Better Homes and Hauntings

7 Ninja Death Squad Buttons: The Latest in Modern Romantic Gestures

NINA STOOD IN the filtered light of the solarium, rubbing the skin along her arms.

It should have been warm. The room had floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides, letting sunlight flood through the fly-specked glass. In fact, the ceiling was made up of windows, arching out from the stone structure like a closed eyelid.

But there was little warmth to be found here. This place was almost as spooky as the baby-face-ceiling room. The roots of long-dead vines snaking up the walls and the remains of overturned planters were bad enough. The scent of dry rot and decay filled her nostrils, making her bite back a gag. Nina knew that plant death and composting were all part of the growth cycle, but this was waste. Whatever had been planted here had been abandoned, left behind without care, and that tugged at Nina’s heart. But the truly creepy feature of the room, the heart of well-lit darkness, was the two carved stone figures that stood in the middle of the tiled floor, frozen mid-step.

The statue was of two small children, playing, their little hands reaching to the sky for something they were chasing. A kite? A butterfly? Their little faces were carved in expressions of joy. It was the only nonmythological statue in the house. Had Catherine based it on her own children? Had she hoped for them to play near their stone avatar, or had she meant for the statue to serve as a reminder of her children’s innocent days? Somehow, that made it even sadder. Somehow, Nina’s heart ached for those children, whose mother had loved them so much but was never able to see them grow up. The statue was a perfect representation of life at the Crane’s Nest, forever stuck and then abandoned from the moment Catherine Whitney disappeared.

Tiny floor tiles of sandy beige met a rippling line of weathered blue glaze that had once been glistening cobalt.

“It looks like a beach,” she said, turning to Deacon, who was watching her wander around the room while gnawing at her bottom lip.

THE LIP WORRYING should not have been as cute as it was. Deacon felt a pang of guilt for asking Nina into the house when she was so uncomfortable. He knew he was making excuses—flimsy excuses—to spend time with her. But he wanted to assure himself that she was all right. He’d been having a strange recurring dream for weeks, ever since Dotty’s arrival. He was standing on the roof of the Crane’s Nest, a delicately curved feminine figure in front of him, silhouetted against the orange-gold sunset. Her light blue skirts whipped in the wind. He could see the sparkle of silver embroidery at her sleeves. He was happy to see this woman, content to walk up behind her and wrap his arms around her lithe form. She sighed and relaxed back into him.

Catherine Whitney was a great beauty, there was no doubt of it. Her dark golden hair framed a face that was classically beautiful, with a full Cupid’s-bow mouth, high cheekbones, and wide, deep-set eyes that were closed against the fading light. He saw his hands sliding up to cup Catherine’s face, cradling her cheeks in his palm. She smiled up at him, leaning into the caress like a cat. He loved this woman, as much as he could love anyone. But she wanted to leave him. She thought she had the right. He would not let her go. No matter what she said, no matter whom she claimed her heart belonged to, she would always be his. And he never gave up what was his.

In the dream, Deacon watched his neatly manicured hands skimming down Catherine’s neck, his thumbs tracing the depression at the hollow of her throat. He pressed in, watching her eyes snap open in alarm as he increased the pressure. She cried out, clawing at his hands as he squeezed her throat.

Catherine fought, as she always fought him, but in the end, he was too strong. He choked the life from her body and dropped her to the tiled widow’s walk. Deacon watched in horror as Catherine’s hair bled into a burnt auburn. Her still, blue-tinged face shifted into Nina’s delicate features.

Deacon would wake up, drenched in sweat, with the image of Nina’s still, broken body burned into his brain. He’d asked her to accompany him into the house that morning after a particularly vivid bout with the dream. He could still feel the way the muscles of her throat rippled as she struggled to draw breath. He needed to see her, to have a concrete touchstone to assure himself that she was safe, that she was well.

