Molly Harper - Better Homes and Hauntings

Rick wandered the hall of the long-abandoned nursery wing. The wallpaper hung from the walls in long, tattered strips. But in his head, he saw polished floors and silk-covered walls hung with pictures of his family and his glory days, pitching for his high school’s baseball team. This was his home now, his by right. He saw what he wanted, and he took it. That was the way the world worked. People like him knew that.

Now all he had to do to make things perfect was to find that bag. He knew where it was, of course, it was just a matter of . . . Where the hell was it? He needed to listen to the voice. The voice in his head hadn’t led him wrong so far. But his head was so fuzzy, and his eyes wouldn’t focus on the far end of the hall. He was so very sleepy, and he just wanted to close his eyes for a few minutes.

No.

He needed those jewels. The voice had promised the jewels to him. He needed them; he deserved them after what that bitch had done to undercut him. Now, if he could just focus on what the voice had told him.

In his own bed, on the mainland, Rick snapped awake. He would go back to the island the next day and keep looking.

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?”