by Penny Brooke
I nodded, encouraging her to continue.
“I said to myself, ‘Sylvia, what you have here are the pieces to a puzzle. They’re not worth much in pieces, but you know how to put them together.’”
“I don’t understand.”
She looked at me, momentarily. “No—you wouldn’t.”
I thought I’d just been insulted, but that seemed to be the way she operated, so I let it go.
She continued, “I was thinking maybe you could let me take a room here at your boarding house. In return, I’d let you use the Markham Bakery recipes, brand, and I’d work the early morning shift for you, making the baked goods. I can’t wait on people—that would be your job. Since you’re likely to have more than baked goods—sandwiches, soups, and so forth—those would be your specialty.”
“I don’t know what to say.” I was stalling for time.
“I know what you’re thinking. When you came by, I was down to serving Costco doughnuts. Was just too much for me. But, if you’ll give me a few hours in the kitchen tonight after you make dinner, I’ll bring along some of my better recipes, and you’ll get to taste what made us famous up and down the coast. What do you say?”
I took several moments to consider her proposition. I’d be giving up another income room, but in return, I was gaining someone to help with the labor, and that would let me move on to the antique store part of my plans. Actually, she was right.
“It’s a perfect fit, Sylvia. No promises, now. I’m going to be bluntly honest about your baked goods, and if I do agree, I have some of my own I’ll want you to add. Are you sure you can be on your feet long enough to bake in the mornings?”
“If I can’t be on my feet that long, you might as well put me six feet under,” she concluded. “Then we have a deal?”
“Pending the samples you make tonight, I think so. We can share them with my guests and get some opinions.”
“Fair enough.” She nodded hard as though everything was settled and began to get up from the chair. She was rocking back and forth, using the chair arm to support herself. Eventually, I just stood and held out my hand. That did the trick. “See you tonight,” she said as she clumped out the front door.
It was beginning to feel like the whole world was coming to stay at Mortimer House.
9
Everybody is Cookin’
Sylvia’s baked goods were a hit. It made me feel good to know she’d come up with a compromise that would let her continue to do what she loved best, and the world wouldn’t lose the Markham taste they craved. I knew I’d missed them all the years I was away.
Gretchen had outdone herself in the tearoom design. She’d combined the Victorian charm with the practicality of modern surfaces that were easily cleansed. I left the running of the tearoom to her and Sylvia. Between them, they also prepared the meals for the boarding guests.
I, on the other hand, had entered my own world of wonder. While it wasn’t open to the public yet, I was taking my time cataloging and arranging the antiques I would offer for sale. If something made sense to have displayed in Mortimer House, it went there first. If it was surplus, it went into Mortimer Antiques.
My personal involvement with the items for sale was unexpected but quickly became the norm. The first was on a Wednesday. We were well into summer, and tourists were tapping at the front door and smashing their curious faces against the window, shielded by a flattened hand. I’d wave and point to the sign indicating my grand opening was two weeks away.
Working on a display of old teapots, I reached for my favorite in the lot. It was simple, made of copper, and had a hand-painted china handle. Once my hand touched it, I was drawn in. It felt familiar, as though I’d held it a thousand cold mornings while sorting my way through the troubles and solutions a morning cup of coffee had to offer. From touching it just that moment, I felt absolutely compelled to write. I found a spiral notebook in my case, and with a pen, I sat at the small writing desk I’d placed in the back to use for recording-keeping. Holding the pen, my hand was guided to write using no impulse of my own. My mind drifted, and when I became alert again, I discovered a recipe for apple fritters on my notebook page. It was the first of many times I would experience psychography, or what some people called automatic writing. I pulled the teapot off the display. It was something I couldn’t sell—not yet.
The experience occurred several times over the next few days, and when finally, it didn’t happen any longer, I knew the previous owner felt her job was complete. I set the teapot at the top of the display and handed over my recipes to Sylvia. “Just something I’ve been doodling with,” I said.
She looked at the ingredients. “What is this? You can’t buy these any longer—they’re old-fashioned.”
“Just use the closest thing you can find,” I told her. Somehow, it seemed fitting that the teapot had shared her talents with Mortimer House. We were filling up quickly. Now, our guests didn’t even take up space; they lived in the relics from the past that sat in my store’s window.
Then came the afternoon.
I was working in a case filled with old pillboxes, almost on overload with all the illnesses that flooded me from their interiors. I stood up to take a cleansing breath and heard a tap on the door. I came around the counter, my finger already pointing to the opening sign when I saw it was Peter.
“Come in,” I invited, fiddling with the door’s lock. Note to self: Get a new lock installed.
“This isn’t a social call,” he began as cold traveled down my back. Lizzie was with me and let out a short growl before she went to lie beneath my desk. It was her favorite place.
“Uh-oh, this doesn’t sound great.”
“It’s an open case, just let me say that.”
“What can you tell me, or what do you need to ask?”
“Is it possible you had an ancestor who died and was put into that closet hollow? Perhaps one who died in a fire?”
