by Cate Martin
"And Minneapolis is just across the river," Brianna added.
"I suppose we have all day tomorrow since the reading isn't until midnight," I said. "But I really can't stay longer than Sunday. I don't get paid when I don't work, and a whole weekend off is more than I can afford, really."
"You have your bus ticket back already? Because my ticket was a one-way flight," Brianna said with a glance at Cynthia. "I thought it was a mistake?"
"Mine was too," Sophie said. "Hence the luggage. I didn't want to assume I was ever getting home again. Especially as I now don't have the position I earned in the premiere troupe I've spent my whole life working to get into."
"I can't be away either," Brianna said as if she hadn't heard Sophie at all. "My research is at a crucial point. I'm so close to a breakthrough. I brought what I could carry, but already I've found that I left a text I absolutely need back home in Boston. I have to go home on Sunday as well."
"Whereas I can be here forever now," Sophie said, poking at the last bit of stew at the bottom of her bowl. "No reason to hurry back."
"I truly am sorry, all of you," Cynthia said. "I know coming here involved sacrifices on all of your parts, and that is made all the more meaningful because I could tell you so little about why you had to come."
"If we could just book my flight home? I like knowing what's going on. I like having a schedule. I have to be able to plan," Brianna said.
"Just one more day," Cynthia said. "Everything will make sense after the reading."
"You keep saying that," Sophie said.
"I know," Cynthia sighed and rubbed at her forehead. "It is the one truth I can share with you. But think about it, you know some things require delicate timing. If you think it through, weigh your feelings and what you sense through your intuition, I think you'll come to the conclusion that you can have just a little faith, and wait one more day."
Brianna glanced over at Sophie, who had a dreamy look on her face as if she truly were going within to consult her intuition.
I was pretty sure my rare strong feelings weren't the sort of intuition that Cynthia was talking about. And anyway I couldn't just consult with them on command.
"One day," Brianna said. I wasn't sure if she was agreeing to the terms or just merely restating them.
"I know it's asking a lot," Cynthia said. "But you three are special. Miss Zenobia tasked me with tracking you three down in particular. She taught many students over her long years, and those students have had countless children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. But it was you three she wanted summoned for the reading of her will."
"But I never even met her," I said.
"Me neither," Brianna said.
"I never even heard of her," Sophie said forcefully. "And if she's who you're implying she is, I really should have."
Cynthia bit her lip and I could tell she was struggling with what she could say. She was a lawyer. She navigated rules I couldn't even contemplate, I was sure.
"There could be a reason for that," she said at last, fixing Sophie with a steady gaze. "Stipulations. Binding… agreements."
"Oh," Brianna said as if knowledge were blooming fully formed in her mind. Sophie was still frowning but conceded Cynthia's point with a frown.
I alone was lost. I alone had no idea what anyone was talking about.
Miss Zenobia might have her reasons for choosing Brianna, who seemed like she would be wickedly brilliant if she weren't so offbalance, and for choosing Sophie who was clearly well-educated and poshly sophisticated.
But me? I was a good server in the diner I worked in. The regulars liked me, and those stopping in off the highway as they passed through always took a shine to me as well. But I wouldn't chalk any of that up to "charm" in the way it meant next to the word “school.”
The one special thing about me was a thing I had no control over.
"How did that get down again?" Mr. Trevor said suddenly, and got up from his chair to pick up the dark wooden box and set it once more on top of the hutch.
Really, what was in that box? The curiosity was driving me mad.
But if one of the others had moved it, I wasn't the only one fascinated with it.
Chapter 8
That bit of a nap had recharged me too much for sleep to take me. Well, that plus a renewed sense of purpose. I sat in the chair near the fireplace in my room, listening as the soft sounds of others moving in the rest of the house quieted. I waited a bit longer to be absolutely sure.
The voice in my head promised we weren't going to open the box. That would be breaking Mr. Trevor's rule. We were just going to touch it. Not just a fingertip on the very edge of the clasp, but a thorough examination. There was something odd about that box. I wanted to know what that wood would feel like under my palms. Was it as warm as it looked?
Curiously, I wasn't hearing any of the jazz music now. No Friday night party would wrap up so early. Perhaps Brianna was right, and I had been dreaming the whole time.
By about ten I decided the house had been silent for long enough. I opened my door as slowly as I could, in case the hinges needed oiling. Then I was sneaking back down the stairs, still expecting those old steps to betray me with prolonged creaks or loud cracks, but they did not.
I reached the bottom of the stairs. No one was about. I looked down the hall past the dining room, but there was no light coming from the kitchen.
I felt a brief qualm. Was I doing the right thing?
No. No, I wasn't. Mr. Trevor had told me the rules. There hadn't been many, but I was about to break the most important of them.
What was I thinking? I felt like I had been sleepwalking. I gave my head a little shake then turned to go back up the stairs.
Something behind me, at the end of that hall, rustled softly. Then there was a creak, a bit louder but still not alarming. Old houses made noises.
I put my foot on the first step.
"Amanda."
A woman's voice, but not Cynthia's. Not any voice I had heard before. It had been faint, but the summoning tone had been clear.
