Ann picked up the pot and retrieved the key.
“I will come back in an hour. I’ll meet you at the front door. If you’re not there, I’ll assume you need more time and will come back again after another half hour. Your driver will send you a text message when Ellen leaves Ellsworth?”
“Yes.”
“It should take her half an hour to get from Ellsworth to the hotel, so we shouldn’t wait any longer than twenty minutes after you’ve heard from him before we leave, even if your assignment isn’t complete.”
“We should have a back-up plan in case he can’t get reception.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If he can’t get cellphone reception to send me a text.” Ann pulled out her phone. “For that matter, what if I can’t get reception to get a text? It’s pretty spotty around here.”
“Good heavens. What good are the things if they don’t work reliably?” muttered Garrick. “I will watch the road so I’ll see if she comes back. If you hear her car, just let yourself out of the hotel on the water side. You’ll have to leave that door unlocked, but she’ll just chalk that up to her own absent-mindedness. Heaven knows she’s a bit distracted by the stress of the situation. And circle back to the road through the woods, not along the shore—the tidal flats are like quicksand.”
“Okay.” Ann followed Garrick back to the veranda and climbed the steps. She inserted the key and, with the squeak of old metal on old metal, unlocked the door. She turned back to Garrick. “I’m about to break and enter.”
“That sounds very melodramatic. It’s for the client’s own good.”
“And for the lucrative fee.”
“Yes. That too, of course. Lock the door behind you in case you don’t hear her car and you’re still in the hotel when she returns. That way she won’t sense that anything’s amiss and you can hide in the hotel until an opportunity to escape presents itself.”
Ann hesitated. “Garrick, I’m starting to feel kind of funny about this.”
“Nonsense. In the worst case, she will discover you and wonder why the overenthusiastic bride-to-be is scouting the hotel while her betrothed is selecting a marquee.”
“Maybe she’ll just think I’m an intruder and shoot me before she recognizes me.”
“Don’t be silly. Ellen Lynam doesn’t carry a gun.”
“Maybe she’ll call the cops.”
“Well, yes,” Garrick admitted, “that would be the worst case. But highly unlikely.” Considering that assessment to have closed the discussion, he returned to the Cadillac, started the engine, and drove slowly around the drive and down the road. When Ann lost sight of him in the pine trees, she opened the door and stepped into the lobby, locking the door behind her.
“Loring?” she called.
The only sound was the ticking of a clock from somewhere behind the bare reception desk. She waited a minute, then called again.
“Loring, are you here?” She had started to move toward the center of the lobby when she heard his voice.
Yes ... here.
The voice came from the shadows of the lobby, opposite the windows, and Ann could perceive a faint flicker of grayish light, the same color as his eyes, marking his presence. The flicker moved toward her, then became more difficult to perceive as it entered the brighter part of the room. However, she could still track his progress by the irregularity in the path of the dust motes illuminated by the sunlight.
When he reached where she stood, he began to speak. As before, his eyes were his clearest aspect and, also as before, she could catch only snatches of his words. She heard “fire” several times—had The Lady been lost in a fire? But Loring had said he was going to show it to her. And then “safe”—that seemed promising. When it became clear to her that she was not going to be able to understand any more, she interrupted him.
“Loring, I’m sorry, I still can’t understand you very well, but I can see you. Can you take me to The Lady?”
Yes. He turned from her and moved across the lobby. Upstairs.
She followed him into the relative darkness of the stairwell, where the light resolved itself into the suggestion of a human form.
They climbed to the second floor. The hallway was littered with off-season detritus: paintings leaned against the walls; extension cords, unattached to any electrical device, snaked across the floors; and halfway down the hall, an enormous pile of old bed pillows tumbled out of a closet. An open door to one of the rooms displayed a sparkling view across the Narrows through uncurtained windows. On the stripped bed lay a pastel drawing of two children, a broken fragment of its ornate oval frame lying on the glass like the unearthed bone of a dinosaur.
