A baby cried again. It sounded as if it came from the living room.
“There is a child here!” Melissa insisted. “I have to go check!”
“No!” Philip insisted. “Don’t go out there!”
She gave him a confused look. “But if someone is here…we can’t get caught!”
Again the child cried from the other room. It was an insistent cry. Terrified. It grew from a few anxious yelps to one long wail now. Melissa ignored Philip’s objections and pulled on her jeans and threw a sweatshirt on over the teddy. She headed out toward the living room.
“Don’t touch it!” Philip shouted, following her.
Indeed there was a baby sitting in the middle of the living room. It wore just a cloth diaper. It couldn’t have been much more than about six months old. It was crying ferociously, its pudgy little hands in the air.
“The poor child!” Melissa cried.
“Don’t touch it!” Philip repeated.
She looked at him as if he were mad. “The child is terrified, maybe in pain….”
“No!”
Suddenly the crying stopped. They both turned to look at the baby. It began to crawl away from them, across the carpet and behind the divan. Melissa hurried to follow it. But as she crossed the room, she discovered the baby was gone.
But in its place were a series of bloody handprints, staining the white carpet in a horrible trail. The handprints ended abruptly in the middle of the room, as if the baby had just disappeared into thin air.
Chapter Seven
Uncle Howie had sure gone all out for this meal. At some point even before Douglas had gotten up, a whole army seemed to have descended on the house. Whereas yesterday there wasn’t a servant in sight, today the place was buzzing with them. Housekeepers were doing his laundry and making his bed. An assistant was heading into town with a van to haul Douglas’s repaired bike up to the house. And in the kitchen, a dozen cooks and waitstaff were preparing the most elaborate breakfast Douglas had ever seen—let alone tasted.
“The bread is all fresh baked,” Uncle Howie was saying from the head of the table. “There are fresh croissants and scones and brioche. The fruit is all local. Strawberries, blueberries, apples, peaches. The eggs will be out in a moment. You’ll find an assortment of cheeses and fresh herbs on the table to add to your meals as you choose. Basil, oregano, cilantro, rosemary—all grown here on the estate. And you have your choice of Canadian bacon or smoked lox—or you can have both, of course.”
Douglas was famished. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. He glanced over at Carolyn Cartwright. She smiled, seemingly overwhelmed by all the food.
“And save room for dessert,” Uncle Howie added. “They’re making chocolate waffles with maple syrup and fresh cream.”
“Awesome,” Douglas said, piling his plate high with strawberries and sliced apples with cinnamon.
“All I usually have for breakfast is coffee and a bagel,” Carolyn was saying.
“Do you want a bagel?” Uncle Howard asked. “We have bagels.”
“No, thank you,” Carolyn said, laughing. “These scones are delicious.”
“I’m glad you like it,” the old man said, watching them both eat.
He himself had little on his plate. When the eggs came, he took a small helping and ate them with a small slice of wheat bread. Douglas, meanwhile, was gorging himself.
The dining room was dominated by a large crystal chandelier hanging over the enormous table, which sat thirty people. On the walls were hung paintings by Renoir and Matisse. An elaborate floral display sat in the middle of the table, a fresh delivery that morning. Fragrant white lilies and purple asters were complemented by a surprising burst of orange birds of paradise.
A server came by to bring Douglas a plate of bacon. He helped himself eagerly.
“You act as if you haven’t eaten in days,” Carolyn observed.
He grinned. “Well, I haven’t, unless you consider Big Macs and Taco Bell eating.”
“I do not,” she said, smiling.
“Uncle Howie always puts out the best spreads,” Douglas said, looking over at his uncle and giving him a thumbs-up.
The old man patted his mouth with his napkin. He had finished his small portion. “Well, you two take your time and enjoy the rest of your meal. I’m going out for my morning walk.” He stood. Immediately a valet was behind him, helping him from his chair. Howard Young waved him away, insisting he would be fine on his own. “Douglas, find me afterward. Out on the lawn.” He paused. “We need to have a conversation, and I’d like to have it before Carolyn leaves.”
“Okay,” Douglas said, his mouth full.
Carolyn’s eyes moved from uncle to nephew and then back again. Poor Douglas, she thought. He has no idea what Mr. Young will tell him. No idea of how his life will change once he learns about the room…
She watched as the old man walked slowly, and just a little falteringly, out the French doors and onto the terrace. Carolyn presumed he was too proud to use a cane. Outside she could see that the sun was bright. Gulls were swooping in long, languid arcs across the blue sky. The crash of the surf filled the room now that the doors were open.
“What was it like,” she asked, “coming here as a child?”
Douglas took a sip of coffee and sat back in his chair. Finally, a break from his ravenous consumption of food. “Well, when I was very young, it was awesome. I mean, what kid wouldn’t love coming to a house like this? I’d run through the halls, up and down those marble stairs, hiding in the attic….”
“I suppose attics and…basements…are irresistible to young boys.” She chose her words deliberately.
