Chapter Two
When I got home, I found Fred McNeil’s truck parked on the road and the hardware store delivery van filling the driveway. Connor’s father gave me a wave as I hustled Charles into the house.
“What’s up?” I said, when the cat had been freed from his carrier and shut inside the house and I’d come out to join Fred.
“Wood for the deck. We’re planning to get that started this weekend.”
“I thought the main floor guest bedrooms were next on the list.”
“Connor wants the deck ready soon as the weather’s warm enough to sit outside of an evening. Spring arrived fast this year, and the forecast for the weekend is good outdoor working weather.”
Two men carried loads of lumber past us and around the house. The scent of fresh sawdust trailed behind them and mingled with traces of salt coming off the ocean.
“You know Connor’s away for a few days, right?” I asked.
“Back Thursday.”
“Are you planning to do any work here tonight?”
“No. I have to wait for him. I hate to say it, Lucy, but my back’s been acting up.” His face twisted. “Not quite as young as I used to be.”
I smiled at him fondly. I liked Connor’s parents a great deal, and they seemed to like me. Connor took more after his mother than his father. From her he got the dark hair, the blue eyes framed by long black lashes, the sharp cheekbones and strong jaw. He’d inherited his lean frame from his father and his height from both his parents. The McNeils towered over five-foot-three me, and no one ever called me lean. This close to the ocean, I could almost feel my always-out-of-control black curls curling even more. “Pop in for a cup of coffee or a beer before you leave,” I said.
“Thanks, honey, but no. It’s my poker night, so I gotta get home for an early dinner.”
Connor’s father had been almost as thrilled as Connor at getting the chance to fix up a member of the unpainted aristocracy. The first time he’d come into the house, he’d looked around with eyes so full of memory, I could tell he’d spent some time in a house much like this one in his youth. But his eyes had been dark, and he hadn’t smiled or fondly run his fingers over the cracked and aging wood, so I didn’t think the memories were necessarily good ones. But then he’d almost physically shaken off the ghosts of the past and said, “She’s a beauty, all right, and scarcely changed a bit.”
I waved to him and went inside.
I jerked awake. I’d closed the blinds tonight, and only a tiny sliver of light leaked into the bedroom from the night-light in the master bathroom; otherwise, all was completely dark. Charles was standing next to me, his ears up and his tail sweeping slowly back and forth, back and forth. His eyes were focused on the doorway, and the hair along his back stood on end. I laid my hand on his side. Every muscle was stiff with tension.
This was an old house undergoing much-needed repairs. It creaked and it moaned and it sighed. It stood on pillars, and the open ocean was steps from those pillars, and the surf rushed to shore throughout the night. The beach was public, and although not many people walked along it late at night, some did on occasion. I reminded myself of all of that and told myself to go back to sleep.
A floorboard creaked.
I stiffened and sucked in a breath. Charles sailed off the bed and ran out of the bedroom. I threw off the covers, swept my phone off the night table, and went after him. I hit the switch, and the room flooded with welcome light. I stopped in the hallway and strained my ears, listening for another sound.
All was quiet. So quiet, I feared that if we did have an intruder, they’d be able to hear the beating of my heart.
“Charles,” I said, more to myself than to him. “It’s nothing but a mouse in the walls. Come back to bed.”
Nothing. I hesitated, wondering which way to go. The ocean-facing living room was in front of me and the dining area beyond that. Down the hall to my left were the kitchen, two guest bedrooms, and the back (i.e., street-facing) entrance to the house. I peered into the living room. Moonlight streamed through the uncurtained windows. The yellowing shag carpeting had been pulled up and loose and rotting floorboards replaced, but the final flooring wouldn’t be laid until work is finished on the more important rooms of the house. At the rear of the living room, adjoining the kitchen, a staircase leads to the upper level, where we plan to eventually put in a games room or den and another bathroom and guest room. The staircase is guarded by a six-foot-high block of wood firmly attached by hinges to the wall. The upper level, Connor said, is not safe, and he wants to ensure no one goes up there. I crossed the living room in a few steps and shook the makeshift door. It held firm.
