The Secret Staircase (A Wendover House Mystery Book 1) (6 page)

My eyes were delayed a moment at the porch’s screen door, which I could see through the window. It had remained open during the night so that the cat would have shelter. Unfortunately, the more energetic gusts of wind had brought rain inside to swell and stain the plank floor. That wasn’t good. The boards would need to be sealed before winter because even storm windows wouldn’t keep all the weather out. I made a note to mention this to Harris.

I went back to the kitchen and began opening drawers under the work table, all the while keeping half an eye and both my ears fixed on the dark opening to the basement. Finally I found a flashlight. The casing was cracked and the beam was weak but it was better than the oil lamp, so I made do.

Damp earth, dust, the nascent smell of decay.
I hate that basement scent. The cat’s tracks were on the stairs, but so were others. Probably my great-grandfather’s, I realized, and shivered. The mud had dried so there was no knowing when they had been left—possibly a long time ago, I told myself, but….

My parents were not imaginative people and if Grandma Mac was, I never saw any evidence of it, so I had not been raised to fear the dark or the things that might inhabit it. But I disliked this particular darkness and could all too easily imagine things lurking in it—ghosts and skeletons and ferocious rats.

Still, it seemed better to go down the stairs in daylight and find out what was there than to wait for it to creep up some night and surprise me in bed.

Wondering if I was being as stupid as all the women in the monster movies who go down to the basement when they know they shouldn’t, I pressed on until I was on the last stair and then stopped. I played the light around the room, examining it before I stepped onto the floor.

The room was empty, just as Harris had said, not one skeleton or rat in sight. The floor was dirt and stone, the yard-sized sheets of paving rocks laid in a circular pattern that I felt I should recognize but couldn’t place. All I could think of was Greece and Crete and stories of labyrinths, though I didn’t think the pattern was quite right for that.

Three walls were covered in shelves and a plywood bin was heaped with coal. The fourth wall had cupboard doors made of some kind of heavy wood. One at a time I pulled them open, revealing old crockery, antique tools like a carpet beater, a damaged storm shutter, some ancient canned goods so old that their contents were no longer identifiable, and one locked door that wouldn’t budge no matter how hard I pulled on the handle.

By then more piqued then terrified, I went back upstairs and started searching the kitchen for a key. Eventually I found one, but either it was the wrong one or the doors were jammed, perhaps the wood warped by the damp, because I couldn’t get the last set of doors open.

Defeated, I stepped back to regroup.

In any event, the cat hadn’t come in that way, so the contents of an old cupboard didn’t really matter. It was just curiosity that drove me to want the door open—just to be sure about the lack of rats and bones. But that wouldn’t be happening right away so I needed to be patient and not pick up the rusty old ax and beat the door into kindling.

“Okay, so what now?” I asked myself aloud. “How did the cat get in?”

I didn’t feel any air currents around me to suggest a likely opening hidden in one of the other walls, but the storm had passed so perhaps that lack of air current was natural. Short of removing every cobwebbed item from every shelf and looking for a cat-sized opening in the walls behind the clutter, I wasn’t going to find where Kelvin had gained access. Was it really worth the effort?

Before I could decide how ambitious I was feeling, there came a pounding at the front door. It was faint but persistent. I glanced at my watch and realized that it was probably Harris and that I was dusty and that my oatmeal might very well be cold.

“Good morning,” I said, opening the door and then blinking at the stranger on the doorstep.

He was a tall man, middle aged, pale, rectangular of face, and at the moment unsmiling. I recognized him from his author photos and felt a small flutter in my stomach.

“Good morning,” he said politely but with less enthusiasm than I had shown. “I saw a light moving around last night and thought perhaps I should come by to see who was in the house.”

“Tess MacKay,” I said, smiling and offering my hand. “I’ve inherited the house from my great-grandfather.”

The sandy brows flew up but he took my hand and shook it once. I hoped he wouldn’t notice that it was still a little smudgy.

“So Ladd finally found someone.
That will upset some people on Goose Haven, though the fishermen will be happy enough. The betting pool at the chowder house is running heavily in favor of no heir ever being found.”

“And you are Benjamin Livingston of
Greyhome
, the writer
from away
.”

The face relaxed just a trifle and I was pleased. Everyone here seemed so serious. I thought my sense of humor had atrophied in the last few years, but these guys made me look like a jokester.

“
Away
being Philadelphia.”

“I’m from really
away
. I live in Minnesota.”

“But you are a Wendover—that makes you a local. You even look like a Wendover. It’s rather uncanny.” This was news to me. I was tall and dark haired like my grandmother, but I wasn’t aware that this was a family “look.” “Has Ladd explained about how this is a wonderful place to live and that you must take up residency at once?”

“Yes. I just fear that maybe our definitions of wonderful may vary slightly.”

“Good luck convincing him of that. He very badly wants a Wendover in this house. A lot of the locals are very superstitious, you know. They think of
Wendovers
as being weather charms. Silly, of course, but with most of them I doubt you could knock that notion loose with a ballpeen hammer.”

“Hm.
Which one is the ballpeen? I can never remember and I want to be sure I have the right one on hand.”

A twinkle, a definite twinkle.
I decided that I liked him. Why hadn’t he and my great-grandfather gotten along?

“Would you care to come in for some breakfast? I have just made some oatmeal. It has cinnamon and apples so it should be edible.”

I am not sure if my offer would have been accepted, but at that moment Harris Ladd crested the hill. My stare alerted my guest to the visitor and after glancing over his shoulder, he declined politely.

