Phoebe continued, “You have three interconnected bedrooms on the second floor. There are five others on the other side of the corridor, but for your privacy I’ve blocked off all but one of your doors. Here we go, the sitting room for your master bedroom.”
Merida stayed on the landing and when Phoebe turned, she gestured questioningly up the second flight of stairs.
“That leads up to the servants’ attic. It’s an apartment—I just rented to a gentleman and his wife.” Phoebe must have correctly read Merida’s expression for she said hastily, “I installed a deadbolt and sliding bolt for security on both sides. All of the outer doors to your rooms have a key-operated dead bolt, a chain and a sliding bolt for security.”
Merida cautiously considered Phoebe. Before she rented, she had investigated Phoebe Glass. The woman had a few glitches in her background: two dead husbands, a son currently occupying a prison cell and a charge of embezzlement against her which she had soundly beaten. While Merida didn’t entirely trust her—she didn’t entirely trust anyone—still she suspected Phoebe was more sinned against than sinning. Merida had come into the situation knowing she was going to change the locks; she needed more than a mere old-fashioned key, chain and dead bolts to feel safe. Electronics would provide an extra layer of protection; she had brought everything she needed to install a thoroughly secure system and when she was done, she would have surveillance cameras inside her rooms and keyless electronic locks or every outer door.
Inside the master suite, the nine-foot ceilings, tall windows and creaking wooden floors provided ambiance with a vengeance. The velvet curtains, feather comforter and thick Oriental rugs exuded warmth and luxury. The old-fashioned touches were masterful: a ceramic chamber pot under the bed, a corded rotary phone from the twentieth century on the table, a black-mottled, wavy mirror over the antique dresser.
Merida could do her work very well here.
Phoebe asked if she had any questions.
Merida examined the thermostat.
“We don’t have air-conditioning,” Phoebe said. “The folks around here keep talking about this heat wave. I can’t help but chuckle. I’m from the south”—a lie and Merida knew it, Phoebe was from the Midwest—“and I know what real heat is. But it’s no problem. The trees around the house are shady, the windows are easy to open, and the ocean breeze so cool and constant, we don’t really need air-conditioning. Isn’t that right?” She beamed.
Merida could have disagreed. If she could speak.
But if Phoebe noticed Merida’s silence, she didn’t show it. Instead, she led the way out the one door into the upstairs corridor and down the stairs back to the entry, talking all the while, telling Merida to move her car around to the back by the old carriage house. “I turned that into a cottage for rent, too. On Tuesday, I have a gentleman moving in for the summer. When I bought Good Knight Manor Bed and Breakfast, my sister predicted disaster.” Phoebe nodded, clearly pleased with herself, although Merida could not tell whether more for her own success or proving her sister wrong. “Leave your car unlocked. Susie can fetch your luggage when she arrives to clean.”
Merida shook her head; she had no intention of allowing anyone to handle her bags.
“As you like. You have to haul the bags up the stairs, though. The dumbwaiter is broken and I’ve got to finish prepping tomorrow’s breakfast rolls. We’re having pecan sticky buns and a yogurt parfait with fresh strawberries.” Phoebe headed toward the back of the house, then turned. “If this season is as prosperous as it’s starting out to be, come this winter I’ll install an elevator.”
Merida smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.
Phoebe hurried back and enveloped her in a hug. “I knew as soon as we met you would be as positive a personality as I am!”
As Phoebe hustled toward the kitchen, Merida wondered if merely by being silent she had been elevated to a positive personality. And whether Phoebe would ever notice she didn’t speak.
She parked as instructed, then in two trips she lugged her luggage in through the kitchen, past Phoebe, and into her new home.
Phoebe followed and ceremoniously turned over the keys. “I almost forgot! Merida, dear, every night at five I serve wine and port in the large downstairs living room, and the guests take that time to get to know each other. It’s so lovely and convivial! On Tuesday night I fix an international buffet, and I promise I am an excellent cook. Make sure you plan to be there!” With a smile and a wave, she left Merida to unpack.
Merida shuddered inwardly. She didn’t want to—couldn’t stand to—go into a room of strangers and be mute, have people avoid her gaze, or stare, or try to make awkward conversation with her. No, she would not attend Phoebe’s convivial evening.
Shutting the dining room doors, she locked it, then stood and hugged herself.
For the first time in many years, she was alone; she didn’t have to smile, to pretend interest in stories she had heard a hundred times, to wait on a cantankerous old man and make his needs and wants her primary responsibility. Her only responsibility was to herself. She headed for the stairway, laboriously carrying the bags into the master bedroom.
Following instructions, she attached the computer-sized safe to the wall beside the giant antique dresser and behind the large flowered easy chair—she would pay Phoebe for the damages when she left—and inside placed her two laptops and her extra iPad. She set the code, locked it and unlocked it, locked it again, and dusted her fingers in satisfaction. She lugged her suitcase into the dim, spacious closet. A bare bulb with a bead pull-chain switch hung from the ceiling. She reached up and gave it a tug—and touched the sticky thread of a spiderweb. Something landed on her head and scuttled across her ear. She jumped, screamed silently, bent down and thrashed at her hair. The spider—large, shiny, black, horrible—fell onto the faded carpet. She stomped at it in a panic.
The segmented body crunched.
She flinched. She shuddered. She stared at the smear of the corpse. Got a tissue and wiped it up. Let her breath out. No servants. No help. She had taken care of the matter herself.
This incident was not an omen.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kateri opened the door to Rainbow’s dim hospital room and peered inside.
Rainbow rested on the bed, immobile, blank-faced, not there. A tube ran down her throat. An IV dripped fluid into her arm. The side rails were raised; for what reason, Kateri did not know. It wasn’t as if Rainbow would suddenly wake, move, try to leave the bed.
An elderly woman sat close, doing a crossword puzzle under a reading light. From the back, she looked vaguely familiar. But who…?
Kateri slipped into the room.