Leona Karr - Charmed

Jonathan had quickly risen to his feet. He was a man of medium height and weight, slightly round-shouldered, with a furrowed brow which seemed to reflect heavy responsibilities. As acting head of the family, he looked older than fifty.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Davis.” He offered his hand. “I regret the unhappy circumstances,” he added in an apologetic tone.

“Damned confounding! That’s what it is,” bellowed the seventy-nine-year-old Clayton. As he fastened wrinkle-lidded eyes on Ashley, he clamped his sagging mouth shut and lapsed into a belligerent silence.

“Is there anything new?” Jonathan quickly asked Brad, ignoring his father’s outburst.

“Not yet.”

“This must be very trying for you, Miss Davis,” Jonathan said sympathetically.

“How could such a thing like this happen?” Ashley demanded, worry and bewilderment in her voice.

“Very unfortunate,” Jonathan agreed in a people-management tone.

“Just awful,” Ellen echoed. “She was…is…a very pleasant and agreeable young woman. All of this is too frightful to believe. What could have—”

“Where is your home, Miss Davis?” Jonathan asked, deliberately interrupting.

“San Francisco. I came as soon as I received the news of her disappearance. It took all day because I had to change planes and make three connections.”

Clayton grunted as he leaned forward in his chair. The old man’s heavy-lidded eyes reflected a far-off look, but his voice was surprisingly firm. “Traveling is always exhausting under the best conditions, young lady. Even in a private plane you have to contend with all the time changes.”

An exasperated look crossed Ashley’s tired face. Brad knew her nerves were already threadbare. Trying to cope with mounting anxiety was taking its toll. He quickly intervened.

“Dr. Hadley wanted Miss Davis to have something warm to drink and perhaps a robe around her shoulders.”

“Oh yes, a cup of hot tea,” Ellen responded quickly. “It’s a late hour for coffee, isn’t it? Please sit here, Miss Davis.” She motioned to a nearby chair and as Ashley wearily dropped down into it, Ellen handed her a knitted afghan.

“Thank you,” Ashley said as she spread it over her damp lap and legs.

“I made it myself. Pretty isn’t it?”

As if enjoying the unexpected company, Ellen happily gave her attention to a silver teapot and china cups that were already sitting on a nearby small table.

“I was enjoying a cup of peppermint tea myself,” she bubbled. “Cream? Sugar? Lemon?”

Ashley just nodded as if making a choice was too demanding. Brad took the cup of tea from Ellen and carefully placed it in Ashley’s trembling hands.

“I expect you would probably prefer a highball, Officer Taylor,” Jonathan spoke up as if he’d already anticipated Brad’s answer.

“I never drink on the job,” Brad answered evenly. He’d learned earlier in life that it was better not to socialize with any of the island’s wealthy inhabitants.

Even as a teenager growing up on Greystone, he’d viewed the Langdons’ social whirl from afar. Since he’d been back, his contact with the parade of wealthy visitors who rented cottages at the southwest tip of the island had been purely in the line of duty. Only the disappearance of a woman in the Langdon household had gained him entry into this pseudopolite rich society.

After taking a few sips of tea, Ashley said firmly, “Now, I would appreciate hearing from all of you anything you can tell me about my sister’s disappearance.”

“I’m sure Officer Taylor has filled you in,” Jonathan responded smoothly. “We know little more than what we told him.”

“And what was that?” she asked pointedly.

Jonathan looked at Brad as if he expected him to speak up, but Brad deliberately kept silent. Sometimes people tripped themselves up when they tried to repeat the same story in the same way.

Jonathan cleared his voice. “We have arrangements with one of the local housewives to bring fresh produce and seafood to the house every day. She found a woman’s belongings on a cliff not far from here. She brought them to the house, and our housemaid, Clara, recognized them as belonging to your sister. The circumstances seemed dire and we quickly reported her absence.”

“It’s just too awful,” Ellen sighed.

In the weighted silence, Clayton Langdon cleared his throat. Then he barked, “Prepare a room for Miss Ashley. She will be our guest.”

Mrs. Mertz shot Jonathan a questioning look. At his nod, she turned on her ugly shoes and left the room like a soldier with marching orders.

Brad made a mental note to interrogate Mrs. Mertz again. In her position, the housekeeper was bound to know a hell of a lot more about what went on in the house than she had admitted.

“I’ll bring in your suitcase and check back with you in the morning,” he told Ashley as he prepared to leave.

She cleared her voice and took a deep breath. “You need to ask for help,” she said bluntly as her trembling hands held the fragile tea cup. “Surely the Portland police should take some responsibility. They could send someone.”

“Like a rookie cop?” he suggested curtly. It rankled him that she had clearly classified him as a local yokel who couldn’t find his own dog tied to a post. Without another word, he turned and left the room.

THE BEDROOM the housekeeper had prepared for Ashley was on the ocean side of the house. The sound of the surf assaulting the rocky cliffs could be heard above wailing gusts of wind. By the time Ashley had followed Mrs. Mertz through a complex of halls and curved staircases leading to the second floor, she was totally disoriented. The rambling mansion seemed to be a weird maze of rooms and additions to the main structure throughout the years. The housekeeper stopped at the far end of a long hall and opened a bedroom door.

“We’ve already closed up this side of the house for the winter,” Mrs. Mertz informed Ashley without any hint of an apology for the cold and musty smell inside the room.

A large bed with a massive wooden frame stood against one wall, and an old-fashioned chiffonnier matched a free-standing wardrobe and vanity. Even though the furniture was rather massive, there was an air of youth about the faded decor on the walls and the feminine furnishings.

In addition to the overhead light, there was a bedside lamp. Ashley’s small suitcase sat in the middle of a faded, fringed rug; she assumed that a servant must have brought it up earlier.

“Would you like me to turn down the bed?” Mrs. Mertz asked with a glint of amusement in her eyes.

Yes, please, and bring a hot water bottle to warm the covers, Ashley retorted silently. She wished she had the courage to play the spoiled socialite guest and order a housekeeper around.

“I put out an extra comforter and turned on the heater in the bathroom. Is there anything else?”

“Where does that door lead?” Ashley asked, pointing to a door flanked by two tall windows on the ocean side of the room.

“The widow’s walk. It’s a long narrow balcony that runs the length of the original section of the house. Amelia Langdon, the first mistress of the house, is reported to have paced it night and day, hoping for some sign of her husband’s clipper ship coming back from trade in the Indies. This was the master bedroom then.”

“I see.”

The housekeeper’s thin lips curved in a faint smile. “Amelia’s lonely watch never brought him back that last time. His ship was wrecked at sea. Some say she’s still waiting and watching. Sometimes on moonless, stormy nights, the poor lady’s ghostly form has been seen walking right outside that door.”

“Really? How exciting. All these old mansions have their own delightful ghost stories, don’t they?” Not for all the world would Ashley let the housekeeper spook her. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Mertz. I appreciate it.”