“You want to buy Harbor Hill?”
“I do indeed! I’ve made her a few offers. She’s got me up to three million but keeps telling me no.” He leaned toward Aidan’s ear. “Truth is, I’m willing to go higher, but don’t tell her that.” He chuckled.
Aidan stared at him in confusion. Why would someone pay three million dollars for Harbor Hill?
Sure, he loved it here—most who lived at Harbor Hill did. Though it had housed literally more than a hundred people in the past three decades, it didn’t feel like a bed and breakfast or an impersonal hotel with a revolving door and check-in desk. All you had to do was set down your bags and lower yourself into one of the beds in the guest rooms and you were at home. There was a warmth and sereneness to the house and the surrounding grounds, from the way the sunlight slanted through the second-floor windows at noon, splashing the hardwood floors with their golden rays, to the soft murmur of the Chesapeake Bay one hundred feet below that you could hear from the backyard. But was all that worth seven figures? Aidan would find it hard to make that case.
“Maybe you could speak with her,” Teddy ventured. “You know what it means to maintain a place like this. A young man like you won’t be here forever. When you’re ready to move on, who will take care of it? Who will take care of her?”
Aidan considered Teddy’s words. He glanced again at the staircase, listening as the peppy soundtrack of a commercial came from Delilah’s television upstairs.
Teddy was right. Though she had told him only a week ago he would never leave this place, he knew he’d have to one day. Where would that leave Delilah? She was getting up in years, and her body was starting to show the signs of those passing decades; she often complained about her creaking knees, and she was on both blood pressure medication and insulin. But he had always described her as hearty.
“I’ll die before you do,” he’d once joked with her when she mentioned that she might need knee surgery in a year or two, and she wanted to make him her beneficiary if she died on the operating table.
But today he was second-guessing himself. That moment in the pantry was a startling reminder of her age and her mortality. Would Delilah really be fine on her own, all alone in this big house? Would she end up wandering through the rooms, confused about who and where she was—a ghost haunting the halls of Harbor Hill?
Someone had to take care of her. Someone had to watch over her. But Aidan wasn’t the man to do it. Not for the long term. But he could be assured of her well-being if she no longer lived here alone and had a million dollars or more at her disposal. She could live anywhere she wanted with that money, in places even better than the place where his mother now stayed.
“Why don’t you take my card?” Teddy said as he reached into the pocket of his shirt. He pulled out a laminated card and handed it to Aidan. “I came here to tell her I was willing to up the price by another half million. Maybe you could relay that to her for me.” He slapped his shoulder again. “Maybe you could convince her to take the money, since I haven’t been able to do it.”
Gradually, Aidan nodded, staring at the card, then at the stairs again.
“Glad to have your help, amigo!” Teddy said, making Aidan eye him again. Teddy then lowered the aviator sunglasses perched atop his head. “I’ll check back in a week.”
Teddy stepped through the open front door, jogged down the stairs, and walked toward his BMW parked at the end of the driveway.
Now Aidan realized why he had taken an instant dislike to this man. Watching Teddy’s confident gate and the way he whistled as he walked, Aidan was reminded of the partners at his old law firm in Chicago and the associates who were set to skyrocket their way up the firm’s ladder. They all went to the same Ivy League colleges, came from wealthy families with vacation homes off Lake Michigan, and had children coddled by French au pairs. He had once envied those men—had even aspired to be like them.
“Why do you work so hard to impress those blowhards, baby?” his wife, Trish, had asked while they were driving to one of the firm’s cocktail parties, where he planned to kiss copious amounts of ass while shamelessly showing off his beautiful wife. “You’re so much better than them!”
“Because they are where I want to be,” he’d answered without hesitation. “You want to be successful, you find people who already have success. You make sure you’re around them, and you soak it up like a sponge.”
What a fool I was, Aidan now mused, thinking back to that day. He leaned against the door frame and watched as Teddy paused to examine his reflection in the car’s tinted window before opening the driver’s-side door.
But whether Aidan liked Teddy was irrelevant. This man could hold the key to a secure future for both Delilah and Harbor Hill. Maybe Aidan should hear him out.
Aidan looked down at the card he held, running his thumb over the embossed letters.
“Aidan! Are you still planning to bring me some water, or should I just wait to die from thirst?” Delilah boomed from upstairs, making him sigh in exasperation.
“Comin’, Dee!” he said before tucking the business card into his jeans pocket, stepping back into the foyer, and shutting the front door behind him.
CHAPTER 10
Could someone subsist on panic and desperation? Could they eat it like bread or drink it like water? Could they breathe it like air?
Tracey suspected you could. She certainly felt like she had done it for years while she lived with Paul. She’d treaded so carefully through their life together you’d think their house and yard were littered with land mines that could go off at any moment.
She’d planned every meal in advance, always considering Paul’s gluten allergy and his dietary preferences. She’d charted her wardrobe with the precision of a map of the globe, lest she wear a dress that was too short or a top that was too revealing and anger him. She’d kept the house spotless, going over every surface with the same fine eye a craftsman would a concert violin.
