Footsteps in the Dark

by Josh Lanyon

  One guy—Larry…something—had even told him he was too nice. “You’re just a really nice guy,” Larry had said in parting. Which everyone knew was dating code for You are way too dull for me.

  Fair enough. Larry had not exactly set off any fire alarms for Miles either.

  And really, what was wrong with being a nice guy? With being responsible and playing fair and trying to keep a positive attitude and looking at things from the other person’s point of view? What was wrong with being the guy everyone could count on?

  Nothing. Except maybe everyone got in the habit of counting on him too much. Of expecting him to always be the one to pick up the extra project or cover a class or sponsor or coach or babysit or guide or volunteer or be there in a pinch.

  Not that he minded any of those things, but maybe he’d be a better fit in Canada, where people had a reputation for being nicer.

  Did that include Montreal? Montreal seemed a little edgier, a little buzzier than the rest of Canada. Not that he was familiar with the rest of Canada, but so he’d heard.

  Well, either way, maybe he would meet the man of his dreams while following this other dream? Capucine had arranged everything else for him; why not this?

  ***

  “The naked, mutilated body was discovered partially submerged by a troop of Venturer Scouts…”

  Miles sighed, slid the cheese omelet from the frying pan onto his plate, grabbed his wine glass, and departed the kitchen and the gruesome soundtrack supplied by Agathe’s television.

  It had taken him a while to find his way around the multitude of cupboards and cabinets—he did not dare disturb Agathe—but he was pleased with himself for not only managing to cook his first meal in his new house, but having the nerve to brave the wine cellar and select a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc to toast his accomplishment.

  He ate dinner alone plenty of nights, so there was no reason dinner on his own at Braeside should feel any different than at home. But…it did. He ate his solitary meal in the library, watching the shadows deepen, the sunset change colors, the lights in the courtyard blink on, and he made a list of things he wanted to do the following day. Buy a warmer coat, for one. Buy more groceries. Or—how about this?—buy some new art supplies.

  When a floorboard creaked behind him, he jumped half out of his chair, whirling to see who was behind him.

  Chapter Five

  No one was behind him.

  No one stood in the doorway. No one hovered in the hallway.

  It was an old house, and of course it had creaks and cracks and all the normal old-house sounds.

  He had not recognized until that moment that he was uneasy—and was instantly impatient with himself. For God’s sake. Was he twelve or twenty-six? Then he realized that it would soon be dark inside the house and he did not know where the light switches were. He felt a flare of near panic.

  Now that was ridiculous—he had never been afraid of the dark, not even as a little kid—but somehow his fear didn’t feel ridiculous. He rose and began to turn on lamps in the library, then went to look for the switch controlling the lighting in the hall. His suitcases still sat at the bottom of the staircase. He had not decided yet what room he would use in the interim, nor had Oliver offered any suggestions. He moved past them and went up the staircase, reached the open, airy second level, and began switching on lights there as well.

  He couldn’t keep this up or he’d have one hell of an electric bill, but until he was more comfortable with the house, he preferred to have the lights on.

  All the lights on.

  Of course, it wasn’t just about illuminating the house. It was also a way of checking without admitting he was checking that no one was there.

  And, of course, no one was there.

  He was being a complete and total doofus.

  He went to the head of the staircase, gazed down the deadly curve of gleaming marble steps, and listened intently.

  Nothing.

  Okay, if he really focused, he could probably pick out the distant stentorian notes of the narrator of another true-crime show and the occasional dismaying word: “…strangled…tortured…secret…corpse…”

  No wonder Agathe was afraid to open the front door at night.

  No wonder if she was afraid to open it at all ever.

  Maybe it would be a good idea to figure out where he was sleeping and get settled for the night. Sitting around listening to the floorboards pop was not good for his nerves.

  If he was not ready to take over the master suite, then where?