But seeing her now, penny-bright against the background of disorder and decline, he felt as if he’d betrayed her somehow. He should have guessed that she would find it painful to see a room meant to grow and nurture life now so empty and decrepit. Nina Linden was almost entirely made up of reminders of her vitality—rosy lips, marigold hair, dreamy eyes the color of new moss. And yes, he realized it was prosaic to refer to Nina in plant terms, but he couldn’t help but think pretty floral thoughts whenever she was near. Moss wasn’t strictly floral, but . . . and now she was staring at him.

He cleared his throat. “My parents said Catherine wanted her children to have a place to play in the sun, even if the weather turned cool. She had to fight for it, because back then, children were to be seen and not heard. To devote any room besides the nursery to them, much less a first-floor room that could be seen by guests, was almost unheard of.”

Nina smiled at him. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but if you tell me you want to turn this into a media room or something, I won’t be responsible for my own actions. There will be a trowel involved.”

“No,” he said, raising his hands as if to defend his face from her, making her smile. The smile did funny things to his heart and its ability to keep an even rhythm. “I would like to keep the room pretty close to its original purpose, a place to soak up some sun and relax a little, read, work, whatever. Nothing crazy. I was thinking you might come up with some sort of indoor garden. Set it up however you’d like.”

“I don’t know if this is going to fit with the concept that Regina has planned. She doesn’t seem to like . . . living things.”

Deacon winced. “The presentation boards?”

“They were very specific, concept-wise.”

“Yes, they were,” he said, his lips twitching as Nina laughed. “I let Regina and Jake install my office when we first started working on the house, because I wanted it up and running before I moved out here for the renovations. The electricians got as far as updating the wiring and finishing the drywall before the house’s reputation scared them off. Jake and I had to install all the hardware ourselves. But Regina seemed to get the idea that I want everything to look like this, which explains that rather horrific presentation she just gave. And so I spent a good three hours in videoconference with her this morning, going over the changes I want to her designs.”

“But you didn’t reject the ideas outright when she was standing right in front of you.” Nina seemed to think about that for a long moment. “Because she would take correction over the Internet more graciously than in front of the rest of us.”

“Exactly. I’ve persuaded her to go in a completely different direction, something called Mediterranean Coastal Modern. All I know is that nothing will be made of vinyl, and I will be able to sit on the furniture.”

“Impressive.”

“It was a nightmare,” he said. “I never want to see another fabric sample in HD.”

Nina’s brow furrowed. “So wait, we’re living in relative unrehabilitated squalor in the staff quarters, and you’ve got high-speed Wi-Fi in your office? Have you ever heard of priorities?”

“I consider high-speed Wi-Fi to be a priority!” he exclaimed.

When Nina burst out laughing, he grinned. “It helps me to have a space here that reminds me of my office. I feel at home, and I work a lot faster.”

“Oh, fine, bring logic and business sense into it. You know I can’t argue with that,” Nina huffed good-naturedly. She crossed her arms and turned around, scanning the space. “Well, the tropical thing has been done to death. You could always go Asian Modern, have Anthony’s crews dig a koi pond in the floor, plant some weeping cherry trees. You don’t have to do the full Zen rock garden and put up little concrete pagodas, but you can keep it restful, meditative. Or skip the Asian thing entirely, and you could go with the theme of your office and make it a full-on Bond-villain lair. We could put a button over there that summons your ninja death squad.”

“Ugh,” he groaned, making her blush. “I don’t know what’s weirder. The fact that it makes perfect sense to install the ninja death squad button in my indoor garden or the fact that I’m considering doing it just because it would make you laugh.”

A genuinely pleased smile had Nina ducking her head. “Well, flowers and candy have been overdone, I think.”

Deacon made a mental note to have ninja death squad buttons installed in every room of the Crane’s Nest.

