The Killing Room

by John Manning

  Carolyn smiled. “It’s really quite touching that you’ve made such a commitment to her.”

  He smiled, some of his earlier friendliness returning to his expression. “There was no other way. I love her. She loves me.”

  Carolyn instinctively reached out and cupped his hand.

  Suddenly it seemed as if Michael O’Toole was about to cry. His cheeks flushed even redder, and his lips trembled. “Once, many, many years ago, maybe a year or so after Jeanette was first brought to Windcliffe, I considered maybe…” His voice broke. “I considered maybe if I should just move on. You know, my friends and my family, they were saying, ‘Michael, you need to pursue your own career, your own life.’” A couple of tears squeezed out of his eyes and ran down his cheeks, collecting into little pools behind his heavy glasses. “I thought I’d never have a real love, you know, if I stayed here with Jeanette. And I was really thinking that way…”

  He turned, ashamed of himself.

  “But then I had a dream,” he continued. “I had a dream of a woman. And the woman told me that if I loved Jeanette, I couldn’t leave her. I woke up knowing that I would always stay right by Jeanette’s side.”

  Carolyn was near tears herself. She shook Michael’s hand, then Douglas did, too. Back in the living room, they bid good-bye to Jeanette. Douglas leaned in and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “That’s from my father,” he said.

  Jeanette remained still in her chair.

  Michael walked them to the door. “I’m sorry if I seemed overprotective. But I guess that’s what I am.”

  Carolyn smiled. “I understand.”

  She had opened the door to leave when she turned back to him.

  “Mr. O’Toole,” she asked. “You said you had a dream of a woman…”

  He nodded.

  “Who was the woman in your dream?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve talked about it with my analyst. He thinks it was a manifestation of Jeanette. It was not the face of any woman I know. Just a female manifestation, my analyst said. A representation of my love for Jeanette.”

  “Interesting,” Carolyn said, her hand still on the doorknob. But she didn’t leave. Douglas seemed curious as to why she was delaying. “But could you describe what she looked like, Mr. O’Toole?” Carolyn asked. “The woman in your dream? Do you remember?”

  “I’ll never forget,” he said. “She had long dark hair and dark eyes, and she was wearing a long white dress.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Chelsea pulled her BMW to a stop outside her Uncle Howard’s mansion. “We’re here,” she barked at her brother, who was asleep in the seat beside her.

  Ryan just groaned.

  Chelsea rolled her eyes. For the last two days Ryan had been a complete and utter mess. “Tragic,” she muttered under her breath, getting out of the car and walking around to the passenger’s side. She opened the door. “Come on! Get out!”

  Slowly Ryan unbent his legs and rose out of the car.

  “If Uncle Howard suspects how much blow you’ve been doing these last couple of days, he’ll disinherit you on the spot,” Chelsea told him. “You’d better straighten up fast, dear brother.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he mumbled.

  Chelsea had her doubts about that. Ever since she’d found him quivering in their father’s study a couple of days ago, Ryan had been a major train wreck. He went on a bender that night, snorting prodigious amounts of coke and drinking all the vodka they had in the house. So wasted did he become that their trip up to Maine had had to be postponed a day. Chelsea was beyond pissed. Ryan kept babbling about being terrified of “the man with the pitchfork.” He insisted such a creature had actually been in their house and had tried to kill him. He even tried to show Chelsea holes in the wall supposedly made by said pitchfork. But of course there were no holes that Chelsea could see.

  “You are tragic,” she told her brother.

  Now she hauled her bag out of the backseat, with Ryan barely having the strength to lift his own. His eyes were glassy and his movements awkward. A man had appeared wearing a valet uniform and a broad ingratiating smile. Chelsea tossed him the keys to the Beemer.

  “I don’t know why Uncle Howard doesn’t keep any of the same servants,” she said as she headed toward the house. “They’re always different every time we visit.”

  She threw open the front doors. “Helloooo!” she trilled, her voice echoing across the marble. Ryan shuffled along behind her.

