Cinderella Search

by Gill, Judy Griffith

  Cinnamon and masculine cologne and sex. “What did she mean, ‘make nice’?”

  Lissa stared at Steve, unable to force so much as a single word out of her mouth. She spun away from him, bolted toward the inner office and locked the door.

  After escaping out the back way in a frenzied daze, she made her way to her boat. There she threw a few things into a tote bag, called Pete, the manager, and woke him with the news that she’d left the desk unattended.

  She hung up on his wheezing complaints, his threats, his accusations of laziness, locked the door of her boat and nearly flew up the ramp to the parking lot. She backed her car out in a spray of gravel that spattered against a gray Dumpster, and headed for the road. She’d be early for the first ferry, but she didn’t care.

  What, oh what, had she allowed to happen to her? If she could, she’d find a way never to return to Madrona Cove. Maybe, with any kind of luck, Rosa would keep her mouth shut, but she doubted it. Rosa would just have to tell someone, in confidence of course, and that person would tell the next, and the next, and before she knew it, everyone in the Cove would be fully aware that Lissa Wilkins had been caught in a compromising position on a couch in the lounge of the Madrona Inn. With a guest!

  And not just any guest, but one who should have been in his room, being kept awake by horrifying sounds, disturbed by weird events, but who had been with her.

  If Rosa hadn’t interrupted them, she’d likely still be in a state of unreality, where she could pretend Steve Jackson was just a man she liked, a man she desired. A man she could very, very easily fall for.

  If she hadn’t already done so.

  Which meant she hadn’t changed a bit, not deep inside where it mattered. She was still a total pushover for any charming man.

  She drove aboard the ferry with one eye on her rearview mirror, half convinced Steve was going to come after her and demand an explanation of Rosa’s words. She knew she was running away. Well, it wasn’t the first time she’d done that. But this time, more than any other time in her life, what she wished she could run from permanently was the disastrous state of her own emotions. She’d met the man a week ago Friday, for heaven’s sake! What was she thinking of, falling in love with him just over a week later? She argued that point with herself all the way across to Campbell River on the ferry, telling herself she was not in love. She might be in lust, but she was absolutely, positively, definitely not in love with Steve Jackson.

  She repeated it like an incantation as she drove south down the Island Highway, then cut west at Parksville. She didn’t even stop at Coombs, as she usually did, to buy fresh fruit from the market, but kept on driving.

  When she finally lifted her cramped, exhausted body from her car and rang her mother’s doorbell, she was sure she’d convinced herself.

  But the minute she saw her mother she burst into tears. “I’m not in love with him, Mom! Honest I’m not!”

  Her mother gathered her close: “Of course you’re not, angel. What a ridiculous notion. Who is he, anyway? Come on in. Tell me all about him.”

  That night, Steve lay on his bed with his hands stacked behind his head, staring at faint flickers of light on the dark ceiling, thinking about Lissa. Then the noises started, soft, faint, low, but growing gradually louder. Sobbing, moaning, wailing. His hair stood on end.

  Something white and filmy fluttered off to his left. Turning on the light, he saw the white lace curtains blowing in the light breeze. The air smelled clean and washed, like salt and low tide, evergreens and moss. He opened the front window wide, pushed back the fluttering curtains, and breathed deeply as he listened to the gentle lap, lap, lap of waves on the shore below and gazed up at the stars shining brightly in the inky sky.

  Then, it returned, softly, the sound of sobbing followed by a squeak. His every instinct told him to continue gazing out the window, that if he didn’t turn, didn’t see, no dresser drawer would have opened. He turned, in time to see the top left one closing.

  The sobbing ceased, and the silence was almost as bad.

  Moments later he flinched at the sound of a maniacal laugh, high-pitched, hysterical, and definitely coming from overhead. When it faded, the quiet sobbing started again, then tapered off once more. Again he heard only the soothing sounds of the ocean on the shore.

  Steve was not soothed. Maybe ghosts sobbed, maybe they opened and closed drawers, maybe they moved clothing inside closets with firmly shut doors. Maybe they laughed, loud and witchlike, then sobbed again, faint and far away. Maybe they even made thumping noises overhead.

