Authors: Wendy Corsi Staub
She Loves Me Not (34 page)
The third floor hasn't been used in decades, perhaps not even when the second-to-last owners, a childless couple, lived here.
When Mother and Father bought the house, they found that the first two floors were plenty large enough for two; large enough, even, for four.
And then there were three . . .
No. Don't think about that.
Just find out where the notebook was hidden, and how much Sandra Lutz knows about what's written in it
.
Down they go, descending another steep flight to the second floor.
Here, the hallway is much wider than the one above, with high ceilings, crown moldings, and broad windowed nooks on either end. A dark green floral runner stretches along the oak floor, and the wallpapered walls are studded with elaborate sconces that were, like most light fixtures throughout the house, converted from gas to electricity after the turn of the last century.
“The same thing was probably done in my house,” Sandra comments as they walk along the hall, “but I'd love to go back to gaslights. Of course, the inspector who checked it out before I got the mortgage approval nearly had a heart attack when I mentioned that. He said the place is a firetrap as it is. Old wiring, you knowâthe whole thing needs to be upgraded. It's the same in this house, I'm sure.”
“I'm sure.”
The mid-segment of the hall opens up with an elaborately carved wooden railing along one side. This is the balcony of the grand staircaseâthat's what Sandra likes to call it, anywayâthat leads down to the entrance hall. Or foyer. (Pronounced
foy-yay
by
Sandra-rhymes-with-Sondra
.) Realtors, apparently, tend to embellish.
The master bedroom at the far end of the hallway isn't large by today's standards. And it isn't a
suite
by any stretch of the imagination, lacking a private bath, dressing room, walk-in closet . . .
But that, of course, is what Sandra Lutz calls it as she opens the door for the second time today:
the master suite.
The room does look bigger and brighter than it did years ago, when it was filled with dark, heavy furniture and long draperies shielding the windows. Now bright summer sunlight floods the room, dappled by the leafy branches of a towering maple in the front yard.
A faint hint of Mother's cloying talcum powder and Father's forbidden pipe tobacco seems to waft in the air, but it might very well be imagined.
The lone floor lamp, plugged into an electronic timer that will turn it on for a few hours every evening, was Sandra's idea. There's one downstairs in the living room, too.
“You don't want to advertise that the house is empty,” she said.
“Why not? There's nothing here to steal.”
“Yes, but you don't want to tempt kids or vandals to break in.”
I really don't care.
“Here.” Sandra walks over to the far end of the room, indicating the decorative paneling on the lower wall adjacent to the bay window. “This is what I was talking about. See how this wainscot doesn't match the rest of the house? Everywhere else, it's more formal, with raised panels, curved moldings, beaded scrolls. But this is a recessed panelâMission style, not Victorian. Much more modern. The wood is thinner.”
She's right. It is.
“And this”âshe knocks on the maroon brocade wallpaper above it, exactly the same pattern but noticeably less faded than it is elsewhere in the roomâ“isn't plaster like the other walls in the house. It's drywall. Did you know that?”
“No.”
There wasn't even wainscoting on that end of the room years ago. Obviously, someoneâFather?ârebuilt the wall and added the wainscoting, then repapered it using one of the matching rolls stored years ago on a shelf in the dirt-floored cellar.
“There's a spot along here . . .” Sandra reaches toward the panels, running her fingertips along the molding of the one in the middle. She presses down, and it swings open. “There. There it is. See?”
Dust particles from the gaping dark hole behind the panel dance like glitter into sunbeams falling through the bay windows.
“Like I said, it's about two feet deep. I wish I had a flashlight so that I could show you, but . . . see the floor in there? It's refinished, exactly like this.”
She points to the hardwood beneath their feet. “In the rest of the house, the hidden compartments have rough, unfinished wood. So obviously, this cubby space was added in recent yearsâit must have been while your family owned the house, because as I said, the room was two feet longer when it was listed by the previous owner.”
“When you opened the panel, was there . . . was this all that was inside?”
“The notebook?” Sandra nods. “That was it. It was just sitting on the floor in there, wrapped in the rosary. I gave it to you just the way I found it. I figured it might be some kind of diary or maybe a prayer journal . . . ?”
The question hangs like the dust particles in the air between them and then falls away, answered only by the distant whistle of a passing freight train.
Predictably, Sandra waits only a few seconds before filling the awkward pause. “I just love old houses. So much character. So many secrets.”
Sandra, you have no idea. Absolutely no idea.
“Is there anything else you wanted to ask about this or . . . anything?”
“No. Thank you for showing me.”
“You're welcome. Should I . . . ?” She gestures at the wainscot panel.
“Please.”
Sandra pushes the panel back into place, and the hidden compartment is obscuredâbut not forgotten, by any means.
