by Mara McQueen
“Maybe,” he said slowly and without the slightest trace of conviction. “But we usually have some fierce weather here.”
With one last look at Olivia, he closed his visor, disappearing behind the corner of the house.
It wasn’t fair, really. Kieran had the house, the bike, and the good looks.
Maybe he’d been a secluded monk in his past life. Or saved a pregnant woman from drowning. Something that would justify this karma.
But then again, Olivia thought as she glanced back at the crooked house, maybe his life wasn’t as great as it seemed.
Hurricane Of A Woman
Olivia finally sought refuge inside when the clouds began to turn grey and rumble and headed straight for the dining room.
She stopped underneath the long, intricately carved archway, surprised by the general tidiness before her. The clutter never invaded this grand room. A fireplace occupied one wall—that would absolutely charm the prospective buyers once it was lit and had a nice rug in front of it. A huge dining table—recently polished judging from its shine—and a chandelier missing a few of its original crystal prisms completed the décor.
Seated on the right side of the table, with their backs to the large windows, Mrs. Bolton chatted away with Milo. He must’ve left her side at one point since both of them had changed clothes. Hopefully.
Right behind them, Emma stood as straight as a lamppost, watching the exchange with furrowed brows as she polished a glass platter. Bertha plopped expensive dishes down onto the table like they were rags.
“Come in, come in.” Mrs. Bolton waved her frail arm toward Olivia, who sat on the opposite side of the table.
Mrs. Bolton’s eyes roamed over Olivia’s red power suit, her smile fading. “Didn’t anyone tell you it was a formal dinner?”
Olivia blushed, much to Milo’s obvious satisfaction. As if he was one to talk. As a man, he could get away with one suit from wedding to funeral. “My apologies. When I left Leeds I didn’t expect to be invited to such a grand event.”
“A lady packs one of everything, dear,” Mrs. Bolton said in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning over the table. “You should know that by now.”
Olivia pursed her lips and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from saying exactly what she thought about that little nugget of wisdom.
Martin and Sarah walked in, holding hands. They looked tired, with protruding bluish bags under their eyes.
“Dorothea, what did I say about waiting for us to join you?” Sarah bent down to kiss Mrs. Bolton’s cheek, her curls bouncing.
Martin went to sit beside Olivia, his stomach straining against the table. “You must be the other agent.”
“I’m the agent.” Milo kissed Sarah’s outstretched hand with flourish. Sarah giggled. "And I have to admit, I'm so delighted to meet you now, before I sell the place and everyone can go on a nice, long vacation with the profit. I hear Mrs. Bolton plans on taking a nice trip by herself to Malaysia."
A loud bang interrupted them. Emma stood above shards of broken glass, wringing her arms.
“Foolish girl,” Bertha barked and bent down to pick up the mess.
“Now, now, Bertha. I told you to be nice to Emma.” Mrs. Bolton took a sip from her half-empty glass of brandy.
Milo and Olivia exchanged a well-rehearsed look—Bolton Manor housed some very interesting characters.
“So, Underwood,” Olivia began, trying to ease the tension, “I haven’t seen you much. What’ve you been up to?”
“I've been here and there. Mostly here. Did you know the estate has fully functional plumbing? And a recently added garage where Mrs. Bolton kindly suggested I keep the Jaguar once it gets here.”
Olivia tilted her head and smiled sweetly. “I know of another place where you could stick it.”
“Oh, I just love your accent.” Sarah took a seat next to her husband and peered at Olivia. “What made you give up the States for Leeds?”
The rent was way more manageable than anything she had found in the US. Plus, she'd figured if she put enough distance between her and the loans, she could pretend, 29 days of the month, that they didn’t exist.
That plan hadn't worked so far.
“That reminds me.” Mrs. Bolton set down her glass, her huge rings clinking against her expensive plate. “Martin, I’ve found this great decanter, perfect for your home office.”