I looked up the dark stairway, then back over my shoulder again.
I had to know what was going on.
I turned away from the steps and crept down the hall, just as far as the doorway into the dining room. There was no one there.
The box sat at the head of the table. Who kept taking it down from its high perch?
Was I being punked?
Somehow, I didn't think so. Neither Mr. Trevor and Cynthia or Sophie and Brianna struck me as the practical joking type.
Then another thought chilled me: had that rustle and creak sounded like a lid lifting?
It was shut now, but I had the sudden, unshakable feeling like it had been open a second ago when I had heard that voice. And if it had been open a second ago, what difference could it make opening it again?
I realized my hand was already lifting towards the box and snatched it back tight against my chest. What was happening to me?
I was giving myself the willies, that was what. I was being silly.
I had no business as a guest here wandering the house at night further than the bathroom. I hustled back to the bottom of the steps.
But once again with my sneakered foot resting on the first step, I heard my name. This time the voice spoke out of the dark gloom of the parlor, but it was to my immense relief an entirely familiar one.
"Ah, Amanda. Please, do come in and sit with me for a bit," Cynthia said. I blinked then finally made out her form. She was sitting in one of the two wing-backed chairs around the fireplace, but as there was no fire, she had blended with the shadows. Had she been waiting to ambush me, or did she just enjoy sitting alone in the dark?
"Was that you before?" I asked.
"Pardon?"
"Did you call my name a second ago?"
"Just the one time," she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. She didn't seem to think I was crazy.
I wasn't so sure.
&nb
sp; "Please, sit," Cynthia said, and she touched a small lamp on the mantle. It glowed with a soft candle-like light.
I slid into the chair across from her. "Why are you sitting alone in here in the dark?" I asked.
"Oh, I was lost in thought," Cynthia said. "I didn't realize it had gotten so late, or so dark."
"Do you live here, in this house?" I asked.
"No, but I've spent my days here for so many years. I was fifteen when I first set foot in this parlor. This is where the group classes were held."
“When you were a student here at the charm school, did you feel exceptional?" I asked. Cynthia laughed.
"No, I did not," she admitted. "I didn't feel like I fit in at all, but Miss Zenobia took a special interest in me. She had seen me on the street and specifically invited me to attend free of charge. Me and my sister both. Our parents had once been well off, but money had gotten tight. It was an amazing opportunity for us."
"Opportunity to do what?" I asked. "It's just, I always heard of charm schools in the context of getting girls ready for marriage. But surely that wasn't something people were still doing when you were fifteen, in what, the seventies?"
Cynthia smiled. "It was a bit longer ago than that, but I take your point. Miss Zenobia's school was indeed precisely that kind of charm school on the surface. But she had a sharp eye for potential. If she saw one of her students was capable of more, she made sure that girl had everything she needed to go after her bigger fate."
"Like you being a lawyer?" I guessed.
"Precisely," Cynthia said. "I was the first woman in my family to pursue a real education. My parents didn't try to hold me back, but they didn't really understand me either. Without Miss Zenobia's guidance, I'm not sure I would have succeeded."
"I'm sorry I never got the chance to meet her," I said. "She sounds amazing, and it would have been nice to talk with someone who knew my mother. I suppose since I'm here for the reading of the will that my mother is mentioned in it. Do you know if there's anything about her, about her past or something?"
"I'm sorry," Cynthia said with a shake of her head. "Not even I know what will be said tomorrow night. I only know I was sent to fetch the three of you, to be sure you were here tomorrow night."
"But if you were her lawyer, wouldn't you have helped her write this will?" I asked.
"It's not exactly what you're expecting," Cynthia said. "I really can't say more."
"It will make sense tomorrow night," I sighed, repeating that sentence I had heard far too many times.
"I know Miss Zenobia chose you three for a reason," Cynthia said. "She kept an eye on all of her former students and all of their offspring. Hundreds of them, and she was aware of them all. But only three were named. I don't know why, but I know you must all be exceptional."
"Exceptional young ladies,” I said. "I don't feel like one."
Cynthia leaned forward in her chair to give my hand a squeeze. "Trust in Miss Zenobia. I promise you, she was never wrong. Now I really should be getting myself home to bed. Good night, Miss Amanda."
"Good night," I said.
I expected her to head out the front door when we parted ways in the foyer, but she walked down the hall towards the kitchen. She saw the box there on the dining room table and paused to put it back in its place on top of the hutch.
Like it was going to stay there this time. Somehow, I doubted it. I just hoped it wouldn't call out to me again.
I went back up to my room and climbed into the massive bed. The sheets were cool and soft and the blankets were so heavy it was like the bed was hugging me tight.
Still I had trouble drifting off to sleep. Every time I felt my consciousness slipping away some tinkle of noise would jolt me awake again. A pop like a cork from a champagne bottle, a stray bit of laughter, a woman singing something in a sultry voice.
But when I was awake, I heard nothing. There wasn't even a breath of wind to stir the trees around the old house.
