The Secret of Bourke's Mansion

by Carolyn (Moyer) Swayze

  Casey plopped a kettle of beans onto the stove. “You’re not taxing my hospitality at all. Really, it’s pleasant to have companionship. But why would you be walking down in the morning? Don’t tell me you’ve decided to leave after all?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, kind Casey. I’m expecting my partner to arrive on the morning ferry and I’d rather like to be on hand to welcome him.”

  “Oh, no,” Casey groaned, slapping his forehead, “That’s adding fat to the fire.” He pondered the implications of Grev’s arrival before continuing.

  “Tell me. Are you really partners or is the truth of the matter that you’re a secretary-girl Friday?”

  “No. He can type as well as I can. And I’m as proficient at acquisitions and sales as he is. We started it together, so we’ve taught each other everything we know. He put some initial operating capital into the company, of course, but I apply my commissions toward my share of the partnership. I now hold a realtor’s license as well.”

  “Maybe so,” Casey said dubiously. “It’s a strange arrangement. I can tell that you’re really sold on either the guy or the work but if it’s such an equal partnership, why is it called Carlson Realty?”

  Kate flushed. “I guess I was just too modest to want my name included,” she answered glibly.

  “If you want my opinion,’ you’re being naive. My guess is he’s flattered you, used you, and won’t bother to thank you for the effort you’ve put into staying here.”

  “Casey, I think the beans are scorching,” she snapped. “Oh, darn it!” she muttered to herself when his back was turned. He was laughing at her again, she knew.

  When they had finished their supper of beans, fruit, and tea, she felt much better and said so. Casey agreed that her color had returned and gave his consent for her to wash her hair. When she expressed her gratitude as he poured hot water into a basin for her, he smiled. “I know, you want to look half decent for your friend.”

  Knowing that it was true, she didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply.

  As she sat curled in a chair by the stove, combing the snarls out of her hair, the conversa­tion turned to less contentious topics. She found that Casey shared her interest in contemporary literature, and they had great fun discussing which of the current novels might actually be autobiographical in nature. She was surprised at how knowledgeable he was.

  “There’s not really too many other things to do but read in the evenings,” he explained.

  “You’re also surprisingly proficient with medical terminology and care,” she flattered him.

  “I suppose every island needs a first-aid man of sorts,” he replied curtly, apparently not willing to elaborate on his skills.

  “Casey,” she said when her hair had dried, “I’m really exhausted. What can we do about sleeping arrangements?”

  “Yes, you must be tired. Keep my bed. I have a spare cot in the back room. Good night, Kate.”

  She slipped between the coarse sheets, relieved to be alone. She could hear her host moving about for a few moments, then the creak of ancient bedsprings and all was quiet except for the hissing of the stove. Was she really in danger, she wondered, or was Casey simply trying to frighten her away? Imagine a group of people trying to obtain a valuable estate by the process of intimidation! Why?

  Frogs began to sing then. First a lone soloist croaked his primitive song, and then he was joined by another and another until the air reverberated with their music. Kate pictured a marshy area, tall with reeds and grasses, just beyond the wharf. That would be where it was coming from. Suddenly, they all stopped and only the subdued lapping of the water could be heard. She wondered why they had been silenced so quickly. Perhaps danger was near. What was dangerous to frogs? She groped through memories, trying to recall what creature preyed on frogs. Oh, well, she would think of it another time.

  She was vastly relieved when she awoke to find that no harm had come to her during the night. She peered out the window to see Casey tinkering with a motor in a drum before she slipped quickly into her clothes and padded to the mirror for inspection. Much better! Just a few fast-fading abrasions remained on her face. Her hands were much improved, but she decided to leave the bandages on her knees, just for effect.

  The fire responded quickly to her now- proficient touch, so quickly in fact, that the frying pan was smoking hotly before she located the eggs and bacon. In her haste to accomplish everything at once, she burnt the toast while the coffee percolated over onto the frying pan. It was at this point that Casey rushed in the door.

  “Why, it’s only you, the mad chef. I thought my happy home was afire, judging by the peculiar smells that wafted through the chinks.”