“Morning, Ladd,” Benjamin said, now barely amiable but making it obvious that the cold shoulder was for Harris and not me. I got a friendlier nod though no smile, and then he was gone down the same path without another word.

“Good morning, Tess. You passed a pleasant night?” Harris was dressed casually in chinos and windbreaker but somehow still managed to convey an old-fashioned formality.

“Not entirely.”

He began to frown.

“The storm worried you?”

“No. The cat decided to let himself into the basement and then into the house around two this morning.”

“The cat was in the basement?” Now he was frowning in earnest. “But how can this be?”

“I guess there is a cat door somewhere. I couldn’t find it though. It may take some hunting. The shelves down there are packed with junk.” My oatmeal was probably glue but I was still hungry so again made my offer of breakfast. “I’ve made some apple oatmeal, would you care to join me?”

Harris hesitated but his jowls quivered in a telling manner, so I pressed him.

“Is not the laborer worthy of his hire?” I asked, and earned an actual smile. Men were unbending right and
left,
before you knew it they would be breaking out in fits of jocularity and smiling hard enough to show some teeth. “And if it tastes ghastly you don’t have to eat it.”

“I should be glad to join you.” He stepped inside. “Will I be laboring today? Have you decided to remain a while longer, or is my job to take you to the ferry?”

“I’m staying. Just for a few days though.” I was sixty percent sure that this was true. “But I will need to get a few things if I am to spend another night here.”

“What do you need? Shall I take you to Great Goose or will you need the mainland?” He sounded enthused. Maybe Benjamin was right about the locals being really superstitious. The idea was weird and amusing.

“Well, I need some milk,” I said, walking to the stove and lifting the lid on the cast-iron pot. For a mercy the oatmeal was still warm and smelled wonderful. “I will also need more kibble. Kelvin is eating me out of house and home.”

At the reminder of my feline guest’s presence in the house I looked about for the cat, but he had disappeared. I decided that after his enormous meals he might be feeling the call of nature and opened the back door that led onto the porch and then into the back garden. The lock was noisy as I turned it and I knew that Harris probably wondered at my having used it.

“But mostly I want some flashlights—preferably the crank kind that don’t need batteries—and a lock for the basement door.”

“Certainly, there should be flashlights, but do you think a lock is necessary?”

“I do. Somehow the cat got the door open and I don’t really want the rest of the island wildlife following him inside if he does it again.” This was a secondary consideration. Mostly I just really didn’t like the basement and wanted the door locked at all times. That little voice inside doesn’t speak up real often but I have learned to listen to it.

“That would certainly be bothersome. I believe that there are rats and rabbits,” Harris agreed, accepting the offered bowl. “I’m glad to see you’ve mastered the stove.”

“I have even conquered the immersion heater in the bathroom. I suppose my last trial will be the solar panels but I am hoping to be spared for a while longer.”

Again Harris smiled.

“Let’s eat in the breakfast room,” I suggested, not wanting him to see that one of the dining room chairs was missing and again being used to hold the basement door closed.

We sat down at the small table and dug in.

“This is lovely,” Harris said. “I haven’t had oatmeal since my wife died.”

“I’m sorry,” I answered and was. “When did she pass?”

“It’s been four years now. It was a boating accident,” he said. The comment did not invite follow-up and I took the hint.

“Will I need to go to the mainland for supplies?” I asked.

“I believe a lock and your other items, of course, may be had in Goose Haven. It is about a twenty minute ride, if you are inclined? The sea is fairly calm today so the trip would be pleasant.”

“Water doesn’t bother me,” I said. “We have a lot of lakes in Minnesota. Of course, I wouldn’t go out in a storm, but you needn’t worry about me coming down with seasickness or anything just because of choppy water.”

“Good. Then we can go whenever you like. I have left the day open and am entirely at your disposal. Let’s see if we can’t make you more comfortable here. We don’t want you to hurry away.”

Livingston was definitely right. Harris really did want me to stay on Little Goose.

The clouds were like wooly lambs gamboling in the brightest of blue skies. The water sparkled, the grass was vivid green. No one, not even an inveterate alarmist—which I am not—could be afraid on such a morning. Almost I forgot the apprehension of the night before.

Almost.

“Remember not to whistle,” I said to Harris as he helped me into the motorboat, recalling one of the sailors’ superstitions I had read about while researching a piece for the paper on Friday the 13
^th
and other things that bring bad luck.

Harris looked startled.

“I beg your pardon.”

“You don’t want to raise a gale,” I explained.

“Oh. The local fishermen do believe in some strange things, but I think that one has gone out of fashion even with the older folks like my parents.”

“So, I can’t make my hair curly by rubbing rum on my head?” I asked as he cast off.

“I fear not.”

“My grandma believed in an odd one. She said that you should never rock an empty rocking chair because it would lead to someone’s death.”

“Ah. Here they believe that rocking an empty chair will call a ghost,” Harris answered. He was still smiling but his lips looked strained. I guess rum on the head was silly but empty rocking chairs were not.

“Maybe you should sing to the sea,” he suggested. “Music soothes the waves. A harp is best, I understand, but we must be practical.”

“Glad it doesn’t take a piano,” I joked, but not feeling entirely comfortable anymore. I had never been around someone who was so very superstitious. It seemed odd that he could be so educated and yet so irrational. I supposed that it was all in how one had been raised.

Since I am not rude and couldn’t think of anything else to say about soothing the sea, it seemed a good time to turn the subject to things more comfortable.

“I hear that the chowder house is excellent. Mr. Livingston mentioned it.”
In the context of gambling, not for its food.
“I’m curious to see it.”