A Murder at Alcott Manor

by Alyssa Richards

She scrolled through her contacts list to find her attorney’s phone number. When Billy’s voicemail answered, she told him the bank could have the house in a week.

  9

  They had seven rooms of living space in the manor.

  Seven.

  That was more room than they’d had at Asher’s house, and more than they would have had at her mother’s house. That number made her feel a little bit better about the risk she was taking with this arrangement, and better about how well she was providing for her children. Even though the area was still used as a space for storage when they moved in.

  Ladders, old chairs, a six foot tall gold frame without its print, and several bookcases with glass fronts had been stacked in the front room when she first arrived. The paint on the walls was peeling and in need of far more than a fresh coat, the overhead light fixtures were missing, though their medallions remained, albeit cracked and chipped. The entire space reeked of bleach from an overturned container.

  The ornate picture frame was tall enough to walk through. Tattered bits of painted canvas remained, and gold flourishes were chipped along the outer edges. She figured the girls could have fun performing a skit inside of it, as if it were the fancy outline to a stage. Everything else she stacked in a far corner and draped a few sheets over to keep everything out of sight.

  They had a lot of privacy. Tom gave them all of the summer quarters, which included the summer living room and the summer dining room, the old larder and kitchen, as well as a couple of spacious offices. In other words, he gave her and the girls the entire basement.

  When Alcott Manor had been built in the early 1800s, there wasn’t any air conditioning. It wasn’t unusual for the family to cook and dine and relax in these cooler quarters during the warmer months. She imagined the far better shape this level must have been in back then, including music and laughter and the scent of freshly cooked meals.

  The summer living quarters.

  Layla wasn’t wild about living in the—partial, anyway—underground; she definitely preferred brighter and airier rooms above ground.

  There were some small rectangular windows along the back of the house which faced east that were bound to let in a good amount of morning light. And even if they hadn’t had that to enjoy, total artificial light would have been better than living with her mother. She was grateful for what they had. She was grateful for Tom and she would thank him again—

  Tom.

  She kept forgetting that he—she covered her mouth with her hand and closed her eyes against the horror of it all. She had been on the phone with him when it happened. After their call had been cut off and she couldn’t get him back on the line, she had called Mason. He was the one who went to the manor and found him.

  Layla felt guilty about Tom’s death. If she hadn’t been on the phone with him, if he hadn’t had to call her, maybe he wouldn’t have fallen. She dropped her head into her hands and cried. Tom had been one of the last people on the planet who was on her side. He had been a supporter of hers, come what may. Now he was gone.

  The police ruled Tom’s death accidental. He had slipped on the wet bathroom floor, knocked himself unconscious and drowned. No one could explain why the bathtub had been full of water. Freak accident, the police had said. Layla still couldn’t believe he was dead. Her body shook with a deep, quiet sob.

  Mason assured her he would honor Tom’s offer on the caretaker job. And he promised her he would finish the restoration for her and her family. He didn’t seem to know anything about what Tom had said to her about “hitting a snag with the caretaker job.” She hadn’t brought it up. Maybe whatever problem Tom was going to tell her about really wasn’t a big deal.

  She pressed her hand over the ache in her chest and looked around the room for something to do. She needed to stay busy, so she started inflating the air mattress she’d bought. Layla told Peyton that she didn’t have a bed to move into the manor, which wasn’t exactly true. She did have one—the iron bed she had shared with Asher. Now that she was making a fresh start, she didn’t want to bring that baggage with her. She wiped the tears from her face and began to inflate the bed.

  It had only taken her a few days to pack everything she needed. As trapped as she had felt with Asher for the better part of the last decade, it was liberating to pack her life into a trailer U-Haul. It was even more freeing to pack up the girls and simply drive away from his house.

  She only wished that Asher had been alive when she did it. She wanted the satisfaction of seeing his face when she cut those ties and showed him she could stand on her own two feet.

