Secrets of Hallstead House

by Amy M. Reade

  “No problem,” he said, and turned to me. “Vali will show you where your room is.” With that, he turned around and left, closing the door quietly behind him. I was left alone with Valentina.

  She looked at me balefully and said, “Get your bags. I’ll show you where you’re gonna stay.” I took my two suitcases and lugged them up the stairs behind her. At the top of the stairs Valentina turned to the left and walked toward a closed door. I glanced around me while she fumbled with a set of keys that she withdrew from her pocket. The second floor reminded me of a hotel, with its closed doors and dim wall sconces.

  It was chilly up there and I shivered. I glanced up and saw a cavernous space rising to a point above the second-floor hallway. That must be where the weathervane is mounted outside. Valentina finally found the key she was looking for. She inserted the key into the door and swung it open on slightly creaky hinges. The noise made the second floor seem positively haunted. I shivered again, though not from the chill this time.

  “This here is your room. Your bathroom is inside to the right. If you need something, I’ll be downstairs. Miss Hallstead told me to tell you that you can look around or rest until dinnertime. She is working in her rooms and doesn’t like to be bothered while she’s working. Dinner’s at six o’clock.” With that, Valentina turned her back to me and started to close the door. Then she opened it again and glared at me, her watery eyes narrowing. “Don’t get too comfortable—I don’t think you’re going to be here too long.” Then she was gone. I listened as she clumped down the stairs. After such a reception, I felt thoroughly alone, and I was becoming increasingly apprehensive about this new job.

  I looked around my room: It was huge. Opposite me was a large bank of French doors covered by thin draperies, and when I turned on the bedside lamp I was pleasantly surprised and cheered as I looked around. Unlike much of what I had seen of Summerplace so far, this room was light and airy looking. There was a second door, locked, which I assumed led to one of the turrets that I had seen earlier. A third door stood ajar, and I peered into a small dressing room.

  The main room had a huge stone fireplace with a rustic wooden mantel. I couldn’t wait to use it, but I would have to ask someone to show me how to build a fire. I hadn’t gotten much practice building fires in my Manhattan apartment.

  I brought my suitcases in from the hallway and opened them on the bed. Seeing this room had lifted my spirits a little, and I brushed Valentina’s brusque words aside as I started to unpack. Luckily, I had brought several sweaters, as well as jeans and corduroys. When I had accepted this position through the nursing agency, I had been told that a nurse’s uniform would not be necessary. After I had unpacked my clothes and put them into the dresser and armoire, I took my toiletries into the bathroom. When I opened the door, I saw that this was a cheerful room too.

  I put my things in the medicine chest and then stood looking at myself in the mirror for a moment. My straight, shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a low ponytail and tied with a ribbon at the nape of my neck. I looked a little windblown from being in the boat. I smiled at my reflection. I wasn’t going to win any beauty pageants, but I wasn’t a troll either. Now, with my face slightly flushed from the boat ride and from being keyed up about my arrival on Hallstead Island, I did look nice.

  Turning away from my reflection, I walked back into the bedroom. I stepped over to the French doors, flung them open, and went out onto the wet balcony. It stretched along the entire side of the house and disappeared around each corner, where the turret walls bulged. The railing was dark green with sturdy-looking spindles and the floor was a weathered brown. Standing there feeling the rain on my face, I could just glimpse the river through the trees. The only noise I could hear was the sound of raindrops falling: on the trees, on the balcony floor, on the railing, on the roof of Summerplace. I took a long, deep breath of the cool air, then turned around and went back inside and out into the dimly lit hallway. I was curious about the other doors upstairs, but I could find out more about what was behind them later. I wanted to explore the rest of the house first.

  I walked quietly down the stairs to the first floor and stood for a moment in the foyer. Everything was still. Stepping through a doorway, I found myself in a cavernous living room. Despite two lamps glowing softly and a fire crackling in the fireplace, the room was dark, though I could see that it was filled with beautiful antiques that had obviously been well cared for. I walked over to the fireplace and spread my hands out before the fire to warm them.