CATHERINE WHITNEY’S BEDROOM was elegant in its decay. Long ago, it had been an airy, sparsely decorated room done in feminine shades of blue, green, and cream. Unlike the more ornate, slightly Gothic pieces downstairs, the furniture was slender and sleekly lined. The bedposts were carved to resemble dryads—another creature prone to abuse from rutting gods, Dotty noted.

While Deacon had been frightened and upset by his childhood experiences at the Crane’s Nest, Dotty cherished the memories of running amok in the old house. It had never felt haunted or even unfriendly. She only remembered exploring the rooms, admiring what few knickknacks and treasures were left, and finding little nooks and crannies where she and Deacon could hide from the bickering adults. It felt like a very formal playground. And now Dotty was just as comfortable as ever in the neglected rooms.

On one level, she was grateful not to experience the fear that Deacon and the others felt in the house. Dotty was an emotionally open person, and negative emotions were always more difficult to process than positive ones. And given the negative emotions that were no doubt lurking within the walls of the Crane’s Nest, the impact on her could be overwhelming. But it was also frustrating that the spirits were ignoring the one person on the island who believed in them. She was starting to wonder if she should play hard to get like Deacon and loudly proclaim that she didn’t believe in silly things like ghosts.

But Dotty did believe. Even in the face of Jake’s teasing and Deacon’s skepticism, she was a believer—in spirits, in love at first sight, and in destiny. She’d always known Deacon was destined for great things, crazy, world-altering developments in technology, just as she’d always known it was her destiny to help bring the Whitney family curse to an end. She didn’t know how, and she knew she wouldn’t do it alone, but she would help find what was needed to bring Catherine Whitney’s soul to rest.

And it would start in this room. Catherine’s suite was one of the places she and Deacon hadn’t been allowed to enter when they were children. There were too many still potentially valuable items in the room, and their parents hadn’t wanted to risk the kids damaging them during hide-and-seek. Dotty carefully sat on the ancient mattress and studied the figures, their graceful arms raised over their heads, becoming tree limbs that supported the canopy. Dotty had to stare at the carefully crafted limbs for a long time before she could decide where the carvings made the transition from flesh to wood. Soft folds of translucent mauve material hung loose from the bed like a shroud. A creamy silk-covered settee was placed in front of the large picture window. Several small volumes of poetry were stacked on a little table nearby.

Mr. Whitney’s room was adjacent to Catherine’s, separated only by a shared dressing room. A most civilized way for old-fashioned couples to maintain privacy while keeping channels of “communication” open. Sitting now on Catherine Whitney’s bed, Dotty tried to imagine what it must have been like to live this way.

What would it be like, she wondered, to wake up every morning to this sort of luxury? Dotty hadn’t grown up poor, exactly, but her parents certainly hadn’t been able to afford anything like the Whitney manse. What did women like Catherine Whitney do all day? She’d seen enough Downton Abbey to visualize a lot of costume changes, dressing appropriately for various meals and activities of the day.

Speaking of which, where were all of Catherine’s clothes? According to Jake’s blueprints, there was a dressing room between Mr. and Mrs. Whitney’s rooms. If she was a woman of means, she would have wanted to keep her clothes and accessories as close together as possible. Could the jewelry be hidden in some secret compartment in her closet?

Dotty crossed the room and opened the door opposite the bed. She coughed, waving the flurry of dust away from her face. A stained-glass window depicting a golden-haired woman in a flowing blue Greek gown provided the only light, giving the room a faint azure glow. Other than a vanity and an enormous floor-to-ceiling gilt mirror, every inch of the walls was occupied by paneled cabinets. No doubt, the clothes were stored in those, keeping the dressing room uncluttered. A dress dummy lurked in the corner, its disembodied presence giving Dotty her first pangs of unease. Catherine’s maid would have hung whatever ensemble Catherine had planned for the evening meal or other affair over the model. But still, it was creepy as all hell.