  She brought only the necessities and only the things she wanted to carry forward into her new life—all the girls’ clothes and furnishings and toys. Kitchen stuff, towels and toiletries. When she cleaned out their too-tiny pantry, she brought the girls’ favorite Pop-Tarts, chips, and cookies. The flour, eggs, and sugar made the cut. She deliberately left behind Asher’s teas. Those damned teas of his.

  “Make me a tea, would you, Lay?”

  She hated that he had called her Lay. She’d told him that, and he kept doing it anyway.

  Oh, Lay. Let it go. It’s just a sweet term of affection.

  Sometimes he called her Layla-pup and she hated that, too. “I’m not a pup,” she would say and roll her eyes.

  “You’re my pup,” he’d said, as though being called a dog was some kind of a compliment.

  She also hated that he expected her to function like a wife from the 1940s—with dinner and a drink ready in the evening. Although for him, the evening drink was hot herbal tea.

  Once, after a long day of work, she essentially told him no, that she wouldn’t make his tea. That he could do it for a change. He’d responded with a smile, though Layla felt the shift in the air.

  “Okay,” he said. “I hear you.” Step by step he got closer, and she was proud of herself. She stood her ground.

  “You don’t want to make my tea.” He nodded like a stupid bobblehead doll.

  Unfortunately, the visual of his fat head and receding hairline wiggling with cheap plastic charm made her laugh. He laughed, too, but faster than a flash of lightning his fist landed in her gut and left her on her hands and knees.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he’d said as he left the room.

  When she could finally stand upright, and after the nausea faded, she made his tea and left it on the counter.

  Earlier in the week, when she’d left that kitchen of his for the last time, she took the homemade bags of patiently collected rose petals, lavender buds, and chamomile leaves and stomped them to death. Asher would never have tolerated such a mess. In an act of open defiance, she spun the heel of her shoe on the tea leaves and left the mess on the floor.

  The bank could clean that up.

  Sadly, he’d gotten the girls hooked on tea as well. Flower tea, he’d called it. They wanted it every night before bed, because it helped them sleep.

  Each night, she and the girls harvested three teaspoons of rose petals and chamomile flowers from the garden for their evening tea. Layla always set the petals that were for Asher’s tea aside in a strainer until he came home, so his tea would be hot and fresh.

  She blew another breath into the inflatable mattress that would be her bed for the foreseeable future. The bank said they could have stayed in the house for another couple of months. Of course, the interest on the total amount she owed them would continue to accrue during that time.

  She told them no. It was time to move on.

  In addition to their bed, she sold her wedding and engagement rings, her wedding dress, and Asher’s favorite armchair and put the cash in the bank. The girls would need new school clothes soon, and that money would come in handy.

  “I think you made the right call.” Peyton walked in and dropped a stack of blue folded sheets on a straight back armless chair. “Unless you’re at all worried about being in the same home where Asher died.”

  “Nope.” Layla had never told Peyton that Asher
hit her. Like a walking stereotype, she felt ashamed and guilty, even though she wasn’t the one who had done anything wrong. She kept thinking she would work it out, or find a way to leave, or maybe he would just stop. Instead, the manor helped her out. “Not at all, actually.”

  “Good. Better to be in your own space and make your own way than to be on the far end of Jayne Ella’s emotional leash.”

  “I do like the ‘my own space’ part of it.” Layla pushed against the air mattress to test its firmness. It might be more comfortable than she originally thought, especially since she didn’t have to share it with her former husband.

  Layla blew her nose, then she and her sister tucked the sheets around the makeshift bed.

  Her daughters ran down the hallway, laughing and squealing and chasing after the small golden terrier. The bell on the dog’s collar jingled.

  “I can’t believe you got them a dog,” Peyton said.

  “Well, he sort of came with the manor,” Layla said.

  “You know,” Peyton said and seemed to notice that her sister had been crying. “This could be a new beginning for you. Or at least a fun segue to a new chapter in your life. Mason looked incredibly handsome when I saw him last week. You’re looking hot with that skinny waist and those long tresses. You know, sparks could fly.”

