Molly Harper - Better Homes and Hauntings

“So why did Catherine have them built so far away?” Nina whispered back.

“Catherine wanted the servants to feel that they had a home with privacy and peace, to foster a neighborly camaraderie among the staff. She figured happier servants made for a happier household. She came from a family with just one servant, and in that kind of household, the servant was just like part of the family. I guess she was a bit more sympathetic to the plight of people living ‘belowstairs.’ ” Cindy lowered her voice even further. “Also, a less savory suggestion has been made that Mr. Whitney hadn’t wanted the servants to hear what he did to his wife at night.”

“I grew up around here, and this is the first time I’m hearing any of this,” Nina said quietly. She looked over her shoulder to see Deacon watching her while Jake chattered about imported tile. Just as her brain managed to communicate the Smile like a normal person! message to her face, he looked away, to the tablet Jake was shoving in his face.

“A friend of mine oversees the special-collections room at the local public library,” Cindy said, a little dimple winking at the corner of her mouth. “She may have let me borrow some newspaper and microfiche materials not available to the general public. Plus, there are a few interesting history books on Newport’s mansions if you know where to look.”

So the bombshell was a closet bookworm, Nina mused. She didn’t know whether that made Cindy less intimidating or more so. But since they were going to be neighbors for the foreseeable future, Nina was determined to find this unexpected aspect of Cindy’s personality charming and useful.

CYNTHIA ELLIS HAD been born to a proud family of restaurateurs. Her late father had owned one of the most famous clam shacks in Rhode Island, Jimmy’s. She’d worked there every summer and every school afternoon that her dad would allow, with his admonishment that studies always came first. She’d loved the hustle and bustle of the dining room, chatting with the regulars as she served up fresh clam fritters and lobster rolls. She’d loved the routine of it all, even if that routine was occasionally interrupted by the odd “handsy” summer renter—who would be promptly treated to either a smack of her tray or harsher justice from a nearby regular, none of whom tolerated rudeness toward the waitresses.

With the passing of her mother, Cindy had become the lady of her house at an early age. She’d learned to enjoy bringing order to the chaos, whether it was Jimmy’s dining room or the junk drawer in their house, which received a thorough weekly sorting. Although he’d known he would miss her, Jim Ellis had looked forward to the day she left for college and her chore list was reduced to classwork and turning down dates with unworthy boys.

But just as Cindy was graduating from high school, her dad had developed a cough he just couldn’t shake. When the cough turned out to be late-stage lung cancer, Cindy had deferred college so she could see her father through chemotherapy and make sure the restaurant stayed open, even if the medical bills left them far past bankrupt. By the time he passed, Cindy had been working full-time for three years. College had seemed like a moot point. While she’d loved the restaurant, it was a painful reminder of what she’d lost, and she’d been happy to sell it off to a waitress who expressed interest and had the cash. She’d used the money left over from settling her dad’s debts to start the Cinderella Cleaning Service.

She’d started cleaning inns and B&Bs, working her way up the food chain. Her big break had come when Martha Stark’s rotten teenage son threw a wild party, wrecking several luxurious rooms of her mansion on Cove Road while Martha was out of town for the weekend. Normally, Martha would have deferred to her own housekeeper for such a (regular) occurrence. But Martha was due to host her anniversary party in just a few days, and poor Esther couldn’t handle the cleanup and the party prep.

Cindy thought her father would be proud of what she’d built, her own operation, with her own staff and the pleasure of assessing each challenge as it came along to determine how she could use it as a way to grow. Even if those problems currently included a slightly eccentric boss, an annoying male coworker, and what appeared to be an enormous Scooby-Doo set just waiting to launch spooks at her.

Nina seemed to be intentionally lagging behind to put a bit more space between the men and Cindy and herself. Cindy allowed the delay. Everything about Nina Linden read nervous and fragile , and Cindy doubted it had much to do with lingering seasickness. Oh, sure, Nina was beautiful, in that earthy, natural, the only makeup I wear is ChapStick kind of way. But between the dark circles under her eyes and the way she held her arms around her middle, as if she was trying to hold herself together, the lady was clearly exhausted. She acted as if she was about to file a restraining order against her shadow. And since the two of them would be sharing space for the immediate future, Cindy just couldn’t have that.

“Was there something you wanted to ask me, sweetie?” she inquired. “Something about the dorms? They’re safe, I promise.”

“No, that’s not it,” Nina said. “I was just wondering, did you read anything about Catherine’s . . .”

Cindy made an indelicate choking noise as she mimed being strangled. Nina frowned but nodded.

“About as much as you probably heard around the campfire when we were kids,” Cindy whispered. “A much-celebrated society wife flees her older husband’s palatial, recently completed summer retreat in 1900, only to be found the next morning floating in the bay not two hundred yards from her front door. She had suspicious bruises around her throat. There were a lot of whispers about the Whitneys’ marriage before the murder, and Mrs. Whitney’s spending so much time with the handsome young architect who designed their house didn’t help matters. The husband, Gerald, was immediately suspected and put through the indignity of being questioned by the police, but they either couldn’t or wouldn’t charge him with her murder. Gerald never recovered from the ordeal. The loss of his entire fortune in a series of bad investments sent him into a downward spiral, health-wise. He died in 1903, and their children, Josephine and Junior, were sent to live with relatives. With the debts, the estate was a legal mess. The house was left fully furnished, clothes in closets, objets d’art still on the shelves, everything. The family never managed to recover their reputation or fortune. The house was abandoned, fell into disrepair, and here we are.”

Nina stared at her, hazel eyes wide. “Jake was right about you.”

Cindy’s own eyes narrowed at Jake, who had been frequently checking over his shoulder to make sure the girls were keeping up. “What did Rumson say about me?”

“That you were good at organizing,” Nina said. “That summary of the Whitneys’ sordid past was succinct and factoid-packed.”

Cindy blushed. “Oh, well, I like to keep things tidy.”

“I can’t believe they never proved Gerald Whitney did it,” Nina said. “It’s so sad that a death like that went unpunished.”

Cindy had no problem believing it. Growing up as one of the “less advantaged” residents of Newport, she’d lived around the comfortably rich for as long as she could remember. From the time she was a preteen, she’d seen the seedier side of that glittering world. As a maid, she’d cleaned up unspeakable messes. She’d dodged the sons’ (and husbands’) roaming hands. Rich people had a habit of trying to get away with more than the average person, because they thought they could buy their way out of the consequences. She liked to believe that Deacon Whitney was different, from what she’d seen so far, but she reserved the right to revert to her original opinion.