A wall separates the living and dining areas. Connor plans to eventually remove the wall, opening up the space to the flow of light and conversation. The door was open and I peeked into the dining room, where I’d happily envisioned laughing friends and family crowded around a huge wooden table groaning under the weight of food and drink. This room was also empty.
I turned back to the living room, preparing to have a quick check of the rest of the house and then go back to bed, when I saw Charles at the windows, caught in a beam of moonlight.
I blinked and slowly came to realize that Charles was not in the living room. He was on the crumbling deck itself, on the far side of the sliding door. Which meant the door was open. I ran across the room, heedless of the old wood creaking under my weight. The open gap between the door and the wall was not much wider than a cat’s width. I pulled and pushed at the door as I called to the cat, but it wouldn’t open any farther, and I finally realized the rusty sliders were clogged with sand and debris.
“Charles! Get in here.” I clapped my hands and made summoning noises. Charles was not an outdoor cat. If he decided to do some nocturnal exploring, I worried he wouldn’t be able to find his way home. Ignoring me, he leapt onto the railing and gazed out to sea.
I sucked in my stomach and managed to edge myself sideways through the gap between the door and the wall. The wooden planks of the deck were soft with age and the effects of constant sea spray, which was why they needed to be replaced. “Charles,” I said. “Get in here.”
He didn’t move. I held my breath, as though that would make me weigh less, and cautiously took a step forward. The wood shifted beneath me, but nothing cracked apart, so I crossed as rapidly and lightly as I could. I reached out, grabbed the cat, and hurried back inside. It was a tight fit, getting us both through the door, but I finally managed. I wrenched the door shut and put Charles down. “Don’t do that again,” I said in my sternest voice.
He flicked his tail and strolled away. “Silly ca—” The words died in my throat. This room had no working lights. A tangle of wires, ending in nothing, hung from the ceiling where a chandelier had once held pride of place. Moonlight streamed through the ocean-facing door and windows, illuminating dust mites swirling in the air, disturbed by my passing. The room had no furniture, and the floor was thick with accumulated sand and dust. I watched Charles leave a faint trail of paw prints behind him, next to the marks laid down by my own bare feet. I could see something else, something that had my heart leaping into my throat. Shoe prints. The indistinct outline of a pair of shoes, crossing the room from the kitchen to the sliding door.
At that moment a cloud moved across the moon and the light died, and I was plunged into semidarkness. I switched my phone’s flashlight on, but in the beam of that bright light all I could see was a dirty floor with a few indistinct marks on it. How long had those prints been there? I hadn’t been in this room for weeks at least. Not since I’d admired the view from the sliding door and calculated what size couch and coffee table would fit.
Could the prints have been left by Connor or his dad? Entirely possible. I was in bare feet at the moment, but Connor had told me that with all the loose old boards and rusty nails around and the chance of fresh nails being dropped, I should always wear my shoes.
The prints had seemed too small to be Connor’s, but they weren’t a clear outline. Perhaps the deliverymen had come in here earlier to drop off some of their supplies. I’d seen them taking the finished planks around the front of the house, but they might have come inside with smaller items before I got home.
My fingers hovered over the phone. Should I call the police? I know several people on the force. One of my closest friends was dating a cop, and he was my friend also. I’d more than once been able to help Detective Sam Watson with his cases.
I hesitated. I’d lived in the Lighthouse Aerie for two years, comfortably and happily alone at night in that old building as it creaked and swayed in the wind. But the lighthouse has one entrance and windows set into four-foot-thick stone walls. The apartment has a locked door, and the window is a hundred feet above the ground. In there I was as safe as lighthouses.
This house has three sets of external stairs, numerous windows, several doors, and access to the deck directly off the beach.
This was the first night I’d been alone here. I planned to live in this house for many long years to come. If I called for help already, would that cast a pall over the way I felt about the house? I couldn’t allow myself to be frightened here.
I returned to the sliding door and yanked at it to ensure it was firmly shut. I flicked the latch and verified that it was locked. The deliverymen had been on the deck, and they hadn’t bothered to make sure the door was shut and locked behind them when they left. Perhaps it had gotten stuck and they’d decided it wasn’t worth bothering about. I made a mental note to check every door before retiring for the night from now on. That wasn’t being nervous—it was only practical.