I knew the moment he said fire, there was some basis for the sense of heat I felt when I got near the coffin. “Not that I ever heard anyone in the family speak of. Of course, I never talked to anyone before Aunt Mable.”
“That’s right, I’m sorry I forgot about your father.” He was referring to my dad dying in the Vietnam War. Mom had never remarried but died in her early sixties. Many who came to the funeral said she’d died from a broken heart. They’d brought his body home. Mom rejected the idea of Arlington, choosing to have him buried in our family’s part of the cemetery. Every so often, Mom had been seen out there, lying and sometimes sleeping, on his grave. When I asked her about it, she said it made her be able to feel his soul. Aunt Mable and I were the only ones who understood what she meant.
“I’m sorry, Peter. I know this happened in my house, but I don’t know anything about it. I wish I did.”
He took a couple of steps toward me. His voice dropped in tenor. “I’ve got to ask. Are you still able to… you know… that thing you used to do?”
I nodded. Peter and I had been too close for me to hide it from him. We never talked about it, and I wasn’t sure he entirely understood it. For that matter, I wasn’t sure I always understood it.
“Well, okay, Fiona. I just stopped by to see what you had to say. I know the boys from the state will eventually be around to talk to you, so I thought I’d give you a heads up.” His eyes scanned the cluttered, yet beloved, room. “I see you’re opening soon.”
I nodded. “If I weren’t such a perfectionist, I’d already be open. I want everything arranged in logical groups, and sometimes that can be a problem. Customers may lose interest in one group and leave, rather than letting something else catch their eye. I’ll try out all the options.”
“I understand through the grapevine that Mrs. Markham is staying here now and helping out?”
I nodded. “It was her idea, and actually a perfect solution. We both got a better situation.”
He nodded. “Take care, Fiona. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m rooting for you.�
�
“As a matter of fact, I did notice. I’m not sure you realize this, but you saved me from going out of business. I’ll always be grateful.”
He smiled back, perhaps the first that I’d seen from him since I’d arrived. It was the most beautiful smile in the world.
Sometimes Gretchen and I joined the guests at dinner. We enjoyed the camaraderie, and it gave us the opportunity to hear feedback. In essence, we had become a family, even with those who came and left every two weeks. I designated a wall in the kitchen and asked that every guest sign his or her name, followed by their hometown and date of visit. Naturally, it was small at first, but eventually, there was a symmetry they respected. It was there, at the dinners, that I came to know Sylvia Markham better. Although her accent was barely discernible, her hometown lay in Scotland. I asked how she came to live in the United States and where she learned to bake.
“I met my husband when he came from Scotland as a tourist. My parents had a large cottage where we took in boarders from time to time. He stayed with us, and, well as those things go, one thing led to another, and he asked me to marry him. He told me his family had a bakery, and that’s where he worked. My mother cried for days but eventually agreed that my chances for a happy future were better here. So, I came, and my husband’s family taught me all the tips of the trade. We got along well with my husband, and I lived overhead in the apartment. Even when we could afford to, we just never left. To us, it was home. Now, with him gone, it’s no longer home for me. I’m looking for a new home,” she said quietly, looking around the table. One by one, the guests began to softly clap hands in her honor. I got choked up, and I think I spied a tear in the corner of Gretchen’s eye. Of course, it could have been her new eyeliner. Those evenings were special times, and they made all the hard work worth it.
I went to bed thoughtfully that night, and Peter’s visit was uppermost in my mind. I kept it all to myself, not sharing it with Gretchen or Ben. After all, there was nothing they could do. It just added insecurity. I took a hot bubble bath that night as Etta perched on the edge of the tub, licking her paws and regarding me with lazy, uninterested eyes. The warm water helped to soothe the ever-present anxiety I felt. It was a hot night, and I found a pair of baby doll pajamas I’d kept since I was a young girl. They always made me feel as though I was climbing into a home, and oddly enough, I was. I turned onto my side and pushed the pillow beneath my cheek. Lizzie lay on the braided rug at my side of the bed, and Etta took up her position at the distant foot. Sherlock wasn’t allowed upstairs any longer. He slept in his plastic kennel near the door in the kitchen. I was forever searching for small, glittery things that had attracted his eye and been sneaked into his kennel. It rattled when you lifted it. Favorite items included safety pins, jewelry, hairpins and such. I loved all three of my pets. They were my family.
As I was falling asleep, I heard the distant rolling of thunder, a prelude to a storm coming in from the sea. I went through my mental inventory, deciding whether I’d closed all the windows. The lazy side of me decided I had, so I closed my eyes and drifted off. Sometime later, a non-melodious racket awakened me. The storm had hit fully, and as the lightning strobed, the thunder beat an almost regular rhythm around us. That’s when I heard the screaming.
I reached onto my nightstand shelf and found the heavy flashlight I kept there. I carefully locked the animals in the room so they wouldn’t get underfoot and trip someone. I’d forgotten I was in my baby dolls, and I hadn’t bothered to put on a robe. Nevertheless, I made my way toward the sound. Apparently, the lights weren’t working because the power was off. I was almost to the source when I realized my attire and not wanting to attract any more attention, I decided to investigate on my own. It was a foolish idea as the screaming had only awakened everyone else as well. Gretchen was the first.