  But not damned likely.

  And for sure they didn’t fall through ceilings.

  One way or another, he meant to find out what the hell was going on and who was trying to scare him out of the Madrona Inn.

  He did a quick search of the corridor, but could find no access to the attic, unless it was behind the locked door near the head of the stairs. The only other locked door led to his old room.

  But wait a minute … his old room. Now there was a possibility. He entered the bathroom, tried the door to the adjoining quarters, shoved it open and stepped inside.

  He turned on the light. There was nothing there. The bed had been stripped and the trunk stood in a corner, but little else had been done to clean up the mess. He stood under the hole and listened again, scarcely breathing. Not a sound came from the attic. But sounds had come from there.

  Frowning, he returned to his room, rummaged in an outer pocket of his duffel until he found a flashlight, then moved back through the bathroom to the other room.

  It should have been an easy matter to drag the highboy close to the bed, but it resisted his tugging, then finally gave way with snapping sounds and tiny sproings that sounded like springs or wires breaking. He looked behind it.

  Well, well, and well again!

  At least now he knew how the drawers had been opening and closing seemingly without aid. Springs and wires had indeed broken loose, springs and wires that emerged from neatly drilled holes in the wall.

  What lay behind the wall where the dresser had stood? He pictured the layout in his mind. Right. That storage cupboard in the hallway. He’d check that out later. Now, though, he opened the clothes closet in this room, adjacent to the bathroom, knowing it must back onto the one next door, which occupied a similar alcove, and sure enough, there was an almost invisible slit behind and below the bar. He wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t left his closet open and the bedside light on. On the floor lay a slender but strong piece of metal, just long enough to reach through the crack and reposition the clothing in his closet.

  “Yup!” he said. “Things are getting very, very interesting.”

  Now, let’s see about the sobbing and moaning and laughing of the “ghost.”

  Chapter Seven

  AFTER FINALLY MANAGING TO shunt the dresser aside, Steve climbed on top of it and from there poked his head and shoulders through the hole, though it was a tight wiggle to get his arms and hands up, even one at a time. Impatiently, he broke away more plaster, making sure it fell on the bed. He wanted no more complaints from the elderly couple downstairs.

  Shining the flashlight around, he saw old furniture stored a few yards away in the highest part of the attic; a bentwood rocking chair his mother would probably pay big bucks for, as well as an armoire for which she might even kill.

  A veritable treasure trove. He wished he could investigate, but he had no time for that now.

  Slowly, he sent the beam of light gliding this way and that until he’d swept the entire area with it. Besides a heavy coating of cobwebs, there was a draped black electrical cable coming out of a dangling wire between two roof trusses and disappearing off into the dimmer recesses of the attic. There were desks, tables, more chairs, old lamps and sundry unidentifiable items covered with dusty sheets.

  There were also footprints in the dust. No ghosts he’d ever heard of left footprints.

  He set the flashlight down, wrapped his hands over two
floor joists and hauled himself through the hole.

  Halfway up, he realized why his mystery woman had needed a boost. The sloping roof got in his way, forcing him to crawl, scraping his belly on the rough joists.

  Then, he was up, sitting on a rafter, his upper body bent sideways to accommodate the slope of the roof. With difficulty, he got his feet under him and crouched, duck-walking toward the dangling electrical cord, then following it to its end. There, surprise, surprise, he found a power bar into which were plugged a CD player and three timers. One, set for one-thirty, had already ticked on by. He’d heard the result. Another, set for two-fourteen, only moments from now, sat slowly clicking, and a third one, set for three-forty-eight, just enough time for a guy to settle down and try to get to sleep before the disk began to spin again.

  He manually advanced the two-fourteen timer. With a click and a whir, the attic and presumably the room below—his room—filled with the sounds of moaning, sobbing and sighing. There was silence for several minutes, then a faint and ghostly laugh began, rising and falling, before fading away to nothing. Finally there was a sobbing wail that gradually died down.