“Dorothea, I—”
Mrs. Bolton raised her hand. “Now I know it’s a bit posh, but you and Sarah deserve the best. It’s in my dresser. Let’s take a look at it before dinner, shall we? Mind you, I’ll keep it safe until you leave. It's wrapped in a pashmina scarf.”
Martin sighed and got up, tucking the tip of his lopsided tie into his jacket. Emma wheeled Mrs. Bolton away from the table, narrowing her eyes at Bertha, who was busy folding napkins, badly.
“I’d love to see this decanter.” Milo winked at Olivia and trailed behind Mrs. Bolton, an obnoxious spring in his step.
Olivia didn't even bother grimacing at him. She'd win the listing the good old-fashioned way—by being professional.
“Third time,” Sarah whispered to herself.
“I’m sorry?” Olivia asked.
Sarah cleared her throat. “It’s the third time Dorothea’s shown him this decanter.”
“Oh...I see.” Olivia fidgeted on her seat and crossed her legs.
“She has trouble remembering new things.” Sarah grabbed her napkin and refolded it a few times too many. “It’s a shame you didn’t meet her a few years back. Dorothea and Mother were best friends, you see. She was a hurricane of a woman. Brilliant. She should’ve retired long ago, but she loved her job. Maybe if she had...”
Olivia didn't say anything for a few moments. Words of comfort had never been her forte, and they stubbornly evaded her as she looked at Sarah's pinched eyebrows. “I don’t think stress can be a direct cause of her condition.”
“Oh, no, dear. Stress bring down Dorothea? Impossible. She was one of the best journalists to ever grace our little isle and stopped at nothing to bring down big companies. Medical, food, clothing. No industry was spared. And, well....all I know is that she told Mother, bless her departed soul, it was going to be the biggest story of her career. Something about a big oil company that dealt with other dangerous and unsavory industries. About a year after that, all of a sudden, she had her first episode. It got so bad, she couldn’t remember who Kieran was for two months. Broke the poor lad’s heart.”
Olivia sucked in a breath. She wiped her clammy hands on her skirt, not taking her eyes off Sarah.
“Mind you, mental health is poorly misunderstood almost everywhere you go in this world, but this...Kieran tried everything. Every test, every specialist. Nobody knows what happened. Nobody can give an explanation.” A visible tremor shot through Sarah. “Kieran convinced himself that poor Dorothea’s state isn’t that surprising since mental issues run in their family, but nothing like this. Too much of a coincidence. Whatever caused this, it’s...”
Olivia averted her gaze, mind racing. The whole tale Sarah was spinning seemed a bit much.
Mrs. Bolton, who was comfortably pushing her seventies, planning to take down oil titans? That seemed real—amazing people didn’t stop being amazing, regardless of age. But the company retaliating? Like how Sarah was implying? That did not sound real in the slightest.
“It’s good to be calm around her and give her what she wants. It's why Kieran relocated the two of them here, Dorothea became obsessed with coming back to Bolton Manor, which is why it’s so weird that she insists on selling it now. And it helps when she sees familiar faces. That’s the main reason Martin and I came down here. She recognizes us almost every time. It would’ve been nice for her to have more people here, you know, but most of her friends aren’t around anymore." Sarah’s gaze fell to the table, but not before her eyes started to well up. "Just don’t push her with anything. Don't upset her. Take your time. We all do.”
Olivia remained silent even after everyone retu
rned to the table. Still no sign of Kieran, though.
She regarded Mrs. Bolton’s serene face with apprehension. To Olivia, the whole story she’d listened to didn’t stand up. Not that she doubted Sarah actually believed it, but a grandparent being a social vigilante? And somehow getting targeted for her investigation?
People wanted to find someone to blame when a loved one suffered, and Sarah obviously cared about Mrs. Bolton. A lot.
The atmosphere in the room came alive as everyone took their seats and Sarah and Martin delighted them with their quirky selves.
They were both accountants—not Mrs. Bolton’s, as they were quick to point out more than once—married for the better part of a decade and seemed to truly enjoy each other’s company.
They also shared a very particular sense of humor.
