by Catie Rhodes
Memaw stood and gathered the breakfast dishes while I guffawed. I wanted to work for Michael Gage almost as much as I wanted to eat road kill. If Memaw said she’d negotiated a good fee for me, I trusted her judgment. But I didn’t look forward to the job.
***
My resolve firmly in place and sans deodorant, I parked my Nova in the graceful, old house’s driveway and marched up the wide, brick steps. Michael Gage opened the high arched door before I could knock. He wore pressed jeans and a starched shirt buttoned at the collar. A dark, five o’clock shadow—that might have been sexy on someone else—was the only sign he was an actual man and not some sort of robot.
“Peri.” He managed to sound surprised to see me.
“Memaw said you’d be expecting me?”
“Yes, yes. I’ve got some snacks for us. Come right in.” He stood aside for me to enter.
Mace House was awe inspiring, and I didn’t try to hide my appreciation. My ancestor Reginald Mace had been the richest man in town when he built his dream house. As the years passed, it fell into ruin. Michael Gage bought the decrepit old wreck two years earlier and announced his plan to fully renovate it. It had been a slow, painstaking process since Gage used old photographs of Mace House to guide his efforts. Rumor had it he spent over a million dollars. It showed.
“Straight through to the kitchen.” Gage led me through a wide area, open to the ceilings two stories above. Rooms stood open on either side and were visible around an interior balcony on the second floor.
“This is amazing.” I stopped to turn a slow circle. The highest windows had stained glass panes. A crystal chandelier’s hanging prisms sparkled, dancing rainbows on the walls. Gage smiled, but motioned me along. He walked close enough for me to smell his cologne. I tried hard to understand his interest in me but couldn’t. We had nothing in common.
The kitchen, a twentieth century addition, stood at the far end of the house. It was modern, with gleaming stainless steel appliances and granite countertops. Gage had set out a tray of cheese and crackers. A bottle of wine and two glasses sat next to it. Van Morrison played softly. I bit my cheek to hide the smile tugging at my lips and choked down the laughter I wanted to bray at Gage’s idea of a seduction scene.
Gage grabbed the wine bottle and tipped it over one of the glasses.
“It’s nine in the morning. Besides, I don’t really drink.” The words came out rushed and sounded like some language in a fantasy novel. I put my palm over the wine glass to illustrate my point.
Gage glanced at me, surprise evident on his face. He recovered in seconds and nonchalantly poured his own glass of wine. It surprised me. The early hour, not the alcohol itself. Baptists traditionally abstained from drinking alcohol. In recent years, however, fewer completely abstained but most who drank did so in moderation. I wondered what Memaw would make of it but knew I’d never tell.
“I suppose Leticia told you I wanted the house deep cleaned for the Heritage and History Week candlelight tours.”
“She did.” I ate a cracker and some fancy tasting cheese. “I’m surprised you don’t have maid service.”
“I did.” Gage took a sip of wine and leaned against the counter. “I had to let her go. She did a poor job.”
“So you’re looking for sparkling chandeliers, clean baseboards…” I trailed off, hoping he’d fill in the blanks.
“That sort of thing. Just whatever you can get done in one day. Leticia told me I was lucky to secure your services this close to the kickoff of H & H Week.”
I struggled to keep my expression neutral as I listened to Gage’s vague instructions. Most people had a to-do list so long I had trouble finishing it. The cynic in me suspected this dirty old man just wanted me in his house.
“This time of year is busy for me.” I’d give Gage his money’s worth on the cleaning, but he’d better not try any hanky-panky. He’d think he got hold of a feral cat with rabies.
“How about a tour? You can get started after that.” Gage drained his wine and motioned me to come along. As I drew abreast of him, he put his arm around me. I fought the urge to slap it away and, instead, stepped out of his reach. I exited the kitchen ahead of him.
“I watched a television program about some college kids who are real life ghost busters.” Gage’s tone was innocent, conversational even. “Have you seen it?”
“Nope. Memaw controls the TV.” I kept my tone light, but, inside, I seethed. Michael Gage never failed to bring it up. What the hell was his problem? Did he think we’d bond over this? If he did, he knew very little about me.