What had it been like for Catherine Whitney to get dressed in this room every day? Didn’t she ever want to throw on some comfy clothes and eat cookies? Did she have comfy clothes? In spite of considerable wealth, her life didn’t seem particularly comfortable. What would it be like to spend every moment of your life being watched?

She shivered, turning her attention back to the cabinets. Where to start? She’d read up on what passed for security systems in the Gilded Age. While heavy-duty vaults were still entrusted with major financial holdings, Dotty also knew that the rich kept smaller caches in hiding places in their close quarters. Cabinets, dressers, desks. Furniture makers who could specialize in artful pieces with hidden compartments were in high demand.

Dotty studied the cabinets. The panels were carved with designs, but dust obscured them. Dotty tugged her scarf from her neck and began swiping at the panel closest to the vanity. In the dim light, she could see elaborately curlicued waves and seashells emerging. As she moved closer to the mirror, she uncovered the beginning of a much larger seashell and a pair of feet rising from the shell. Judging by the other mythological themes found around the rest of the house, she would guess that the carving was of Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty, a rather unimaginative motif for a dressing room. She was a little disappointed in Catherine for being so prosaic in her decor.

Dotty rubbed a little harder at the curls circling the goddess’s knees and flowing down to her feet. At the very bottom of the panel, about three feet from the floor, she felt a tug on her scarf. Dotty stepped back. Had she snagged something? Pursing her lips, she continued to scrub at the carved feet. The cloth snagged again, and she yanked hard to pull it free. Somewhere under the panel, she heard a distinct click and the whir of rollers. She glanced down just in time to see what looked like some sort of support beam for the cabinets pop out. She danced out of the way before it whacked her in the shins.

Realizing what she’d uncovered, she shouted, “Destiny, you sneaky little bitch!”

LUGGING THE HEAVY cube-shaped box under one arm, Dotty was perfectly comfortable walking through the series of doors and false walls that led into Deacon’s new private office. Tucked behind the library, the ten-by-twenty room had once served as a secret storage place for spirits, as Gerald Whitney didn’t like the idea of leaving his personal stash of Scotch housed in the wine cellar. It was one of many secret rooms and passageways the original architect had tucked around the house. Dotty and Deacon had discovered most of them as children.

Dotty punched the entry code into the security panel mounted outside his door. Without being told, she knew it would be 51939—the release date of the first Batman comic. He’d used some variation of the code for his high school locker combination, ATM PIN, and garage-door key. The oak-paneled door slid left with a hiss.

Dotty rolled her eyes heavenward. Only her cousin would put a comic-book spin on an antique door. Even after spending time in Deacon’s just-short-of-the-holodeck-on-the-starship-Enterprise offices in Boston, she still was stunned by the contrast between his office and the rest of the house. Unlike the elegant decay of the mansion’s other rooms, the walls here were painted a smooth, blinding white, with huge high-definition panel screens covering nearly every inch from waist height to her line of sight. Instead of sports on every screen, Dotty spotted the EyeDee home page, Deacon’s personal e-mail account, his business e-mail, and his Twitter feed.

On the screens closest to the sleek white-and-chrome desk were complicated chains of numbers and letters that were complete gobbledygook to Dotty. Deacon was hunched in his white leather captain’s chair, frowning over a wireless keyboard, biting his lip in concentration. Dotty was struck by an image of Deacon in a mad scientist’s lab coat, tinkering with his creature before shouting, “It’s alive! It’s alive!”

Smiling to herself, she set the box on a table and cleared her throat. Deacon didn’t look up. She cleared her throat a little louder. Still nothing. She picked up a plush green doll and tossed it at his head. She tried not to let the flash of annoyance flickering across his features hurt her feelings. After all, she had just tossed a Yoda at him.

“Is this really what the rest of the house will look like? Because I was hoping that our great-great-grandparents’ house would end up looking like a doctors’ waiting room. On a spaceship. In a future without comfortable furniture.”

