11

Ghost Call

I was up first thing Tuesday morning. No one was around when I went downstairs, so I proceeded to set up the breakfast buffet on my own. It turned out to be an exercise in futility; Clarissa didn’t show her face all morning, nor did anyone else, for that matter. I had not seen Lincoln since Sunday night.

As I dismantled the untouched buffet, it occurred to me I was being taken advantage of; the others had left the new recruit to do all the work and had gone out shopping or socializing, perhaps even skiing in the local hills. The image of Lady Graverly on skis made me chuckle, and throughout the day to amuse myself I conjured up other scenarios involving the dignified old woman: snowboarding in a balaclava, performing waterskiing stunts, propped up at the bar at the Dover Arms Pub doing shots with the locals.

During the course of the day, I heard the occasional opening and closing of doors, the patter of footsteps, a cough, a hack, murmurs of conversation, but I did not see a soul. Left to my own devices, I explored the house. Every room was in need of a thorough scrubbing. I had never minded cleaning, having always admired and somewhat envied the work of the housekeeping department in hotels, the satisfaction they gleaned from seeing the results of their labor. Deciding to start with the kitchen, I filled a bucket with soapy water and rolled up my sleeves.

As I scrubbed the floor, I brooded over the state of the house. Dirt could be removed easily, but what was really needed was paint. The tired furnishings would have to be replaced, and that would require several years’ worth of capital reserves. I would have to find additional sources of revenue. Lynne had mentioned the potential of the back yard for weddings and events, but that would require landscaping. If Lady Graverly’s quarters proved to be spacious, they could in part be converted into additional guestrooms, possibly even a small restaurant or lounge. However, a food and beverage facility would require a larger kitchen and ample storage space. How could a house of this size have no basement or cellar? At the very least, there had to be a crawl space, but I could find nowhere to access it.

After cleaning the kitchen, I went to the foyer to mop the floor. Eyeing the Gothic door, I wondered why Lady Graverly had so adamantly refused to allow me in. Being a private person myself, I respected her desire for privacy, but her words had been so vehement I suspected there was more to it. Maybe the apartment was rundown and neglected, and she was ashamed. Her fierce pride was obvious, and I suspected it also fueled her refusal to accept that her husband had run off with the chambermaid. She had assured me I would see her quarters in due time, but I needed to start planning now. On a whim, I went to the phone and called the housing inspector Lynne had recommended, Hal Farnsworth, to request an appointment and ask him to track down the manor’s blueprints. He promised to check with the city and get back to me.

Next, I called Mr. Chagani at the Harbourside Hotel and told him thanks, but I wouldn’t be accepting the job.

“Don’t tell me you bought that manor?” he said.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did,” I said. “So whenever your hotel is sold out”—or, say, it topples over into the ocean, I thought—“I’d appreciate it if you could send travelers our way.” I thanked him again and quickly hung up, hoping I had made the right decision.

That afternoon, I was in the back yard chopping firewood when the door to the private quarters opened and out walked the stout, black-haired woman I had seen the previous day. My curiosity caused me to miss the block, and the blade grazed my shin. As I lifted my pant leg to inspect the wound, the woman walked by without acknowledging my presence and hurried down the paved path to the back alley. There was something familiar about her purposeful gait and the black leather bag she carried. I had worked with hundreds of housekeepers in my career, and this woman did not fit the profile. Stinging pain redirected my attention to my leg. The wound was superficial, a shaved layer of skin, but it was bleeding. I limped into the kitchen and found a first-aid kit. After bandaging my leg, I returned and gathered an armload of wood.

A few minutes later, while lighting a fire in the parlor, I heard someone clear his throat behind me and turned my head to see Lincoln standing in the corner, perfectly rigid, his white-gloved hands glowing in the shadows.

“There you are!” I said. “I wondered what became of you.”

“I’ve been here, sir.”

“Well, I haven’t seen you. Elinor said you had a list of things to review with me yesterday.”

“Which things, Master Lambert?”

The fire blazed to life, licking at my fingers, and I lunged back, feeling a stab of pain in my injured leg. Concealing my discomfort, I stood up and made my way over to him. “Please, Lincoln, call me Trevor. You’ll find I’m a tad less formal than Lady Graverly.”

