Bohemia Chills

by Lucy Lakestone

  Time started to accelerate at Milkweed Mansion. Things happened fast because they had to. It took a week of intense work, but the electrician and his crew updated all the wiring in the house. He said there were some lights in the second-floor corridors that appeared to have wiring that went nowhere, but he got them hooked up, too, and an inspection led us to have that most precious of things, electricity. Air-conditioning would come later, but Landon brought in some big hurricane-level fans, and finally the Florida heat was losing its edge — about all we could ask of early fall.

  The plumbers had good news and bad news. The good news was that the pipes had been replaced in the 1950s and were copper, in pretty good shape. The bad news was that one of the pipes upstairs had a leak that we found the hard way, when the water was turned on and it started “raining” in the kitchen.

  At least it wasn’t the library, I kept telling myself.

  As the dates for our fundraiser neared, we got a working sink in the kitchen and a working bathroom downstairs. There would be tons more to do, including complete overhauls of the upstairs bathrooms, but none of that had to happen before the haunted house. In fact, the crappier the rooms looked, the better they served our haunting needs.

  There was soon a parade of artists through the house, chattering about what they would do with each room. I let Millie wrangle them and gave them the freedom to come up with whatever scenes they wanted, though I did go down the list just to make sure there wasn’t anything that would result in vomiting patrons. With Cali’s brother Damien, you never knew. His multimedia sculptures could be downright disturbing.

  He and Penelope worked together on the concept for the outdoor sculpture. When I’d suggested they use the big oak stump as a base, Damien came up with the creepy framework for a wraith with a demented skull face and skeletal hands.

  Penelope, the costume designer, created an ethereal, tattered robe for it. It had a base of gauzy white fabric layered with translucent orange and purple and strips of black, as well as a hood. Her lighting designer friend Alan came up with shifting special-effects lights in purple and orange and blacklight spotlights that made it glow. I had to admit, when they got it in place a couple of weeks before the VIP party and I saw it luminous and swaying in the breeze at night, I found it unnerving. It was beautiful and sinister at the same time, partly because it was so large — it must have been over twenty feet tall. Traffic slowed down on the river road to look at it, and within three days of it going up, ticket sales tripled.

  Work crews were in and out, many of them donating time and material, but my bank account continued to dwindle. I had to nag Rick to pay me promptly for the Landon video, which he raved about. He even asked if Landon might do a commercial later on.

  Landon laughed when I told him. “I did that just for you,” he said with a wink. So maybe it had all been a lark, but I still kept thinking about everything he’d said in the video.

  We’d reached a delicate balance working together, though whenever we got into a tight spot in the house, like when I had to hold something in place while he screwed it — you know, with a screwdriver and screws, though I was definitely thinking of something else — my body still dinged like a pinball machine. I wasn’t sure how he’d worked his way into my blood, but he made it simmer with every joke and gesture.

  For his part, he seemed more considerate than ever, jumping to my aid whenever I needed help, to the point where I wondered if the ghost had killed the old Landon and replaced him with this perfect man who would transform into a monster and eat me in my sleep.

  I might’ve had a few fantasies about him eating me in my sleep, if you know what I mean.

  But at night, he’d gone back to finding things to do out of the house or watching sports.

  One rare night when he was in, he turned on TCM, and we ended up watching The Maltese Falcon together. We had a great time quoting the quotable lines and commenting on the characters. It was probably my favorite Bogart movie, and it did weird things to my insides that Landon was as into it as I was. So he did like movies, and that was just one more reason to like him.

  Still, I had the impression that outside of our renovation work, he might’ve been avoiding me. This weird hot and cold thing was happening. While the sexual tension ramped up like an action sequence in a Spielberg film, Landon became more polite and distant.

  Maybe his obvious stepping back should’ve made me cool my jets, but it had the opposite effect. I was ready to launch whenever I saw him.