  Above the fireplace mantel hung an informal portrait of a man. He sat on a dark brown wicker chair and wore tan slacks and a short-sleeved white oxford shirt. On his feet he wore brown loafers. He bore a slight smile, and his eyes arrested the viewer with their depth. He looked completely relaxed and at ease, and it was obvious that the artist and the subject were quite familiar with each other. It was a striking painting and I liked it.

  I turned around to head back into the foyer and was startled to see a man watching me from the doorway of the living room. I recovered myself quickly and walked over to him with my hand outstretched.

  “Hello, I’m Macy Stoddard,” I began.

  “I know,” said the man, shaking my hand limply. “Vali . . . Valentina—my wife—told me you were here.”

  The man was very tall and thin, with sparse gray hair combed over the top of his otherwise bald head. He wore jeans, work boots, and a plaid flannel shirt. We stood there awkwardly as I waited for him to introduce himself, but he didn’t. “What is your name?” I finally asked.

  “Leland Byrd. Miss Hallstead’s handyman.”

  I smiled at him. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Byrd.”

  His only response was to say, “It’s Leland.” With that, he turned and walked out the front door. I watched him go, thinking that although his welcome lacked warmth, he didn’t seem quite as blatantly rude as his wife.

  I walked into the room on the other side of the foyer and found myself in a small library filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves containing hundreds, maybe thousands, of books. A wide set of double doors stood closed at the back of the room. I turned on a lamp so I could look around. On a small table that held several small photographs was a beautiful shot of Hallstead Island, obviously taken from a boat. Another was a picture of the same man who appeared in the painting above the mantel. This time he was dressed in fishing gear and held up a pole with a small fish dangling from the end. He wore a wide smile and seemed proud of his catch. A third photo was of a young woman who smiled coquettishly for the camera, her dark eyes twinkling. She had long brown hair and a thin face and was dressed formally in a low-cut gown with a glittering necklace encircling her slender throat.

  I turned to one of the bookshelves. It was lined with books of all descriptions, both fiction and nonfiction: classics, mysteries, romance novels, and books about exotic places around the world. This was definitely a room I would visit as often as I could.

  I walked back into the foyer and turned toward the back of the house. The hallway led past the stairs, and I found myself in the kitchen. It was a large, farmhouse-style kitchen, but not a cheerful one. Like Valentina, everything was gray. With a little elbow grease, this kitchen could be warm and welcoming, but right now it was cold and depressing. I could easily imagine the dour housekeeper back here. A solid wooden door stood behind me, tucked under the back of the hall staircase. Probably a cellar door.

  I walked through another doorway on the right side of the kitchen and I was in a formal dining room. There was a long table, heavy looking and stately, surrounded by twelve chairs upholstered in rich burgundy silk. A sliver of light came into the room from windows mostly concealed by long, heavy draperies. A thoroughly dismal room. Pete’s word “gloomy” flashed through my mind again.

  As I stood in the dark and still dining room, I thought I could hear voices being raised again. The words were muffled, but the vehemence behind them conveyed strong emotion. I couldn’t tell where the voices
were coming from and I didn’t want to walk toward them unwittingly and run into the people quarreling. I stood listening for a moment as the voices got louder and louder. Instinct told me to leave quickly, so I headed for a door that led to the porch. As I crossed the dining room, the door I had seen in the kitchen, the one I had assumed led to the cellar, flung open, and Valentina and Leland stepped into the kitchen. Their voices dropped immediately. As much as I wanted to get out onto the porch, I felt compelled to stay in the dining room long enough to hear the end of the argument. Luckily I was concealed by the room’s darkness. I had to strain to hear their voices now.

  “Shut up, Leland. We’re doing this my way,” snapped Valentina.

  “Vali, would you just forget it? There’s nothing we can do about her,” wheedled Leland.

