The Secrets of Winterhouse

by Ben Guterson

  “Are you comfortable?” Elizabeth said.

  “I’ve been better,” Kiona said, “but your grandfather makes sure I’m well taken care of.”

  “Is that ginseng drink helping?” Norbridge said.

  “I’d rather have a root beer float,” Kiona said, “but I confess your drink seems to be helping.” She put a hand to her forehead. “I’m not quite as worn out as I was a few days ago, so thank you for that.” She looked to Elizabeth. “Nice work with the book. I haven’t seen that sort of ability since dear cousin Rowena maybe sixty years back. Impressive.”

  Elizabeth didn’t know how to respond to this. “Thank you. I just … It’s just something that seemed to come to me. I don’t know how.”

  “I could see into the minds of others at one time,” Kiona said. “It wasn’t infallible, of course, and often it was distressing—a real curse, you know, to glimpse what’s inside our fellow man. But fascinating. My daughter could read the future, though now she mostly sleeps her poor life away.” She nodded to Norbridge and shifted on the sofa with a tiny look of pain. “This gentleman here is a tricky one. Things materialize, things disappear.”

  “As you can see,” Norbridge said, “my lovely second cousin is completely senile.”

  Kiona took a small breath; she seemed about to adjust herself again but remained in place. She looked at Elizabeth, her tired eyes glassy and kind. “I met Riley Granger once.”

  “Kiona…” Norbridge said.

  The old woman put a hand up. “He came back here for a visit forty years after he left the first time. He was over eighty years old.”

  “I didn’t think we were going to get into this today,” Norbridge said.

  “I heard the two of you talking out here about things,” Kiona said. “That’s the only reason I brought it up.”

  Elizabeth had felt her hair nearly stand on end when Kiona said Riley Granger’s name. “He came back here?” she said.

  “But nothing happened,” Norbridge said. “It was, as they say, anticlimactic. In fact, he was more senile than this dear lady at the time. I’m not even sure he realized where he was.”

  Kiona nodded sadly. “You’re right about that. But still, it was a thrill to meet the man. We’d all heard so much about him over the years.”

  Elizabeth wondered why Norbridge hadn’t mentioned this before. It bothered her—he’d kept an important part of the story from her.

  “Well,” Norbridge said, “it was disappointing. He just wandered around the hallways babbling until we got him back to his room.”

  “Did he come on his own?” Elizabeth said.

  “A niece or someone came with him,” Kiona said. “A young woman. I wish I could remember her name. Christmas of ’38 or ’39.”

  “A long time ago,” Norbridge said, sighing. “A little blip in Winterhouse’s history.”

  Elizabeth felt certain there was more to the story.

  “We should let you rest, Kiona,” Norbridge said. “Just wanted to say hello, and I wanted Elizabeth to meet you.”

  “Maybe you’re the one with the failing memory, Norbridge,” Kiona said. “I requested an audience with the young lady.”

  This surprised Elizabeth; she hadn’t considered that Kiona had asked to meet her.

  “You’re right,” Norbridge said.

  Kiona moved her head in Elizabeth’s direction, and then pointed to a bureau across the room. “Third drawer down on the right side. There’s something for you.”

  This was unexpected, and Elizabeth looked to Norbridge.

  “Please,” Kiona said, catching Elizabeth’s glance. “You don’t need his permission.”

  When Elizabeth slid the drawer open, the smell of lavender wafted from it and she was looking at a spread of richly colored scarves. The drawer was alive with bright, flowing fabric, like an exotic garden Kiona had somehow grown inside her bureau.

  “Beautiful!” Elizabeth said. “Like your paintings. I meant to tell you I love them.”

  “Thank you,” Kiona said, beaming. “I love beautiful things. So did your mother.” She lifted a hand and began moving her finger in a circle; she appeared to be stirring the scarves from a distance. “Look under them there on the right side, and you’ll find a red velvet pouch. It belonged to your mother. I want you to have it.”