  I focused on learning more about the house in the slim free time I had between the hard physical work we were doing and bedtime. The entries in Flora’s journal started simply enough, but soon it was about much more than roses and pineapples.

  “While I snip and dig in the garden with my roses,” Flora Fountain wrote, “Stanford whiles away the hours in his workshop, inventing all manner of solutions in search of a problem. Last week, he created a pulley system to haul our trunks up to the second floor through the windows, though it is unclear if we will need them again. It is unlikely I will ever go back to New York. The warmth here is so much better for my lungs. Between his physical labor and my scandalous sunburn, the servants think we’re mad. But with no children to dote upon, we need our little baby projects.”

  When the historical society’s Ken Motebarkle made a surprise visit on the day the new gazebo was being delivered, I was almost glad to see him. We chatted on the porch. I had a lot of questions about the house, but first I wanted to assure the tall, thin, graying historian, who made me think of Ichabod Crane, that we were doing everything we could to preserve the character of the mansion.

  “But that’s new. Why didn’t you save the old gazebo?” He adjusted his glasses and stared at the noisy, beeping truck backing up to the gazebo zone with its unwieldy cargo.

  The new octagonal gazebo was gorgeous, painted white with a tiny cupola atop the shingled roof. The cupola had a copper roof and a finial. This donation was assured with its own small plaque on the structure, since it was a great advertisement for the builder. Another crew was already working on stone steps for it and a paver patio that would make it a striking centerpiece of the yard.

  “I love it,” I told the historian. “The old one was a safety hazard and beyond restoration.”

  “Are you sure? Did you have an expert look at it?”

  “If you mean a historian, no. If you mean an expert in construction, yes — Landon Putter, the manager of this project.”

  “From Putter Homes? You mean the fellow over there directing traffic?”

  Landon was now standing near the truck, gesturing so it would be perfectly lined up to tilt the bed and slide the gazebo in place. A handful of burly guys stood ready to guide it.

  “That’s him,” I said.

  “His company is a prime player in destroying the character of this area. What can he possibly know?” Motebarkle said with disdain.

  “A hell of a lot,” I said with unexpected vehemence. “He’s a specialist in old houses.” Or at least he wanted to be. “You should see what he’s doing with the place inside.”

  “Hmph. Actually, yes, I would like to see what you’re doing inside.”

  Worrying I’d overpromised, I opened the front door for him. It still had plywood over the center of it, and someone had spray-painted “KEEP OUT” on it in the spirit of the haunted house. “We’ve barely started, but that’s why we’re having the fundraiser.”

  “Ah, yes, the haunted house,” he said dismissively. “You couldn’t do anything more dignified?”

  “There’s a VIP party. That’ll be dignified.” I really sounded defensive now. “Besides, how many high teas would we need to bring in the kind of money it’s going to take to get this house renovated?”

  Ken looked at me over his glasses. “Your little event is not going to do it either.”

  “We’ll see,” I said as diplomatically as I could, but I was fuming, especially because I knew he was probably right.

  I
gave him a very brief tour of the house, having to usher him along as he hungrily took in details. “I should have brought my camera,” he muttered, and I assured him that we were documenting everything. He got more excited as we went along. The ballroom reflected a great deal of work already, with new-to-us chandeliers I’d found in an antique store in town, and the library had him almost giddy.

  I didn’t tell him about the secret closet. I didn’t want him to know just yet. It was weird, but I felt like that was something for me. And Landon. Maybe our friends, too, but you get the idea.

  However, I did show him the ledgers, which were still on the library table. “You might find these interesting.”

  Ken exclaimed over the mundane entries as if they were a lost folio of Shakespeare’s. “And look,” he said when he got to where the handwriting changed. “This is where Stanford started taking over the records, I bet.”

  “Why?”

  Ken straightened and looked at me as if I had three heads. “You didn’t know? Flora Fountain died of tuberculosis just a few years after they moved here.”