  “Just go get those rooms ready,” hissed Valentina. She started banging pots and pans, and Leland turned and headed into the hallway. I could hear him trudging upstairs. I crept quickly over to the porch door and turned the knob. Fortunately, the door opened soundlessly, and I let myself out onto the porch, closing the door behind me. I didn’t want to pass the kitchen, where Valentina would surely see me, so I headed around toward the front of the house. I walked slowly, my mind firing off questions I couldn’t answer. Why were Valentina and Leland fighting? Were they talking about me? What had to be done Vali’s way? And what made me want to hide as soon as I heard them approaching, yet compelled me to stay to eavesdrop on them? It wasn’t in my nature to hide or to eavesdrop. Now I was feeling paranoid.

  As I turned the corner of the porch, I saw Pete coming up the path to the front of the house, holding a box with several small tools in it. He raised his eyebrows in greeting and asked, “Leaving so soon?”

  I attempted a halfhearted smile in return.

  “What happened?”

  I told him about Valentina’s harsh words, of Leland’s lukewarm welcome, and of their heated, but muffled, argument. I left out of my story the words I had heard clearly. Pete set down his tools and shook his head. “Like I said earlier, you aren’t going to find a hearty welcome from some of the people around here. Try not to let Vali and Leland bother you. They’ve been here forever, and they’re a little territorial about Alex—Miss Hallstead—and Summerplace.”

  I thanked him and changed the subject, talking instead about my room and my quick tour of Summerplace. I told him how happy I was to have such a cheerful room, especially after seeing that the rest of the house was so dark. I realized as I left that while I had been chattering to him nervously, Pete hadn’t really said much. I was embarrassed and made a mental note to stop babbling.

  As I thought about Pete’s words, I doubted his excuse for Valentina and Leland’s behavior. There had to be more to it than just a vague suspicion of me as a newcomer to Summerplace. It seemed almost presumptuous to think that I would be the subject of any argument between Valentina and Leland—I was a stranger to both of them—yet I had a peculiar hunch that they had been arguing about me.

  I walked back into the house and went straight up to my room. I suddenly felt weary and wanted to lie down.

  Once in my room I closed the thin draperies against the dank outdoors and switched on the bedside lamp. I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. Immediately, images of my parents and Alan crowded to the front of my mind: my parents, who had lost their lives to a drunk driver only six weeks before, and Alan, my boyfriend of two years, who had left me shortly after my parents died because he couldn’t handle my emotional fragility.

  I thrust the mental picture of Alan aside and allowed myself to concentrate on remembering my mother and father. I missed them so very much. When I thought of my mother and father, my mother was always laughing, just as she had when she was alive. It offered me some solace to know that my mother’s life, though too short, had been very happy. My father, a professor, had been a serious man, but he was always ready to lay his books and papers aside for my mother and me. My mother had brought out his fun, playful side, and together the three of us had shared many good times.

  My thoughts turned suddenly to Alan. Alan Jamison, the young, handsome, successful investment banker. He and I had met at a gala fund-raiser for the hospital where I worked. I had been there as the date of a fresh-faced resident in infectious diseases, but he got called away to work and I stayed at the party since I knew so many people there. I was introduced to Alan through a mutual acquaintance, and I was immediately taken by how exciting he seemed. He drove a BMW; I took the bus everywhere. He lived in a stunning apartment that had been featured in an architecture magazine; I struggled to pay rent on my studio walk-up. He dressed stylishly too, and I guess I was a little awestruck when it seemed that he liked me, a lowly caregiver. Of course, there were some aspects of his personality that fit the investment banker stereotype. He could be cynical and rude and rather selfish. I overlooked these, thinking that they made him seem more “human.”

  I should have stayed with the infectious disease resident.

  After our relationship ended, I couldn’t think of Alan without wallowing in self-pity, but that phase, thankfully, hadn’t lasted long. Mostly what I felt now was anger: anger at myself for being so naïve and anger at him for leaving me when I needed him most. I hoped that as time went on, I would be able to think of Alan without anger and vitriol, but for this little while, I indulged myself with a little bit of resentment.