  Elizabeth dug through the scarves. A small pouch, not much bigger than her fist, with a purple drawstring cinched tightly lay within. She lifted it from the pile of scarves and examined it before turning back to Kiona.

  “For me?” she said.

  “For you,” Kiona said. “I could never part with it before. It’s not much, really, but I’ve kept it all these years. She was such a sweet girl, my … my … what was the relationship again, Norbridge?”

  “Winnie was your second cousin once removed.”

  “Yes, that’s what I wanted to say. We were close. She kept that bag in here with me and would come get it from time to time when she was a girl. I think she forgot about it after she got to be about your age, and I left it there in case she ever wanted to reclaim it.”

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll take good care of it.” She was eager to get back to her room to examine the contents of the pouch.

  “And now we really should depart,” Norbridge said. “I’m going to make sure you have another round of that drink, Kiona, and maybe a light dinner, too.”

  Kiona ignored him. “You’re a smart, resourceful girl, Elizabeth. I know all about what happened here last year. We’re just so delighted to have you back with the family.”

  Elizabeth felt immensely happy as she looked into the old woman’s eyes. She lifted the pouch slightly. “Thank you so much. I’m glad to be here, and I’m really glad I had a chance to come see you.”

  Kiona dipped her chin in acknowledgment. “Besides, you’ll be taking over someday.”

  A shock went through Elizabeth at these words. They were unexpected—but they also seemed to make complete sense. She felt as she did when she found the correct piece to the huge puzzle in the lobby: Something fit.

  “Taking over?” she said to Norbridge. She thought back to how he had shown her his office on the thirteenth floor. Perhaps it wasn’t just that she had come to live at Winterhouse and needed to do her best to adjust—there was something to live up to, to fulfill.

  “You see?” Norbridge said with a smile. “This dear lady is still trying to wake up from her nap. But I do need to discuss something with her before I go.” He winked at Elizabeth. “I’m glad we had a chance to catch up, and I’ll look for you tonight, okay? Please stay out of trouble.”

  “I will.” And with a wave and a farewell to them, Elizabeth departed Kiona’s room.

  You’ll be taking over, Elizabeth thought as she walked down the hallway. The idea gave her a thrill, and she decided to talk with Norbridge about it when an opportunity arose.

  She continued to Room 213 to examine her mother’s pouch, when she thought that Leona might like to see its contents, too. And so she changed her path and headed to the library.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE CONTENTS OF THE POUCH HOPE

  As it turned out, Leona was examining the damage from the night before when Elizabeth arrived.

  “Who would do something like this?” Leona said, not really expecting an answer as she wandered around. She looked like someone surveying the aftermath of a hurricane, although most everything had been tidied up. The huge bookcases had been put back exactly in place; the plaque was hidden once again.

  “Don’t you think it had to be Rodney Powter?” Elizabeth said.

  “You might get me to put money on that one.” Leona shook her head and clicked her tongue, something she continued to do as she wandered around. “Well, I’m glad we were closed today anyway. I’m trying to soak this all up and get things in order.”

  “Can I help?” Elizabeth said.

  Leona pulled at the shoulders of her brown wool sweater, apparently to keep herself as warm and snug
as possible—or maybe to help herself make sense of what had happened. Elizabeth thought Leona looked about as sad and lost as she’d ever seen her, and it made her feel deeply unhappy. She decided not to mention the red pouch for now.

  “You know, dear,” Leona said, “it’s Christmas Day, and you should enjoy it. However, if you want to join me, I’m going to stay here for one hour—no more—and finish a couple of chores, and then I’m going to leave it alone myself. Probably the best thing I can do.”

  Elizabeth remained with Leona over the next hour, and the two of them drank tea and talked. All the while, Leona put the checkout cards in order and went through some papers on her desk before arranging them in the massive wooden file cabinet against the wall.

  When Leona was done, Elizabeth displayed the pouch. “I visited with Kiona a little while ago in her room, and she gave me this. It belonged to my mother.”

  Leona’s eyes widened. “Have you looked in it?”

  “I wanted to do it with you.”

