Dangerous Waters (25 page)

John glanced at his daughter, but her face stayed averted. "Suppose I bring her about noon?" he said.

"Good." She hesitated, then looked up at him. "Would you like a cup of coffee? Or tea?"

The offer was obviously no more than polite, and even so he refused only with reluctance. "You must be tired. And Emma and I both have to pack."

Marian told herself firmly that she was relieved. He had a strangely unsettling effect on her, one she didn't even like to acknowledge. If she were ever to fall in love again, which at this point in her life she found difficult to imagine, it wouldn't be with a man who spent more time away from home than he did with his motherless daughter.

When he and Emma were gone and Marian was involved in the nightly rituals of bathing her twins, of cuddling them and reading stories and tucking them in, a peripheral part of her consciousness puzzled over the two who had left—the child with the frightened brown eyes and the man who had looked so tenderly at his daughter but was prepared to leave her with a stranger for the weekend—not just this weekend, but all the ones to come in the next—what?—three months? Four months? Did all men lack some basic instinct for nurturing? she wondered, giving her own sleepy children a soft kiss as she pulled the covers up to their chins and left them in the warm glow from their mouse nightlight.

Tired, she began to run soapy water into the kitchen sink automatically, wanting nothing more than to finish cleaning up so that she could go to bed herself. But tonight her thoughts were relentless, the remembered ache of betrayal sharp in her throat. She knew the unfairness of turning her bitterness on John McRae, who at least had not abandoned his child. But he had sparked too many memories, ruffling the hard-won serenity she had achieved. Unfair or not, she resented that.

ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE

By Janice Kay Johnson

CHAPTER 1

"You'll be able to catch a glimpse of the house as soon as we go around this next bend."

Abigail McLeod was looking forward to her passengers' reactions. She deliberately hadn't prepared them, not even showing them a picture. That way the impact would be greater. Abigail was convinced that the old Irving House was perfect for the Petersons, a middle-aged couple in the market for an executive home. She had become the listing agent for the historical mansion only two days before, and she was determined to sell it herself. Having the Petersons walk into her office this morning was pure luck. Buyers who could afford the million-dollar plus price tag were few and far between.

The last curve of the narrow country road circled up and around the flank of a small grassy hill crowned with an orchard of ancient, gnarled apple trees. Wild flowers bloomed beneath them. Abigail heard Mrs. Peterson's drawn-in breath, sensed Mr. Peterson's stillness after he'd leaned sharply forward. It was the sight of the first turret that had done it, with the delicate pattern of shingles and the tiny round window high up catching the afternoon sunlight. Abigail smiled with quiet satisfaction, although she didn't take her gaze from the road. It was too easy to miss the drive, which these days was little more than two ruts that cut through the waist-high, golden-green grass of the pasture.

As soon as she'd turned her red Honda Accord into the lane, however, her own gaze stole up to the house. With its conical towers and small balconies, the intricate patterns of the fish scale shingling and the delicate gingerbread, it would to Abigail be forever evocative of princesses and dragons, of Rapunzel letting down her hair from the tower.

"It's magnificent!" Mr. Peterson murmured as the car crested the drive and the house came into full view, down to its granite-block foundation. "When was it built?"

"Eighteen ninety-one," Abigail answered matter-of-factly. "Locally it's called the Irving House. William Irving was a timber baron. His wife was English, and apparently he promised that if she married him, she wouldn't have to give up anything. Remember that Washington had only been a state for two years and the Puget Sound area was still practically a frontier. It probably sounded like the ends of the earth to a well-bred Englishwoman, but when the house was finished in 1893, she married him."

Mrs. Peterson looked enraptured with the story. "How romantic! And did they live happily ever after?"

"They had eight children," Abigail informed them. "Who fought tooth and nail over Papa's empire after he'd died. In the end two of them won. The oldest son took the timber business and the house, and another the railroad and shipping interests. A couple of the daughters married other local businessmen, and several of the children went back to England with their mother, never to be heard of again. The house has been occupied by a member of the family until the old man who owned it died just recently. That partly explains why it's in such excellent condition."

"But you said it's occupied?"

A tiny frown creased Abigail's forehead, although she didn't let her tone reflect her uneasiness. "Yes, by a renter. I called to let him know we'd be coming."