  Layla shook her head. “Stop.” She thought about her dream, how easy it was to approach him, how wonderful it had been to be close to him again. And then there was that lovely kiss. But that wasn’t real, since he didn’t know she had kissed him. She had to remember that. There was some sort of barrier between the dead zone and the real world, like a two-way mirror. When she was in the manor’s dead zone, she could see the real world, but the real world couldn’t see her.

  “I don’t know,” Peyton said in a sing-song voice. “Seems like I remember you telling me about a romantic kiss after prom.”

  There had been two kisses, actually. One after prom. One a couple of days later at the lake where they used to swim.

  In the locker room that week after gym class, Brooke had gone to great lengths to make people believe that she and Mason were going to get married, though she often directed her locker room stories just to Layla. Brooke would plop down next to her as though they were friends. “Layla, I just don’t know what to do.” Brooke rested her hand in her head until Layla finally, reluctantly said, “Oh?”

  “Mason wants to have sex. He’s really pushing me for it. I’ve told him that I want to wait until we’re married. But he’s just all about now now now! What do you think I should do? I mean I want to, but—” And then she would make a face, like a grimace, though it seemed like a smile might not be far away.

  Layla shrugged, then Brooke said, “You’re so lucky that you don’t have a boyfriend. It’s such a burden to worry about things like this.” She patted Layla on the leg, then pranced away while she adjusted her thong underwear.

  Almost every one-sided conversation with Brooke went like that. It made Layla think that one of two things must be true. First, that she somehow knew about Layla’s secret crush on Mason and was determined to show Layla how she didn’t have a chance. Or two, that Brooke didn’t like the friendship Mason and Layla shared and was determined to make her claim abundantly clear. Maybe both were true.

  Layla and Mason were close. They had been for a long time. In public, he seemed pretty dedicated to Brooke. To hear Brooke talk about it, they were headed for the altar. But then Mason had kissed her. Twice. They weren’t casual pecks either. She’d originally thought that maybe they meant something. She’d thought maybe they were heading someplace. He had even said to her that he was planning to break up with Brooke right after the campout. He told her that after that was done, he wanted to ask her to dinner. And he hoped she would say yes.

  Then Brooke died at the campout, and everyone blamed Layla, including Mason. They didn’t speak to one another for ten years. She’d long ago decided that that kiss with Mason hadn’t meant what she’d originally thought. It hadn’t meant anything at all.

  “That was prom, for crying out loud. High school. Hormones. A lifetime ago. I think he only took me because he felt sorry for me.”

  “He took you to prom because he enjoyed being with you.”

  “He took me because I didn’t have a date, he and Brooke were on the outs, and because she ditched him to go with Eric from the football team.” She didn't mention that they had made plans for the future.

  Peyton put her hands in the air in mock surrender. “He could have taken anyone. He took you. Y’all always did have that lovely friendship.”

  She slung the last pillow into the depths of its case and propped it on the bed. “That’s been over for a long while now.”

  Memories took her down a path of sweet moments she and Mason had shared over the years: Saturday afternoon lake swimming complete with rope swing, church group camping, Friday night movie classics. There was even the occasional school skip day when they went back to the lake and talked and swam until sunset. The times they shared were always her favorite, and they remained vivid in her mind. She couldn’t help but want to have that with Mason again.

  A tingle sparked in her chest, one she hadn’t felt all that often in the last few years. Definitely not with any man. She remembered it as her go-ahead feeling. Kind of a funny sensation she used to get when she knew the right direction to take—when something was meant to be.

  “He’s here. You’re here. Maybe a little something could start up?”

  “Mmm.” The foreign warmth tickled at the inside of her chest like a cherished memory, like a happiness she had forgotten, like a sign that guided. Layla crossed her arms and fought against it.