  “Summer’s here!” Miles cawed. “Summer’s here!”

  “I think he wants to see, too,” Leona said. “Let’s take a look.”

  Elizabeth loosened the drawstrings on the velvet bag. She glanced inside, saw a collection of jewelry and scraps of cloth and paper, gave the bag one jangly shake, and then turned it over to dump the treasure onto Leona’s desktop. There lay a small mound of rings and necklaces and earrings and folded papers and squares of silk.

  “Valuable stuff!” Leona said, and Elizabeth giggled.

  She rummaged through the collection and, more quickly than she would have guessed, found herself slightly disappointed: It seemed to be little-kid things, the sorts of items you find in gumball machines or in boxes of Cracker Jack or at the bottom of your Halloween bag, all cheap plastic rings and fake gems and rusty silver chains. There were little patches of colored silk mixed in; Elizabeth guessed maybe her mother had once liked how they looked.

  “Looks like stuff she collected at random,” Elizabeth said.

  “Nice, though, to have some of her private things, isn’t it?” Leona pointed to three pieces of paper, folded into quarters, among the pile of plastic toys. “I wonder what those are.”

  Elizabeth opened them in turn carefully, half thinking they might tear. On the first was simply her mother’s signature, over and over, in graceful and looping lines, as though she’d been perfecting her autograph or practicing her cursive. On the second paper was a transcription of a poem Elizabeth had seen on the family tree above the entrance to Winter Hall:

  The peaks rise high, the north reels on, and mist obscures the sky

  Where as one hid—denied the night!—the days of fall pass by

  In winter’s tempo we remain, but when fair spring returns

  Soon summer’s knit ’em, sky and storm, and scented heaven burns

  October ear and April eye catch distant zephyr’s song

  The airy cloud does wet hilltop—the ancient night is long

  First light, gong rang, erased the dark, the endless river crossed

  The pages, pendant, picture all—where faith is never lost!

  Elizabeth liked the sound of the poem, its dancing, rhyming lines; she’d liked it the first time she’d read it to herself the year before. But it was strange to her, lines that sort of made sense but that added up to nothing she understood. She’d asked Norbridge about it once, but beyond that she hadn’t given it much thought. From time to time she found herself wondering about the poem. She felt, oddly, the way she felt when confronted with a crossword puzzle: There seemed to be something to solve or something to find. She wondered why her mother had copied it. Her mother’s writing, though, pleased her—rounded letters all, vibrant and bright. She’d also rimmed the words with drawings of delicate flower petals.

  “That old poem,” Leona said. “I guess she must have liked it.”

  “Norbridge once told me Nestor Falls wrote it.”

  Leona looked puzzled. “I’d always heard Riley Granger wrote it.”

  The third paper was filled with writing, words here and there across the page on both sides. At first it made no sense. And then Elizabeth looked more closely and found herself startled: On the page, and surrounded by letters crossed out and scribbled, were “Snow-Rioter,” “Prison-Dodge,” “Trim-Room,” and “Flood-Furor.”

  “Those are the words on the Winterhouse seal!” she said.

  “They are,” Leona said. “Interesting.”

  Elizabeth turned the paper over and examined the writing—all more of the same. “Why do you think she wrote this down?”

  “If I had to guess, it looks like she was trying to figure out what those words meant.”

  “I think you’re right.” It was, of course, exactly what Elizabeth herself had wanted to attempt, though she had no idea how to start. The words on her mother’s paper, as she looked at them, weren’t much help.

  “Do you have any idea what the words mean?” Elizabeth said.

  Leona shook her head. “That seal is a genuine riddle. I’ve given it a lot of thought over the years, but I still don’t know its secret.”

  “Do you think it has anything to do with the passageways?”

  “You are intrigued by those passageways. Why do you think there’s a connection?”

  “Four sides to the seal, and four doors, too, I think.” She shrugged. “Just a hunch.”