Douglas shrugged. “We weren’t allowed in the basement. I guess that’s where Uncle Howie kept all his treasures. But the attic was fun. So many little nooks and crannies where I could hide and jump out from to scare my stuck-up cousins Ryan and Chelsea.” He laughed, then returned to shoveling eggs and bacon into his mouth.
“You don’t get along with your cousins?”
He shrugged again. “We’re just very different. They have an air about them. A certain superiority. I like my other cousins, okay, though. Paula and Dean. But they’re older. Ryan and Chelsea are my age.” He looked up at her. “I guess they’re probably about your age as well.” He smiled and winked.
Carolyn felt her cheeks blush. There were those dimples again.
She likes me, Douglas thought. He could always tell when women liked him. He was glad. He hoped Carolyn planned to stay a few days.
“But you said it was awesome when you were little,” she commented. “What about when you were older?”
Douglas sat back in his chair again. “Well, it wasn’t so great then. You see, my father died here. We had come up for the family reunion. They’re held every ten years, and everyone comes. It’s something that Uncle Howie insists upon.” He made a small laugh. “I guess everybody does it because they don’t want to be cut out of the will.”
Carolyn was studying him with her beautiful green eyes. “And your father died while you were all here together?”
Douglas nodded. “Yeah.” His voice was tight. “It was an accident. They found him in the morning. When I came down the stairs I remember seeing my cousin Paula’s face…she was crying. And I just knew. Somehow I just knew that my father was dead.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It was ten years ago. Do you know there’s another family reunion scheduled for next month?”
Carolyn nodded. “Yes.” She paused. “Your uncle mentioned it.”
“So tell me about you,” Douglas said suddenly. “Enough about me and this house. I want to know about you.”
A server had arrived asking if they wanted their waffles now. Carolyn was so full she begged off, but Douglas said he’d have one in a bit. “First,” he said, standing, holding out his hand to Carolyn, “I think you might like to see my favorite place in the house. And as we head up there, you can tell me all about who you are a
nd where you come from.”
Carolyn smiled and followed him out of the dining room.
As they headed up the grand marble staircase, she explained there wasn’t much to tell about her life. She gave him a quick summary of college and the FBI and explained she was now running her own independent investigation agency. She left out everything about Mom and Andrea and, of course, David. But her words had been enough to pique Douglas’s curiosity nevertheless.
“Here I was thinking you were some actuary or accountant,” he said, “working with Uncle Howie on the family investments or whatever. But you’re a private eye?”
She laughed. “I guess you can call me that.”
“The FBI, huh? You actually worked for the FBI?”
“That I did.”
He had stopped walking. They stood on the top landing of the staircase. “So what kind of project does Uncle Howie need a private eye for?”
“I’ll let him explain all that,” Carolyn said. “It’s not my place.”
“Very strange,” Douglas said, eyeing her. Then he winked and crooked his finger, indicating that she should follow him down the hall.
“This is my favorite spot in the whole house,” he said.
At the far end of the corridor was a door. They stood outside the door, and Douglas grinned over at her. His eyes were wide like a little boy’s. She couldn’t help but smile in return.
He opened the door. Beyond was a small, steep staircase leading up.
“The attic,” he said. “But that’s not what is so special.”
He gripped her hand. Carolyn followed as they bounded up the steps. At the top, to the left, was a small door that led into the attic. But to the right was a bay window. There was a small seat in the window, where one could sit and look out over the cliffs and the ocean.
“Oh, my,” Carolyn said.
“Look,” Douglas said, his arm now around her shoulder. “You can see the whole estate. The barn. The tennis courts. The road going down to the village. And over there, you see, is the village itself. You can even see the highway through the trees.”
“Yes,” Carolyn said. “It’s a breathtaking view.”
“You see there, along the cliffs? You can see the start of the path that leads down to the village. It’s a shortcut, but rather steep and a little precarious. It cuts through the family cemetery. If you look closely you can make out the headstones.”
“Oh, yes,” Carolyn said, but looking at the cemetery made her uneasy. All those dead Youngs buried there…the ones who had died in this house. She preferred to glance out over the cliffs to the blue ocean beyond, the sun reflecting off its whitecaps.
“I would come up here as a boy and sit for hours, daydreaming that I was a king and this was my castle,” Douglas said.
She smiled over at him. “You had a lively imagination.”
He nodded. “I also came up here on the day my father died. They couldn’t get me to budge. I just stayed here that whole day.”
She reached down and squeezed his hand.
“Douglas,” she said, her heart breaking. “I think your uncle would like to talk with you.”
He nodded.
Heading back down the stairs, Carolyn thought about the little boy who had sat in that window, grieving for his father. She had been up quite late the night before, reading through the histories of all who had died in that basement room. Douglas’s father had been a good man. A public defender. An advocate for the disadvantaged. He had died by suffocation. His hands had been tied behind his back and a plastic bag secured over his head. What kind of vileness lived in that room? What monstrous force could so do such a thing, especially with his young son sleeping in the same house?
Douglas insisted he stop back in the dining room for his waffle before heading out to talk with his uncle. He was still hungry. He asked Carolyn if she’d join him, but she demurred. He told her he’d see her outside then, and reached down and gallantly kissed her hand. Women loved when he did that.
