by Denise Daisy
“The redhead, in gothic Southern-belle fashion.” I describe the girl I saw. “She was rushing upstairs when I came in earlier.” Mike tilts his head the same way he does in math class, deciphering numbers in his head instead of scratching the problem out on paper like the rest of us. A sly grin spreads across his face. He shakes his head.
“You’re not tricking me with that one, Averie.” He laughs. “You’re just trying to spook me ’cause I got you in the dining room.”
Now, I’m confused. “What are you talking about?”
He hands me another stack of plates. “You want me to think you saw Emily Faulkner’s ghost, but I’m not buying it.”
I nearly drop the dishes. My arms go weak, but somehow I slide the stack onto the rack. “You mean to tell me there is no one else here other than us?”
Mike just laughs and shakes his head.
I think I might faint, and now I want to leave again. “Seriously, Mike, I saw a girl going upstairs.”
Mike’s grin turns somber when he realizes I am serious. Daniel and Brent both pale. Brent tugs at his bow tie. “Are you for real or just pranking us?”
I hear fear in his voice. “I’m for real,” I say quietly.
At that very moment, a gust of wind blows the back door wide open, revealing a well-dressed gentleman watching us from the doorway. We all scream at the sight of him.
Chapter 2
The only time I ever saw a suit as nice as the one Mr. Brackett is wearing was when my momma made me watch a video of Prince Charles and Lady Diana’s wedding. She was obsessed with Princess Di, mourned her death for over a year, as if she were a personal friend. Whenever anyone came to the salon unsure of the hairstyle they wanted, Momma’s default was always the Princess Di cut. Over half the town wore the style, men included.
Mr. Brackett is one of those distinguished, older gentlemen. He’s tall, and his hair is jet-black with silver showing in the corners. I’m pretty sure he colors it himself. I’m good at noticing things like that ’cause of the time I spend at the salon. It doesn’t appear to be a professional job, more like he bought a case of Just for Men hair color. He has thick brows, a big mustache and a finely trimmed goatee. He’s frowning and pulling at the lapels of his dinner jacket, as if he’s apprehensive about tonight. He is over in the corner talking with Mike. I guess the way the entire crew screamed when we saw him didn’t give him great confidence in our ability to serve his guests. Mike’s wearing his serious face. By the look of it, they are in deep conversation. I hope he can pull this off without having to call Steffi. I busy myself stirring the bisque, but I notice Mike and Mr. Brackett are both looking my way. Nervously, I tuck my hair deeper inside the net, just in case a curl has slipped past its barricade and Mr. Brackett is complaining about it.
“Averie.” Mike motions me over. What could he possibly want? I place the lid back on the pot, careful not to lick the spoon. God, I am starving. Mike introduces me to Mr. Brackett in such a polished, professional way that I do everything I can to keep from laughing.
“Nice to meet you,” I lie. It really isn’t great to meet him. Honestly, I could care less except that he’s Steffi’s client. Not to mention, she has paid me handsomely for helping tonight.
Mr. Brackett smiles. “She’ll do. I’ll introduce her as my niece, Makayla.” He leaves us and heads for the dining room, leaving me standing there confused as hell.
“What’s he talking about?” I ask Mike. The look on his face tells me I am in some serious trouble.
“He needs an extra guest for dinner, and you’re it.”
“What?”
“Just hear me out, Ave.” When he shortens my name, I know I am in trouble. “I guess Mr. Brackett is superstitious and refuses to have thirteen for dinner. One of the guests just canceled. He needs another one to make it an even fourteen.”
“Mike,” I whine, “I cannot sit in that room and eat where thirteen people were butchered to death. Not to mention I won’t know anyone at the table. How awkward is that? Besides”—I lower my voice to a whisper—“I already saw Miss Emily herself. You know how fearful I am. I just can’t be in that room!”
Mike puts a hand on my shoulder, his voice calm and reassuring. “Ave”—he uses his pet name for me again—“I would never let anything happen to you. I will be right here in the kitchen. If you want, I will trade places with Brent and serve the table. And don’t forget,” he continues, “you get to eat filet mignon, plus Mr. Brackett said he’ll pay you an extra hundred bucks on top of whatever you’re making tonight.”