  Elizabeth glanced at the paper and then stirred her finger through the knickknacks on the desk before returning all of it to the pouch. A thought came to her. “What happens to the guest books once they’re filled up?” On a small table in the lobby, just beside the front clerk’s desk, sat an enormous book in which guests could, if they chose, sign their names or write messages or make suggestions. Elizabeth had thumbed through the current one several times and enjoyed examining the comments guests left, everything from “Best place to stay—EVER!” to “The Flurschen tasted better here when I was a kid—have you changed the recipe?”

  Leona turned to her file cabinet. “They’re right here. Every single one since the beginning of the hotel. Why’s that?”

  “Kiona mentioned Riley Granger once came to visit Winterhouse when he was really old. Maybe we’d find his name in there.”

  “Like a needle in a haystack, I’m afraid. Unless you knew exactly when it was. That was before my time, though I’ve heard he paid a visit. Why are you interested?”

  “It just seemed interesting. Plus, she said he came with someone.”

  “It would take a lot of searching—if he even jotted his name down.”

  “Kiona said he came at Christmas in 1938 or 1939.”

  Leona arched her eyebrows. “Well, that’s news to me. Or if I’d heard it before I’ve forgotten.” She stood and opened one of the drawers in her file cabinet. “Let’s take a look.”

  She removed a thick volume from the drawer, a maroon and olive ledger in size and shape like the one on the table in the lobby. On its spine, written in black script, was a set of dates: “March 1937–August 1941.”

  “Maybe this is the one,” Leona said, and she laid it on the table where she and Elizabeth had set their teacups. She gestured to Elizabeth. “Be my guest.”

  Elizabeth began thumbing through the book. The pages were yellowed with age, and the signatures and messages were both more ornate and more proper than what she found in the guest book she occasionally examined in the lobby. Maybe it had to do with the fact that people used to write in cursive much more often and much more naturally and the handwriting looked elegant, or maybe it was because the messages themselves appeared more dignified or formal—“I daresay this hotel is a model of sophistication.…” or “The staff are refined and anticipate one’s needs in the manner of the finest hosts.…” or “Grace and temperate goodwill abound in this most lovely of guesthouses.…”—but whatever it was, Elizabeth found herself charmed just skimming the columns of notes left in the old book.

  And then she came to an entry f
rom December 21, 1938, and her heart skipped: “Riley S. Granger and Patricia P. Powter—enchanted visitors … We shall return.”

  “Look at this!” Elizabeth said. “Leona!”

  The old woman read the entry, looked to Elizabeth with puzzlement, and then pressed her eyes closer to the ledger to read it again.

  “Riley Granger and a member of the Powter family came to Winterhouse together?” she said. She stood straight and bit her lip. “Well, if that isn’t the strangest coincidence.”

  “You said it.” Elizabeth scanned the page again, turned it over, and looked at the one following, then the one before. “I can’t believe it.”

  “It is definitely a stunner,” Leona said. She looked in the direction of the wall where the bookcases had been toppled.

  “What do you think it means?” Elizabeth said.

  “Perhaps nothing,” Leona said, “but it’s certainly curious.”

  “But don’t you think if there’s a connection from way back between Riley Granger and the Powters, they might know something about the passageways? And about what Riley Granger has hidden here at Winterhouse?”

  Leona drummed her fingers on the open page of the guest book. “I’m going to give this one some thought, Elizabeth.”

  The chimes sounded for dinner.

  “We better get ready,” Leona said. “For now, try not to let this trouble your mind.”

  CHAPTER 23

  A PLAN TAKES SHAPE PHASE

  “It’s obvious,” Elizabeth told Freddy as they sat together at dinner. He was feeling better after a day of resting, and now Elizabeth had an opportunity to catch him up about the possible connection between Riley Granger and the Powters. “Either the Powters or Mrs. Vesper is trying to find out where the doors are into the secret passageways,” Elizabeth said. “I’m sure of it.”

  “I agree with you,” Freddy said, crunching away on fried chicken, “but from everything we’ve heard, the passageways are all run-down and the doors are sealed. So even if they found the doors, what difference would it make?”