by Jana DeLeon
“The caretaker. You’re trespassing on private property.”
“I’m not trespassing. I leased this house, and if you were really the caretaker, you would know that. Who hired you? Wheeler?”
The man’s eyes narrowed at her. “You know Wheeler?”
“Look, I’ve already told you I have a lease. What I don’t have is an answer from you. Now, do I have to call the police?”
He let out a single laugh. “Go ahead and try. The landline in the house hasn’t been hooked up in years and cell phone service went out as soon as the storm hit.”
“Rest assured, as soon as I can, I’ll be calling someone about you.” She held out her hand, forcing herself to keep it steady. “I’d like my gun, and I’d like for you to leave.” She couldn’t even breathe, waiting for him to react. This was it. If he wanted to harm her, he had every advantage.
He studied her for a moment, then placed the gun in her hand. At first it surprised her that he’d returned her weapon without an argument, but then she remembered how he’d disarmed her with complete ease and in a pitch-black room. Her stomach clenched, and she realized that even with the gun in her hand she wasn’t the least bit safe. She waited for him to leave, but he just stared at her as if he was sizing her up.
“You always walk around in the dark, half-dressed and carrying a gun?” he asked.
Damn it. Olivia suddenly realized she was standing in the bright light of the kitchen, soaking wet and wearing only a thin white T-shirt and cotton shorts. She crossed her arms and he smirked. “When I’m supposed to be alone,” she said, “and I hear someone downstairs, then yeah, I walk around in the dark, half-dressed and carrying a gun.”
“Well, you’ll be all alone in about five seconds. I suggest you find someplace to park yourself until morning before you shoot someone.” He whirled around and left through a back door, slamming it shut behind him.
Olivia stared after him, her heart still racing. What in the world? The only caretaker the attorney had mentioned was supposed to be eighty years old. There was no way the angry hulk of a man who’d just left was the person the attorney had described. She crossed the kitchen and locked the door behind him, then hurried upstairs.
She locked the bedroom door, pulled the antique desk over in front of it and set the chair on top of it for good measure. Stepping back to study her handiwork, she bit her lip, then glanced around the room. Ugly green vase in corner. Perfect. She grabbed the tall, hideous vase from the corner and stuck it on top of the chair. Granted, with its weight, it didn’t exactly add anything to securing the door but at least if someone tried to enter the bedroom that way, she’d hear them coming.
There was no way to easily dry her clothes so she toweled off the worst of the bathwater from her hair and body and slipped into bed, propped upright, gun in hand and every single light in the room blazing.
Chapter Two
John Landry let the kitchen door swing shut with a bang as he stepped out into the storm. What the hell was going on? The attorney had never mentioned someone leasing the house, and even if he’d known someone was taking up residence in the little mansion of horrors, the last person he could have imagined was the petite, mouthy, gun-toting spitfire he’d accosted. What kind of woman leased a derelict of a house, hidden away in a bayou, whose locally given name quite literally translated to “the Curse”?
The last thing he needed right now were complications, and women were always a complication. This woman could ruin everything.
The rain poured down and he pulled the hood of his jacket up over his head. He walked the length of the house, shining a flashlight behind the bushes that lined the exterior wall. Nothing. Finally, at the edge of the house, he saw them—a set of footprints in the mud just below a window in an empty downstairs room. He scanned the window and saw the wood chips at the bottom of the frame and the broken lock inside. Someone had pried it open, but there was no way to tell how recently.
He turned his attention back to the ground and followed the footsteps to the edge of the woods that surrounded the estate, where they disappeared in the brush. Damn it! From his window in the caretaker’s cottage he’d seen a light downstairs in the main house maybe fifteen minutes ago. It was small and erratic in movement like a flashlight would be, and since the house was supposed to be empty he’d gone to investigate. Then he’d gotten sidetracked with that crazy woman playing detective. Since she hadn’t been carrying a flashlight when he disarmed her, John knew he’d missed his chance to catch the real trespasser.
Assuming the woman was telling the truth about the lease and the key, she had no reason to sneak through the woods and break into the house but someone had a reason. A reason good enough to come out in this storm. The question was, did it have anything to do with his case?
He stepped out of the woods and headed across the courtyard to the caretaker’s cottage. The last thing he needed was that woman hovering around, watching his every move, especially when most of them had nothing to do with repairs. That day he’d searched all the downstairs rooms of the main house and had stopped only because the power went out. He’d planned on starting up again as soon as power was restored, but with that woman lurking inside with a firearm it looked like he’d have to wait. John had no earthly idea why the woman would want to lease a house like laMalediction, but first thing in the morning he was going to find out.
Then he was going to figure out the fastest way to get rid of her.
He gave one final glance at the main house as he entered the cottage. The only light was upstairs, probably in one of the bedrooms. He gave the grounds a final glance, but apparently the trespasser was not interested in trying his luck again tonight. Or he’d gotten what he came for and escaped without a scratch.