Deacon gave her a flat, unreadable expression. She gave it right back to him. He sighed and stood up from his desk. “No, I’ve explained to Regina that if she doesn’t significantly change her designs, her work on this project is over. Is this really why you broke into my office? To insult me and my furniture?”

“No. I walked into your office to talk to you about the book.”

He sighed. “Dotty, I don’t want to hurt you, but we both know this new book isn’t ever going to get off the ground. You’ll make a mess of whatever progress Cindy is trying to make organizing the house, lose interest in a few months, and be off to do something else.”

Dotty would allow that, considering that she had cut and run on several projects in the past. “Not this time, Deacon. It’s too personal. I think it’s important to me and to you that we sort through this family stuff once and for all. I mean, how many times did we try to talk to our parents about it, only to have them shut us down and tell us it was too hurtful to talk about?”

Deacon frowned at her. “Uh, that would be never, because my parents didn’t actually talk to me about anything.”

There were times when Dotty hated her aunt and uncle, she really did. Her own parents were decent enough, she supposed. But they were absent, hard to pin down, moving from place to place, because “starting over” in each new exclusive community gave them a new audience for whom they pretend they were the affluent, high-flying Whitneys. Uncle Robert was cold, selfish, and willing to sacrifice his own son’s financial well-being to keep up appearances. When Deacon had made his money a few years ago, Robert was the first one to come to Deacon with his hand out, claiming that he was owed a share of his son’s success for all of his parental sacrifices.

“It’s important, Deacon. We need to know why this happened to our family, why the effects have rippled through the generations. Is it a curse? Bad karma? Or do we just have unlucky genes? Don’t you want to know?”

“Why is it so important to you to prove that there’s a curse?” Deacon demanded. “Your parents still speak to you. You had a relatively stable childhood, even if they move around a lot now. I don’t get why you need some curse to blame for how your life turned out.”

“Oh, my God, you enormous idiot!”

Deacon frowned. “Well, that was . . . unexpectedly harsh.”

“I’m not looking to blame something for my messed-up life. I’m looking for some cause for your messed-up life.”

“Uh, Dotty. My life isn’t miserable. I have four houses, the largest collection of Flash Gordon memorabilia in the continental United States, and one of the original Batmobiles. William Shatner sang ‘Rocket Man’ at my last birthday party.”

“First of all, that’s a sad commentary on what you think makes a person happy. And second, he didn’t sing it. He spoke it.”

“Did I mention I own my own chocolate factory?”

“Deacon!”

He sighed, flopping back into his chair. “Fine.”

“Despite that rather upsetting list of assets you just mentioned, Deacon, you still act like you expect everything to just—poof—up and disappear. Because of the curse, you think you’re going to lose everything.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Really? You don’t think that investing a crapload of money to restore our great-great-grandparents’ cursed house is some sort of subconscious curse-breaking gesture?”

“I think that was a crapload of pop psychology.”

She picked up a stress ball shaped like a Storm Trooper and threw it at his head. “Ugh, you are so frustrating. You haven’t dated anyone for more than a few months since college, because you’re afraid to get married and start a family. You bought those houses as an investment, and you haven’t been to any of them except this one. You stay holed up in your apartment because you knew the super before you started making money, and you know he won’t evict you if the worst happened. And the only people you spend any time with are your coworkers, me, and Jake. Everybody else you keep at an arm’s length, because you don’t want to find out whether they’ll stick around if you lose your money. You don’t want to know if they’re true friends.”

He would have whacked his forehead against the desk, but it would have given her too much satisfaction. “I hate it when you’re insightful.”

“Look, the good news is that if there is a curse—which there is—then by the rules of the universe, we can break it. And then maybe you’ll stop waiting for the other shoe to drop and start to really live your life. Maybe with a certain shy redheaded landscape architect who for reasons I don’t understand finds your particular brand of social ineptitude adorkable.”

Instead of protesting, as Dotty expected, Deacon sat straight up in his chair with a suddenly serious expression. “Did she say something?”