  “Come and get it—if you dare,” said Kate, laughing.

  “Here I’ve been fooling myself all this time,” said Casey when they had finished eating. “I’d convinced myself that if I took me a wife, I’d eat like a king for the rest of me life. Another illusion gone up in smoke—so to speak.”

  “That’s what they call a groaner in the younger crowds,” she said. “However, I must admit that was not my best culinary effort. I guess I was excited about Grev coming and trying to hurry.”

  “You must really be hung up on the guy,” Casey commented.

  “To tell you the truth, I’m not altogether sure, but I do know it will be wonderful to see him again. Shouldn’t the ferry be in soon?”

  “Yes, it should be. Let’s go out and look. I’ll do K.P. duty later since you prepared the sumptuous repast.”

  “I think I detect a note of sarcasm, but I’ll not argue with you.”

  They sat in the warm sun on the wharf, their legs dangling over the side. Sonya Moonsong waved cheerily as she left Grayson’s store. They watched idly as she climbed the path to the plateau.

  “My, but she’s a beautiful girl,” commented Kate.

  “And a very nice one, too,” he added amiably. “Here comes your boat now.”

  A small white dot on the horizon was rapidly advancing, steadily becoming larger and more distinct. Grev was coming at last! Everything would be sorted out and clarified. It seemed much longer than a week since she had last seen him. If excitement was any indication of caring, then she must be, as Casey had said, “hung up.” Anyway, it would be so good to have someone to take charge and reassure her. Her eyes strained, trying to pick him out among the small cluster of people standing on the deck. Where was he? “I can’t see him!” she cried impatiently.

  “Just wait until it docks,” Casey told her complacently. “I expect he’ll appear just like Prince Charming.”

  The motors were cut while the boat drifted, and it bumped gently into the dock. The gangplanks were banged down and a large, old red truck lumbered off. Where was he? Three crew members sauntered over to Grayson’s store. “Wait!” Kate cried, panic welling up in her throat. “Where is Grev Carlson? He’s supposed to be on that ferry!”

  “Sorry, lady,” one of the men drawled. “There’s only a few families for the next island on board.”

  Disbelief mingled with anger as she absorbed the fact that Grev had not come running to her rescue when she had asked. How could he be so inconsiderate?

  “Hey, Katie, I’m sorry. I really am,” said Casey, patting her shoulder.

  “But surely he got the message,” she said desolately. “I asked Lynn to tell him and I sent a letter as well. Besides,” she continued in frustration, “he said he’d come mid-week anyway.” She was silent for a minute. “Oh, Casey, why am I so upset? He’s probably coming on tonight’s ferry. That makes sense.”

  Casey shook his head discouragingly. “No, it doesn’t make sense. That run ended a few days ago. It only operates during the tourist season.”

  “That’s not true.” She gasped in disbelief. “Why didn’t someone tell me?”

  “You never asked,” he replied sardonically.

  “That means I couldn’t leave here until tomorrow, even if I wanted to,” she moaned.

  �
�Now, that’s not true. The ferry hasn’t left yet. You hop on and I’ll send your bags over tomorrow.”

  “Forget it,” she snapped. “I just wish there was some way I could contact him to find out what has happened.”

  “Why don’t you phone him and find out?”

  “Casey! Are you telling me there is a phone on this island?”

  “Certainly.” He smiled. “As a matter of fact, I have one in the shop. It’s essential for my business. People need to reserve boats and things.”

  “Thank goodness for that. For a minute there, I felt completely abandoned. It will be wonderful to be able to talk directly and find out what’s happening. I’ll pay you for the toll charges, of course.”

  “This way to the office. My phone has a very loud bell so that someone is likely to hear it in event of an emergency.” He led the way to his workshop at the rear of the living quarters and produced a dusty black telephone with yards of extension cord. “I’ll leave you in privacy to pursue the philanderer. That’s a sharp turn of the tongue, if I do say so myself.”

  “Truly admirable,” said Kate impatiently. “Thank you.”

  She composed herself at the bench, dialing the office number hurriedly. The connections were slow and bothered by interference. At last she could hear it ringing. Ringing, ringing. “Grev, answer, for goodness sake.”