“Of course you are, sir.”

“I was hoping you could tell me who does what around here—the breakdown of responsibilities, the schedule? I want to be as helpful as possible, but I don’t want to step on any toes.”

“It’s quite simple, really. We do whatever is necessary to care for the house and its occupants. Have you made up Miss Larch’s room?”

“I didn’t know I was expected to. Why don’t we do it together? You can show me the ropes.”

“Given your pedigree, I should expect you know how to clean a room.”

I studied his face, unsure how to take the remark. Was he referring to my hotel training or sneering at my modest upbringing? His face was expressionless.

“In hotels, we use checklists to ensure nothing is overlooked,” I said amicably.

“I suppose such a system is quite useful in a hotel.”

There was no doubt now: beneath the veneer of politesse lurked condescension, even a trace of contempt. Leaving him, I went to the kitchen and ran cold water over my scorched fingers. The burns were superficial, a source of irritation more than anything.

“Master Lambert,” Lincoln said, startling me from behind, “I shall be preparing Lady Graverly’s dinner in her private quarters now. Perhaps you will be kind enough to tend to Miss Larch’s room?”

I shut off the tap. “Sure. Is she out now?”

“I do believe so.”

“I’ll need a key.”

He reached into his pocket and removed a brass ring. His hands shook as he withdrew a large key.

I thanked him and waited for him to leave so I could tend to my burn, but he remained where he was. “Is there anything else?” I asked. His clouded pink eyes, seeing yet unseeing, made me uncomfortable.

“Her ladyship wishes to remind you that Mr. and Mrs. Wainright arrive at eight thirty this evening. She will not be at liberty to greet them.”

“We’re expecting guests?”

“Perhaps you might consider reviewing the guest register. You will find it quite helpful in keeping current on arrivals and departures.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, feeling stupid for not having thought of it. “Where can I find the Christmas decorations? This house could use some cheering up.”

“Oh no, that won’t do at all. The lady no longer permits anything of a festive nature.”

Another rule I would change immediately. “Oh, I need to ask you for the user name and password for the computer.”

“The computer has not worked for several months, sir.”

“Okay, then. I’ll see if I can fix it. I’m planning to make a few changes to the manor’s website, set up an email account for inquiries, maybe post some testimonials from previous guests. Elinor mentioned you used to have a guestbook. I thought it might be a good source for quotes. Can you dig it up for me?”

Lincoln gave me a faintly perplexed look, the first expression I had seen aside from a blank stare. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir. The lady grew weary of—”

“All the praise, I know.”

“—the negative comments. She found some of them quite offensive.”

“Is that so,” I said. A contradiction between Lincoln and Lady Graverly—a fissure in what had appeared to be an unbreakable wall. “You threw away the old guestbook, then?”

“Lady Graverly throws nothing away, as you can clearly see. There’s an entire shelf filled with old guestbooks. You won’t find much praise in them, however—not in recent years.”

“What about all those great comments I saw online?”

“Lady Graverly wrote them, and the summer student posted them.”

“You’re joking.”

“I don’t make a habit of joking, Master Lambert.”

The door opened and Sir Fester slinked in, taking a swipe at my leg as he passed. “Scram!” I yelled after him.

“Sir Fester becomes quite ornery when hungry,” said Lincoln.

“It’s my job to feed him?” I asked, glaring down at the cat. Then I recognized an opportunity: maybe I could starve the cat into good behavior. “I’d be happy to,” I said, shooting the cat an evil grin. My shin began to throb where his paw had struck, in the very same place as the axe, and I squatted down to check on the wound. Blood had begun to seep though the bandage. Sir Fester approached me, meowing and licking his lips. I quickly pulled down my pant leg and stood up.

Lincoln was gone.

I went looking for him, but he was nowhere to be found. How could a man who moved so slowly disappear so quickly? In the parlor, the fire crackled and hissed. I returned to the kitchen, found a stack of 9Lives with chicken and liver, and fed Sir Fester, deciding to start with a truce. He attacked the food ferociously, and I left him to feast, heading down to the foyer to study the guest registry. Flipping to today’s date, I found the words “Wanerite 4 nites” scrawled in a horrendous script. It appeared that Agnes wrote in the same sloppy manner as she tended the house.

