Better Homes and Hauntings

16 A Pocket Full of Posies

NINA SNAPPED THE sheet over the mattress, carefully avoiding the urge to press the Deacon-scented linen to her face while it fluttered down.

Deacon walked into her room, buttoning a plaid shirt over his slightly damp “Han Shot First” T-shirt. “You know, you don’t have to make your bed every day. I haven’t made mine once since I got here.”

“If I don’t, Cindy will just come in behind me and do it. Her obsessive-compulsive cleaning tendencies don’t allow for unmade beds.”

He chuckled, nudging her back against the mattress. She pressed her mouth against his. “You taste like roses,” he murmured against her lips. “I wanted to say so earlier, but I was afraid it would sound like a line. And a bad line at that.”

“It’s my lip balm,” she said. “Roy’s Rose Goo. It’s SPF thirty, and being a pale girl, I need all of the help I can get.”

“It was more romantic when I just assumed the flowers had been absorbed into your skin by osmosis.”

“Osmosis is romantic?”

“Science is the new sexy.” With a grin, he eased off of the bed and kissed her palms. “I am going to the house to get some work done. I will see you around lunchtime? Sandwiches, my office?”

“No wasabi,” Nina said, nodding.

Deacon whistled a jaunty tune as he walked down the hallway. Nina giggled, forcing herself out of bed and remaking the damage she and Deacon had just done to the pristine sheets.

“Don’t think I didn’t overhear that happy whistling.” Dotty’s voice sounded from the doorway. “Finally! I thought you two would explode from unresolved sexual tension.”

“Quiet, you!”

But it was too late. Dotty was already doing the victory dance and singing, “You slept with my cousin! We’re going to be family! Cindy and I can be bridesmaids! Ah, I can’t wait to tell her.” She squealed, clapping her hands.

“Dotty, no!”

BUT CINDY HAD already risen for the day, making one last pass at Catherine Whitney’s room before Anthony’s crews came in to dismantle the furniture and hang new wallpaper. She was more than a little disappointed that her time in the room hadn’t yielded Catherine’s hidden stash of jewelry or more information about her death. She’d enjoyed being a treasure hunter, but now it was time to move on to more mundane rooms, such as Gerald Whitney’s nearly sterile space, which looked more like a cruiser cabin than a bedroom. It was all hard angles and dark colors, nothing like the whimsical grace of this beautiful dryad bed.

Cindy sighed, running her fingers along the rectangular plaques set at head-height in the back of each post. The plaques were ornately carved with rolling leaf patterns. From what Cindy could tell, they would serve as stoppers for the canopy if the maids needed to lower it for cleaning.

Looking closer, Cindy noticed that the central leaf of one of the plaques was shinier than the others. Its sheen reminded her of old banisters, polished by years of hands running down their grains. This particular leaf had been caressed over and over by fingers, the accompanying skin oils leaving it shiny and more preserved than the others. She pressed on the leaf with her thumb and heard a faint click. The carved wooden panel slid upward, revealing an empty compartment about the size of a good Stephen King paperback. Nothing inside but a few bits of tissue paper. It was pleasantly surprising that the door moved so easily, but she wondered whether all of the compartments were empty. She circled the bed and found similar leaves in all of the posts. She pressed each in turn, finding two more empty compartments. On the last post, she pressed the leaf, and the compartment door seemed to stick against something jammed inside. She slid her fingers under the door and pushed the offending object back. The panel popped up, revealing a small leather-bound book, the same size as all of Catherine’s other diaries.

Cindy carefully pulled the book from the compartment and checked the inside of the front cover. “June 18, 1900” inscribed in Catherine’s careful hand. There was no ending date.

This was it! This was Catherine’s last diary. Why had she hidden it in the bedpost? Was she afraid of Gerald finding it? Or had it simply been her habit to keep her current diary nearby?

What had she kept in her other posts? Had those been hiding places for her jewelry? Had the pieces been taken after all?

Every nerve ending in her hands commanded her to open the diary and flip to the very last pages, to read Catherine’s last entry and try to get some idea of what she had been thinking in those last few days. But it wasn’t her place to read Catherine Whitney’s last thoughts. She should take this to Deacon or Dotty. They should see it first.

She ran for the staircase, headed for Deacon’s office. She never saw the dark cloud of energy swirling behind her, just inside the bedroom door.