  He had spent a fair bit of the day in Oliver’s room, but Miles was not comfortable choosing that room. Not after Oliver’s flash of whatever it was that had made him smash that crystal glass in the library fireplace.

  He began to prowl through the remaining bedrooms and discovered the beds were not made up. Nor did he have any idea where the linens were kept.

  In the end he settled for a large bedroom looking out over the trees behind the house. The view was great, but what sold him was the neatly folded stack of laundered sheets on the foot of the bed—and a couple of brand-new art books still lying in their Indigo bag on the window seat. That almost felt like a sign.

  Plus, the art books convinced him the room had once been Linley’s, and was still occasionally used by him. Maybe it was a little voyeuristic choosing the former bedroom of his boyhood crush, but since Linley would not be using it in the future, what was the harm in sleeping there?

  Miles went downstairs, grabbed his suitcases, and carried them up. For some reason, finding Linley’s room had given him a little confidence, and he even switched off a couple of lights as he went.

  Once he had made up the bed and unpacked the articles he’d need for the night, he gave in to his curiosity and checked the closet. It was empty but for a tuxedo jacket draped haphazardly over a hanger. Who went to so many formal occasions he needed to own a tuxedo? It seemed Linley did. A crumpled silk bow tie lay discarded on the floor of the closet.

  It was probably his imagination, but he thought he could smell the ghostly hint of aftershave, a cool scent vaguely reminiscent of green tea and eucalyptus, which he traced back to a nearly empty bottle of Proraso in the adjoining bathroom. There was a single red toothbrush in a juice glass and an orange tube of something called Buly 1803. Toothpaste? It smelled like oranges.

  You could probably tell a lot about someone from their grooming products. Miles wore Nautica Voyage and brushed his teeth with Crest 3D Whitening. He liked Captain lace-up boots by the Thursday Boot Company, Levi’s, art T-shirts, and clothes that didn’t matter if you splashed paint on them. He had only worn a tuxedo a couple of times in his life.

  And this was starting to feel a little stalkery.

  He returned to the bedroom, settled in the undeniably comfortable bed with Endless Enigma: Eight Centuries of Fantastic Art, and began to read.

  After about five minutes he realized he was reading the same paragraph over and over.

  The book was interesting, but he had trouble concentrating—because he was too busy listening.

  Listening for what?

  He had no idea. Once more he tried to focus on the book.

  A floorboard squeaked down the hall. His heart jumped into his throat, and Miles jumped from the bed. He threw open the bedroom door—and of course the hall was empty.

  Of course it was.

  This was truly exasperating because he really was not prone to nerves. He taught high school, for God’s sake. What was more nerve-racking than that?

  He climbed back into bed, picked up the book again, but his curiosity got the better of him, and he opened the drawer of the bed stand. He found a nearly empty box of very stale Nicorette gum and a black-and-white photo in a silver frame.

  The Nicorette hinted at an unsuspected vulnerability in the always impervious-seeming Linley. Even he was not immune to addiction to nicotine.

  The framed photo was of Linley—older than the last time he’d seen him, but Miles would recog
nize his lean, intense features anywhere—and a good-humored-looking man with shaggy blond hair and a broad toothy grin.

  Perhaps this was Giles, the ex with the artistic temperament. He didn’t look prone to temperament or like the kind of guy Linley Palmer would partner up with, but people’s romantic choices were even more puzzling than their grooming-products selections.

  Anyway, they looked happy enough in the photo.

  But then it was easier to hide in a photograph. It took a painting to show the underlying truth.

  And he was once again snooping into things that were not his business.

  Miles firmly closed the drawer and determinedly picked up the book.

  ***

  He dreamed of footsteps in the dark.

  The surreptitious whisper of soles drawing steadily closer…

  His heart began to pound in dread.

  His eyes popped open. He woke, confused and alarmed—a feeling that was becoming all too familiar—to blinding light and noise.