Just to be safe, I decided to check the rest of the house now. I gripped my phone in my hand and left the flashlight app on, although I switched on what lights were working as I passed through the house. The north side of the kitchen opens into the dining room, and a door in the western wall leads down the outside steps to the path to the garage and the street. I tested the door and found it satisfyingly locked. The bathroom and bedroom doors on either side of the narrow hallway were closed. The hallway’s used regularly, as it ends at another door to the outside, so no dust and sand had accumulated on the floor that could capture footprints. I put my hand on the bedroom door nearest the entrance to the house, gathered my courage around me, took a deep breath, and threw the door open with enough strength to have it bouncing off the wall. We hadn’t put any furniture in here yet, pending the stripping of the peeling yellowing wallpaper, and the smaller bedrooms don’t have closets, as was the custom in older houses. Not even a mouse could find a place to hide from me in here. The other bedroom was the same, as was the sleeping porch tucked next to the deck at the south side of the house.
Lastly, I went back to the kitchen, where I found Charles batting his empty water bowl around the room. A puddle next to the sink indicated that he’d knocked the bowl over. I had one last place to check and, now feeling slightly foolish, opened the door to the pantry and shined my light in. A big bag of kibble, a few cans of cat food, some tomato sauce, packages of rice and dried pasta, cleaning products, and wicker baskets containing potatoes and onions. In here there were places for mice to hide, but nothing any larger. I shut the door behind me and grabbed a dish towel off the oven handle, wiped up the spilled water, and refreshed the bowl.
“That’s enough excitement for tonight,” I said to Charles in a loud, firm voice. “I’m going back to bed. You can come or not.”
He ran on ahead, and by the time I’d rechecked every door and all the windows, he was curled in the center of the bed, snoozing contentedly. I crawled in next to him, but I didn’t get much sleep. I’d left every light in the house on.
The sunlight didn’t wake me, and it was only the sound of an incoming text that had me jerking awake. I fumbled for the phone and peered at the screen.
Connor: Good morning. Most boring conference I’ve ever been to. Missing you lots
Me: Missing you too
Connor: Everything okay at the house?
I thought. Was everything okay? Of course it was. Perfectly okay.
Me: All good. Wood for deck delivered
Connor: Dad told me. Xxxxx.
Me:
As I showered, I thought about last night. Standing under the hot, steaming water, in the full light of day, I decided I’d overreacted. Frightened by the creak of an old house in the night. I’d better get my nerves under control, and fast. I told myself I was simply getting used to this big old house, particularly being in it by myself.
Except for Charles, of course. I tried to shove aside the image of Charles when we’d first woken up, but it refused to be shoved. Something had alerted Charles, and he’d never before been one to be spooked by anything. If he’d heard a mouse, he would simply have jumped off the bed and chased it away.
Some say this house is haunted. Ralph’s sister refused to cross the threshold even to visit her parents. What sort of teenage prank gone wrong would result in behavior so extreme? Maybe, I told myself, Jo Harper simply didn’t like her parents and eagerly latched on to a good excuse not to visit them. Maybe she was a drama queen who relished the attention. Maybe she’d made up a story and it got out of control and she didn’t know how to call it back.
I walked through the house, switching off lights I’d left on all night. Outside, the tide was coming in and the sea rushed to shore. I carried my coffee into the sun-filled living room. The sliding door was shut and locked, as I’d left it. Of course it was. What had I been expecting? I sipped my coffee and watched the activity outside. A few neighbors walked along the sand while their dogs chased sandpipers through the surf or sent sea gulls flying high. Charter fishing boats headed out to the open sea and closer to a handful of poles arched over the beach into the water. I turned. The sun streaming into the room caught traces of marks in the sand and dust. Cat’s paws, bare feet. And shoes. Just in case … I took pictures of the prints but when I examined them they didn’t look like anything at all.
“House,” I said, my voice echoing off the walls in the empty room. “I love you already. We’ll take care of you, and I know you’ll love us in return.”
Back in the kitchen, I found Charles waiting for me by the door. If Charles wasn’t bothered by the events of last night, neither would I be.