If she’d managed to make it to the end of the day without a slap, punch, or shove, she was triumphant. It was a gold star on the mental chart Paul had tacked into her brain, similar to the chart she had tacked on the fridge for Caleb while he was potty training. But she knew the next day would be littered with chances for mistakes and worse, impending reprisals. She knew one day she would mess up again and disappoint him. The anticipation of failure made it hard for her to sleep. It made her heart race as she drove Caleb to school or when she stood in line at the dry-cleaner. The lingering sense of dread had caused her to break into tears one day in the grocery store, though she really had wanted to scream, not cry. She wanted to toss the packages of gluten-free pasta Paul always made her buy to the floor. She wanted to drive her car head-on into a tree just to end it, to make the anguish go away.
It wasn’t until she had spent the first night at a motel, the night after she had escaped and left Paul, that she knew what it was like to live without a sense of impending doom. She had sat awake in the motel room’s only bed while the children slept beside her, snuggled under the sheets. She stared at the television thinking, “So this is how normal people feel?”
She didn’t have to plan out each day in minute detail to make sure everything was perfect. Of course, there was still the chance Paul wasn’t deterred by the photos of bruises she had left on his dresser and the note threatening to call the police if he ever tried to find her or the kids. He could have been in his car at that very minute, driving to their hotel. But for that minute . . . that hour . . . that entire night, her life was her own. She could chart her own course, and the knowledge was both freeing and terrifying.
Each day, Tracey got more and more comfortable with her new existence. She had started to covet it, to relish it. But now that her mother may have told Paul where she and the children lived, she knew she ran a real chance of losing her freedom. She couldn’t let that happen.
Should I stay or should I go?
She wrote the words in big bold letters on a sheet of paper as
she sat alone at the kitchen table while Caleb and Maggie slept. She listed the pros and cons of staying in Camden Beach versus packing up all their things in the minivan and heading to another town, maybe to another state.
Reasons to Stay
1) Job in town. Might be hard to find another if I left.
2) Caleb is settled in school, finally making friends.
3) We have some stability in our lives.
She stared at the list for a long time, pursed her lips, then began to write the other.
Reasons to Go
1) Paul may have found us.
2) We’re getting kicked out of our home anyway.
3) We’re running out of money/could be cheaper to live out of minivan.
Tracey considered the lists side by side, weighing each word. The choices were equal on face value; the risks associated with leaving were just as troublesome as those that came with staying in Camden Beach. If they moved away, would she find another job? If they stayed, would she pull into the driveway one evening only to find Paul standing at her front door, waiting for her?
Tracey closed her weary eyes. She lowered her pen and bowed her head, rubbing at the knot along her neck and shoulder.
She was not equipped for this. She had hoped the longer she was away from Paul, the easier decisions would get. She thought she’d made the hardest decision first—choosing to gather what money she had, pile her kids into a vehicle purchased in cash through a Craigslist ad, and strike out on a path unknown. But she had been wrong. That decision was only the first step on a never-ending tightrope. All it would take was one misstep, one bad decision, and she and the children could go tumbling to the ground below.
Tracey pushed her chair back from the kitchen table and slowly rose to her feet. The house was achingly quiet. Only the drip of the kitchen faucet and the creak of settling wood filled the void. A cold draft seeped through the terrycloth fabric of her robe into her skin. She wrapped her arms around herself. She felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness.
You are not alone in this world, a voice whispered to her.
It was Delilah’s voice.
Delilah . . . That was the one thing she hadn’t considered, the factor she hadn’t added to her list.
They wouldn’t have to live out of her car if they moved in with Delilah. She wouldn’t have to use what little money she had left because Delilah had offered her a home rent-free. She could save money. She would not feel lonely with Delilah; the old woman’s warmth could ward off any chill.
But the rumor, Tracey reminded herself. Could she really have her children live with a woman who may have killed someone?
Tracey stood in the center of her kitchen and considered her options. After several seconds, she turned off the kitchen overhead lights. She knew what she had to do. It was time to go to bed since she’d have to have an early start in the morning.
* * *
“I want to get a Curious George book,” Caleb piped. “No, I want Peppa Pig!”
“Whatever you want, honey,” Tracey replied as the automatic doors to the Camden Beach Public Library slid open with a soft hush. She pushed Maggie’s stroller through the two-story, glass-ceilinged foyer while Caleb skipped at her side. “But three books max—and don’t lose one of them like you did the last time!”
The last thing she needed was to have to pay a lost-book fee.
“I promise I won’t lose it, Mommy! I’ll—”
She raised a finger to her lips, motioning for him to quiet down as they passed the laminate check-out desk. Behind the counter, a woman peered at them sternly over the top of reading glasses as she typed on her keyboard. Tracey gave her an apologetic smile and waved. The woman nodded back.