Two hundred dollars for one night! My heart leaps at the chance, so I am not sure why I continue coming up with excuses. “I don’t have anything to wear. I can’t attend a swanky dinner party wearing double-knit pants and an oversized polo.”
“Mom always keeps an extra dress and heels inside the catering van just in case she spills something on her clothes.” Mike leaves me no outs. “You and mom are the same size, so it isn’t a problem.”
I sigh.
It’s sweltering inside the back of the catering van. I could change in the house, but I don’t dare. I pull at the hem. Steffi and I are the same dress size, but I am at least four inches taller. I yank the hairnet off and try fluffing out my curls. My efforts are futile because I’m perspiring like crazy. The sweat is causing my hair to stick to my neck. Not able to stand the stifling heat any longer, I push open the back doors and jump from the van. A light breeze gives some relief. The wind is picking up. Dark clouds are boiling up on the horizon. Looks like we are in for a storm. Slipping on the stilettos, I hobble up the stone path toward the kitchen door. How in the world does Steffi wear these things?
One look from Mike, and I know I am presentable. He grins and takes my hands. “Why Miss Averie, you are a ravishing quatorzième.” I give Mike my sideways smile. Not only is he adorable, but he’s smart as heck and, as usual, is throwing out a word I’ve never heard before. I wonder if he is complimenting me or making fun.
“What’s a quatorzième?” I ask. “And please tell me it’s not some type of ghostly phantom or something.”
He grins at my uncontrollable fear. “A quatorzième, or a fourteener, is a French socialite who fills in as the fourteenth dinner guest. Their purpose is to rescue the other thirteen guests from bad luck. And in my opinion, you’re a gorgeous good luck charm, not to mention you look very French.” He delivers his last few words with an accent. I smirk. His compliments are sweet, but I’m still not sure about the whole thing. On the other hand, two hundred dollars and a good meal pushes away most of my apprehensions.
“Bon appétit, my lovely quatorzième.” He keeps his French accent as he escorts me out of the kitchen. “Dinner is served.”
Chapter 3
I’m starving, but Mr. Brackett refuses to begin dinner until all the guests arrive. There are twelve of us, ready to eat, but we’re waiting on one last couple. Seems their attendance tonight is pretty important to Mr. Brackett. Their names are Mr. and Mrs. Kendrick. I hear they are extremely wealthy, as is everyone at this dinner, everyone except me. I guess I have them fooled, though. Mr. Brackett introduced me as his niece Makayla. He told them I will be moving to Ithaca, New York soon to attend Cornell University. According to my eccentric uncle, I will be taking hotel-management courses. Sounds good to me since I have no idea what I want to do with my life anyway. What I do know is I don’t want to stay in this one-horse town and work at the hair salon with my mother. So for now, I am wealthy and headed to a university that will oblige me, inheriting a fortune to attend.
I imagine Mike is in the kitchen stressing over the bisque about now. It has been simmering far too long. I wish I was in there with him instead of standing here wearing these uncomfortable heels, making small talk with people much older than me. There’s a flashy redhead monopolizing the conversation. Thanks to her, I don’t have to talk much. She is Mrs. Regina Montoya, and she has the biggest set of fake hooters I’ve ever seen. She
’s wearing a low-cut, tight-fitting, lavender dress, and a push-up bra that has her chin nearly resting on her boobs. She’s openly flirting with the men. Her husband stands there with a deadpan look on his pockmarked face. He’s quiet, unassuming, and appears bored, as if he’s heard her self-indulging stories many times before.