He watched Carolyn head out through the French doors. He liked her. He was surprised by how attracted he was to her. She wasn’t like the girls he usually found himself going after. Sure, she was pretty. But she didn’t have the va-voom quality that Brenda possessed, the obvious, raw sexuality his girlfriends usually displayed. In the past, the girls on his arm had been one step up from bimbos: shapely bodies, big hair, loud laughs, not a lot of education. Carolyn Cartwright was very different. Smart. Crafty. A private eye, for crying out loud! Sitting back down at the table and licking his lips at the crispy Belgian waffle that was placed in front of him, he figured he’d need to watch himself around Carolyn. There would be no hiding anything from her!
That’s why he liked her, he realized as he took his first bite. He was here, after all, to get his life on track. To get serious. A woman like Carolyn, then, held tremendous appeal. Beautiful—but serious, too.
Douglas peered out through the French doors to catch Carolyn looking back at him. He waved. She waved back.
Oh, Carolyn thought. He saw me looking.
She was being silly. Acting like a schoolgirl. And acting like a schoolgirl had gotten her in big trouble before. She had vowed never again to trust a man on first impression. Douglas Young might seem charming and sincere, innocent and fun. But so had David. She repeated that mantra as she headed out toward the cliffs. So had David.
She found Mr. Young sitting on a stone bench looking out over the ocean. She could hear the surf and even taste the salt on her tongue. The old man turned his yellow eyes up at her.
“I see you are making the acquaintance of my nephew,” he said.
Carolyn smiled and sat down beside him. “He’s very sweet.”
“Mm.” Howard Young looked out again over the sea. “He tends to go through women like other men go through undershirts.” He was smiling, “Just a friendly word of caution.”
“Oh, I’m not—” Carolyn found that her denial of any romantic interest was faltering, and that she actually stammered. “Mr. Young, I’m here on business, not personal pleasure.”
“And speaking of that business, you were up quite late last night reading all the material I gave you.”
She nodded. “It was absorbing.”
“Were you frightened?”
“Of course.”
He nodded. “If you had claimed you weren’t, I’d have known you were lying.”
“I went into the room this morning, with the key you gave me.” She looked over at him, but he kept his eyes on the sea. “I could find no trickery, no hint of any kind of contraption in the walls that would have produced the bloody words we saw.”
“Well, at least you can retire your skepticism.”
Carolyn smiled. “Not entirely. That’s not how an investigator operates. You discount nothing. You keep an open mind to all possibilities.” She leaned in just a bit closer to the old man. “That’s why I need to speak with Jeanette.”
“Speak may be a rather high expectation,” he replied, still looking out over the waves.
“She survived that night. And yes, I know, survive may be hardly the word to describe what happened to her that night. But she is alive. The only one to make it through a night in that room.”
“Of course you can visit Jeanette. The others did as well.”
Carolyn was aware that she was following in the footsteps of many others who had tried to do what she was doing and failed. “Kip Hobart is a friend of mine. When I leave here, I plan on going out to see him.”
“Dr. Hobart was very bright and gave us all incredible hope.” Howard Young slowly turned his face to once again look at Carolyn. “But then poor Douglas’s father went into that room and showed how foolish we all were. What did the words say? ‘Abandon hope.’”
“But you haven’t abandoned hope if you contacted me.”
He sighed. “I needed to make one last try. Ten years from now, at the next reunion, I won’t be here.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Caroly
n said, offering him a small smile.
They sat in silence for a few moments.
“What is your plan?” Mr. Young asked her finally.
“Other than meeting with Jeanette and Kip Hobart, I have none.”
He laughed. “Once more, I appreciate your honesty. If you had claimed to know what to do, I would again have known that you were lying.”
“It would help if you told me more,” she said. “Who are these apparitions that people report seeing in the weeks leading up to the reunion? What were the events of eighty years ago that led to the start of the lottery?”
“You will discover that, if you are meant to.”
“Kip made no mention in his notes. Did he not find out?”
“You will have to ask him.”
“The woman people report seeing. The one in the white dress and black hair. Is she Beatrice? The servant girl who was killed on the property in 1930? There is a newspaper clipping about her death in the files. There has to be a connection.”
“Perhaps there is.”
“The newspaper didn’t give a cause of death. It just said there had been a ‘tragic accident’ at the house. It happened right around this time of year, and the first lottery was held a month later.”
“You have your chronology correct.”
“What was the accident? How did Beatrice die?”
The old man looked pained. A gnarled, spotted hand went to his forehead.
“You won’t say, or you can’t?” Carolyn asked.
“Since my sister died thirty years ago, I have been the only one left alive who remembers those days. It is a lonely burden.”
“I imagine it is.” Carolyn sat back against the bench. “If you can’t tell me, I’d imagine I can get the information on her death from the records at the Youngsport town hall. Perhaps there was a coroner’s report.”
“The records won’t tell you any more than I have.”
She looked over at him. “So there was an attempt to contain scandal, perhaps?”
“To speak of such things to people outside the family is forbidden. That is what has made finding an end to this nightmare so difficult.”
The Killing Room Page 9