John pulled off his dirty boots and left them next to the front door, then grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and slid into a chair at the tiny breakfast table that was serving as his work space. He picked up a plastic bag and studied the bright pink button inside. The button was new, and had no business being on the floor in the library of the main house. A room that by the amount of dust collecting on the shelves and tables hadn’t been cleaned in a long time, quite possibly years. Unless the old caretaker was a fan of bright pink, someone else, most likely female, had recently been in that room.
Unfortunately, John had no way of knowing if the button belonged to his missing half sister. He’d already questioned his mother, who’d indicated that his sister owned quite a few garments in pink, but then, he guessed a lot of women did.
He slammed the bag back down on the table and took a gulp of beer. He was running out of time. John knew better than most that the longer people remained missing, the less likely they were to be found alive. And that was assuming you found them at all.
Finding Rachel dead wasn’t an option. If he didn’t bring his younger sister home alive and well, he knew with complete certainty that their mother, who was fighting a seemingly losing battle with cancer, would just give up.
He ran one hand through his wet hair and silently cursed the women in his life. Why couldn’t Rachel have focused her master’s thesis on something other than ancient southern architecture? At the very least, she could have limited her research trips to only those houses that had been conveniently converted to bed-and-breakfasts instead of traipsing off to abandoned mansions in the middle of a swamp. There was far less chance of disappearing in a public place, but this forgotten estate, hidden away from the rest of the world, was just the sort of place to come face-to-face with trouble.
Of course, now that he’d seen laMalediction he could understand Rachel’s fascination with the structure. The few press clippings she’d assembled in a folder marked “Research” had created more questions about the house than answers, and John knew his adventurous and highly inquisitive sister would not have been able to have left the “haunted” house out
of her thesis work despite its remote location.
His mother was already in a panic, her health rapidly declining, and it had only been three days since Rachel had disappeared. She’d let him know in no uncertain terms that the only thing she would live for was the safe return of her baby. Like the additional pressure would magically give him answers he didn’t have.
And now there was another woman in the mix, and from their brief encounter he’d guess she was just as obstinate and determined as his mother. The caretaker job had been an unexpected miracle, giving him legitimate access to the estate. Now that access would be under scrutiny that he couldn’t afford.
It hadn’t slipped his notice that the trespasser had appeared at the same time as the woman. That gun she carried was no toy, and despite the fact that he’d easily disarmed her, he could tell she’d had some training on how to properly use a weapon. He was fairly certain she wasn’t the one who’d jimmied that window, but he had no way of knowing if she’d brought trouble with her.
No matter really.
Her presence in the house was trouble enough. Trouble he didn’t need.
* * *
OLIVIA AWAKENED THE next morning with the sunlight shining directly in her face. Startled, she sat straight up in bed and realized she’d fallen asleep clutching her flashlight and Mace. Her pistol was still within easy reach on the nightstand. Squinting, she covered her eyes with one hand and blinked to adjust to the glare. The rain had stopped sometime in the middle of the night and she must have drifted off to sleep. Apparently her subconscious had decided the likelihood of a second intrusion was slim, or her mind was simply too exhausted to care any longer.
She looked over at the bedroom door. The key, desk, table, chair and ugly vase were all in place, but that didn’t make her feel much better. Someone had come into the room last night when she was in the bath, and she’d bet everything she had that they hadn’t used the bedroom door. Blocking the door last night had been a necessary thing to “fool” her frantic mind into some semblance of safety, but here in the stark light of day she knew that safety had been as fictional as the books she wrote.
Outside, an engine fired up and she climbed out of bed to have a look. That “caretaker” was on the front lawn, using a chain saw on a couple of large limbs that had fallen in the driveway. His straight dark hair was just a little too long to be considered tidy and his skin had a beautiful tanned glow, either from the sun or perhaps a Creole heritage. She tried not to admire the way he handled the piece of equipment on a limb the size of a horse, but it was impossible not to when he tackled the tree limb as if he had a personal vendetta against the hunk of wood. If he’s not legitimate, he’s pretending awfully well.
She glanced at her watch and groaned. It wasn’t even eight o’clock. She grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand and was pleased to see that service was restored. Scrolling through her contacts, she located the estate attorney and dialed. It was his personal cell and Olivia hoped she woke the man. It would serve him right after her being scared half to death the night before, and being left to dodge a potential chain saw murderer this morning.
“Hello,” the attorney mumbled.
“Mr. Wheeler, this is Olivia Markham.”
“Yes.” The attorney sounded a bit more focused than before. “Ms. Markham, what can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to call you so early,” Olivia lied, “but I’ve run into a problem here at laMalediction.”
“What sort of problem? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, but I got a bit of a scare last night from a man who says you hired him as a caretaker. He obviously wasn’t expecting me, either, and it’s lucky I didn’t put a bullet in him.”
Okay, so there wasn’t a chance for her to put a bullet in him or she would have taken it, but Wheeler didn’t need to know that.