DOTTY CONTINUED DANCING, even as Nina topped her freshly made bed with pillows. Nina rolled her eyes at Dotty’s antics but let her indulge. After all, it would be a lot less awkward to date Deacon if Dotty continued to like her. And throwing a lamp at Dotty would definitely reduce her likability.

Nina smoothed the sheet out over the bed, and suddenly, her hands weren’t her own. She was wearing the distinctive Whitney ring on her finger. She pushed back from the bed and felt the now-familiar hands at her back.

“Well, look at what I found here,” a warm male voice whispered against her ear. “A pretty piece of skirt already bent over the bed.”

A thrill of fear rippled up her spine as large, warm hands slipped around her hips and pressed her bum against a solid male frame. Teeth closed gently over her earlobe, tugging insistently. He paused to nibble at the base of her neck. She giggled as she turned to face . . .

Gerald?

Catherine’s husband gave her an impish grin as he pulled her into his arms, claiming her mouth with a rough kiss. He turned, yanking her down so that she sat side-saddle on his thighs. “What am I do when such a piece of . . . luck falls right into my lap?” Gerald grumbled against her throat.”

“Right here?” Catherine laughed breathily. Gerald wiggled his eyebrows and nodded as his fingers slid over her stocking-covered knees to the apex of her thighs. She rolled her eyes but toyed with the buttons at his throat. “Well, I suppose if you’re going to engage in the age-old practice of seduction in the maids’ quarters, I should be thankful it’s with your wife.”

“I’d say it was the best of both worlds, wouldn’t you, darling?”

Catherine fussed with her apron as Gerald pressed kisses along her neck. “Do stop congratulating yourself, and help me get out of this dress.”

“Ordering your master around?” He chuckled. “You are a naughty housemaid.”

Nina sat on the bed, a dazed expression clouding her eyes.

“What did you see?” Dotty demanded. “You had a vision, didn’t you?”

“Naughty housemaid. Catherine,” Nina wheezed.

Dotty’s eyebrows rose. “Catherine and Jack?”

Nina shook her head, struggling for deep breaths. “No. I assumed that’s what it was, but Catherine wasn’t with Jack. She was with Gerald. And it was . . . not a marital duty. Catherine was having a very good time. A naked good time.”

Dotty shuddered. “I’m so glad it was you and not me. I don’t think there’s enough therapy in the world to fix spiritually reenacting your great-great-grandparents doing the deed.”

“What sort of cheating wife has hot, yummy sex with her cuckolded husband?” Nina asked.

“The guilty sort?” Dotty suggested.

Nina shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, I felt what she felt. And she was happy. Really happy. Naked happy.”

“ ‘JACK IS BECOMING more and more insistent,’ ” Cindy read aloud from the latest diary find in Deacon’s office, her face red and her voice winded from her dash down the stairs. Deacon sat back in his desk chair, unsure if he wanted to hear Catherine’s final thoughts before she died. But Cindy had barged into the office with Jake in tow, insistent that he had to hear the last entry.

He said I won’t be able to avoid him forever, and he’s right. He keeps finding reasons to stay on the island, extra features and projects to add to the house to extend his tenure here and allow him to be near me. He’s got it into his head that I’m going to leave Gerald for him, that the completion of the house is the beginning of a new life together.

“He’ll have his house and his children, that’s all he’ll want,” Jack tells me, no matter how many times I tell him that he’s wrong, that I don’t feel that way about him. But he says I’m lying to myself, that I’m too frightened of Gerald to admit how I really feel. As if I could ever be afraid of the husband I love so much.

There’s no arguing with him. No matter how many times I tell him it’s not so, he simply tells me I have been fooled. Jack tells me that I’ve been lied to for so long that I can’t tell fiction from truth. He says that I’m too comfortable in the golden cage Gerald has built for me, too frightened to step out into the sun. He wants me to “paint the world with all the colors of my soul,” which, of course, means leaving my husband, whom I love, and my children, whom I will not live without, to run off to live a life of shame with a man I have no feelings for beyond ruined friendship. Ruined by his presumption, his insistence that he knows my feelings better than I do.