  “Where the hell is everyone?” Chelsea asked.

  Then she spotted a woman she didn’t recognize emerging from the study. At first she took her to be another new servant, but the woman had an air of authority. She was an attractive redhead with sharp green eyes. She smiled as she approached Chelsea and Ryan.

  “Hello, I’m Carolyn Cartwright,” she said. “Your uncle is in the study.”

  They all shook hands. Chelsea realized her brother really was out of it, because he simply grunted a hello. Usually when he met a pretty woman he was falling all over himself to be charming.

  “Mr. Young is very glad you’ve come early,” she said as they headed into the study.

  “And you are?” Chelsea asked, a little put off by the familiarity this outsider was showing toward Uncle Howard.

  “Mr. Young has hired me to help him with a project,” Carolyn explained.

  Chelsea nodded. “I guess he can’t do everything himself anymore. He’s certainly getting up there in years.”

  “Oh, but he’s really quite remarkable,” Carolyn observed. “I mean, at ninety-eight, still doing all that he does…” She smiled. “He’s not slowing down any time soon.”

  This time it was Chelsea’s turn to grunt. How long were they going to have to wait for the old man to kick the bucket and leave them all his billions?

  But then she grinned as she caught sight of Uncle Howard sitting in a chair by the window, a book in his lap. Not quite yet did she want him to kick the bucket. She needed a little more time to make sure she was in the will.

  “Uncle Howard!” she called, sugary sweet. Rushing ahead, she threw her arms around him as he sat in the chair, planting a big kiss on his mottled old cheek.

  “Hello, princess,” the old man said, patting her hair. “How lovely that you came early. I’m very pleased you did.”

  She moved aside so that her brother could shake Uncle Howard’s hand. Ryan stepped forward, his eyelids drooping, a wan smile on his face.

  “Good to see you too, Ryan,” Howard Young said. “A bit under the weather?”

  “Oh, he’s just tired from the long ride up here,” Chelsea said.

  “That’s right,” Ryan said, trying to summon some of his usual bravado. “A quick shower and change of clothes and I’ll be fine.”

  Uncle Howard just looked at him strangely.

  But another voice piped up with an opinion. “If you ask me,” Douglas said, sitting up from the sofa where he had been stretched out, hidden from view, “you look better than I’ve seen you in a long time.” He hopped to his feet. “Welcome, dear cousins!”

  Chelsea stiffened. Douglas was barefoot, wearing ratty jeans, and it looked as if he hadn’t washed his hair this morning. He was disgraceful.

  “Hello, Douglas,” she said. “Glad you’re here. How nice that we’ll have a chance to spend a little more time with you than usual.”

  She knew her voice sounded phony, and she knew that Douglas knew she was being totally insincere. But she hoped Uncle Howard didn’t pick up on it.

  Ryan hadn’t even bothered to say hello. He just excused himself so he could go wash up and change his clothes. Chelsea hoped he would come back downstairs more like his old self so that they could put Douglas in his place.

  “So what are you doing now, Douglas?” Chelsea asked cheerily. “You’ve always had such an interesting, if brief, series of jobs.”

  “True,” he said. “One of the few I haven’t tried is Slacker Child Living Off Wealthy Daddy.”


  “Now, now, Douglas,” Uncle Howard said, his voice raspy.

  “It’s okay, dear uncle,” Chelsea said. “Douglas and I just enjoy teasing each other, don’t we, Douglas?”

  “We adore it,” he said, and Chelsea caught the little look he exchanged with that woman, Carolyn. What was their relationship?

  “Well,” Chelsea announced, “I think I’ll go wash up as well, and then we can have a wonderful talk and catch up, dear uncle.”

  “I look forward to that, Chelsea,” the old man said. He hesitated, as if trying to think of exactly how he should phrase something. “I’m glad you’re here early, because we need to talk. You and I and your brother.”

  Chelsea’s ears perked up at this. “Really? Well, of course, Uncle Howard.”

  It had to be about the will. What else would he want to discuss with them?