  Why that meant-to-be tingling sprang to life in her chest, she didn’t know. Either it had forgotten the fact that she had killed his girlfriend, the girl he was probably supposed to marry, or it was a faulty signal. Because she had gotten that feeling once before with Mason, a long time ago. It had been wrong then, too.

  “I think you still have a soft spot for him. You’ve been through a lot with Asher, and now you have this financial thing to work out. You deserve something positive for a change. You look amazing. Let him focus on that incredible figure you’ve got going on, and see what happens from there.”

  Peyton shrugged her shoulders and flipped her freshly blunt-cut hair with such confidence, it made her look like an expert on the topic. And, she was. She had never wanted for a boyfriend or a date or even attention. Boys were always clamoring over one another to get to her. Layla had never been the center of attention like that. She envied her sister’s ease with men and wondered how it was that they came from the same family.

  “That’s just not my style. Plus, I’m not ready to trust anyone right now.”

  “Who said anything about trust? This is about you having fun and enjoying life. You deserve a turn at being happy. This could be a new beginning.”

  “I don’t think I could put myself out there like that with Mason. Or anyone right now.” She waved her sister off.

  “Sure you can. It’s all about good marketing.”

  “No—”

  “Layla. You’re gorgeous. This would be good for you. Have a little confidence.”

  Truth be known, she would have loved to have a relationship with Mason. She might have given her eye teeth for that, as her mother would say. But that wasn’t possible. Too many years had gone by, too many things were left unsaid, too much water had gone over the dam.

  Now that Asher was gone, she wanted a different life, a simple, safe life. No secrets, no hiding--and that meant no Mason. In her mind’s eye, she built an invisible wall around her heart for safety’s sake.

  She sent her sister a lukewarm smile. “Plus, he’s always been such a perfectionist…being in a relationship with that would just be a jail cell. Honestly, Pey, I’m not ready.”

  Peyton’s smile was laced with a sister’s love. “You’ve been through so much. You really do deserve happiness. I jus
t thought you and Mason might finally—well, I’ll stop pushing.”

  At the mention of his name, Mason’s lightly-tanned face flashed in her mind’s eye. While her sister spread a thin, worn patchwork quilt over the foot of the bed, Layla ran her fingers over her own lips. The memory of what it was like to kiss him all those years ago flooded her with heat.

  Peyton cleared her throat. “You’re thinking of him.”

  Layla dropped her hand to her chest. “Maybe a little. I know it doesn’t make sense after all this time, but I do miss what we almost had.” Her voice was whisper soft, as if she didn’t want anyone to hear her, as if she didn’t want her memory spoiled, as if she cautiously hoped her fantasy might still come true. “Well. Anyway.” She swished her hand back and forth like she could wave away the regret.

  “I know, sweetheart. We love who we love, sometimes we can’t help it.” Peyton rubbed her hand along her sister’s arm. After a light squeeze, she started unpacking another box. “Do you have any idea what his story is? Last I heard, he was a stockbroker in New York. How did he end up back in Charleston and running his father’s homebuilding business?”

  Layla wanted to refute her sister’s insinuation that she loved Mason. She was a bit taken with him, that’s all. The feeling would fade. That it hadn’t yet wasn’t something she was going to bring up. “I heard the same thing. I don’t know how he made the move. We haven’t really spoken.”

  Peyton plugged in her sister’s bedside table lamp, then turned it on and off and on again. “Well, you, my love, are just beginning the good times. I’m sure of it. The proceeds from the tours at this place will get you out of your financial mess. And maybe just keep an open mind where Mason’s concerned. Okay?”

  Layla shook her head. “You’re hopeless.”

  “Look.” Peyton backed up a few steps and gestured to the row of windows across the top of the room.

  Layla stood with her sister, and together they watched Mason carry two long pieces of lumber across the great lawn. Hot and sweaty, fit and muscular, hard and hardworking. He was such a sight, she thought his movements might have decelerated into slow motion, like a soft drink commercial.