Perhaps it wasn't surprising that when I finally did fall asleep I dreamed I was at a party, sipping a cocktail made from bathtub gin and wearing a flapper dress and smiling at guys I was sure were gangsters because of their flashy suits.
Year of getting up to help open the diner before the breakfast rush had made me an early riser. I woke the moment the first ray of the rising sun pierced through the window. I had never pulled the curtains closed the night before.
I wrestled my way out of the twisted sheets and stumbled over to the window to look out at the back garden. Dew shone like diamonds on every blade of grass and branch of shrubbery.
The garden wall must stand at the very edge of a steep drop off, because the road behind it was quite a bit further down the hillside. Beyond the road I could see nothing but the tops of trees, the leaves not yet turning although we were in the middle of September now.
I couldn't see the river through those trees, but I knew it was there. I bet in the cold of winter when the branches were bare I would be able to see it.
Another thing I didn't see: any sign of a party the night before. Mrs. Olson certainly hadn't been hosting one, not with all the complaining about noise she had been doing, and there were no neighbors behind us.
I suppose someone at the condo could have been hosting one, or maybe the whole building had a party.
If I ran into Nick again I could ask him.
I really hoped I would run into Nick again.
I got dressed before heading downstairs to the kitchen. It couldn't have been much later than six, so I expected I'd be making my own coffee, but to my surprise there was already a potful waiting for me, a tray of mugs standing ready beside it.
I filled a mug, added a dollop of butter from the fridge, then carried it to what Mr. Trevor had called the solarium.
There was a crisp newspaper sitting out on the cast iron table and I could picture Mr. Trevor setting it out after making the coffee. I could even picture him ironing the pages like butlers used to do back in the day.
But the morning was far too lovely to risk ruining it with news. Instead I strolled along the rows of plants clustered against the windows, sipping my coffee and trying to guess what all was growing. I recognized a few kitchen herbs, but most of the plants were a complete mystery to me.
I heard something skittering about outside the porch door. It sounded too big to be a squirrel. Raccoon? We had problems with those digging through the trash behind the diner. Just one raccoon is capable of making an ungodly mess. I set my coffee aside and opened the porch door, intending to chase away any creatures I might find lurking out there, looking for trouble.
But all thoughts of raccoons fled from my mind as I saw Cynthia crumpled on the ground at the bottom of the steps.
Face down. Unmoving.
The back of her head matted with blood.
Chapter 9
It was a good thing I had set down my coffee on the table in the solarium before stepping outside or else I would have done that thing people always do in movies. Drop and smash. Dramatic, but messy.
Although maybe the sound of the mug shattering would have snapped me out of the frozen state I was in. As it was, I don't know how long I stood there on the porch looking down at Cynthia's body.
Facedown, but with one hand reaching up to the top step, hand gently curved. Like she was sleeping.
My gaze skittered away from the back of her skull. There was a definite curving in where it should be curving out, and my stomach flopped over even as my eyes refused to linger.
But I did notice other things. Like there was no blood on the ground around her, and there was no dew on her.
And her clothes were different. The last time I had seen her when she had been heading home for the night, she had been wearing black slacks and a cashmere sweater. Now she was wearing a dress. Royal blue where the blood spatters weren't staining it purple.
It reminded me of my dream from the night before. It wasn't exactly a flapper dress, but there were a lot of similarities. Like it
was a more conservative version of that style.
The sudden slap of a rubber-soled foot on concrete paving stone made me jump just as Brianna appeared around the corner of the house. She was wearing knee-length running shorts and a loose, white T-shirt over a sports bra, her long hair pulled up into a ponytail on the top of her head.
She nearly tripped over Cynthia's feet before she saw her, scrambling back to hug the corner of the house as she tugged earbuds out of her ears.
She stared down at Cynthia in horror.
Then she looked up at me.
"What did you do?" she gasped.
"Me?" I stammered. "I just got here. What did you do?"
"I was jogging," Brianna said. "This wasn't here when I left."
"I just got up. I haven't even finished my coffee yet," I said.
"So why are you outside?" she asked.
"I heard a noise," I said. I turned and looked at the back wall of the house. There was an old-fashioned light fixture over the door I had emerged from, aiming at the porch, but there was no sign of any home security cameras.
"No proof," Brianna said as if guessing what I had been looking for.
"Who would do this?" I wondered futilely.
"She wasn't here when I left," Brianna said again.
"When was that?" I asked. Brianna pulled out her iPod and looked at the screen. "Thirty minutes ago."
"Exactly?"
"Thirty-one, then," she said. "I can't get it down to the second. I'm not sure when I came around the corner here."
"Why didn't you go out the front door?" I asked.
Brianna shrugged, her eyes on the ground around Cynthia. "This is weird," she said.
"Not enough blood," I said, nodding. "No dew."
"Secondary crime scene," Brianna agreed.
"What is going on?"
We both looked up to see Sophie emerging from between two shrubberies on the far side of the solarium.
"What were you doing in those bushes?" I asked.
"That's the door to the cellar," Sophie said with a dismissive wave. Then she saw Cynthia. "What's going on here?" She looked up at me and then at Brianna, eyes narrowing.