As I climbed the stairs to the Edward VI room, I felt a small thrill at the prospect of entering Clarissa’s bedroom, but a tasseled Privacy sign hung from the door handle. Could she be there? I was not yet attuned to the comings and goings in the house. I put my ear to the door and listened. Nothing.

In the hotel business, employees often learn about the inviolability of privacy signs from embarrassing encounters. I myself have walked into rooms the front desk insisted were vacant only to find a couple fornicating, an elderly man in high heels and ladies’ panties, and two front-desk agents snorting cocaine. Sometimes guests check out without removing the privacy sign or informing the front desk, and if the privacy sign is heeded, the room could remain forever unoccupied, resulting in an irreplaceable loss of revenue. To avoid this, and to avoid blatantly disregarding the privacy sign by knocking, the front-desk agent places a “ghost call” to the room. If the guest answers, the agent hangs up, and the guest assumes it was a random misdialed call. If there is no answer, the agent can safely assume the room is empty and can disregard the privacy sign. Deciding a ghost call was in order, I made my way downstairs and picked up the phone at the reception desk. The shrill ring of Clarissa’s phone shattered the silence of the household. After six rings, satisfied, I remounted the stairs.

Giving a quick rap on the door, I let myself in and flicked on the light. A sudden movement made me start. Clarissa shot up in bed, breasts bare, and emitted a piercing scream. I let out a yelp, doubly alarmed by her corpselike appearance: blackened eyes, pale skin, and scraggly hair.

“What the hell are you doing?” she shouted, pulling a sheet around her.

“I’m sorry! I thought you were out.” I quickly retreated, pulling the door closed, and then called through the door. “I tried phoning. You didn’t answer.”

“Pervert!”

Mortified, I climbed the stairs to my room, chastising myself along the way. I had violated a rule I had instilled in hundreds of hotel employees: knock before entering a room, no matter how certain you are that it’s vacant, count to five, and, if there is no answer, open the door a crack and identify yourself. If there is no reply, then—and only then—enter. In the two days since had I arrived at the manor, I had seen every occupant naked except Elinor Graverly.

And if God had mercy, that would never happen.

Clarissa went out a half-hour later, slamming the door so hard it felt like a smack in the face. I searched the house for Lincoln, eager to share the blame, and found him in the kitchen, sweeping the very floor I had washed that afternoon in short, ineffectual strokes.

“Why did you tell me Clarissa was out?” I demanded.

“One should never open doors without permission.”

“I tried calling her room first. She didn’t answer. You told me she went out.”

“I believe I heard her leave just now, should you wish to try again.”

Exasperated, I stormed off.

That night, I prepared a simple pasta dinner, making enough for the others, but none of them came around. I was surprised to discover that, after only forty-eight hours in the manor, the solitude was beginning to bother me. I was looking forward to receiving the Wainrights, who I hoped were reasonably young, pleasant to be around, and not crazy. After dinner I stayed close to the front door, checking the street every few minutes, determined to be present to greet them upon arrival. By ten, they had not arrived. It had been a long day, and I was exhausted, but I could not go to bed before I had settled them in.

At ten thirty, my cell phone rang.

“How’s everything at the pink palace?” Janet asked.

“Couldn’t be better.”

“And the new girlfriend? Do I hear royal wedding bells?”

“Not funny, Janet. What’s up?”

“I’m picking up tickets for the carol ships tomorrow. Wendy thought you might want to come.”

“Gee, I don’t know … It’s not really my thing.” The prospect of singing Christmas carols with strangers in toques on a firetrap boat was about as appealing as going to the Ice Capades.

“It’s not my thing either, Trevor, but the kids love it. You’re always away at Christmas. We thought you could join some of the festivities this year. If not the carol ships, then how about a show?”

“Now that I can do. What are you thinking?”

“I heard the Ice Capades are coming back to town.”

I stifled a groan. “Any other options?” Peering through the front window, I spotted a black sedan rolling down the rain-slicked street.

“The Nutcracker?”

“Why don’t I meet you for a drink afterward?”

“We’ll have to get the kids home, and they really want to see you.”

“Janet, they look at me like they have no clue who I am.”