Does the fact that the Realtor speculated whether the notebook is a diary or prayer journal mean she really didn't remove the rosary beads and read it when she found it?
Or is she trying to cover up the fact that she did?
Either way . . .
I can't take any chances. Sorry, Sandra. You know “exactly” where I live . . . now it's my turn to find out the same about you
.
That shouldn't be hard.
An online search of recent real estate transactions on Wayside Avenue should be sufficient.
How ironic that Sandra Lutz had brought up Sacred Sisters' proximity to her new house before the contents of the notebook had been revealed. In that moment, the mention of Sacred Sisters had elicited nothing more than a vaguely unpleasant memory of an imposing neighborhood landmark.
Now, however . . .
Now that I know what happened there . . .
The mere thought of the old school brings a shudder, clenched fists, and a resolve for vengeance. That Sandra Lutz lives nearby seems to make her, by some twisted logic, an accessory to a crime that must not go unpunished any longer.
They descend the so-called grand staircase to the first floor. Here, a faint mildewed smell permeates the musty air, courtesy of the damp cellar below. It's always been prone to flooding thanks to a frequently clogged drain. Earlier, Sandra needlessly pointed out that a vapor barrier, French drain system, and even new roof gutters would help.
I'm sure it would. But that's somebody else's problem.
“Shall we go out the front door or the back?” Sandra asks.
“Front.”
It's closer to the rental car. The need to get out of this old house with its unsettling secrets and lies is growing more urgent by the second.
“I thought you might like to take a last look around beforeâ”
“No, thank you.”
“All right, front door it is. I never really use it at my own house,” Sandra confides as she turns a key sticking out of the double-cylinder dead bolt and opens one of the glass-windowed double doors. “I have a detached garage and the back door is closer to it, so that's how I come and go.”
Oh, for heaven's sake, who cares?
“You know, your mother had these locks installed after your dad passed away. She was so afraid to be alone at night.”
Mother? Upset that Father passed away?
Mother, afraid to be alone?
Mother, afraid of anything at allâother than the wrath of God or Satan?
I don't think so.
“What makes you assume that?”
“It's not an assumption,” Sandra says defensively, stepping out onto the stoop and holding the door open. “Bob Witkowski told me that's what she said.”
“
Who?
”
“Bob Witkowski. You know Al Witkowski, the mover? He lives right around the corner now, on Redbud Street, in an apartment above the dry cleaner. His wife divorced him awhile back and took him for everything he had.”
Oh, for the love of . . .
“Anyway, Bob is Al's younger brother. He's a locksmith. I had him install these same double-cylinder dead bolts in my house when I first moved in, because I have windows in my front door, too. You can't be too careful when you're a woman living aloneâI'm sure your mother knew that.”
“Yes.”
The wheels are turning, turning, turning . . .
Stomach churning, churning, churning at the memory of Mother.
Mother, who constantly quoted the Ten Commandments, then broke the Eighth with a lie so mighty that surely she'd lived out the rest of her days terrified by the prospect of burning in hell for all eternity.
“A lock like this is ideal for an old house with original glass-paned doors, because the only way to open it, even from the inside, is with a key,” Sandra is saying as she closes the door behind them and inserts the same key into the outside lock. “No one can just break the window on the door and reach inside to open it. Some people leave the key right in the lock so they can get out quickly in an emergency, but that defeats the purpose, don't you think? I keep my own keys right up above my doors, sitting on the little ledges of molding. It would only take me an extra second to grab the key and get out if there was a fire.”
“Mmm hmm.”
The place is a firetrap . . .
“Of course, now that it's summer, I keep my windows open anyway, so I guess that fancy lock doesn't do much for me, does it? I really should at least fix the broken screen in the mudroom. Anyone could push through it and hop in.”
It's practically an invitation.
Stupid, stupid woman.
Sandra gives a little chuckle. “Good thing this is still such a safe neighborhood, right?”
“Absolutely.”
Yes, and thanks to Sandra's incessant babble, a plan has taken shape.
A plan that, if one were inclined to fret about breaking the Ten Commandmentsâ
which I most certainly am notâ
blatantly violates the Fifth.
Thou shalt not kill.
Oh, but I shall.
It won't be the first time.
And surely, it won't be the last.
USA Today
and
New York Times
bestseller WENDY CORSI STAUB is
the award-winning author of more than seventy novels. She lives in the New York
City suburbs with her husband of twenty years and their two children. Learn more
about Wendy at www.wendycorsistaub.com.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book was previously published in mass market by Pinnacle Books in February 2003 and Zebra Books, an imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp., in May 2009.
Excerpt from
The Good Sister
copyright © 2013 by Wendy Corsi Staub.
SHE LOVES ME NOT
. Copyright © 2003, 2009 by Wendy Corsi Staub. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition JUNE 2013 ISBN: 9780062230157
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