  “Good morning, Carlson Realty,” came Allan’s flippant voice. Kate’s heart sank dismally.

  “Allan, it’s Kate. I want to talk to Grev right away.”

  “Sure is nice to hear your voice again, Katie. It’s

  just not the same without you here organizing things.”

  “Thank you. That’s sweet, but it’s urgent that I speak to Grev.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but he’s not in yet.”

  “Not in yet?” She glanced at her watch, incredulous. “Where is he? I was expecting him on the ferry this morning.”

  “Do you mean to say that you’re still over on that island? I didn’t think you had it in you. I’m very impressed but to tell you the truth, Grev didn’t mention anything about going over there today. I’ll just check his calendar.” Kate waited, nervously drumming her fingers while he rustled through papers. “No, there’s nothing marked except for a few routine appointments for this afternoon and tomorrow.”

  Kate sighed in exasperation. “Tell him to call this number the minute he gets in.” She repeated the number slowly. “I won’t be here but have him leave a message. He’ll probably have to let it ring quite a while.”

  “Will do,” Allan said breezily. “Having a nice holiday?”

  “If you only knew,” she muttered as she replaced the receiver, “if you only knew.”

  She dialed Grev’s home number indignantly. To think he hadn’t even planned on coming. Hadn’t even mentioned her! She let the telephone ring ten times before putting another call through. This one to the clinic where Lynn worked.

  “Lynn Milburn, please, medical records.”

  Her call was answered immediately by a girl who said there was no Lynn Milburn in that department that she knew of, although she was new to the job.

  “There is definitely. Please ask one of the other staff where she is.”

  After an interminable wait, the girl came back on the line. “Miss Milburn no longer works here. In fact, I was hired to replace her. I started on Monday.”

  “Oh, no,” Kate groaned. “Did she say why she left or do you know?” she asked in confusion.

  “No, I know nothing about it,” was the cool reply.

  Kate chided herself for not talking at greater length with Lynn. Surely she could have been more helpful or supportive. At least she could have determined whether Lynn couldn’t handle her jobs due to nerves or ability or something. After all, Lynn wasn’t stupid. What could be the great problem in holding down a job? She dialed the apartment number, not knowing whether to berate Lynn for Grev’s nonappearance or for not confiding in her. It was almost predictable that the phone rang unanswered and her mixed emotions were left without an outlet.

  She found Casey on the wharf, chatting to the ferry crew. “Why are you staying so long?” she asked them.

  “Here comes the reason now,” one said, indicating the old red truck as it approached them. “That’s the oil truck. We wait while he services the customers.”

  “I see. Pardon me,” she called to the driver, “Did you deliver oil to my place?”

  “Which place is that, lady?”

  “The Bourke place at the top of the road.”

  “Sorry. No one said anything and I thought it was vacant. I have to leave now, but I’ll catch you next time.” He waved cheerily as the truck rumbled up the ramp and the crew pulled up the planking.

  Tears of frustration filled her eyes as Casey said, “It’s not your day, is it? I’ll speak to Luke Morgan. Perhaps he can siphon off some of his until the next delivery.”

  “I don’t know if he’s even got the furnace fixed yet or when, if ever, I’ll have electricity.” Her shoulders slumped dejectedly.

  “I’ll speak to him about that as well. Maybe I can help him to hurry the job along. He’s a touchy old guy. How did you make out with your phone calls?”

  “Not good. Not good at all. Grev wasn’t at the office and hadn’t even mentioned coming. Lynn’s quit her job and isn’t at home.”

  “They don’t seem to be the most dependable friends,” he said sympathetically.

  “I’m certain there’s been a mix-up. By the way, I left your phone number so he may call with a message. Tell him to come.”

  “Will do. I’m sorry I can’t escort you back to your place, but I’m behind in my work.”

  “I don’t mind,” she said, wanting to be alone. “I’m behind in my work as well.”

  She was so depressed that the scenery passed unnoticed as she walked glumly toward home. Almost before she. knew it she was fitting the key into the lock on the absurdly new door. It seemed such a long time since she had closed it behind her, lightheartedly setting out for a hike and picnic with Casey.