In my silence, Gage took on the role of tour guide and told me what he knew about the house and the items in it. Gage had chosen scratchy fringe and stiff-patterned upholstery for the antique furniture. Prissy angels adorned every surface. Too la-di-da for me. That is, until we got to the last room.
“I saved the best for last.” Gage took my arm and led me into a room tucked away in a dark alcove on the second floor.
My ooh was one of real appreciation. The study almost made me forgive Gage’s talent for touching me every chance he got. The low wood ceiling lent the tiny room a cozy glow. The room’s size surprised me. Judging by the rest of the house’s layout, I expected this room to be larger. Its size created a charm the rest of the house lacked.
A small fireplace hugged one corner. Crammed bookshelves lined the walls. Huge leather chairs invited someone to spend a lazy day sitting in them reading. Bay windows with cushioned seats looked out on the backyard, which Gage had landscaped with flagstones and controlled, manicured flowerbeds. I sat down on one the brightly colored cushions and gazed out the window.
“You like the study.”
“It’s the best room in the house.” Sunlight glinted off the carriage house’s stained glass windows. The sparkling sun glinting off all those colors mesmerized me. “Did you restore the carriage house, too?”
“I did.” Gage joined me at the window and draped his arm over my shoulders. I casually reached up and pushed his arm off. I needed the tour to end soon so I could get to work. My reserve of patience ran dangerously low.
A silhouette appeared at one of the carriage house windows. I bit back a gasp and turned from the sight. Of course the Mace House would be haunted. What historic home isn’t? Because my family once owned the property, I had to wonder just who haunted it and why.
“Have the police come any closer to locating Chase Fischer?” Gage spoke as though my rebuff hadn’t happened.
I shrugged. “I wish they’d look for the real killer. Chase didn’t do that.”
“I hate to say this,” Gage’s facial features shifted into an apologetic grimace, “but Chase Fischer is an alcoholic and a drug addict. My mother was a heroin addict. All the signs are there. Addicts are rather unpredictable.”
My skin burned as anger sprang to life. I bit back a tart retort. I was just here to do a job. Sooner I started, the sooner I could leave. Michael Gage had just ensured I’d never return his interest.
“Besides, there are no other suspects. From what I’ve heard, it’s pretty open and shut.”
“There are other people the sheriff’s office needs to find and interview. One of Rae’s contacts on her cellphone was someone named Low_Ryder. I’ve heard,” I stopped just short of saying Chase’s name, “Rae had another boyfriend. This Low_Ryder guy.”
Gage lifted an eyebrow and shook his head. “What an odd name. Low_Ryder. Sounds made up. If this person is real, the authorities will find him soon enough. Tell me something. Why are you doing this? I mean, taking such an interest in Rae’s murder. From what Leticia told me, you two were far from close.”
“The day Rae died, I promised her a favor.” This was as close to the truth as I’d get with Mr. Paranormal Fan.
“Be careful.” Gage frowned. “If you snoop too much, you might find out things you were better off not knowing.”
My skin tingled as a sweat broke over my body. I glanced at Gage, only to see the same genial
smile and twinkling eyes I always saw. Had that been a threat? Surely not. I just needed some rest.
Gage showed me where he kept his cleaning supplies, and I got to work.
***
The cleaning went more quickly than I expected. Whomever Gage had hired for maid service hadn’t done that poor a job. I again wondered if this whole thing was just a ruse to get me alone. If so, what a loser. I hoped Memaw’s idea of good money and mine were close. Putting up with Gage wouldn’t be worth it otherwise.
On one hand, I’d never been offered more refreshments at a job. When I asked if he kept a particular brand of furniture polish, Gage raced out to get a bottle. On the other hand, the man barely let me work.
The King of the Castle entered the study as I did my final sweep, making sure all the woodwork was dust free and the scent of lemon furniture oil hung in the air. Gage held his mail in one hand and his checkbook in the other. I rose and wiped my sweaty face on the hem of my t-shirt. That is, until I saw Gage’s eyes trained on my bared belly.
