gave the most evidence of the Bourkes’ presence. Obviously, this had been a well-loved, much-used room. The walls were lined with books, the tables were stacked with magazines. On the arm of an overstuffed chair was a piece of needlepoint, half completed. The threaded needle pierced the fabric as though the owner had intended to come back to it momentarily. It was a lovely piece, depicting the stone wall and gardens as they must have once been. Mrs. Bourke had been a very talented needlewoman indeed.
She examined the piece of canvas, wondering if she was skillful enough to finish it. This was an art she had been taught along with mathematics, art and catechism. I’ll practice on a scrap first, she decided, recalling the soothing satisfaction of working with her hands.
As she set it down she heard a knock at the door. “That must be Casey. He’s got some explaining to do,” she said to herself.
She waited a bit, curious to know if he would again simply let himself in. The knock was repeated several times before she relented and opened the door to find a stout, middle-aged woman standing there.
“Hello,” said Kate, “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“I’m Mrs. Morgan from down the road,” was the sullen reply. “I’ve been the housekeeper for this place for twenty-two years.”
“I’m Kate O’Brian. Please come in.”
The woman entered slowly, gazing around with an expression of disapproval that rather surprised Kate. For no good reason, she was thankful that she had washed the dishes. She drew herself to her full height and addressed herself to this dowdy yet stern figure. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Morgan?” There was no reply, only a contemptuous glance as though Kate had interrupted her.
She persisted. “May I pour you a cup of coffee? It’s leftover from earlier this morning. It was foolish of me to make such a large pot for one person.”
“Okay,” the woman said flatly, sitting down at the table.
All of the islanders couldn’t be as friendly as Casey, Kate reasoned as she smiled determinedly at Mrs. Morgan. “This is a very beautiful island. I can understand why you’ve chosen to live here for so many years.”
“Why are you here?” the woman demanded abruptly.
Kate fought her annoyance. Of course people would be curious about her. “My firm, Carlson
Realty, bought the Bourke Estate. All of it,” she explained, “land, house, and contents.”
There was no reply, only the hard dark eyes fixed on her. Kate drew a breath and continued. “I’m here to sort everything out. We don’t want anything damaged.”
“Why don’t you just leave?” shot Mrs. Morgan with sudden vehemence. “I’m the housekeeper. I’ll make sure nothing is damaged.”
“I’m sure you would,” Kate said firmly. “But we’re the owners now and it’s our responsibility.” She wondered if the woman was deranged.
“The Bourkes wouldn’t have wanted no real estate people over here,” she continued with a trace of menace.
Kate felt a rising flush of anger. She tried to soften her voice. “Mrs. Morgan, I don’t need a housekeeper just yet as a friend is coming over to give me a hand. What I do need, though, is someone to do a few repairs.”
“My husband,” said Mrs. Morgan grudgingly. “He’s the caretaker.”
“Well,” Kate said, rising in dismissal, “I’m sure we could work out a satisfactory financial arrangement if he would come up and tend to a few things. Most important is the furnace, which isn’t working.”
“Probably out of oil,” Mrs. Morgan offered sullenly. “The truck comes over on the ferry now and then. It still won’t work, though, until the electricity is connected.”
Kate smiled gratefully. “Perhaps he’ll be able to advise me on that as well. When will he be here?” “When he has the time,” was the abrupt reply. Kate watched Mrs. Morgan make her way down the path. Just as she turned to go back inside, she was surprised to see a man glide out of the bushes to join the woman. The pair glanced back at the house as they disappeared behind the hedge.
Chapter 5
By midafternoon the sky had cleared, and Kate looked longingly toward the shoreline below. She ached to follow the winding path down to the beach and explore the area but was uneasily reluctant to leave the house.
Who had her unknown morning visitor been? Would he return if she left the house? Was someone watching her movements, and if so, why? She gazed toward the ocean, now at low tide. She had nearly decided to take a chance and go, when she remembered Mr. Morgan. He might come while she was gone, and she didn’t want to miss him. He might be more communicative than his wife. Besides, she summed up, the fires would go out and she didn’t like the idea of returning to a cold house.
Lynn was right. I will be glad to see her. I haven’t been too successful as a loner. With the thought of Lynn came thoughts of Grev. Taking a pen and paper, she sat on the step, key safely in her pocket and her back braced against the door, and began a note to Grev. “At least I’m getting some fresh air,” she mused.
Dear Grev,
How are you making out? I’m sure you’re able to deal with everything. I wish I could say the same. You didn’t mention the islanders’ reaction to you. Casey at the marina has been very helpful but Mrs. Morgan, the housekeeper, suggested that I leave. The doors keep closing and what about the cat? I’ll be relieved to see Lynn and of course delighted to see you later. I’m not as independent as I thought. I love the place but feel threatened by someone or something. Now you know I’m a coward. Did you have a new door put in? I’ve made a rough inventory but haven’t yet found the trunk containing the photos, stamps, and coins that you mentioned. What’s the story behind that beautiful room full of Indian artifacts?
Hello to Allan. Take care. Love,
Kate
She wasn’t happy with the disjointed, worrisome tone of her letter, but she addressed it just the same, planning on taking a stroll down to the post office later. Perhaps Casey would shed some light on her questions.
The sun was gone and the air had again turned chill by the time she prepared to go in. She saw the cat stalking through the garden, and she shut the door firmly behind her. “Now we’ll see just how you get in and out.”
She stoked the fires back to life and searched the lane for any sign of Mr. Morgan. The door off the kitchen opened onto a dark stairway that led to the basement and undoubtedly to the furnace. She didn’t feel inclined to go down alone. It could wait. She paced the house restlessly, watching for the cat.
It occurred to her that she had forced that window quite easily and she felt the heavy responsibility of being in charge of these valuables. She remembered seeing a ring of old keys hanging by the kitchen sink. She lit lam
ps in the hall and kitchen and brought the keys with her as she made her way down the corridor to the living-room closet. One of the keys fit the lock perfectly. She scurried to the kitchen and picked two sticks of wood from the cupboard. Returning quickly, she went through the closet corridor into the Indian room. She wedged the sticks into the top half of the window frame, making it impossible to open. With a feeling of security, she glanced back at the room and locked the closet door behind her.
She had an uninspired supper of spaghetti, toast, and tea, which she ate with her nose in a book about the Coastal Salish Indians. When she got up to tend to the fire, she tripped over the cat. His stomach bulged in contentment as he purringly accepted her gentle stroking. She was comforted to have his company and kept him on her lap as she read.
Suddenly he leapt from her lap, fur bristling. Kate tensed involuntarily. From the garden came the plaintive howl of a dog. No lazy barking this. It was a wild yet heartbreakingly sad howling. The cat skittered down the hall. Kate followed belatedly after taking a firm grip on her flashlight. She was too late. The cat was nowhere to be found, although she called pleadingly.
She felt deserted. The dog’s howling increased to a hysterical frenzy, making it impossible to concentrate on reading. She hadn’t thought that the dog at the farmhouse looked the type to raise a ruckus such as this. Was that the Morgans’ house? she wondered.
The barking was getting on her nerves. She made another pot of tea, and at last the night was quiet again. She slipped into bed and before long felt the comforting warmth of the cat on her feet. “You are a puzzle,” she whispered, “but at least you’re independent.”
She awoke to the loud pounding of a fist on the door. “Coming. Just a minute,” she called out as she scrambled into her clothes. She rushed into the kitchen to find a stocky, rough-looking man building the fire in the stove.
The Secret of Bourke's Mansion Page 3