“Quick, grab one of your robes for me,” I said.
“I was just going to say…” she muttered as she turned back toward her room and reappeared with a satin wraparound I quickly slid into. Screaming was coming from the Smiths’ room again. I knocked on the door, and Mr. Smith answered, his hair wild and his eyes even wilder.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Why is Mrs. Smith screaming?”
“It’s better if you come in and see for yourself, I suppose.” He stepped back out of the way, and I went into the room. Mrs. Smith was shrieking hysterically, pointing into the closet once again. Armed with my flashlight, I walked past her. Upon initial inspection, everything appeared normal, but I knew this was not a normal closet. I parted the clothing on the rack and noticed that the back panel of the closet wasn’t on quite right, as if the Smiths—or someone—had tampered with it.
My hands were shaking as I lifted the panel away, and there, in the hollowed-out place of the wall, was another casket.
10
It was Raining Bodies
“Peter, I have no idea where that came from, and did you even need me to say that?”
“Fiona, you have to admit, you’re beginning to raise some suspicions. You know I can’t get you out of this one. I’m going to have to call the boys at the capital, and I’m sure they’ll be down by morning. You went from victim to a possible suspect with this. You know that, right?”
“I don’t know why. I didn’t do anything to anyone. I have no motive to run myself out of business.”
“Did you buy any special insurance, in case things didn’t go as planned?”
“Peter, I’m going to forget you asked me that, but I will say this: every penny I had went into updating and resolving structural problems with this house. Do you think there was an insurance company within ten states that would issue a policy on what I had here?”
“Good point.”
“So, what am I supposed to do now?”
“I hate to call it a routine, but you know how this works. Put the Smiths in the room across the hall and try to get everyone back to bed. The storm’s pretty bad, and I have to head out to some other calls. In fact, we may have lost a ship. In any regard, what’s done is done here, and we’ll start in on it tomorrow. I suggest you install a new door handle with the keyed lock. It might be easier than ripping apart your doorframe with the hammer and nail.” He tipped his hat and walked downstairs. I heard the storm blowing around him as he exited out the front door.
I looked around me and saw all the guests in various states of dress, as well as attitudes. “I’m sorry that everyone was awakened. We’re moving the Smiths across the hall to another room, and this room is off-limits to everyone,” I emphasized with a look at Gretchen and Ben. “Please return to your rooms and try to get some sleep, and we will meet over breakfast and discuss our options.”
There were a couple nervous Nellies, but for the most part, everyone did as I asked, and soon, the house was quiet once again. I lay on my pillow, my eyes wide open, fear clutching at my heart. I finally arrived at the goal of putting together my business, only to have it threatened by this weird set of coincidences. It wasn’t as if the body had been in the wall for any length of time. That was the old one, and this was the new. I hardly knew what to think.
I did, however, think of someone who could help me. I closed my eyes and resolved to get some sleep. I knew the next day would be a wild one.
The coroner was at the door early the next morning. He kept giving me sidelong looks as he inspected the mummy. “I see you kept your dog off this one.” He scratched the back of his head.
I didn’t think that deserved an answer, so I kept quiet.
He poked around a bit. “This one was in the open closet?”
“Well, not exactly open,” I said. “It was in the hollow part of the wall, but whoever put it there didn’t put the wall panel back. So, when the Smiths opened the closet door, there it was.”
“Do the Smiths stay in their room all day?”
“Generally, yes. They come down for meals and sometimes sit in the backyard, but for the most part, they keep to themselves.”
�
��What do you know about them? Have a home address?”
“Yes, it’s in the register downstairs. I can get it for you.”
“No, I’m not the detective here. Give that to the sheriff when he comes back later. I’ve got a hearse coming to take this one out, too. Planning on any group discounts?” he asked sarcastically.
I closed my eyes. “Just please take it out quickly.”
He leaned forward as he looked out the window. “Hearse is here. I’m going down to meet it.”
I nodded and stepped aside. I decided to wait in the room, so none of my guests would come snooping. I approached the closet, and like I had done to the other, I touched the wrapping. In contrast, this one felt cool—almost wet. Whoever was in this one had been sick. Maybe a plague had taken them? I pulled back, and as soon as the coroner was back, I went to my bathroom and thoroughly washed my hands. Shuddering, I emerged in time to see the hearse driver rolling the body out on a gurney. I could only imagine what the neighbors were saying.
Like the previous time, I scrubbed the floor. I knew the state police might be angry, thinking I was covering evidence, but they were taking their sweet time, and I had a business to run. Anyway, they’d have to prove there was evidence before they could arrest me for trying to destroy it!
“Earth to Fiona!” It was Gretchen—she must have caught me daydreaming.
“Sorry. I was thinking of Fred again.”
“Fred?”
I filled her in on the details of my old boss when I worked as an investigative reporter and told her that I was thinking of calling him.
“I’m sure he’d like to hear your voice again, Fiona. You said you had a meeting with him just before you left the city to come here.”