“And then, as I was hanging there—” Martin used his tie to mimic hanging onto the rope from his story. “—Sarah here reminds me we still have to pick up my boss’ gift on our way back. The only problem was we had the wrong date on our phones. Long story short, we got home two days late and he fired us. So that’s how we started our own business.”
“Fascinating.”
That voice. That loud, obnoxious drivel.
Olivia’s head whipped to the archway just as Addie sauntered into the room, clapping her hands lazily. Confidence oozed out of every tiny pore the woman had.
“I mean, you were rock climbing, and then you got fired?” Addie’s smile turned more mocking.
Martin cleared his throat and sunk back in his seat. Olivia wanted to strangle Addie.
“Thrilling, isn’t it, Darryl?” Addie turned around. The burly man trailed behind her; he looked like he'd been born with that glower on his face. Darryl grunted and sat down next to Milo, making him retreat closer to Mrs. Bolton.
“Addie, Miss Abbate here requires some help. Would you be a dear and let her raid your closet?” Mrs. Bolton said, voice not leaving any room for arguing.
Olivia blanched—no way would she ever wear anything of what Addie had on, from the cropped jeans to the bedazzled t-shirt.
Dearest Addie had the same idea, as she threw one disdainful look Olivia’s way and scoffed. “Sure, she can have whatever she wants. But I’ll have to replace the clothes she takes.”
“Just tell Kieran how much you want.”
Olivia frowned. Just how closely related were Addie and Kieran? They were both very attractive people, but the similarities stopped there.
Of course, Olivia needed to see him and those perfect cheekbones again to be sure.
Addie pouted and took her place next to Darryl, running her fingers down his arm. “But he always says no.”
Olivia thought she heard Martin whisper, “With good reason”. She liked the man even more now. Emma was equally unimpressed with Addie, pointing her scowl at her instead of its usual spot—the back of Milo’s neck.
Milo loosened his tie and nodded at Addie. “So you’re Kieran’s younger sister?”
“My good man, bite your tongue,” Kieran said coldly.
Olivia's heart began beating faster at the sound of his raspy voice. He strutted in the room like he owned the entire damn universe, pristine black shirt half unbuttoned, a few inches of smooth skin showing. He took the empty seat at the head of the table, right next to Olivia.
This was going to be a very interesting evening.
Notorious
Olivia straightened her spine and looked at him from the corner of her eye.
She could admit, to herself and literally nobody else, that Kieran was a very attractive man. Tall, lean, with a presence that filled the entire room, and just the right amount of attitude to keep her on her toes.
Alas, her days at Bolton Manor were numbered, and after she got the listing, their meetings would be few and far between, because Olivia was just that good at her job. But it didn’t hurt to acknowledge his handsomeness. No, it didn’t hurt one bit.
He gave her a small nod that lasted a few moments too long before focusing all his attention on Mrs. Bolton. He took her hand reverently and kissed it. “Sorry I’m late, Nan. I had some business to attend to.”
Silence engulfed the room.
While Bertha strolled in and out of the room, Emma stood in her place behind Mrs. Bolton, eager to help her with the simplest tasks.
When the old woman asked for someone to pass the salt, she practically jumped over the table to get to the shaker first and sprinkle the seasoning on her plate. Martin and Sarah had regretfully fallen silent since Addie and Darryl had appeared. And Milo seemed just as uneasy as Olivia, his eyes darting across the table.
Kieran’s gaze only drifted off his own plate to look at his grandmother; his left hand clenched briefly from time to time.
“So when do you think you’ll be ready to sell the place?” Addie asked during the third course—a charred and mildly vinegary steak of sorts—raising her fork to Darryl’s mouth. He engulfed the large piece of meat, scraping his teeth against the utensil.
“Well, first of all, Mrs. Bolton needs to decide which one of us will handle the listing,” Olivia said.
Mrs. Bolton smiled warmly. “We have all week for that, dear, no need to rush.”
“Yeah, but after that,” Addie continued, unperturbed. “Like a week? A month?”
“Addie, no business at the dinner table.” Mrs. Bolton polished off her second brandy glass.