He’s gone too far this time. This afternoon, he showed me a bundle of my jewelry he took from the safe in Gerald’s closet. He’s babbled on and on about an “escape” for the two of us in two weeks’ time. He has timed it for my birthday party, Gerald’s attempt to make up for the horrid “coming-out” party we had a few months ago. Jack expected me to praise his cleverness, to begin planning along with him. And when I didn’t, he acted like a spoiled child, turning red in the face, shoving me into my room, and telling me that I had to “think about the consequences of making the wrong decision.”

“Well, it makes sense,” Jake said from his perch on Deacon’s office couch.

“How does that make sense?” Deacon asked.

Jake shrugged. “Maybe some of the things we’ve attributed to Gerald have been Jack? The rage he feels toward Catherine? The hostility toward women in general? And what about Dotty’s creepy shadow-man experience in bed?”

Cindy suggested, “Maybe it was Jack, looking for another chance to hurt a Whitney.”

“Do you smell something?” Jake asked, sniffing. “Do you smell smoke?”

Deacon’s chest ached with a sudden surge of disquiet. He wondered what Nina was doing at this moment. Was she alone? Was she safe? Catherine. It all came back to Catherine, Deacon thought. And so far, the only one in the group to have an experience from Catherine’s perspective was Nina. He reached for his phone and had just found her spot in his “favorite numbers” list when he heard Anthony scream, “Boss! Fire!”

NINA DIDN’T SMELL smoke. She smelled rose water.

Her feet were moving, toward the nursery wing. The scent grew stronger with every step. How had she gotten here? She had been following Dotty up to the main house to report her latest experience, casting Gerald as a playful, affectionate husband, but then her feet had led her to this part of the house. She didn’t even remember climbing the stairs to the third floor.

There were no work crews in the nursery wing yet. She was alone, standing in front of a square panel in the wall. That didn’t make any sense. There were no other panels in the wall. Why would Jack Donovan put the panel there? It certainly wasn’t there to hide wiring. Why had she been led here?

Biting her lip, she pressed the panel. And with a harsh squeal, it slid to the right, its hinges rusty and dry. The smell of dry rot was overwhelming, overcoming the sweetness of roses. Nina coughed, waving the dust away from her face as it billowed out into the hallway.

Shuddering slightly, she reached into the space and gingerly patted around until her fingers closed around a lump of fabric. Sneezing, she pulled it into the light. It was a mauve silk scarf, tied into a sort of hobo sack around hard, irregular lumps. She set it on a side table and carefully unwound the bundle.

Diamonds. Large, brilliant stones, undimmed by time, arranged in ornate floral settings. A chunky bracelet made from diamond daisies. A choker consisting of two ropes of pearls, centered around a large citrine in a sunburst setting. A golden peacock brooch with emeralds and sapphires set in the tail. A multipaneled Bohemian-style garnet necklace. But what caught her eye was the wedding-band set, two small gold rings connected by small interlocking hinges. The engagement ring was set with a large cushion-cut diamond.

Nina picked up the set, examining the inscription inside the band: “Love always, Gerald.”

She could see it. The ring set was snatched off Catherine’s still finger. The swirls of color in Nina’s head made her knees go weak under her. Still gripping the ring, she fell against the wall, sliding down to the floor. A large male hand ripped the ring from Catherine’s finger. The same hand that had wrapped around Catherine’s throat, choking the life out of her.

A series of images sped through Nina’s mind and then reversed as if on rewind—a boat turning upright, Jack sailing it backward toward the shore, Jack pulling the mauve bundle out of the wall, Catherine’s dead weight sagging against Jack. The cycle of images raced by until Nina saw Catherine fighting against Jack’s grip on her throat, her fingernails digging viciously into his hands.

Nina groaned as she felt the vision shift. Jack held the Whitney ring up to examine it, then shoved it into the soft silk bundle, huffing in frustration. He shoved the bundle into his jacket pocket, peering dispassionately down the widow’s walk steps, where he’d tossed Catherine’s body once she’d finally stopped struggling. Over the edge of the roof, he could see the staff forming a bucket brigade to deal with the fire he’d set in the south wing. They were like ants from this height, he mused. Huffing under the weight of Catherine’s body, he moved down the widow’s walk. Ungrateful bitch, he thought. If she’d just listened to him, if she’d just loved him the way she’d promised, none of this would have happened. He was sure he would mourn eventually, but for right now, he couldn’t feel anything but righteous anger over her betrayal.