  I gasped. “Her journal says something about the weather being good for her health — ”

  “You have her journal?” Ken exclaimed. “I must see it.”

  “I — it’s at home. It’s really just a gardening record.” I was underplaying it a little, but I wanted to keep it until I’d read the whole thing.

  “I don’t think you realize what you have here,” he said, his impatience showing. “This house is a treasure — ”

  “So everyone keeps telling me.”

  “ — and it’s one of Bohemia’s last links to its founders.”

  “Mr. Motebarkle? I get it. Trust me, I get it. But the house is mine now. I will share the journal with you in time, and you and others will be able to experience the house when it’s ready for visitors. Would you like a ticket to the VIP party?” I asked as an afterthought.

  “Certainly not,” he said. “But I expect an invitation once these silly theatrics are over so I can do more research.”

  I tried hard not to roll my eyes. “I bet the ghost doesn’t think they’re silly.”

  “Please. You don’t actually believe that rubbish.”

  The house sighed, as was its wont, and a strange fluttering noise emanated from its heart. I really had come to believe it had a heart.

  Ken looked around sharply, then “hmphed” again and headed for the door. On the porch, he shook my hand briefly and departed without another word.

  I looked over at the workers in the yard. Landon smiled and waved, then did a game-show gesture to indicate the white gazebo, now neatly in place.

  I chuckled and gave him a thumbs-up, feeling strangely grateful for this man and this adventure. For the river and the sky. For the gazebo and its promise of music and weddings and life, as I wondered which roses might look best planted next to it.

  Chapter 19

  It was Thursday. Our VIP opening was Friday. And Milkweed Mansion was in utter chaos.

  Landon was directing various crews to clean up their work and stow supplies in a surprisingly attractive shed he’d stuck in the corner of the property. It was in the same style as the gazebo.

  “A gift from my dad,” he said. “We need someplace to store stuff while the renovation is happening. You can get rid of it later if you want.”

  “Are you kidding? I might have to live in there,” I said.

  “What, and leave our glamorous apartment?”

  I laughed, but that got me to thinking. No matter how this turned out, I probably would leave his apartment. I couldn’t deal with his polite distance when I just wanted to kiss him all over, and I knew I shouldn’t kiss him all over because of my disastrous history with men. Or man. One man who had destroyed my faith in the rest of them.

  Anyway, the shed was starting to look like a good idea.

  My artist friends were almost done setting up their scenes in the mansion, and they agreed to give Landon and I a run-through once the sun went down.

  “Penelope says it will look stupid in daylight,” Millie told me as she went through one of her checklists as we stood on the porch. “And Alex picked up the tab for the caterer for Friday.”

  “Wait. What? I didn’t ask him to do that.” Did this mean he was officially an investor now? Because I hadn’t decided on bringing in a partner yet. I wanted to see how the fundraiser did.

  “He says since the art museum is technically a co-sponsor, it was the least he could do. Trust me, Kayla, he wants to do this. He’s thrilled this place is finally getting some TLC.”

  I bit my lip and tried to push my anxiety back down into my gut, where I kept it with the leftover pizza and excessive amounts of iced tea. I had to admit, I felt a tiny bit of relief, too. That bill was going to hurt. “OK. How are VIP ticket sales doing?”

  “When we announced the famous Jace Edison would be leading the tours for the VIP night, they jumped. We are very close to selling out. And he’s agreed to have his photo taken with guests for an extra donation.”

  “What a great idea!”

  “I’ll be buying one of those for sure,” Millie said.

  I giggled. “He is the hottest thing since tiki torches.”

  “Talking about me again?” came a voice behind me. It was Landon, coming up the porch steps, shooting the Fireworks at both of us. Was it me, or did he look happier since we started this project? He was finally doing the kind of renovation work he loved. But I couldn’t take advantage of his love for the work once the fundraiser was over. He had a job to go back to, and I had some decisions to make about how to move forward.

