Лейганн Доббс - A Twist In The Tail

Barbara jerked her head toward the dining room. ‘Do you have cats in the dining room?’

I stepped aside to let her see in. ‘Of course not.’

‘Good, because that would be a health code violation.’

Merooo!

Was it my imagination or were the cats’ cries getting louder and more insistent?

Barbara frowned down the hallway, where it sounded like the cats’ latest cry had come from. ‘Wait a minute. That sounded like it was coming from the kitchen. That’s even worse!’

Barbara stormed down the hall. I hurried after her, still balancing the egg cup in my hand. Some things are more important than Charles Prescott and his egg – like making sure the board of health didn’t shut me down for having animals in the kitchen.

‘It’s not coming from the kitchen.’ At least, I hoped it wasn’t. It actually was coming from that direction, but I was pretty sure it was from the West wing of the mansion, which had been closed off for extensive renovations. Not that the cats didn’t hang around in the kitchen—they did. I just hoped they weren’t in there right now.

‘I think you’re right.’ Barbara stopped and frowned at me. ‘I thought I made it clear that decrepit wing was supposed to be closed down so no one could get in there.’

See what I mean? I just couldn’t win with this woman. You’d think she’d be happy the cats weren’t in the kitchen, but no, she’d found something else to complain about.

‘It is blocked off. To people. Cats are sneaky and can get into anything.’ Couldn’t they? I wasn’t exactly sure. I’d only owned the guesthouse, and, thus, the cats, for a short time, and had no idea what those furry little monsters could get up to. They’d been fairly well-behaved so far, but the way they stared at me -- with their luminous, intelligent eyes -- always made me feel like they were up to something behind my back. I didn’t have much experience with cats, but Millie had assured me they made great companions. Thus far, I’d been too busy learning the ropes of running the guesthouse to spend time getting to know them.

Feelings of guilt crept in. I promised Millie I would take good care of the cats, but judging by the sounds of their meows, they were in some sort of distress. I hoped one of them hadn’t found its way into the closed-off wing and been hurt. It was a mess in there, and not safe.

Mee-yow!

We continued down the hall. It felt like it was taking a long time to traverse, but that was because it really was quite long. The place was a mansion after all. Gigantic. It had been built by shipping magnet Jedediah Biddeford 300 years ago. I’d bought it from Millie Sullivan—my mother’s best friend—whose family had owned it for the last 125 years. Judging by the looks of the West wing, that was the last time that section of the house had been updated too. Don’t even get me started on the condition of the caretakers’ cottage and carriage house.

The cats were really starting to caterwaul now, and I was getting worried. Barbara surged ahead of me, then stopped at the doorway to the West wing and turned to scowl at me.

‘I thought you said this was blocked off.’ She gestured toward the door, which was cracked open. I swore I’d locked it shut several days ago.

The large black and white tuxedo cat, Nero, stood in the doorway looking up at me with his striking green eyes, as if to ask ‘what took you so long?’ The tortie, Marlowe, rubbed her face on my ankle. At least they weren’t hurt, even though the thought of hurting them myself for causing all this trouble did briefly cross my mind.

‘I don’t know how this got open. Maybe the handyman?’ The handyman was Millie’s nephew, Mike Sullivan. I’d known he was bad news since fifth grade and would never have engaged his services, but Millie had hired him to fix some things up before I’d bought the guesthouse. The work was already paid for and I couldn’t afford to turn that down. I couldn’t wait to get rid of him, though. ‘He’s probably working in here. I’ll check.’

‘Nice try, but this still violates code 401 of the state statute.’ Barbara whipped out her notebook, presumably to write up a violation.

Great. This was just what I didn’t need. And to top it off, the stupid soft-boiled egg was now cold. I switched it to my left hand and reached out my right to shut the door. ‘Maybe you could overlook it just this once? It wasn’t open that long and—’

Nero let out a wail and launched himself at the door before I could pull it shut. The door crashed open, revealing the run-down state of the West wing. Dust mites floated in the air, cobwebs hung from the chandeliers, water stains marred the walls. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was what lay at the bottom of the stairway. It was a body. Charles Prescott’s to be exact. And he was deathly still.

Two

I rushed over to the body. You may think most people would be put off by a body, and that the natural inclination would be to run in the opposite direction. But I’d been halfway to a promising career as a medical examiner when I’d given everything up in favor of my ex-husband’s culinary career and raising our daughter, Emma. I didn’t regret staying home for Emma. The marriage was another story. Apparently, my old medical training had kicked in. I wanted to see if anything could be done, even though it was evident by his pasty skin tone and blankly staring eyes that it was too late.

I felt for a pulse. Nothing. Charles was gone. At least he wouldn’t care that his egg had cooled, which was a good thing because it was now rolling around the floor. I must’ve dropped it in my haste to get to the body.

Talk about inconvenient. Not only did I have a dilapidated mansion and no money to repair it with, two cats I barely knew how to care for and a building inspector salivating to write me up for even the most innocent of violations, I now also had a dead body on my hands.

Of course, it was inconvenient for Charles too. A wave of sadness washed over me. Sure, they guy had been a bit of a pain, but he didn’t deserve to die. I felt selfish worrying about my own problems when poor Charles had lost his life.

A momentary depression descended over me as I saw my plans for success evaporating right before my eyes. And not just financial success. There was much more than money at stake here. I’d spent most of my adult life in the shadow of my ex-husband, Clive Stonefield, a semi-famous chef. His parting words about how I was nothing without him still stung. I had been determined to prove him wrong.

The Oyster Cove Guesthouse was my opportunity to shine. My chance to prove that I, too, could be successful. I’d put all my money and hopes into this purchase and it had to work. At forty-six, I wasn’t getting any younger and this could be my last chance.

How much could a dead body hurt business? Didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to let this signal my defeat. I was going to consider it an opportunity to prove that I could succeed no matter what. After all, my daughter was just making her way in the world and I had to be a good role model.

The rustle of paper brought me out of my reverie. Barbara had whipped out her notebook and was flipping through it, probably trying to find the exact section of the building code that a dead body violated so she could write me up.

‘He’s dead. We better call the police,’ I said.

Barbara looked up from her notebook, her hawk-like gaze focusing on the stairway. ‘It’s no wonder. Look at how the stairway collapsed.’ Her eyes narrowed, she craned her neck forward, pulling her phone from her pocket. ‘Looks like dry rot to me. This place is uninhabitable.’

I glanced at the stairs as Barbara dialed the police. She had a point. Jagged edges of splintered wood stuck up where the treads had broken through. The entire banister lay on the floor, though half of it had fallen away before I even bought the place. The stairs hadn’t been in good condition before this. Now, they were a disaster. But that was why I had this section of the house blocked off. Only a fool would try to navigate those stairs, which brought up two questions… how had Charles gotten in here? And why?