  “But perhaps I should wait until your father is here as well,” Uncle Howard said. “He should be here for that.”

  It has to be the will, Chelsea thought. Why else would he want Daddy here, too?

  “I’ll call him and have him come up early as well,” she assured her uncle.

  “That would be good,” he said.

  She bent down and gave him another kiss on his cheek. His dry, flaky skin always grossed her out, but she forced herself. Chelsea smiled over at Douglas as she prepared to exit the room.

  Her cousin ignored her. “So, Uncle Howie,” he said, sitting down on the armrest of the old man’s chair, “how about if we have a conversation, too?”

  “All right,” Uncle Howard agreed.

  Chelsea almost spit. How dare Douglas? Trying to worm his way in before Uncle Howard had a chance to talk to her and Ryan?

  She was aware that Carolyn had positioned herself close to the old man’s chair as well. What business did she have listening in?

  Unless she was the lawyer drawing up the will…

  “Oh, Chelsea,” Douglas called sweetly as she left the study and headed into the hall, “will you be so kind as to shut the doors behind you?”

  She seethed, but did as he asked. It wouldn’t be good to upset Uncle Howard now.

  She stood there in the hallway staring at the closed double doors of the study. What did her uncle want to speak to her and Ryan about? Either to tell us we’re in the will…or we’re out. She gulped. What were they talking about inside the room at that very moment? Was Douglas brainwashing Uncle Howard against them? That woman…there was clearly a connection with Douglas. She was his girlfriend. That must be it! The little sneak had gotten his girlfriend to act as the old man’s lawyer!

  Chelsea wished she could hear what was taking place inside, but the doors were too thick. But then she remembered something.

  Upstairs, the room she always stayed in was directly above the study. One night, sitting on the floor leaning against the bed reading a copy of Cosmo she’d stolen from her cousin Paula, she made an exciting discovery. There was a grate on the floor of a heating vent that led down to the study. If you pressed your ear to the grate, you could eavesdrop on the adults below. Chelsea often lay there on the floor listening to the adults in the study below her discussing things she had no clue about. They always seemed to be talking about the lottery. Why, Chelsea didn’t know. Her family never played the lottery. They were far too rich for that.

  The recollection of that heating vent brought a smile to Chelsea’s face. There was no time to waste. She bolted from the spot, taking the stairs two at a time. Flying down the upstairs corridor to her room, she closed down the door behind her and nearly threw herself onto the floor. She pressed her ear up against the grate.

  Her smile widened.

  She could hear them, plain as day.

  “It’s just that you haven’t been very available since we came back from seeing Jeanette,” Douglas was saying.

  Jeanette? Why did they go see that crazy old lady? Chelsea frowned. She assumed the old man was obliged to leave poor Jeanette something in the will, some kind of perpetual care. Maybe a trust. She assumed Carolyn, as the lawyer, was setting that up.

  “I’m sorry,” Uncle Howard replied. “I know I’ve been keeping to my room of late. But you see, all of this, as I’m sure you understand, is very upsetting for me.”

  “Mr. Young,” Carolyn said. “You hired me to try to find a way to put an end to ‘all of this,’ as you describe it. And I can’t do that without your full cooperation.”

  All of this? What were they talking about?

  “I can only tell you so much,” Uncle Howard said. “I expect that whatever else you need to know, you will find out.”

  “Mr. Young,” Carolyn retorted, her voice growing sharp, “we only have a couple of weeks!”

  A couple of weeks. Chelsea knew what she was referencing. The family reunion was in two weeks. Less than that, in fact. And apparently Uncle Howard expected to have the will ready by then. He’s probably going to announce who’s getting what, Chelsea thought. But what information was he withholding from Carolyn?

  “There are some things we need to ask you about, now that we’ve seen Jeanette,” Douglas said.

  “What kind of things?” Uncle Howard asked.

  There was the sound of paper rustling. Was Carolyn passing out drafts of the will?