  It wasn’t long before I drifted off, and when I opened my eyes again, my room was growing dark and was a bit chilly, but not uncomfortable. Perhaps I would ask Leland after dinner to show me how to build a fire in my fireplace. I felt refreshed and very hungry, and I hoped Valentina cooked better than she treated houseguests. I stood up, opened the balcony doors, and stepped outside into the cool air. It was still raining, though lightly, and I listened to the peaceful sound of raindrops spattering on the trees. But as I stood listening, I was startled by another noise coming from my left, a thud followed by a scraping sound. As I turned quickly to find the source of the sound, I saw something disappear around the turret wall. I walked to the end of my balcony, where the wall bulged, and peered cautiously around the corner just in time to see another set of French doors, like the ones in my room, closing. I was baffled. Someone had been watching me outside my room. Who was it? And why hadn’t they made their presence known to me? I walked swiftly to the set of French doors and peered into the glass, but I couldn’t see anything inside the room—the doors were covered with heavy drapes that still swung gently from the disturbance. I made my way back to my room, pulled the balcony doors closed behind me, and locked them.

  I was annoyed but not frightened. Being a newcomer to this isolated household, I would probably be a source of both interest and suspicion for a while, but I still wished that whoever had taken such pains to be avoided had made himself—or herself—known to me.

  A few minutes before six I headed downstairs for dinner. In the now dimly lit dining room, Valentina was setting a place at the long table. She turned to me with a scowl on her face and said with mock formality, “Dinner will be served in a moment.” I thanked her and she disappeared into the kitchen. I stepped over to admire a painting that hung above the buffet and in a minute Valentina was back, carrying a bowl of soup. As she plunked it down on the table, I asked if Miss Hallstead would be having dinner in the dining room.

  “No,” Valentina replied testily. “She eats in her rooms. I take a tray for her. She wants to see you in there after dinner.” I smiled my thanks and Valentina left.

  I sat down to eat the silky, golden butternut squash soup, and before long Valentina appeared again, this time with a plate of chicken, steamed green beans, and a basket of rolls. I praised the soup, but she ignored me. She certainly is nasty, I thought. I looked around the dining room, noting again the different pieces of art on the walls, and it occurred to me that the dining table looked even longer when only one person was seated there.

  I finished my dinner and Valentina was at my sid
e immediately, cleaning away my plate and unceremoniously placing before me a plate of sliced pears. After I ate the sweet, perfectly ripened fruit, Valentina came once more into the dining room, sighed, and told me, “I’ll show you where Miss Hallstead’s rooms are now.” She strode wordlessly into the library and walked straight to the closed double doors I had noticed earlier. In response to her loud rapping, I heard a voice on the other side call faintly, “Come in.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Valentina opened the door and stepped aside to let me in. Then, flashing me a look of utter loathing, she closed the door behind her. I looked around and found myself in what appeared to be a cozy sitting room.

  A fire blazed in the fireplace, casting flickering shadows over a dainty, low table in front of it. On the table sat a silver coffee service and two cups with saucers. Like the other rooms I had seen so far, this one was lit softly and was filled with beautiful furniture. The only item that seemed out of place was a medical bag that sat on the floor next to the sofa. Nobody was in here.

  I walked through the open doorway on the other side of the room into a large bedroom. A huge four-poster bed took up the middle of the room, and a fireplace stood cold several feet from the foot of the bed. Nobody was in here, either. I walked quietly to a door that stood ajar on the opposite side of the room and slowly pushed it open.

  “Hello? Miss Hallstead?” I asked.

  I stood in the doorway looking into a richly appointed office. The focal point of the room was a huge desk with a smart leather chair behind it.

  Behind the massive desk, engulfed in the chair, sat Alexandria Hallstead, looking slightly younger than her seventy-eight years and emanating professionalism. She had bright, alert eyes and a ready smile, and her white hair was coiffed stylishly atop her head. Capping the pen she’d been using, she stood up slowly, placing her hands on the desk for support, then walked around the desk and came toward me, limping slightly and using a cane. She held out her free hand to me as I walked toward her, and her clasp was warm and strong when she took my hand in hers.