An incredibly handsome man introduces himself and his wife to me. His name is Austin Phinney. He graduated from Cornell. Just my luck; I am afraid he is going to ask me questions about the university. He and his wife do make a striking couple. Her name is Brianna, and she’s beautiful like Steffi, except more glamorous. She’s soft-spoken and doesn’t say much. She just smiles a pretty, soft smile. I heard Austin tell someone she is an opera singer. I figure it’s a good idea to ask her about it, to defer the Cornell questions.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” someone says. I turn to the doorway, thrilled at the interruption and extremely thankful the last two guests have finally arrived. Now we can eat. My heart skips a beat. I am looking at the most gorgeous face I have ever laid eyes on. The guy can’t be much older than me, maybe a couple of years. He is hot, oh so hot. The only tanned bodies I’ve seen that bronzed are the lifeguards at the public pool, and I am sure I’ve never seen Mr. Silver Eyes perched up on one of those towers before. Heat wraps around my neck like a woolen scarf. I’m blushing, and I hope he doesn’t notice.
Mr. Brackett tugs at his necktie. Either he tied that thing way too tight or he’s not as pleased with his new guest as I am. “Is Mrs. Kendrick with you?” He asks.
“Sorry, no,” the guy says. “My grandmother regrets she is not able to attend with me tonight.”
He talks properly and he’s polished. I can’t compete with that so maybe I should hide in the kitchen with Mike and stir the bisque.
Mr. Brackett has broken out in a full-on sweat and is rubbing the back of his neck nervously. As we gather at the table, I realize what has him uptight. Without Mrs. Kendrick, we are left with thirteen for dinner. My stomach flip-flops. I find an interesting pattern on the carpet to trace with my stiletto. I don’t belong at this party, so if I leave, there would be twelve guests, and all would be well.
“Dinner is served.” Mike’s announcement draws my attention from the faded rug. Mr. Brackett is looking at me as if I am a curse. I want to bolt, but Austin Phinney has just pulled out my chair for me, so I sit. He and his wife take their seats to my left. On my right are Phyl and Jason Atienza. From everything they are saying, it seems they have made their fortune in a multilevel vitamin business. Phyl is a good advertisement for their industry. She is in excellent shape for having four kids. Jason has curly hair and the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. I wonder if his face ever hurts from grinning all the time. Across the table, to my left, are flirtatious Regina and her henpecked husband. Next to them are Mary Elizabeth and Peter Butler. They are Texas oil tycoons and the oldest couple here. Peter is loud, obnoxious, and drinks too much. He gives Regina a run for her money. The last couple at the table is Tony and Emma Chizzam. Tony is a beefy ex-professional football player. The Chizzams are conservative, born-again Christians, and have made it clear they do not believe in ghosts. But Emma looked a tad nervous a few minutes ago when Peter Butler loudly disclosed the horrid history of this place.
The hot guy takes the chair directly across from me. It’s then our eyes meet for the first time. I can’t help notice a twinkle inside his steel-gray eyes. Maybe he’s pleased because there is someone else at this strange dinner who is close to his age. Or the sparkle in his eyes could be because he thinks I’m pretty. After all, Mike said I looked beautiful and French. Austin notices our inspection of each other and promptly introduces me. “This is Makayla, our esteemed host’s niece. She is heading to Cornell next month.”
“Quillan Kendrick.” He grins, using only one side of his mouth and nods. “Nice to meet you, Makayla.”
I smile, yet dare not say anything. Darn my deep Southern accent. No matter how hard I try, I won’t sound as educated as he does, so I choose to remain mysterious, aloof, and French.
Mike is prompt with the service. He has long since cleared away the bisque and salad. Now he’s placing the main course on the table. He gives me a slight wink as he places filet mignon in front of me. I think the big-boobed Regina noticed. She gives me a wry look as she pops a baby carrot into her mouth. Other than that tiny infraction, dinner has gone off without a hitch. Everyone is making small talk and seems to be enjoying themselves. From the conversation at the table, I’ve figured out that Mr. Brackett intends to buy this property for some sort of boarding school. He sent out several business proposals, looking for investors. The people here tonight must be the ones who showed interest.
The wind is howling outside. The forecasted storm has arrived. A loud thunderclap shakes the room, reminding me I should be utterly frightened. Yet, the unexpected arrival of Quillan, along with the delectable meal, has nearly chased my apprehensions away. We have just finished our crème brûlée, and I have to stop myself from picking up my dish and licking it clean. Mike is pouring an expensive bottle of port. I am surprised when he pours some into my glass. I’ve never drank before. I’m underage and he knows it, but he fills my glass.