He had tried to tell her how it would be. He had tried to explain his plans, that he’d set up a whole other life for them, that they could finally be together. But she’d said no! The ungrateful bitch had told him that he’d misunderstood, that she loved that idiot Gerald. She was going to stay with her husband, whoring herself for a fine house and jewels. And when he’d tried to kiss her, to show her how she really felt, she’d tried to scream! She’d slapped him, scratching his cheek with her little hellcat nails. It was her own fault, really, that his hands had wrapped around her throat. Did she think he would tolerate that from her?

Shifting Catherine’s weight on his shoulder, he slid the panel loose from the wall and dropped the bag inside. He would come back for it. In a few days, after Catherine’s body had been found and everyone on the island was too confused to notice that the architect took the time to visit the mourning family. For now, he needed to get off the island before anyone saw him. No one knew he was here. He could get back to the mainland, visit a pub, tell a few jokes so that he was noticed.

He took the back staircase, a route so concealed that none of the distracted staff noticed his escape across the lawn to one of the auxiliary docks. His boat waited for him, and he knew his way around this island. It was no difficulty to find his way, not when he moved so swiftly and quietly through the brush.

He would get away with this, because he was better and smarter than they were, better even than Gerald Whitney, for all his money and power. He was the one who made palaces rise from nothing. Catherine’s fate was her own fault for not recognizing his genius. She hadn’t waited for him. She hadn’t appreciated him. And now she was dead. He might mourn for her someday, but for now, he had to direct his energies into not getting caught. He deserved to move on from this and have the sort of life that others envied. He deserved his vengeance on Gerald and Catherine for their betrayal.

He guided the tiny sailboat out to sea, waiting until the house was no longer in view, and dumped Catherine’s body over the side. He watched her sink under the waves, her dress billowing around her like angel’s wings. Her own fault, really.

He knew it would take hours to reach the shore at Newport, but it would be worth it. He would be home free. If he was really fortunate, Gerald would take the blame for Catherine’s death. It would be a vindication, watching Gerald tried for killing the wife he had stolen from Jack.

Daydreams of Gerald suffering a humiliating trial, possibly even hanging for the crime, distracted Jack, until he was suddenly thrown to the hull of his boat. Springing to his feet, he looked about for what had caused such a tumult. A wake from a frigate. He was far off course. He was in a shipping channel! A churning noise to the north caught his attention. An even larger steamer chugged along in the distance. The wave echoing off the hull was even larger, far taller than his own. The wakes crossed, dipping his hull far below the surface and tipping his boat over. The recoil as the boat righted itself sent him reeling overboard, smacking his crown against the rig. He tumbled into the water, barely conscious, tangling his leg in the anchor line.

His arms flailed, reaching for the line, trying to pull himself back toward the boat. But in the dimming light of deeper water, he could see the end of the anchor line, fluttering after him like a tail. And that was the moment he remembered that he hadn’t secured the line to his boat.

The water closed over his head, sweeping into his open mouth. He could feel it flooding his throat, into his lungs. He choked, coughing helplessly, drawing more water in as he sank deeper into the sea’s cold embrace.

Even as he died, his mind raged. No! No! This wasn’t supposed to be the way it ended. He was supposed to escape! He was supposed to go on to success and notoriety. He was supposed to watch Gerald hang for Catherine’s death.

Catherine. Gerald. Everything always came back to them. His brilliance was cut short. The love he deserved was denied him. This was their fault, both of them. With his last heartbeat, he cursed them both to hell, and their children, too. He wished in the deepest, darkest pit of his heart that no Whitney would ever find happiness or wealth. Each generation would be poorer and more desperate than the last. And he would stay right here to watch them collapse.

He wouldn’t leave, he promised himself, he would stay in the palace that he had made—that he deserved—and he would watch his curse become real. With that vow, everything faded to black.

Nina fell to her knees and vomited what tasted like seawater onto the carpet. She had known, somewhere in the corners of her brain, that Jack had killed Catherine. But seeing it play out, feeling the pressure close around her throat, was something different altogether.

She wiped at her mouth, then picked the bundle up off the table, rewrapped it, and headed for the stairs. She had to show Deacon; she had to tell him about his great-great-grandparents. She stumbled toward the staircase, only to freeze in her tracks at the sound of a familiar voice.

“Hello, Nina.”