Dotty nodded. “I know it’s been a while, doll, but when a woman spends that much time staring at your mouth, it’s not because she’s wondering what sort of ChapStick you’re wearing. She’s been throwing serious come-hither vibes your way, in a socially awkward, almost indecipherable way that most people wouldn’t be able to pick up on.”

“No, really, did she say something?” he asked absently.

“Several things, none of which I am willing to tell you.”

“Because that would be too simple and straightforward?”

“Because that would ruin my fun.” Dotty picked up the cube Deacon was just now noticing on his side table. “Also because I just found this giant box hidden in Catherine Whitney’s room, and I’m pretty sure it’s going to help me figure out what happened to her right before she disappeared.” And with that, she left.

“WHAT? DOTTY!” DEACON flopped back into his captain’s chair and started talking to himself. “She wants me to follow her. She wants to draw me into this Scooby-Doo mystery mess. She wants to Dottify me, once again. So I’m just going to sit here and do my work and stay sane.” He nodded sharply and sat up, pulling his wireless keyboard into place. “Right, good plan.”

Then again, Nina would probably be there when Dotty opened up the box. She seemed just as interested in this family-history bit as Dotty and Cindy. Her big green eyes would probably be bright with curiosity and excitement. And her cheeks would be all flushed . . . and her mouth . . .

“Damn it.” He sprang up from his chair and followed after Dotty.

NINA AND CINDY were taking their lunch break in the ladies’ quarters, relaxing at the long table and eating pasta left over from the previous night’s dinner. Jake, the Wednesday-night cook, knew his way around a carb, so it was worth revisiting.

“Hey, look what I found—aw, are you eating the last of the primavera?”

“And I’m not even sorry,” Cindy told Dotty, slurping a noodle into her mouth.

“I saved you a plate,” Nina said, hopping up and cuffing Cindy lightly on the back of her head.

Dotty dropped the heavy box onto the table.

“What’s that?” Cindy asked through a mouthful of pasta, nodding toward the cobweb-covered cube.

“I don’t know. I found it in Catherine’s dressing room. I was going to open it, but now that I know where I fall in your friends-versus-delicious-Alfredo-covered-pasta lineup, I don’t think I’m going to share this with you. Clearly, Nina is a better friend than you.”

“We knew that anyway,” Cindy said dismissively. “Come on, it could be the jewels!”

Cindy disappeared into her room and returned with a pink toolbox.

“Really?” Dotty laughed. “A pink toolbox?”

“It comes in handy,” Cindy told her. “You never know when you’re going to have to hammer in frame hangers or dismantle some ugly entertainment center.”

“They didn’t have one covered in glitter?” Nina asked, smirking at her.

“With My Little Pony decals?” Dotty added.

“If you don’t want these bolt cutters to chop that padlock off, keep talking,” Cindy said, holding up the pink-handled tool and nodding toward the rusted brass clasp on the box.

“I don’t need your bolt cutters, thank you very much,” Dotty said primly as she fished a small screwdriver and a long, skinny awl out of her bag. “They don’t make locks like this anymore. We can’t cut it. I can get it unlocked some other way.”

Dotty inserted the tools into the lock and manipulated them back and forth, listening for the telltale click. She was so concentrated on the task at hand she didn’t even flinch when Deacon and Jake pushed their way through the servants’ entrance. Deacon sat next to Nina on the long dining table, and she gave him a smile that made his run across the island worth it.

“What are we doing?” Jake whispered, standing over Cindy’s shoulder.

“Watching Dotty perpetrate an act of extreme optimism,” Cindy said, waving her bolt cutters at Dotty with an expectant expression. “Sweetie, the lock is probably rusted shut.”

“Why do you have pink bolt cutters?” Deacon asked, just as the lock clicked, opened, and fell to the floor. Nina’s jaw dropped, her eyes oscillating between a triumphant Dotty and the defeated lock.