“I’ve got a question.” I strode to Gage’s achievement wall and pointed to the picture of Gage in prep school. “Which one of these kids is you?”
Gage raised his eyebrows, at once surprised and pleased. He moved in next to me—too close—and pointed to a scrawny kid with a black crew cut.
“It doesn’t look like you at all.” It was true. I had studied the picture on and off while I cleaned in the study and didn’t see a speck of resemblance between Gage and any of these kids. Just went to show how much people changed as they aged.
“How’s the house coming? Everything, including the attic windows, looks fantastic.”
“I’m done. If you want a quick run through before the first candlelight tour, give me a call.” I gathered my cleaning materials into the plastic crate I used to tote them around. “I’ve got to tell you, I saved this room for last because I like it so much.”
“You’re a mysterious woman, Peri.” His gaze oozed over me. “I find the rumors about your clairvoyance stimulating. Would you be willing to—”
The phone rang and cut him off. Gage frowned and answered. I seized the opportunity to slip away. I returned Gage’s cleaning supplies and took the rest of my stuff out to my car. Gage’s boldness disturbed me. He’d never before referred to my scary little talent so directly. I glanced back at the house, weighing the idea of just driving away without my pay. But running away wasn’t the answer. I worked for money, not for fun. Gage would pay me my money, and I’d get away from him. I marched toward the house.
The door to the study stood half-open, exactly the way I left it. I peeked around the door to find Gage looking through his mail. Just as I started to alert him to my presence, his face twisted into a mask of rage. He crumpled the letter in his hand and threw it into the garbage can with enough force for it to bounce around. He rearranged his face in a flash when he saw me standing there. His eyes scared me.
“Would you mind emptying the trash in here before you leave?” Gage opened his leather bound checkbook and wrote without waiting for my answer. Well, la-di-da.
I grabbed the trashcan and left the room. Gage, usually so charming, had done a Jekyll and Hyde switcheroo. Curiosity about the letter’s contents tugged at me, begging me to snoop. I tried to avoid giving in to my voyeuristic tendencies on the job. A reputation as a meddler would put me out of business in short order.
I retrieved an industrial sized garbage bag from the pantry and made a garbage sweep of the entire house. When I got back to the kitchen, the wastebasket from the study sat there waiting for me. The offending letter sat right on top. I knew I needed to trash it and forget it. But I wanted to know what made Michael Gage tick, what drove his weird attraction to me. I snatched the letter and stuffed it into my jeans. I took Gage’s wastebasket back to his study.
Gage sat at his desk waiting for me. In my absence, he’d produced a single long stemmed rose. It sat on top of my check. It took every ounce of my self-control not to shriek laughter. I had never seen anything so cheesy.
Then, out of nowhere he said, “Now that our business is finished, will you go on a date with me?” Gage handed me the rose.
Memories of growing up the kid who got picked last for everything killed my mirth. Michael Gage did not deserve to be humiliated. His olive skin, dimples, and salt and pepper hair were far from homely. He did a good job as pastor of First Baptist Church. I just didn’t feel a spark of attraction to him. His interest in my psychic ability gave me the outright willies, and I didn’t want to date a man old enough to be my father.
“So what’s your answer?” Gage held out my check. I took it and nearly gasped. Had Memaw quoted this price? That explained her insistence I do the job. Unless…this was even more than Memaw told him I’d charge. In that case, he was trying to buy me. I squirmed, eager to leave.
“Pastor Gage—“
“Michael. Call me Michael.” Gage watched me intently. His hazel eyes were hypnotic. I tore my gaze away.
“Michael, I’ve had a failed marriage. One where I got a divorce.” I stared at the ceiling as I tried to gather my thoughts and noticed a crack above one of the bookshelves. Foundation problems? I refocused. “I married Tim on impulse. Deep down, I knew it was a bad idea…but he wanted me, and I wanted someone to want me, so I married him anyway.”
“So that’s a no?”
“I think it is.”
That rage I’d seen a few minutes earlier flared for a brief second. He covered it with one of his smiles. It never touched his eyes.