  Carefully, he removed the CD, then set the clock back to the correct time. A cursory glance would show the apparatus still in full working condition. Remaining in his uncomfortable crouch, he waddled back to where he could stand erect. At one end of the floored area, footprints in the dust led to a narrow flight of stairs. He descended, reaching a landing and a door. It opened without a sound and he found himself in an alcove off a living area, furnished with more of those antiques his mother would covet.

  The view, looking out over the marina, was the same as the one from his bedroom, so the two rooms must be right next to each other, he concluded.

  Farther into the room, he found what he was looking for. No attempt had been made to hide the ingenious, complicated setup of springs, wires and more timers, with neat little holes drilled through the wall, holes he knew accessed the back of the dresser in his new room. He couldn’t help laughing. It was, he had to admit, very well done. Now he knew how and why his dresser drawers could open apparently on their own. Leaving the equipment as he found it, he explored further, finding a kitchenette, a small dining room and a door that accessed the corridor near the head of the stairs.

  Okay, so someone had gone to a lot of trouble to persuade him there was a ghost in the Madrona Inn. But why? Maybe this was done to every guest who inhabited the top floor? Somehow, though, he didn’t think so. Nope. The little piles of sawdust from the drill smelled fresh, and probably had been created within the last few days. This prank was aimed directly at him, and he meant to get to the bottom of it.

  Mounting the narrow stairs again, he tiptoed across the attic to the hole and slithered back through. He replaced the dresser, entered the bathroom and locked the door from the inside.

  He lay on his bed, thinking. What the hell was it all about? Why his room? Why him?

  Because someone had it in for him? And not just one person. Too many had made a point of telling him about the “ghost.” It was as if there was a conspiracy against him, something personal. Did it tie in with Rosa’s inexplicable remark about making nice, not making love? How could it? How could scaring a guest qualify as making nice? It couldn’t, so there could be no connection there. Yet, Lissa’s stricken face had suggested there was.

  Dammit, it didn’t make any sense. But, then, he decided, turning out the light and trying to compose himself for some much-needed sleep, nor did it make sense to worry about it. Nothing in the Madrona Inn was going to hurt him. One thing he’d learned aboard ship was the best retaliation for a practical joke was never to let on you’d been trapped by it, or even become aware of it. The most fun was yet to come, and the last laugh would be his. He lay back and chuckled about the frustration the perpetrators would suffer when he spent every night happily in this room, always denying, when asked, that anything disturbing had happened. Nobody pushed Steve Jackson around. He laughed again. Well, except maybe a logger with a protective attitude toward his lady, and that was something Steve could easily relate to. If the shoe had been on the other foot, would he have acted any differently?

  He didn’t think so.

  And speaking of shoes …

  Returning from Tofino, Lissa blinked in astonishment when she saw the first sign as she drove through the outskirts of Campbell River. Maybe she hadn’t read it right. It was raining, the windshield was smeary and she was tired from two days nonstop talking and shopping with her mother, who thought both were excellent ways to entertain her daughter and take her mind off her troubles. Hence, she’d whisked Lissa aboard a chartered seaplane down to Victoria and entertained her royally.

  Nevertheless, tired as she might be, she knew the next sign was no chimera.

  MADRONA MADNESS

  A FESTIVAL TO REMEMBER JULY 16 & 17

  MADRONA COVE, QUADRA ISLAND

  She saw three more signs along the highway before she reached the ferry. What the heck? Where had they come from? Vivid, eye-catching and professionally prepared, they were well beyond the budget the committee had set for advertising. The last one, right at the ferry terminal, read:

  MADRONA MADNESS FEATURING THE CINDERELLA SEARCH!

  IF THE SHOE FITS … YOU COULD BE THE GRAND PRIZE WINNER!

  TICKETS $2.00 EACH OR 3 FOR $5.00

  Oh, lord Nelly! He was going to do it! Who the hell had given him a booth? Right on the bulletin board on the ferry’s lounge-deck, another huge sign shouted:

  A FISHPOND WITH A DIFFERENCE!

  BAIT YOUR HOOK FOR PRINCE CHARMING

  WIN BIG, WIN OFTEN

  EVERY TICKET WINS SOMETHING!