  The chandelier—chandelier?—over the bed—where the hell was he?—was ablaze, and from across the room, a man’s startled voice exclaimed, “Jesus! Who the hell are—”

  Miles was out of the bed in a single bound, blinking at the tall, dark figure in the doorway.

  “Lin?”

  “Miles?” Linley sounded as bewildered as Miles felt. He recovered faster, though, saying accusingly, “My God, it is you. What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming until Monday.”

  “Oliver had a key.”

  Linley repeated blankly, “Oliver had a key…”

  He would be thirty-four now, but he had the kind of bony, elegant looks that didn’t change much over time. His hair was black and straight, his eyes were a blue that seemed to pierce you through the heart like a pin through a butterfly. His brows were straight and formidable, but the line of his mouth was sensitive, almost pretty.

  When Miles had been a kid, he had thought Linley Palmer was the most handsome, confident, stylish man he’d ever known. Which was especially funny, given that when they’d first met, Linley had been a teenager, not a man, and had presumably suffered from all the insecurities and uncertainties inherent in puberty. Not to mention acne.

  In fact, he wasn’t classically good-looking. His features were too sharp, too fierce for handsomeness. He did have something, though. Even in the middle of the night, looking weary and rumpled in jeans and a gray fisherman’s sweater, he had a certain polish. No, savoir faire. That was the word.

  He had always seemed more French than Oliver, although both were Anglos. Only Capucine’s final and briefest marriage had been to a French-Canadian.

  “What are you doing here?” Miles shot back, because he wasn’t a kid anymore and he wasn’t so easily impressed, savoir faire or no savoir faire.

  To his surprise, Linley pushed his hair off his forehead and laughed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I came to move my stuff out before you took possession of the, er, baronial manor.”

  Baronial manor. That was vintage Linley. Always a little flippant, a little sarcastic.

  “I arrived last night,” Miles said.

  “Ah. I see. If I’d realized you’d already moved in—”

  The smile made him look younger, less formidable, much more attractive.

  “Not officially,” Miles admitted. “Oliver thought it would be all right if I stayed here.” He added uncomfortably, “Sorry for taking your bedroom. Most of the other rooms aren’t made up. I didn’t feel comfortable in your m—in Capucine’s room.”

  Linley considered this, tilting his head, cocking an eyebrow—all at once very French. “Your bedroom now, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Well,” Miles said. It had been awkward covering this same ground with Oliver, and at least he felt he knew Oliver a little. It was worse with Linley, whom he really did not know at all.

  But Linley’s thoughts seemed to be running on different lines, because he gave another of those funny, surprisingly charming smiles and said, “I almost didn’t recognize you. You’ve grown up, Miles.”

  “I should hope.” He knew exactly what Linley meant, and it wasn’t a compliment. Yeah, he’d changed, all right. He was no longer the gawky, painfully shy, and desperate-for-approval boy he’d been. Thank God.

  Linley’s thin mouth quirked at Miles’s tone as though he too understood the unspoken message. The sudden appraisal in his gaze made Miles self-conscious.

  He glanced down at himself. He was wearing red-and-black check boxers and a black T-shirt—not enough of either, given the chilly autumn night. “I wasn’t expecting company.” He reached for his sweatshirt, dragged it on.

  “Don’t get dressed on my account,” Linley said. “I can take one of the other rooms—if that’s okay. I wasn’t planning to pack tonight.”

  Miles picked his jeans up from a chair and stepped into them. He couldn’t imagine falling asleep now. “Of course it’s okay. You can stay here whenever you like.”

  Maybe that was too generous. Linley arched an inquiring eyebrow, started to say something, but apparently thought better of it.

  Miles said, “Anyway, I’m awake. I’ll make coffee. Did you want some?”

  “Thank you. That would be great.” Linley moved aside, politely waiting for Miles to lead the way.

  Definitely a different reunion than his meeting with Oliver. Oliver had shaken hands warmly and pulled Miles into a rough half-hug. He’d said, “Well, well. So you finally grew into those paws!”