“Maybe if you saw them more than once or twice a year …”

Up the street, I saw the red glow of brake lights. I pulled on my coat, grabbed an umbrella, and hurried out to the street. “Wouldn’t your boys rather see a Canucks game or something?”

“That’s a fantastic idea.” Janet shouted in the background, “BOYS, GET OVER HERE! Uncle Trevor wants to take you to a hockey game!”

The sound of cheering.

Glancing across the street, I envisioned Quinn dashing into the path of the speeding truck. The prospect of being responsible for all those hyperactive kids was suffocating. What if something happened?

“Janet, I didn’t say … I meant—”

“You should see these guys, they’re so excited!”

“I’m going to be buried in this house for a while. I won’t even have time to leave the property. Maybe sometime in January.”

“Why don’t I come out for a visit with the kids on Saturday, then?”

“Um, jeez, I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I said, flagging down the sedan. “Elinor isn’t really a kid person.”

Silence.

“Janet, I’ve got to run. My guests are here. Go ahead to the carol ships without me, okay? We’ll chat closer to Christmas.”

“’Bye, Trevor.”

The sedan slowed to a stop in front of me. I opened the rear door, and an elderly woman peered out.

“Mrs. Wainright?” I said, my heart sinking. “Welcome to Graverly Manor.”

“Chuck, wake up! We’re here!”

I helped Mrs. Wainright out first, holding an umbrella over her head to shelter her from the rain.

Steadying herself on my arm, she turned to regard the manor. “How lovely!” she said in a loud voice. “We’ve been so looking forward to our visit!”

“And we’ve been looking forward to having you,” I said, ducking into the car to help her husband out. “Where are you from?”

“Raleigh, West Virginia.”

I propped Mr. Wainright against the car and went around to the trunk to retrieve his walker and cane. The driver made no move to help, choosing instead to talk on his cell phone in the comfort of his seat. Leaving the luggage for the next trip, I escorted the Wainrights to the house, trailing Mr. Wainright as he took baby steps with his walker. I held the umbrella over Mrs. Wainright’s head as the rain drenched me. At the foot of the stairs, Mr. Wainright abandoned the walker and began to climb the steps on his own. Fearing he would topple over, I offered him my arm but he brushed it aside.

“How did you find out about the manor?” I asked Mrs. Wainright.

“Oh, it’s a long story. Is your mother up?”

I chuckled. “Lady Graverly isn’t my mother. I’m an employee. She’s retired for the evening, but I’m sure she’ll be around in the morning.”

“Well, we’ll save the surprise until then!”

I gave her an inquiring look. Something told me Lady Graverly did not like surprises.

Mrs. Wainright’s attention was drawn to Sir Fester, who was perched on the verandah railing. “Well, hello there, darling little kitty!” she cried, reaching out.

“Careful,” I warned, taking her arm and steering her into the house. “He’s got a nasty temperament.”

An hour later, the Wainrights were settled in the Elizabeth II suite. Considering Mr. Wainright’s frail state, to house them on the third floor was completely impractical, but I was reluctant to meddle with Lady Graverly’s room assignment. As I placed the last of the bags on the ottoman at the foot of the bed, I asked Mrs. Wainright if there was anything else. She was exploring the room, uttering cries of delight over various furnishings and knickknacks.

“Chuck likes a spot of sherry before bedtime,” she said. The wall next to her shifted and made a loud crack, as though protesting the volume of her voice. She jumped back, pressing her hand against her chest. “Dear, it gave me such a fright!”

“The house shifts sometimes,” I said, smiling to reassure her.

She pressed her lips together, consternated. “Oh, and I would love a cup of Earl Grey tea. We’re a bit peckish too. Perhaps some cheese and crackers to nibble on?”

“I’ll see what I can rustle up,” I said, eager to please.

In the kitchen, I searched the refrigerator and cupboards for food that wasn’t stale or moldy. I wondered how Lady Graverly would have received such a request. Not enthusiastically, to be sure, but I had resolved to do things differently. Fortunately, I had coaxed a key to the liquor cabinet from Lincoln in anticipation of the Wainrights’ visit. They were my first official guests, and I was determined to do whatever it took to make them happy.