“I am so sorry, Ms. Markham.” The attorney sounded completely flustered. “The old caretaker had a family emergency and had to leave unexpectedly. I’ve been trying to hire a younger, more capable man for quite a while, and Mr. Landry is the first suitable applicant I’ve had. The house needs extensive repairs before it can be sold.”
“You never mentioned hiring a new caretaker and you should have. And since Mr. Landry appeared as shocked as me, I can only assume you didn’t bother to speak to him, either. Someone could have been seriously injured, Mr. Wheeler.”
“I apologize. I meant to call both of you yesterday morning but got so busy I forgot. I tried in the evening and last night, but couldn’t reach either of you. I assure you Mr. Landry’s credentials are fine.”
Olivia looked out the window, watching “Mr. Landry” stack the cut branches to the side of the driveway. “Good. Then you won’t mind sending me a copy of his paperwork.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Landry’s paperwork is confidential. Without his consent, I can’t really send you his information.”
“Fine. Then I’ll be by your office tomorrow to cancel the lease.”
“Wait! Surely something can be worked out. I don’t want you to cancel.”
“And I don’t want to cancel, but as you know, the house is very remote. I have every right to know exactly who I’m sharing space with. If you’re not willing to provide that information, then I won’t feel comfortable staying.”
“I understand,” the attorney said, but Olivia could tell by his tone that he wasn’t the least bit happy with the situation. “I will contact Mr. Landry today and explain the situation. I’m sure he’ll give me approval to forward his paperwork to you for your review. If not, then I’ll relieve him of his responsibilities and find another person for the position. Will that suffice?”
“For now, but I want that paperwork before the day is over. Email all the documents to me. Does Mr. Landry have a first name?”
“John. As soon as I get to my office, I’ll contact Mr. Landry and get his permission to forward the documents. Give me a couple of hours.”
“Thank you. I’ll be looking for it.” She flipped the phone shut and tossed it back on the nightstand. The attorney had annoyed her with his forgetfulness and seeming unwillingness to understand the situation he’d placed her in. Did he really think it was acceptable for her to be shut away in the middle of nowhere with a stranger? If so, he’d obviously lost all common sense.
She stretched, touching the floor with her hands, then rose back up, thinking about her agenda for the morning. First, she was going to brush her teeth, then she was going to put on her mud-caked boots, stroll outside in her makeshift pajamas and ask John Landry to show her some ID. Then she was going to convince him to help get her car out of the mud.
Piece of cake.
Ten minutes later she stepped outside and walked to the middle of the huge circular drive. She slowly turned to get a good look at it in the daylight. The bizarre angles of the roof, the two round attic windows positioned on each side of the chimney, the stained-glass window that created prisms of light in the entry—all of them exactly as she remembered. She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, her heart pounding in her chest.
She hadn’t been mistaken last night. Her view of the house hadn’t lasted more than a second before the flash from the lightning had faded, but that one second had been enough. This was definitely the house. She crossed her arms over her chest as a chill swept over her, despite the heat and humidity of the early morning. For as long as she could remember, she’d dreamed of this house. Frightening dreams that she awakened from in a cold sweat, but the only thing she ever remembered was the house.
The house she was certain she had never, ever set foot in before last night.
Chapter Three
John heard the front door of the main house close and looked up from his work as the woman walked to the middle of the drive then turned and faced the house. She was wearing the same clothes as last night, b
ut then once he’d realized there was no car in the drive and saw her mud-covered boots next to the front door, he’d gotten a clear picture of what must have happened. She’d probably grabbed the minimum amount of necessities and hiked from wherever her car had gotten stuck. He could only hope that the lack of reliable roadways, utilities and phone service would send her running straight back to whatever big city she’d matriculated from.
Though he knew less than nothing about ladies’ shoes, he recognized her boots as an expensive designer brand that his half sister had been drooling over the last time he’d met her in the French Quarter for lunch. Fancy, soft leather. Not even a steel toe. Women who spent eight hundred dollars on a pair of shoes couldn’t possibly find much of interest in a dusty old house in a town with only a café and a gas station serving as the local commerce. At least that’s what he was banking on.
He picked up several pieces of the branch he’d been working on and carried them to the pile he’d started at the far end of the circular drive. With every step he took, a curse came to mind. He needed to be in that house, looking for something, anything to help him find his sister. That rotten branch could have waited another fifty years by the looks of the rest of the estate, but here he was slaving over debris blocking a drive that no one had used in years and it was all that woman’s fault. He flung the wood onto the pile and spun around. It was time for action. He didn’t have time to lose.
She stood at the edge of the circular drive nearest the house, with her back to him. He paused for a moment, wondering what in the world she was doing, staring up at the roof of the house, following the lines from one end to another, but then he set his jaw and strode up behind her.
“Not much to look at in the daylight, is it?” he asked, wondering why she still hadn’t turned around when she should have heard his footsteps.