  “We’re talking about Jace,” Millie said. “He’ll be leading the VIP haunted tour, and he’ll do the run-through tonight with you guys.”

  “Excellent,” he said. “And I’m treating all of you to a round of drinks at The Junction Box afterward.”

  “You can’t do that!” I exclaimed.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

  “Because this is my project. I mean, it’s my house. You’re the man when it comes to the project, but this is my responsibility. I’ll buy the drinks.”

  “Don’t be silly. You can’t afford to buy a seltzer water at this point.”

  Ouch. The truth hurt.

  He saw my expression and his Fireworks vanished. “I’m sorry, Kayla. I didn’t mean anything by that. I’m having a great time, you know.” Millie quietly slipped into the house as he continued. “I can afford it. It’s no more than I would’ve spent on a night out any time before this project started.”

  “You don’t know how these people drink.”

  He laughed. “That’s why I said one round. Are you OK? Do you really mind?”

  My eyes felt weirdly wet, and my nose prickled. “I — I don’t mind. It’s just that I feel responsible. I feel like I should be doing this by myself, and yet everyone is being so nice and helpful. And you — my God, Landon, you’ve given up your whole life for this project.”

  He looked down at me with those sweet brown eyes, soft and warm now. “I haven’t given up anything.”

  I found myself leaning subtly toward him, and he gently grasped my arm, pulling me closer.

  A horrific scream from inside the house jerked us apart, and we dashed through the door and up the stairs toward the sound. Then up one more flight to the tower, since no one seemed to be lingering on the second floor.

  Duncan and Thea were sticking their tongues down each other’s throats in the tower room amid a spaghetti tangle of dangling white paper cutouts, gauze and crepe paper.

  “What the hell?” Landon exclaimed.

  They pulled apart and had the grace to look embarrassed.

  Thea cleared her throat. “Sorry. I was just practicing.”

  “And I was coming to her rescue,” Duncan said. “I can’t resist a lass in distress.”

  I snorted a laugh.

  “Neither can I,” Landon said dryly, and I elbowed him because I knew he was talk
ing about me. I had been in distress, and he’d come to my rescue. But soon we’d leave phase one of the crisis and go into phase two — long-term plans. And I was pretty sure there wasn’t room for me in his.

  Or room for him in mine?

  “I hope we didn’t ruin the surprise,” I said. The artists had been keeping us out of most of the rooms for a couple of days while they set everything up.

  “For this room?” Thea’s smile was smug, and her deep blue eyes shone. “Oh, no. It’s going to look completely different at night.”

  “I can’t wait.” And I meant it. I had bats fluttering around in my stomach. This was going to be cool.

  It had to be.

  Chapter 20

  Landon and I went back home to shower (separately, alas) and change into clean but casual clothes for our preview of the haunted house. We both ended up in jeans and black T-shirts — his with a jack-o’-lantern on it that said “I’m just here for the boos,” and mine a plain V-neck that did amazing things for my cleavage. Judging from the quick scan he gave me, I’m pretty sure he noticed.

  Why was I tormenting him? Or, more to the point, why was I torturing myself?

  We decided to car-pool for once, and he volunteered to drive. We climbed into his truck, and he flicked on the radio. “That historian’s show is supposed to be on.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “Marla said Motebarkle was going to talk about the mansion.”

  The twenty-minute segment perfectly filled the drive time. And what started out happily — with a brief mention that the house was being reopened and an interesting history of the mansion and the family — ended in a nightmare.

  “Alas, the new owner of the Fountain house” — he didn’t call it Milkweed Mansion except for one dismissive mention of its “unfortunate nickname” — “is sullying its hallowed halls with a Halloween haunted house. This event is a smack in the face to the family, or I’m sure it would be if any of the descendants still lived. Especially given the baseless rumors of the house being haunted. I only hope this precious legacy of Bohemia’s early history isn’t destroyed by this callous money grab when, by all rights, it should be converted into a historical museum.”