  EACH TICKET BUYS THREE TRIES

  A fishpond? She envisioned women from far and wide lining up to buy their tickets to catch a shoe. Unknown to the poor suckers, time after time after time, he’d try the same shoe on each woman, hoping like mad to finally find the one it fit and solve the puzzle of who had fallen through his ceiling.

  It was not only a crazy scheme, it was doomed to failure. Rosa would never buy a ticket, never try on that sandal, not even to get her precious Birkenstock back.

  But … what if someone else had exactly the same size foot as Rosa? One of the women visitors, for instance? Someone from one of the Vancouver Island towns, or Heriot Bay or Quathiaski Cove? Even a tourist off a boat at the marina?

  He wouldn’t care whose foot he had in his hands, whose foot fit that sandal. He was simply looking for someone to offer that wonderful “grand prize” to. She hadn’t forgotten their conversation the first night they’d met. She’d considered the suggestion a joke, but clearly, he had not, and what he was going to offer was—himself!

  THE CINDERELLA SEARCH IS ON! PRIZES GALORE

  Prizes? Plural? Suddenly it struck her. He had one shoe. How were there going to be multiple winners? What did he mean, “every ticket wins” and “three tries per ticket”? What was he going to do, share himself around? The closer she got to Madrona Cove, the thicker the signs became, and the deeper her irritation.

  NOW’S YOUR CHANCE TO PLAY CINDERELLA

  COME AND MEET THE TRUE PRINCE CHARMING

  ALL PROCEEDS TO THE MADRONA COVE COMMUNITY FUND

  Hah! The True Prince Charming, indeed! Was there no end to the man’s ego? She tried to forget how easily he had charmed her, how she had fallen like a ripe plum off the tree, right into his hands. Her two-day absence and her mother’s wise advice had fortunately given Lissa a better perspective on the whole issue. She remembered now why she had sworn to avoid Steve Jackson in the first place. He was a charmer, and charmers were bad news. Even her mother agreed with that.

  “Steer clear of the man,” she’d counseled. “Keep out of his reach. You’ll be better off without him. He’s obviously looking for a vacation fling. Let him have it with someone else. How about your friend Ginny? Seems to me she’s constantly on the prowl and would be exactly his type.”

  At that, s
he’d informed her mother tartly that if anyone deserved a vacation fling, it was she, herself. “So, what’s your problem?” her mother had asked. “Enjoy it, then.”

  What kind of a mother would say that to her daughter? She’d clamped her mouth shut on the question. Whatever. It didn’t matter to her. She’d been away two days, and here he was with his stupid Cinderella search well under way, which just proved how fickle he was.

  As she stepped off the float onto her boat, she found a brochure slipped into the crack of her doorjamb, detailing his fishpond plan pretty much as she’d already figured it out. She stood there in the thickening, foggy drizzle, reading it.

  Every lady who tried on a shoe that didn’t fit also got a consolation prize—a kiss from him.

  What? Completely outraged, she crumpled the brochure and flung it toward the rain-pocked water. It bounced off the rail and rolled back to her along the deck. She stared down at it, then stomped on it.

  Not only was he running a fishpond with shoes as the catch, but a kissing booth as well? Who the hell did he think he was? And what made him think women would line up to try on his shoes and accept his kisses? Unless those prizes were pretty damned spectacular. She grabbed up the ball of paper, smoothed it out as best she could and read on with growing dismay. First prize was two weeks at Happy Valley Hot Springs, which she knew to be one of his father’s vacation resorts, “with the escort of the winner’s choice.” Naturally, he’d expect to be that escort.

  Second prize was one week at the same destination, same terms, and third prize, a weekend.

  The other prizes dropped by increments of fifty dollars from five hundred in cash to fifty, and there were four of those fifty-dollar prizes.

  Oh, for sure he’d have no trouble at all selling tickets with prizes like that.

  She wadded up the damp brochure and clenched it in her fist before flinging it again. This time it cleared the rail and bobbed in the water, drifting slowly away with the outgoing tide. He was exactly as she’d first pegged him, a philandering charmer who couldn’t be trusted not to dole out his kisses indiscriminately.