by Wendy Webb
“We should talk about the job itself,” she said, taking a sip of her tea. “What you’ll be doing day to day.”
“I’m still not sure exactly what’s required,” I said. “I understand that the artists come for a month’s time?”
“Two to four weeks,” she said. “We do six sessions each year. Everyone arrives on the same day and leaves on the same day, generally. It’s less confusing for us that way. The last group of fellows went home three weeks ago, and the new batch will arrive next Friday. I thought you could use some time to get acquainted with the place before the divas descend.” She chuckled at this.
“Divas?”
“Oh, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, of course. Most of the time, the guests are quite pleasant. Quiet, hardworking. Once in a while, though . . .” She chuckled again and shook her head.
“I get it,” I said. “There’s always one in every group, isn’t there?”
“Especially when you’re dealing with creative types. But here, they’re the recipients of a fellowship. They’re selected, in other words. Most of them are grateful. They’re coming here for solitude, for the opportunity to focus on, as you said, nothing but their writing or their art. But they’re also coming for the chance to meet other artists and writers.”
“Why do you have two- and four-week sessions? Why not just choose one length of stay?”
“Many of the fellows have day jobs,” she told me. “Not everyone can get away for four weeks, so we give them a choice.”
It made sense.
“What’s a typical day like?”
“There are no hard-and-fast rules,” she said. “This is their time to focus solely on their artistic pursuits, and it’s our job to make it as easy as possible for them to do that.”
I nodded.
“We serve breakfast and lunch in the winter garden—”
“Winter garden?” I interrupted her. I wasn’t sure what, exactly, a winter garden was.
She smiled, and I got the impression she not only understood the question but had heard it before. “Old, wealthy families of the past who lived in places where the snow flies would often include a winter garden in their grand homes,” she explained. “A room made entirely of glass, even the ceiling.”
“So they could have gardens in the winter.”
“Exactly, my dear. You can see why Father wanted to include one at Cliffside. Patients were here year-round, of course, and while they could enjoy the outside gardens in the other months, winter would’ve been very bleak indeed without some greenery and blossoms to perk things up,” she said. “Father believed the plants also helped purify the air in the house—he was ahead of his time on that one.”
She took a sip of tea and continued. “Anyway, it’s bright and sunny there most mornings. We serve breakfast from seven to nine thirty. Some of the fellows come, some don’t. Whatever they want to do is fine. We keep coffee and light snacks available there all day, but Harriet will take care of that so you don’t need to worry about it. Lunch is buffet style. Sandwiches, soups, that sort of thing. Harriet and her kitchen help will set it up for the fellows and for you, too. Again, nothing for you to worry about it.”
It sounded easy enough.
“The day is theirs to do with what they will,” she went on. “Work alone in their suites, explore the house and the grounds, take a dip in the pool. Whatever they’d like.”
“Aren’t they supposed to be working, though?” I asked. “Isn’t that the whole idea?”
She nodded. “Yes, but in my experience, I’ve found that inspiration can come in a variety of ways, not only when one has pen and paper in hand. Walking through the forest to puzzle out plot points is working. Taking a dip to refresh the senses is working.”
“I see.”
“The one thing we do ask of them is to gather at the end of the day,” she said. “We have it set up for five thirty. People assemble in the drawing room—artists and writers aren’t the most punctual group, so we wait until everyone has arrived—and then, whoever wishes to join in will dine together in the dining room. One of the major benefits of Cliffside is the chance to commune with like-minded artists, sharing thoughts about their day’s work, philosophies about art and writing. Even political discourse. There are some truly remarkable discussions to be had.
“You’ll act as a sort of casual moderator for these gatherings,” she went on. “All it really entails is getting the discussion going by asking people about the progress they’ve made that day, what they’re working on, and so on.”
I could do that.
“How do you select the people who get to come?” I asked. “I’m sure you’re inundated with applications.”
“When my father ran Cliffside, he made the selections,” she explained. “During my tenure, I made them. Now that you have taken the helm as the third director of Cliffside, you will make the selections.”
I winced. “I don’t know if I’m qualified to do that,” I said.
“Oh, but you will be,” she said, taking a sip of her tea. “I’ve made the selections and notified the next four groups of fellows. That will take you to the end of the year and, after that, you’ll have the experience of running those sessions. You’ll see what works and what doesn’t. We start taking applications for the next year’s sessions in October. You’ll have until Christmas to choose the fellows for the coming year and schedule them.”
I ran a hand through my hair, imagining mountains of applications to sift through. How could I possibly choose?
As if reading my thoughts, Miss Penny reached over and patted my hand. “It’s not as complicated as you might think. I’ve set up a file for you of all the applications of this year’s fellows. When you read through them, you’ll see they have a certain consistency. A seriousness. You’ll begin to pick it up, to discern who is worthy and who is not. I have a hunch you’re going to take to this right away. That it will come naturally to you. That’s why I hired you, Eleanor.”
I supposed she was right, but the idea of “worthiness” didn’t sit all that well with me.
“So, now that you’ve heard everything,” she said, folding her hands in her lap, “do you think you can handle it?”