Ann followed him on to the third floor and finally to the fourth. Here, the low ceiling and more utilitarian woodwork suggested that it was likely the staff quarters. On the right, a basically outfitted but modern bathroom opened directly onto the hallway, and across the hall, with a stunning water view out of its low windows, was what Ann surmised was Ellen’s room. A single bed, built in under the sloping ceiling, was rounded by blankets and quilts. On the bedside table was a glass of water and copies of The Little Prince and Jonathan Livingston Seagull. A blue dresser with a corner of its top knocked off, likely a cast-off from one of the guest rooms, held a lamp, its shade slightly askew.
Ann turned and began to ask, “In here?” but the spirit had continued down the hallway and she just caught the flicker disappear into the last room on the left.
She followed it into a small room, misshapen by the low ceiling and by a chimney that jutted into the room. There were no windows and the only illumination filtered in from the hallway. A mid-century-style hanging light sat on top of an old desk, the hole it had left in the ceiling revealing a rafter and the darkness of the attic beyond. Built-in shelves held accordion files, likely old hotel records. Miscellaneous supplies—mops and brooms, a metal bed frame, gallon containers of Pine-Sol—took up the rest of the space. The floor was a linoleum “rug”—a hideous multicolored center bordered by a sedate Greek key pattern. At least it would be difficult to discern footprints in the dust, Ann thought. If Ellen Lynam took advantage of her trip to the mainland to visit one of those big chain stores and pick up some supplies, she wouldn’t wonder who had been visiting the storage room in her absence. Ann was starting to think like the trespasser she was.
Ann heard, Behind there. A faint wave of light indicated a stack of paper towels.
Ann moved several bales of rolls, revealing a worn wall of wainscoting.
There. Hook ... into the hole.
Ann scanned the wall. “I don’t see what you mean ...”
... floor.
Ann knelt down and saw what looked like a small mouse hole. “Is this what I’m looking for?” she asked dubiously.
... pull up.
Ann inserted her finger into the hole and pulled up; a section of wainscoting about three feet wide rose up from the floor. It must have had a counterweight attached to it, because it rose effortlessly with only a slight squeak. Behind it was a plywood panel.
Left ... swing open ...
Ann found a barely noticeable gap on the left of the panel, hooked her finger in, and swung it open. On it hung the painting.
“Wow,” said Ann after a moment.
Thought you’d be surprised, said the spirit with a smile in his voice.
Chapter 33
1947
On the morning of Thursday, October 23rd, after a restless night on the porch and a breakfast of stale toast and coffee, Pritchard sent one of the men into town to get the news and to check at the Express Office for any telegrams from Mr. Furness. The man returned with a copy of the Bar Harbor Times—the headline read “Entire Island Menaced By Fire,” but the word was that Hulls Cove was in the greatest danger. Trying unsuccessfully to hide his relief at this news, Pritchard nevertheless set the men back to soaking the roof and went inside to pack another box of Mrs. Furness’s treasures.
Chip followed him into the house, watch
ing enviously as Pritchard unlocked the door to the dining room, just across the grand center hall from the library. A stack of boxes was piled next to the dining room table, a pile of newspapers on top.
“Don’t you think the paintings should be taken away?” Chip asked.
“It’s not up to me to decide. Mr. Furness said the artwork stays where it is.”
“But that was before, he can’t know how bad things are now. I think that—”
Pritchard wheeled on him and Chip could see the accumulated stress of the last days etched on his face. “It’s not up to either of us to think, Lynam,” Pritchard said with barely contained fury. “It’s up to me to discharge Mr. and Mrs. Furness’s instructions. And those instructions are to pack up Mrs. Furness’s valuables and get them to the Express Office. Now get outside and help the men.”
Pritchard began pulling china out of a massive mahogany breakfront and wrapping the pieces in newspaper.
“I could help. Wrap things, I mean. I’d be careful.”
Pritchard didn’t look up from his job. “We’d just get in each other’s way.”