“I want you to stay in the children’s section over there while Mommy sits over here,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper and pointing at the line of computers along the far wall. “Don’t go any farther than that. I want you to stay in my sight, all right?”
“Okay!” Caleb shouted before rushing to the children’s reading nook. He ran to a shelf filled with picture books and fell to his knees. She watched as he grabbed one of the books and flipped it open. He then sat his Incredible Hulk action figure beside him and began to quietly read to it.
Tracey turned back toward the computers. She eased the stroller forward, lowering the brakes, before sitting down in one of the leather chairs. Maggie babbled quietly beside her, playing with a cloth doll that was soggy with her drool. Tracey gnawed her lower lip as she clicked the computer mouse a few times, bringing her to the Google search engine. She hesitated only briefly before typing in the words “Delilah Grey.”
Tracey had decided last night it was finally time to stop mulling over the rumors about Delilah and find out the truth. She worried over what she might discover. She had almost talked herself out of going to the library to research the answers, but she knew she had no other option at this point. She had to know who this woman really was.
She sighed with defeat when she got more than three thousand results from her initial search. She typed in the name again, this time along with “Camden Beach, Maryland.”
That dropped the results down to 286.
She scanned through the links, squinting with concentration as she read them. A few were real estate listings, phone numbers, and even a gardening club announcement. Tracey finally landed on the Chesapeake Estates Homeowners’ Association message board. The page showed a post made by Angie Fuhrman of Camden Beach on August 16, 2016—only last month. The profile picture showed a plump woman with a wrinkled face and a dopey-looking Collie at her feet.
Angie Fuhrman: I would like to make it known that Delilah Grey is not a nice woman!!! She told me that I couldn’t walk Ronnie on her property though it’s the quickest path to the bay. She CLAIMS he was pooping on her lawn, WHICH ISN’T TRUE!
Ellen Morris (reply to Fuhrman): I hate it when neighbors aren’t neighborly.
Pamela Sutton (reply to Fuhrman, Morris): She’s not even part of our community. The woman doesn’t pay HOA dues because her home is grandfathered in. It’s a travesty, if you ask me. She uses the development’s roads just like everyone else, but won’t let your dog walk on her precious lawn???
Angie Fuhrman (reply to Sutton, Morris): And she shouldn’t even OWN that home! I can’t believe she’s still walking the streets and not in jail!
Ellen Morris (reply to Fuhrman): Why jail? What did she do?
Angie Fuhrman (reply to Morris): KILLED HER HUSBAND! Can you believe it???? She wouldn’t even own that big house if it wasn’t for her murdering her husband. I heard she stabbed him in the chest or something. I think she did it back in the 70s.
Tracey started blankly at the computer screen, reading the words over and over again.
Delilah murdered her husband?
Just then, Maggie started to babble. Startled out of her stupor, Tracey turned to find the little girl leaning from her perch in the stroller, her fingers fluttering in the air as she reached down for her doll. It had fallen to the floor.
“Daw-wy! Daw-wy!” Maggie cried.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart. Let me get that for you,” Tracey murmured before absently picking up the soggy doll and handing it back to Maggie. She then returned her attention to the computer screen.
“Delilah Grey husband murder,” she typed.
Again, she got several links that lead nowhere. She cursed under her breath in frustration, then typed the words again. This time she added “Camden Beach.”
A new list of links popped up on her screen. One showed a LexisNexis link to an old Camden Gazette article, dated August, 23, 1970. Tracey hesitated only briefly before clicking on it.
On Aug. 22, Delilah Buford of Camden Beach was found guilty of second-degree murder of her husband, Chauncey Buford. The jury deliberated for almost seven hours before reaching its verdict.
The guilty verdict brings an end to a contentious trial that had dragged on for nearly three months and included allegatio
ns of affairs and embezzlement against the accused by Mr. Buford’s estranged family. The prosecution argued that there was no question of Mrs. Buford’s guilt because she had confessed to arresting officers that she had pushed Mr. Buford down the stairs at their estate on Harbor Hill, causing his death. But the defense argued that the push was . . .
The story was abruptly truncated. Tracey squinted at the ellipses.
A knot formed in the pit of her stomach and tightened, making her feel queasy. So the rumors were true. Though the name was different, she could tell from the description that Delilah Buford and Delilah Grey were one and the same. Delilah really had killed someone. That sweet, little old lady who had cooked her dinner, hugged her children, and charmed Tracey with her stories had pushed a man to his death.
Tracey slowly shook her head. There had to be an explanation for this. There is no way . . . no way someone like Delilah had taken a life without a valid reason. Tracey had to know more about what happened, what had led to the murder, but the news story had ended so abruptly. Where was the rest of it?
She clicked on several links on the page, trying to find the rest of the story, but gave up when the links led to dead ends. Her shoulders sank. She gnawed her bottom lip again.
The rest of it has to be somewhere!
The House on Harbor Hill Page 9