  Miles couldn’t imagine trying to hug Linley, nor did Linley show any inclination to bridge the gap.

  “I guess Agathe didn’t hear the door either,” Miles said, heading for the kitchen.

  “She wouldn’t hear a tank rolling past her bedroom,” Linley said. “I’m sure Thibault told me you were arriving Monday.”

  “That was the original plan. I was able to catch an earlier flight.”

  “I see.”

  All the way down the grand staircase, Miles rattled on about his trip, and meeting Oliver for brunch, and Oliver handing over his key.

  “The rat never said a word to me,” Linley remarked when they reached the kitchen, and Miles finally came to a stop.

  Linley waited politely while Miles fumbled around, trying to find the light switch, and then finally reached over and flicked on the overhead copper pendant lights. “Voilà.”

  So people did actually for real say that.

  “Thank you.” Every time Miles met Linley’s blue gaze, he felt compelled to start talking again. “It wasn’t a plan or anything. I thought it would be nice to have a couple of days to see the city. Oliver didn’t think I had arrived yet either. He was just trying to verify where I was staying. But then here I was, so he took me out to brunch, and then we drove over to the house.”

  Linley sorted through that jumble of information and excuses easily. He said, “Of course. Why not?”

  “I thought if I stayed here, it would be easier to think things over.”

  Linley’s expressive brows rose. “Think what things over?”

  Here was the awkward part.

  “Just…whether it made sense to sell or…live here.”

  After a moment, Linley said, “Ah.”

  Miles threw him a quick, uncertain look. “Lin, I told Oliver, and it’s the same for you; if there’s anything you want—any of the furniture, or art, or your mother’s belongings—it’s yours. Honestly, I’m not sure why she left me the house—”

  Lin said coolly, “Presumably because she wanted you to have it.”

  Miles didn’t know what to say to that.

  Linley studied him and seemed to relent. “You don’t have to feel guilty, Miles. I know Mother thought of your mother as a sister, so I think it makes sense she’d want to know you were looked after.”

  Over and above her own sons? It still seemed odd.

  Miles found the coffee machine, located a bag of Van Houtte, and scooped the ground beans into the basket. He fil
led the machine with water and switched it on.

  “Since you’re kind enough to offer, there are some things I’d like.” Linley’s abrupt voice broke the silence between them. “My father’s signet ring. That should be in the will. But there are two or three other small items that Mother always said would be mine, though it turns out no official arrangement was made.”

  “Name them.”

  “The red and blue Persian Heriz rug in front of the fireplace in the vestibule.” It was thrown out like a challenge.

  Miles said, “All right.”

  “And the two framed oils sketches of Algonquin Park in the dining room. An anniversary gift from my father to my mother.”

  “Okay.”

  Linley was watching him curiously. “You should know the sketches were painted by Tom Thomson.”

  “Nice.” Miles knew a bit about Thomson; knew at least that his work was enormously influential on the legendary Group of Seven and that it went for a pretty penny these days. He had looked Thomson up because that was something else Linley had told him that fateful day at éclatant: if he was going to riff on other artists’ work, he should find someone more contemporary. Or something to that effect. By then, Miles had been numb.

  “They’re quite valuable.”

  Miles shrugged. “They’re yours. Is there anything else you want?”

  Linley continued to regard Miles with that indecipherable expression. “No.”

  “What?” Miles asked unwillingly, defensive.

  Linley shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Miles thought he knew. “The house is more than enough.”

  “Perhaps. I don’t think most people in your position would think so.”

  “I doubt you’ve ever met someone in my position.”

  Linley gave a curt little laugh. “True. So that’s the plan? You’ll emigrate to Canada and live in this mausoleum?”

  “Maybe.”

  “By yourself?”

  “For now.”

  Linley nodded thoughtfully. “Well, the house is paid for anyway. What is it you do?”

  “I teach,” Miles said. “That was the idea, right?”