“I could work in another room. The library. Mrs. Furness has that collection of glass paperweights in there. I imagine they’re valuable, and they’d be pretty easy to pack up.”
Pritchard ran his fingers through his hair, which was now standing straight up and grimed with soot. Finally he said, “Fine.” He placed the plate he had just wrapped in the box and then crossed to the library, sorting through his keys. “Get a box and paper.”
Chip snatched up the supplies and followed Pritchard. Pritchard unlocked the door, flipped on the light, and pointed to the collection of paperweights on the table underneath The Lady.
“Just those things, nothing else without checking with me first.” He stood next to the table as Chip arranged the packing materials, and Chip realized he was counting the paperweights. “And please God don’t break anything.” Pritchard turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.
Chip carefully lifted the first glass paperweight from the table and wrapped the newspaper around it, glancing around the room. Now he was here, but what could he do? Hulls Cove might be threatened now, but the wind had been whipping around from all directions—if it moved to the northwest again, Great Hill could be the fire’s next victim. Could he convince Pritchard to let him drive the painting to safety—to the mainland, or even to Lynam’s Point? But Pritchard had gotten his orders and he was going to keep operating under those orders until he got new ones. Chip walked to the desk and picked up the receiver, but the line was still dead. He packed more and more slowly, hoping that a little extra time would reveal an option he hadn’t considered before, but when he packed the last paperweight he was as much at a loss as he had been when he’d started. Casting a glance back at The Lady, he picked up the box and carried it to the hall, closing the door to the library behind him.
Pritchard was just closing up his own box and glanced up. “Anything broken?”
“Nope, all safe and sound.”
“Okay, let’s get them in the truck and you can take them into town.” He hoisted up his own box.
Chip followed Pritchard down the hall to the front door, where they loaded the boxes onto a hand truck they were using to get things to the trucks parked on the other side of the downed tree.
“Do you think the phone at the Express Office might still be working?” asked Chip.
Pritchard grunted as he lifted a box. “Might be. Why?”
“I was thinking I could call Mr. Furness, let him know what the situation is, see if he had any new instructions.”
A whole host of emotions crossed Pritchard’s face—irritation that he hadn’t thought to do that himself, conceit that he should be the one to call Mr. Furness, and relief that his employer might have updated instructions for him based on knowledge of the developing situation. He stood with his hands on his hips, looking toward the smoke drifting over Great Hill.
Finally he said, “Couldn’t hurt. You tell him you’re calling for me, that I stayed to look after the house.” He patted his pockets, retrieved a scrap of paper and pencil stub, and jotted a number on it. “There’s the number for the Palm Beach house. They’ll help you make the call at the Exchange Office.”
Chip got in the truck and rolled down the drive to Cleftstone Road, then turned into Steepways, his heart a little lighter now that he was taking some concrete steps to ensure the safety of The Lady. He noticed that the wind was picking up, but the leaves and ash were swirling so that he couldn’t tell from which direction it was blowing.
When Chip got into Bar Harbor, traffic was almost at a standstill. In one car, the driver gripped the steering wheel and stared grimly forward as if he could will the cars in front of him to move. In the passenger seat, a young woman held a baby-blanket-blue bundle to her shoulder and glanced nervously behind them at the angry sky over Great Hill. Another car pulled to the side and two middle-aged women emerged and, arms linked, hurried away in the direction of the athletic field, leaving everything but their purses behind.
He parked the truck and was crossing the street to the Express Office when he heard the seven blasts of the fire horn that signaled the evacuation of Bar Harbor. A dance of ash whirled around him as he turned.
The fire had reached Great Hill. And The Lady would burn even before the flames reached Bar Harbor.
Chip rushed back to the truck and clambered in. He negotiated the first few blocks in an agony of frustration, his progress continually interrupted by panicked pedestrians who were more concerned with danger of the fire than with the hazards posed by the equally distracted drivers. Drivers added the blare of their car horns to the cacophony of the evacuation signal. Once he was out of the center of town, though, he was able to pick up speed.