I leaned against the back of my chair and exhaled. “After years on the crime beat, it sounds like heaven. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this opportunity.”
Miss Penny leaned over and covered my hand with her own. “I’m the one who appreciates it. And I’m delighted to repay all of the kindness you showed to me when Father and Milly passed away. You worked very hard to get to the truth of what happened, even after the police had given up and ruled it an accident. I never properly thanked you. It’s been eating at me all of these years.”
There was an intensity in her eyes that I couldn’t quite define—anger? Perhaps she harbored some resentment that I wasn’t able to get to the bottom of the deaths of her father and sister. But, if that was the case, why would she have asked me to take over for her at Cliffside?
CHAPTER 3
Miss Penny had shown me to my suite and then left me to my own devices. I spent the afternoon unpacking and settling in. She had encouraged me to explore the house and grounds, but the fog, the drizzle, and the cold that had descended along with it made venturing out less than desirable. Every time I opened my door and looked up and down the hallway, intent on familiarizing myself with the place, a veritable shiver ran through me, and I shut the door again. It must have been a good ten degrees colder in the hall outside my room. So, I busied myself hanging some of my clothes in the closet and folding others into the dresser drawers, lining my shoes into neat rows, and arranging my toiletries on the vanity in my bathroom.
My suite was made up of three rooms. Through the door from the hallway was a sitting room with a writing desk (antique, I suspected) and chair, along with a small, plush sofa, armchair, and ottoman. A thick Berber rug lay on the wood floor. On the wall across from the sofa hung a flat-screen television, and on another
, French doors opened onto a balcony that overlooked the back lawn and, I had to imagine because of the fog, the lake itself. Through an archway was the bedroom, with its ornate, antique four-poster bed covered with a thick down comforter in deep red with a delicate floral pattern running along the edges. A fireplace stood on one wall, a bay window with a seat covered by a thick cushion on the other. There was an enormous walk-in closet for my clothes, and a dresser and mirror that looked to be the same vintage as the bed. Through a doorway, I found the bathroom, with its deep whirlpool tub, glassed-in shower, and marble vanity.
As I was closing the last of my suitcases and tucking them in the back of my closet, I heard a clattering of footsteps outside my door and voices talking in hushed tones. I turned my head to listen but couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. Miss Penny had said there was a staff of maids, a cleaning crew, and others who were in the house. I hadn’t met them yet but knew they were here. Still, something she had said earlier was echoing in my ears.
“Harriet and Mr. Baines—do they live here at Cliffside, too?” I had asked her as we drank our tea in the director’s office.
“They do.” She nodded and took a sip. “They have their own house on the grounds.”
“So, they don’t live in the building.”
“No,” she said.
“Does anybody?” I asked. “Apart from me, I mean?”
“Well, the fellows live in the building, of course, when they’re here,” she said. “Most of the household help live off-site, but there are quarters off the kitchen for the cooks. Three of them are living there now.”
“And you? I hope you’re not leaving Cliffside completely just because you’ve handed over the reins to me.”
She smiled a rather sad smile. “I live on the third floor,” she said. “In the same room I shared with my sister.”
I swallowed. “Oh, I’m glad of that,” I said, my voice wavering just a bit. “I was worried I’d be alone in this big, old place until the guests arrive.”
Something about the way she looked at me then sent a shiver up my spine.
Now, as I snuggled into my armchair by the fireplace and drew up an afghan that had been draped across the footstool, I was thinking that, even if you excluded the rest of the house and the grounds, this suite of rooms alone was the nicest place I’d ever lived. My job at the newspaper had been so all-consuming for so many years, I’d had neither the time nor the inclination to decorate my one-bedroom apartment or even go as far as finding something more comfortable than the dingy building where I had been living.
After gazing into the flames for a while, I noticed I was fidgeting with my necklace and my feet were tapping against each other. Apparently, relaxation hadn’t been on my to-do list for quite some time. I tried to reach back in my mind to a time when I’d had nothing to do, and I couldn’t think of when that might have been. I had worked all the time, even weekends, when I was deeply into an absorbing case. But here at Cliffside, I had no case to solve, no crime to get to the bottom of, no victim to interview, no crime scene to steel myself against. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do next.
Miss Penny had told me this job was going to be rather sedate when the fellows weren’t in residence; apart from reading letters of application and keeping up with correspondence, there wasn’t much else to do. I’d have to find things to occupy my time. I sighed and stared at the flat-screen television that hung above the fireplace, but I didn’t feel like watching anything. So I pushed myself to my feet and headed toward the door.
Earlier in the day, Miss Penny had shown me dossiers on the five fellows who would be arriving at Cliffside the next week. I reasoned that I might as well read up on the people I’d be sharing this place with. I should be able to greet the fellows by name and know something about their work, Miss Penny had told me. It’s never too early to get a head start on that, I said to myself as I turned the knob and pushed open the door.