  “I’ve gone through the various reports filed by those who have worked for you previously,” Carolyn said. Previous lawyers? Were they looking at old wills? Documents that maybe included Chelsea and her family, which Douglas was now aiming to invalidate? “And I can find none by a certain Dr. Fifer.”

  “Fifer?” Uncle Howard asked. “Why are you interested in him?”

  “Because Jeanette’s companion, Michael O’Toole, mentioned he’d visited Jeanette some time ago.”

  “Indeed, he did,” Uncle Howard said. “It was probably 1978 or 1979.”

  “Why didn’t he fill out a final report like the rest of them did?”

  “I don’t know.”

  More papers were being shuffled. “It’s just curious. I’d like to speak with him. Do you still have a contact number?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Carolyn sighed.

  “It was a long time ago,” Uncle Howard said. “Why are you so interested in Fifer? He came no closer than any of the others to ending this terrible thing.”

  Terrible thing? Chelsea thought. What are they talking about?

  “He seems to have come across a name that none of the others did,” Carolyn said. “A name I can find nowhere in any of these files. A name that upset Jeanette.”

  “What name is that?”

  “Malcolm.”

  There was a pause. Chelsea waited, but the seconds ticked by with no response. In her mind’s eye, she saw Uncle Howard hesitating. She saw him…uncomfortable. She had the sense that the name upset him.

  “I don’t know that name,” Uncle Howard said at last, and even a floor away, even without seeing his face, Chelsea knew he was lying. She suspected the others knew it as well.

  “Michael O’Toole said the name upset Jeanette when Dr. Fifer mentioned it to her,” Douglas said.

  “I suppose poor O’Toole has gone a little stir-crazy all those years watching after Jeanette,” Uncle Howard said. “His memory is faulty. That name means nothing to me.”

  “Mr. Young,” Carolyn asked, “are you certain?”

  But whatever the old man said in response, it was drowned out by another sound, this one much closer to Chelsea.

  Directly behind her, in fact.

  The sound of sobbing.

  She lifted her head from the floor with a start. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a woman sitting on the other side of the bed, her back to Chelsea. A woman with long dark hair, wearing a white dress.

  She was holding her face in her hands and crying.

  “Excuse me?” Chelsea said, getting to her feet. “Excuse me, what are you doing here? This is my room.”

  Immediately she deduced the woman to be one of Uncle Howard’s servants, o
ne of the nameless revolving cast of nobodies he hired and then let go after a few months. She placed her hands on her hips and scowled. The woman was clearly upset, but that didn’t give her the right to walk into a private room. Chelsea looked over at the door. It was still shut. Had the woman come in and closed it behind her again without Chelsea hearing? Not likely. She must have been in the room the whole time.

  “Look here,” Chelsea said, walking around to confront the woman face-to-face. “You’re going to have to leave. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but-”

  The woman simply continued to sob into her hands. Chelsea couldn’t see her face. But she noticed she was barefoot. What kind of servant walked around her uncle’s house barefoot?

  “Hey, listen,” she said, raising her voice. “You need to get out of here!”

  The woman sobbed harder.

  “Stop your crying! I can’t take it! I’m going to call my uncle!”

  Still nothing but tears.

  Chelsea reached down, angry now, grabbing the woman by the shoulders. Immediately the woman’s hands fell away from her face and she looked up at Chelsea.

  Her eyes were red with blood.

  Chelsea screamed, staggering backward.

  Now she could see the woman’s body. Across her chest were five gaping holes, each gushing blood. The blood was staining the sheets of the bed and dripping into puddles on the floor.

  Chelsea screamed at the top of her lungs, then screamed again. She covered her own face with her hands.

  She was still screaming when Ryan rushed into the room, shaking her, asking her what was wrong.

  “That woman!” Chelsea cried. “On the bed!”

  But of course there was no woman on the bed.

  And no blood either.

  Ryan and Chelsea exchanged looks.

  They had been in this position before, only reversed. They said nothing to each other, just continued staring in dumb horror.

  In moments, Douglas and Carolyn were at the door, clearly having heard Chelsea’s screams. That heating vent worked both ways.