  As she wearily entered the house, something soft and silky hit her heavily in the face. Her hands flew defensively to her eyes, then unwillingly came away.

  “No, oh, no!” she screamed in horror. “Casey, no!” But there was no answer at all from Casey, the calico cat, swinging gently on a rope from the ceiling.

  Chapter 12

  She backed out of the door, the screams still rising from her throat. She wanted to run, run to safety. Where? Where was safe? “Oh, Casey, why, why, why?”

  She thought she saw a flash of movement in the garden. Looking again, she could see nothing. “I have to go in. Maybe he’s not dead.”

  Shakily unlocking the door, she steeled herself for the awful sight. Averting her eyes, she dragged a chair below the still-swinging cat. With a butcher knife, she cut the thin rope from his neck. He was quite dead, she realized, as she stared at the stiff body.

  Tears coursed down her cheeks. He looked so different. Different. With a moan of pain she realized his tail had been brutally hacked off. There it was, on the table. With a scream of frightened rage, she saw that next to the tail was scrawled the bloody message, “You next.”

  She ran hysterically through the house, searching everywhere for the person who had done this monstrous thing. “How could you?” she cried again and again and again. Only the wind echoed her cry. She flopped onto the bed in exhaustion, letting the tears have their way. At length the sobs came less rapidly, giving way to a remorse of greater heaviness than she had ever known. With dull detachment she made her slow way to the

  kitchen, where she gently wrapped Casey and his tail in a towel. A shovel. That was the solution. There was a shovel in the woodshed. She stepped out into the yard, eyes darting nervously while she placed the stiff body on a stump, retrieved the shovel and began to dig in the garden. The ground was stubborn, hard packed, unwilling to yield easily. She persevered, chopping with the energy of pe
nt-up anger until at last the surface was broken.

  She dug methodically, strangely calm and intent on her task. The grave was large enough, but she continued to dig, strangely mesmerized by the therapeutic effect of pushing and lifting and tossing the dirt into a neat pile. Eventually she stopped and tenderly lowered Casey into the grave. The therapeutic benefit had ended. Now anger and determination spurred her on. She rapidly refilled the hole, anxious to be finished, to forget what she was doing. When she had patted the ground smooth, she replaced the shovel and returned to the cold, unwelcoming house. If she simply went to bed as she wanted to, it would only get colder, she knew. She lit the lamps and built a careful fire in the stove and fireplaces. She washed the sickening words from the tabletop. Who could be sick enough and vindictive enough to do such a thing? Had all of the islanders been witness to it? Surely they weren’t as emotionally ill as that, even if they did want the property! Now they had gone too far.

  She deliberately paced through each room in the house, looking for a sign or clue as to who the murderer could have been. Nothing appeared to be disturbed. Had someone come with that one task in mind?

  She stared into the blackness from the living- room windows. Why, why, why? she pondered, as ever so slowly her fear and horror began to change to anger and determination. Her eyes fell onto the wingback fireside chair where she had first been surprised to see Casey. Now he was gone. She was going to miss him. Miss the one-sided conversa­tions, the curious appearances and disappear­ances, the warm company of his weight on the foot of her bed.

  “Stop thinking about it,” she chided herself. “Think of something pleasant. Do something constructive. Get busy. Do something. Don’t think, don’t think.

  “The inventory! Of course. I must complete that.”

  Grateful to be occupied, she scurried for her files. She began in the kitchen, itemizing each and every item. The china was very old and beautiful, primarily Limoges, but not of a pattern that she was familiar with. Ornate serving pieces and side dishes that were no longer in common usage held her attention as her now-steady hand carefully recorded the pertinent details. The silver cutlery and accessories, although badly tarnished, re­vealed a simple, tasteful design that she greatly admired. Some of the pieces were so odd that she could only describe their shape and attempt to guess what they might have once been used for. This was also true of innumerable kitchen gadgets, which were very old. She was faintly pleased with herself when she recognized butter molds and an apple corer, but she had to be content with sketching illustrations of some of the more puzzling tools.