A whisper of cold air slithered up the legs of my pants and down the collar of my shirt as I scurried down the hallway toward Miss Penny’s office, which now, I knew, would be mine. I reached the door, stepped inside, and shut it behind me with a thud, my heart racing in my chest. Get it together, Eleanor, I said to myself.
But just then, a wave of nausea passed through me so powerful that it knocked me to my knees. My head began to pound, and I sat there for I don’t know how long, with my face in my hands, waiting for whatever it was to pass. That would be all I’d need, to come down with some kind of illness now.
I looked up and noticed a pitcher of water on the table next to the window. I pushed myself up to my feet and padded across the room, then poured a glass with shaking hands. I drank it down and then another and then held the cool glass next to my face, which was heating up. Slowly, whatever it was that had hit me began to recede.
Now, what did I come in here for? Then I remembered. I crossed the room to my desk, where I found the thick leather notebook Miss Penny had shown me earlier. I pulled out the chair and had just sank down into it, opening the notebook’s cover, when an intercom on the desk crackled and buzzed. The sound of it made me jump, my chair rolling back in the process.
“Excuse me, Miss Harper?”
It was Harriet, her voice scratchy and distant, as though she were calling from another era.
I reached for the ancient intercom—it looked to be at least fifty years old, and it suddenly struck me as odd, as everything else I had seen in the house was either a well-preserved antique or brand new—and held down the button that read, in fading print, Reply.
“Yes, Harriet?”
“It’s nearly time for dinner, ma’am,” she said.
I stole a glance at the clock. It was twenty minutes after five! I couldn’t believe it. Last time I had checked, it was hours earlier. Here I thought the afternoon was dragging, and it was nearly over in a flash.
“Thanks for the reminder,” I said into the machine, louder than, perhaps, was necessary.
“Please be in the drawing room at five thirty,” Harriet said. “It’ll just be you and Miss Penny tonight, of course.”
“I’ll be there,” I said, pushing my chair back from the desk and grabbing the dossier folder.
I tucked the folder under my arm and slipped down the hallway to my suite. I wished I had left myself time for a shower, but it was too late for that now, so I changed into fresh slacks and a cotton shirt, ran a brush through my hair, and fixed my makeup. It would have to do. I pushed open the door of my suite into the hallway. The early summer light had not yet begun to fade, and the stained-glass windows that lined each end of the hall were catching the rays here and there, illuminating the hallway with color.
As I took the deep, circular staircase down to the first floor, my heart began to pound. There it was again, the indefinable sense of dread that had been plaguing me for months. I took a few deep breaths, trying to inhale calm and serenity into my lungs—a technique I had learned from my therapist. It was only mildly effective, but it was all I had. Maybe now that my life was no longer going to be a constant barrage of murder and mystery, death and destruction, these feelings would recede, just as the nausea had earlier. The worst I’d encounter here at Cliffside was a diva artist with unreasonable demands. And I knew I could handle that.
CHAPTER 4
I waited for Miss Penny in the drawing room for nearly twenty minutes before using the intercom—the same antiquated model that was in the office—to summon Harriet. She pushed open the swinging door and stepped into the room, drying her hands on her apron.
“Yes?”
“Harriet, am I where I’m supposed to be?”
She frowned and shook her head. Had she not understood the question?
“It’s just that Miss Penny isn’t here yet, and she doesn’t seem the type to be late.”
Harriet looked around and furrowed her brow. “I don’t think she has been late for dinner at Cliffside in twenty years,” she said. “I’ll just call up to her
room.”
She retreated to wherever it was she had come from but was gone only a moment before pushing her way through the door again, a worried look on her face.
“There’s no answer,” Harriet said. “She may be on her way down, but I’ll nip up there, just in case, to check on her.”
“Would you like me to go with you?” I asked her, but she was already halfway out of the room, headed toward the staircase.
“No need,” she said to me over her shoulder. “You should be here to greet her if she arrives.” With that, she was gone.
Moments later, I heard the scream.
I rushed up the grand stairs, past my second-floor suite, and down the hallway to the third-floor staircase. I hadn’t been up to that floor yet and wasn’t quite sure where I was going, but I followed the sound of Harriet’s wails until I found her. I was wholly unprepared for what I was about to see.
Penelope Dare was lying on top of her still-made bed, her eyes wide open, her mouth contorted in what looked to be a smile. Her lips were painted bright red, haphazardly, and she had dark eyeliner ringing her eyes. She had taken her hair out of the severe bun she had been wearing, and it cascaded around her face, its streaks of gray framing her grotesque mask of death.
Her hands were clutching an envelope on top of her chest.
Harriet had crumpled to the floor by the bed and was sobbing, her head in her hands. I helped her to her feet and enveloped her in my arms, eyeing Miss Penny over her shoulder. “Oh my God,” I whispered.
Harriet broke free of my grasp and lunged for Miss Penny, but I pulled her back. “Don’t touch her,” I said.
“But, shouldn’t we do CPR?” she cried. “We need to resuscitate her! We need . . .”
Her words dissolved into a strangled sob as Harriet fully realized what I had known the moment I entered the room. Years of crime scenes had schooled me in the ways of death. There would be no CPR. She was gone.