Mr. Brackett lifts his goblet for a toast. “To this historical home. May the vision I have erase the dark past and bring a bright future.”
The clinking sound of glass fills the room as we toast. I take a big swig of the fine Port and choke. How could this be expensive? It tastes like Nyquil. I manage to swallow the burning liquid without making a face.
Mr. Brackett sets his glass on the table and dabs at his mouth with a linen napkin before he speaks. “I have devised an interesting way to show you the mansion.” The grin on his face sends a chill down my spine. “Instead of giving a guided tour, I decided it would be thrilling to send you on a treasure hunt of sorts.” The oddness of his statement gets everyone’s attention, including mine. My stomach begins flip-flopping again, swirling the Port and crème brûlée inside my belly. Go on a treasure hunt inside this creepy house? Is he kidding? There’s no way I’m participating in Brackett’s crazy game. I’ve done my job filling in, even though it wasn’t needed, but I refuse to go traipsing through this haunted mansion.
“There are three floors, thirty-six bedrooms, twenty-four bathrooms, a conservatory, a library, a billiard room, a couple of dens, several sitting rooms, a kitchen, dozens of hallways, an attic, a basement, the cupola, several staircases, and”—his eyes dance in excitement, during his dramatic pause—“a few secret passageways.”
“And just what is it we are hunting for?” Regina asks, using her sultry voice as she traces her finger along the rim of her chalice.
Mr. Brackett pulls a cigar from his coat pocket and runs it beneath his nose, inhaling the aroma of the expensive smoke. A resounding thunderclap explodes outside the mansion, shaking the historical home and knocking out the power. From the darkness, Mr. Brackett answers Regina’s question. “You’ll be looking for a way out.”
Chapter 4
The darkness is suffocating. Even the flame on the three candles vanished when the thunder shook the room. I lift my hand in front of my face, but I can’t see anything. I don’t want to panic, but I am terrified, fear choking the voice from my throat. I am utterly speechless. I want to make a run for the kitchen directly to Mike, but in the blackness, I have lost my bearings.
It seems everyone at the table has been stunned to silence as well. Then, little by little, their voices arise out of the foreboding darkness. They hurl their questions at Mr. Brackett, who remains silent. Peter Butler curses in an angry Texas drawl, demanding the damn lights be turned back on immediately. It’s Regina who answers his demand by flicking on her lighter and igniting the wick on the candle directly in front of her. The faint glow of light shatters the menacing darkness, releasing sighs from the guests and bringing a bit of relief to the table.
Austin Phinney quickly picks up the candle and lights the wic
ks on the other two. Able to see more clearly now, we all turn to face Mr. Brackett for some sort of explanation to his bizarre announcement, but his chair is empty. For some reason, all eyes shift to me. Even Quillan is staring at me from across the table with those luscious eyes of his. I wonder why everyone is looking at me. I swallow hard, fearing maybe the ghost of Emily Faulkner is standing directly behind me. My dumbfounded expression must be noticeable because Quillan quickly makes his opinion known on the matter. “I don’t think she has a clue as to what her uncle is doing. She seems just as surprised as the rest of us.”
My uncle! That’s right! Mr. Brackett introduced me as his niece.
“Well, I’m not one to play childish games, especially those which glorify the occult and incite fear.” The ultraconservative Tony Chizzam faces me as he stands. “I agreed to come here tonight because I was possibly interested in funding a boarding school. Your uncle’s proposal sounded promising, as if he intended to bring some good to a place with a very dark past. I am all about redemption, but I refuse to be drawn into a game that glorifies the tragic events that took place here. Thank your uncle for me. However, I am no longer interested in investing.” The others stand in agreement, ready to leave as well. I could care less so I don’t respond. Besides, what can I say? I am pretty much hating Mr. Brackett right now, so if no one invests in his little venture, it’s not my responsibility. I’ve done my duty for the night. I’ve eaten a nice dinner, gazed across the table at the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, and got paid for doing it. It’s been a successful night. Let them leave. With them gone, I am free to escape this haunted mansion and go home.