Dotty winked cheekily and lifted the lid of the box. Jake jumped to his feet. Cindy squealed and clapped her hands, only to let loose a disappointed “hmph” when the contents turned out to be stacks of small booklets with matching brown leather covers. At least twenty of them. Each one was stamped “CGW” at the bottom right corner.

Catherine Grayson Whitney.

“Diaries,” Dotty said, flipping through the inside covers, checking the dates that had been painstakingly inscribed on the first page of each. Even in the thrill of discovery, Dotty couldn’t help but marvel at Catherine’s neatly looped, even script. Her own handwriting was a chaotic mix of cursive, block print, and shorthand. Product of a different generation and school system, she supposed. “Catherine’s diaries, starting years before her death. This could be her complete journal collection for her adult life.”

“Not as cool as jewelry but still exciting,” Cindy conceded, trying not to let her disappointment show.

“Yes, Dotty has given us the gift of reading,” Jake said with a shudder. “Reading really old, cramped, faded cursive.”

“This is exactly what I was hoping for!” Dotty exclaimed, launching herself across the room and throwing her arms around Cindy. The blonde’s knees buckled under the force of Dotty’s enthusiasm, and the women went sprawling to the floor.

“I’m sorry.” Dotty giggled as Jake helped the girls extract themselves from their person pretzel. “I just can’t believe it! I found my great-great-grandmother’s diaries, which no one in my grasping, devious family has managed to locate in almost one hundred years. That’s huge!”

“How did you find it?” Deacon asked, laughing when Cindy’s and Dotty’s legs tangled together and they fell back to the floor in a heap.

“I’m just that good,” Dotty told him as solemnly as she could from the bottom of the person tangle. And when Deacon gave her the now-familiar deadpan face, Dotty added, “My scarf caught the corner of a false wall panel, popped it loose.”

“Jack Donovan designed a lot of little hiding places around the house, the passages between the floors, but I doubt half of them are actually shown on the blueprints,” Jake said, thumbing through one of the journals. “There’s a wall in Gerald Whitney’s library that revolves so he could access a direct stairway to the master suite. And there’s a hallway from Mrs. Whitney’s room to the children’s wing. I guess it was so she could bypass a couple of staircases to get directly to their rooms at night or when they were sick.”

“Secret passages and revolving walls? Suddenly, my Scooby-Doo jokes don’t seem so lame,” Cindy mused.

“It was en vogue at the time to add an air of mystery to one’s home,” Dotty said, searching through the diaries for the latest date. “And when one’s home is this large, it makes sense to try to skip a few hallways to save time. Plus, rich people tended to have a lot of secrets.”

Dotty frowned, absently tucking her candy-colored hair behind her ears as she sorted through the diaries.

“What’s with the pout?” Cindy asked. “You were so excited a few minutes ago.”

“Oh, I still am,” Dotty assured her. “But I can’t find the last diary. You’d think it would be near the top of the box. But the latest one I can find is about six months before she died.”

“Well, she probably wrote in it every day, right?” Cindy said. “She wouldn’t go to the trouble of breaking into her secret lockbox every evening. She probably kept it somewhere she could get to it easily, like her nightstand or her vanity.”

“Probably,” Dotty said, frowning again as she searched the bottom of the box for the first volume. “But trust me, those would have been the first places my relatives would look for valuables. And no one has ever mentioned finding a diary. It would have provided some valuable insight into what was going on in her head.” Dotty fished the earliest volume from the box and placed it on top. “In the meantime, I can start at the beginning and get some idea of what Catherine’s marriage to Gerald was like . . . and maybe I’ll skip a little, because I’m one of those people who read the last chapter of a murder mystery first.”

“That’s just wrong,” Cindy said, shaking her head.

“Of all the things she just said, skipping to the end of a book is what bothers you most?” Jake asked.

Cindy crossed her arms and set her chin. “I hate spoilers.”