Chip negotiated Eden Street and squeezed his truck through a gap in the opposing line of traffic and shot up Steepways. He reached the intersection with Cleftstone Road just in time to see a truck pulling out at an equally brisk pace. Pritchard and the two other men who had been left at Jardin were squashed into the cab. Chip instinctively honked his horn to get their attention, but its bleat was drowned by the shrieking of the wind and a crescendoing roar from beyond the hill. Pritchard was obviously intent on putting distance between his truck and Great Hill and, not seeing Chip, disappeared down the road leading toward Eagle Lake.
Chip slammed the truck into gear and sped up Cleftstone. When he turned into the drive to Jardin d’Eden, he saw what Pritchard and the other men were fleeing.
The sky over Great Hill glowed red behind Jardin. A tendril of smoke twisted from one of the trees silhouetted against the crimson sky, then, like a giant match being struck, the entire tree burst into flames. The fire leapt to the next tree and began to work its way down the trunks toward the tinder-dry carpet of pine needles and leaves that blanketed the ground right up to the house, except for the narrow strip that the men had cleared. The sight brought Chip to an awe-struck standstill, but in the next instant he recovered himself and hit the gas. With a squeal of tires, the truck shot forward.
At the top of the drive, the giant pine that the men had felled earlier blocked his way, the ropes they had used to direct its fall away from the house twisting like tentacles across the ground. The idea that taking down this one tree would make a difference to the fate of the house now seemed laughable, like believing that withholding a morsel of food would weaken a wild beast and keep it from attacking.
Chip skidded the truck to a halt, jumped out, vaulted the tree, and ran up the steps to the front entrance. He twisted the large brass knob, expecting his momentum to carry him into the grand central hallway, but his shoulder cracked painfully into the door—he hadn’t counted on the door being locked.
The window—he could get to The Lady through the window. The library was on the first floor but, due to the slope of the hill, it was far from the ground. Could he get a ladder out of the groundskeeper’s shed in time? But luck was with him—t
he ladder that the men had used to attach the ropes to the tree was lying in the driveway. Chip hoisted it up and, despite a protest from his shoulder, hauled it around to the side of the house. The ladder was far too long for his purposes and he staggered under its weight while branches from the decorative shrubs lining the walkway snagged its trailing end. Although the house now partially blocked his view of the flames, Chip could hear over the howling of the wind the explosive bangs as the trees torched. Ash drifted down on him, but he didn’t have a spare arm to cover his nose and mouth.
He counted off windows, hoping he was calculating correctly, and swung the ladder up next to what he believed to be the library window. It crashed through a window on the second story, a few shards of glass raining down on him. It was a little too far from the window. Sensing each second ticking by, he jerked on the ladder to reposition it but it was jammed into the second floor window. No matter—it was close enough.
He grabbed one of the smooth, round cobbles that marked the edge of a now-dormant flower garden and scrambled up the ladder. Drapes blocked his view into the room, but the material looked like those in the library. He heaved the stone through one of the panes of the casement window, and, leaning over, reached through the broken glass, flipped the latch, and pulled open the window.
The ladder was further from the window than it had looked from the ground, and the metal window frame looked flimsier than he remembered it. He thought briefly of checking to see if any other outside doors might be unlocked, but if Pritchard had locked one door he no doubt would have locked them all. A swirl of ash danced around the corner of the house; Chip didn’t have much time.
He leaned out and was counting himself lucky that the ladder was jammed in the second floor window when his movements unjammed it and he felt it shift in the opposite direction. He lunged, getting his upper torso through the window before the ladder toppled away from him, leaving his legs dangling. His feet scrabbled on the shingles, but there was no purchase and he felt his weight pulling him out the window. Bracing his elbows on either side of the window frame and trusting to the workmanship of the craftsmen—the best of the best—who had been brought in to build this millionaire’s “cottage,” he levered himself upward and forward, through the drapes and into the room.
The Sense of Reckoning Page 17