The back of my neck stung with nervousness and embarrassment as Gage escorted me to the front door. I’d never earned more for a day’s work, but I’d never accept another job from Michael Gage. There was a reason he was single.
***
As I sat down in my Nova’s well-worn seat, something scratched at my hip. The letter. In my haste to get away from Gage, I’d forgotten all about the letter. I couldn’t very well sit in his driveway and read it—especially not when I could see him watching me from a window.
I drove away and cut through downtown, planning to gas up before I went home.
A pink and orange sunset streamed between the old buildings. The streets held only a few pedestrians. The huge spire of the Gaslight City First Baptist Church stood over it all, gleaming gold with the sun’s last rays. I slowed almost to a crawl as I enjoyed the beauty of this magical time of day.
The museum had a closed sign on the door, but bright light streamed from the fourth floor windows. Hannah Kessler lived up there. Chase did the remodel and said she had expensive tastes. Of course she did. Anyone who had enough money to buy a museum was used to getting what she wanted.
An old Trans Am rumbled up the quiet street. It caught my eye because the old ones with the big gold bird on the hood were rare. The car parked in front of the museum. Dean Turgeau got out and went to the museum’s door and knocked. Hannah let him in. He gave her a peck on the cheek and a hug. The two went inside laughing, their arms around each other.
Up in Hannah’s apartment, the light cast Dean and Hannah’s shadows in silhouette as they moved around the apartment. They laughed a lot. No wonder Hannah made a point to tell me Dean was a good guy. They were a couple.
Small towns and secrets don’t mix. Hannah, of all people, knew that. I drove on, irritated she hadn’t told me she and Dean were lovers. Of course, beautiful, rich Hannah Kessler was bumping uglies with the hot new guy in town. Nothing else would be good enough for her.
“Who gives a shit?” I said aloud to the empty car. “They deserve each other.” Dean was an uptight lawman. Hannah was a privileged snob. Rae’s death had my whole life feeling out of whack. Soon as things calmed down, I’d find a gorgeous idiot and have a meaningless fling with him. The idea failed to make me feel better.
As the gas station, I read the letter I’d stolen from Gage by the dome light while I waited for my tank to fill.
Mikey,
I hope this is the same Mic
hael Gage who spreads the word of God. If it is, then I’m sure you remember your good friends Jerry and Chelsea Bower from the years you spent doing missionary work in Guatemala. After thirty years of ministering to the Guatemalan people, it is time for Chelsea and me to retire. At the end of this year, we will move home to New Mexico and begin a ministry there.
I was surprised I never heard from you and Sharon after you returned to the States. People move through our lives at the will of the Lord Jesus. Sami, who is all grown up now, found this address on the internet. She’ll be accompanying us to the states with plans to attend college in New Mexico.
As we packed for our move, we rediscovered some pictures of you and Sharon. Chelsea, Sami, and I had so much fun remembering the fellowship we shared. The three of us had such good times.
Chelsea and I will be in contact when we get back to the States. I hope we can renew our friendship.
Yours in the Lord,
Jerry and Chelsea Bower
And Sami Carranza. This was signed in curlicue writing with a heart over the “i”.
Michael Gage’s fury over this letter made no sense to me. I didn’t know the whole story, but Gage’s reaction stuck with me. Pulling into Memaw’s driveway, I realized why: it had scared me. His anger, about both the letter and my refusing his offer of a date, had scared me.
The living room light still shone through the curtains when I pulled into the carport. I found Memaw sitting on the couch with a bowl of ice cream. A sitcom brayed canned laughter on TV.
“How did your job for Pastor Gage go?” Memaw looked better than she had in several days. She got up and motioned me into the kitchen where she fixed me a bowl of ice cream and poured both strawberry and chocolate syrup over it. We sat at the table to eat.
“It went well. You were right about the pay. He asked me out on a date.”
“Well?” Memaw’s sly grin made me think she’d encouraged Gage to ask me out.
“I refused.”
“How come?”
“Didn’t feel right.” I labored to keep my tone light. “Didn’t you say he’d been married and widowed?”