Kieran remained stubbornly quiet. It was as if neither Addie nor Darryl existed in his universe.
Olivia caught her eyes drifting toward him every other minute, but he’d barely spared a glance her way. Didn’t they teach posh heirs to make small chit chat at dinner?
“It’s a shame you’re giving up this property, Dorothea. What with its history and all,” Martin said wistfully.
Olivia perked up at that.
“We’re very grateful you invited us here before you did, though. I can actually feel a shiver up my spine thinking about it,” Sarah said excitedly. “I just picture him in this room. Maybe right where I’m standing.”
“Am I missing something?” Olivia asked. If a lord or lady had lived in the manor at one point, it would drive up the price considerably.
Milo had picked up on that too and was eating up Martin and Sarah’s every delighted expression. Olivia had to give it to him—he had the makings of a fine estate agent. If only he'd rid himself of his obnoxiousness. “Who are you talking about?”
Sarah exchanged a surprised look with her husband. “Why, the Butcher, of course. Martin and I’ve been reading up on him for decades. Nottinghamshire’s most notorious serial killer lived on this property.”
Vicious And Unnerving
Silence engulfed the dining room, punctured only by Mrs. Bolton’s slow sips and Milo dragging his chair closer.
“So this Butcher, nasty fellow, huh?” Milo’s eyes shone.
That was all the incentive Martin and Sarah needed; they looked like kids getting their dessert without finishing their meal.
“He lived in the town nearby. It’s said he used to dismember his victims—”
“And there were loads of them. Half a village.”
“—using this huge cleaver. Gone mad one day—”
“And just started hacking left and right.”
“Took a whole year before he was caught and hanged.”
“But nobody really knew who he was or where he came from. Or ever saw his cleaver again.”
“It appeared in an auction a few years back. Sarah and I were real excited.”
“Turned out to be a scum selling his grandfather’s old knife—ironically, that one had actually been a butcher. Almost bid on it, too.”
“Would’ve made a fine addition to our collection.”
“But now we’re here, walking the same paths he did. And it’s all thanks to Dorothea.”
“We’re actually planning a trek through the forest in the morning—bought a map and all. All of you are welcomed to join us, of course.”
“But we got dibs if anybody finds something interesting,” Sarah finished with a giggle.
Olivia’s eyebrows shot up so high, they disappeared into her hairline. She cleared her throat and opened her mouth a few times, trying to find the right words.
She didn’t know which was worse—their hobby or their gullibility. “I’m sorry. You collect serial killer paraphernalia?”
“Memorabilia. And, well, not only that, of course,” Martin said. “Much too expensive for us. Anything related to the occult, really.”
“And you’re here to...” Olivia went on, splaying her fingers on the table, “expand that collection?”
“Yes, hopefully.” Sarah crossed her fingers. “But our main goal is to find out his real identity. We pride ourselves on being weekend sleuths.”
“And we get to spend some time with Dorothea.”
Olivia reclined in her seat, clicking her tongue. A serial killer, if this one had really existed, could become a real estate nightmare. Or a huge opportunity to find a new owner with the same weird hobbies like Martin and Sarah. “I’ve never heard of this Butcher.”
And she had done her research in the car ride from Leeds. The very limited information about Bolton Manor did not include anything related to a notorious killer.
Kieran sighed. “That’s because his story was probably thought up over a pint and a game of gin.”
Martin set down his fork and started breathing more heavily. “I have to disagree with you there. We have extensive documentation—”
“Mr. Gresham,” Kieran intervened with finality, swirling the drink in his hand. He drew the attention of everyone in the room; even Addie stopped pinching Darryl's cheeks to look at him. “The so-called serial killer you’re referring to was a humble stable boy who got tired of being overworked by his handler and, indeed, hacked the damned plonker to bits, only to be hanged, unjustly in my opinion, for his rebellion.”
The room fell silent. Only Mrs. Bolton continued eating, scrapping her fork onto the plate in a greedy, childlike manner. There was also a troubling distant look in her eyes.