Abigail couldn't entirely explain, even to herself, why she was so worried about the renter. He'd been perfectly pleasant on the telephone, informing her agreeably that he would be there, but he'd try to stay out of their way. The man couldn't help the fact that he had such an unusual voice, low and a little gravelly. Actually, it was rather sexy, bringing to Abigail's mind a fleeting but all too vivid image of the rasp of a shaven chin against softer skin.

Maybe that was the only reason she had this odd feeling about him; he'd unwittingly reminded her of her own vulnerability, something she'd as soon not think about these days. She was too busy supporting herself and her four-year-old daughter, as well as trying to be a good single mother, to waste time on romantic—or sexual—fantasies.

She suspected, however, that the small worry in the back of her mind had originated the day she'd looked over the house with the present owner, Ed Phillips, a great-nephew of the old man who had died. Standing out in front by her car, she had asked him about the signs of occupation. The unwashed breakfast dishes, the faded jeans tossed on the bed, the razor lying by the bathroom sink, had made her wonder if whoever lived in the house had expected this visit.

Ed Phillips was the area's biggest contractor, a strongly built man in his early forties who was starting to put on a little too much weight, although in his case it simply made his presence more imposing. He could be very charming, although Abigail had a feeling that charm would disappear quickly if he were crossed. She wasn't sure she liked the man, but she was very eager to sell this house for him. He'd promised to throw more business her way if she did, business she desperately needed.

At her question about the house's occupant, he had frowned and glanced over his shoulder, as though he expected someone to appear on the porch. It remained empty, of course, but for a moment he continued to stare moodily up at the house. Clearly, Abigail had reminded him of something unpleasant. It was an odd reaction, one that made her apprehensive.

But then, few things were ever as perfect as this deal seemed to be. Wasn't there always a catch? The only question now was what Ed was going to spring on her. Did the renter keep a killer Doberman pinscher roaming the grounds that she would be expected to decoy whenever she wanted to bring buyers out? Or did the man work at night, so that she would never be able to show the house during the hours any sane person would want to see it? Or... She rummaged in her mind through past experiences for something suitably unpleasant.

But then Ed Phillips gave himself a little shake and turned back to her with an easy grin. "Sorry. Did you ask about the renter?"

Abigail raised her brows slightly and nodded.

"He won't be any problem," Ed said. "I'm lucky to have someone to keep the place up. Really lucky. And quite a bit of the furniture in there is his. Dresses the house up a little. So don't worry. It's a good thing he's here."

Abigail didn't probe. She also didn't believe him. He'd sounded too much as though he were trying to convince himself. She could only trust that he would have been honest with her if the renter was likely to present her any particular problem.

Now, as she eased her car to a stop in front of the house, Abigail could see the rear end of a pickup truck in the shadowy recesses of the old clapboard-sided carriage house. She ignored its presence, however, as she switched off the ignition and smiled at Mrs. Peterson, who was in the front seat with her.

"It's too bad that the landscaping has been neglected," she commented, having found in the past that bringing any sore points out into the open worked best. In this case, the knee-high weeds that choked the formal flower beds and the straggling boxwoods could hardly be ignored. "But there are plenty of beautiful old plants here to work with. Well, you can see that for yourself. It wouldn't be at all like starting from scratch with a new house."

It was true. Huge old rhododendrons promised a spectacular spring. Following the curve of the drive was a row of peonies with only a few gaps, the plump deep-pink and white heads showing through the long grass. The scent of the roses that scrambled up trellises beneath the front porch drifted in the open car window along with the faint buzzing of the bees. Abigail didn't make a move for a minute, subtly letting the sheer quiet of the country make its effect felt on the Petersons. At last she opened her car door.

As they climbed the front steps, Mr. Peterson said, "You're sure the place has been completely redone? It's impressive, I'll grant you that, but Betty and I aren't prepared to pour time and effort into the bottomless well I know these old houses can be."

"People do get in over their heads, don't they?" Abigail agreed pleasantly. "But the Irving House is different. As I explained to you, the owner, Mr. Phillips, is a highly respected local contractor. Under his direction, the roof, the plumbing, and the wiring have all been replaced. Mr. Phillips supervised the work himself. All that's left to be done is decorating. I'm sure you'll find the wallpapers old-fashioned, for example. But picking your own is the fun part, isn't it?"

The oval center of beveled glass in the elaborately carved front door allowed a glimpse into the wide hallway laid with a muted rose Oriental rug, while the tall leaded-glass windows on each side of the door scattered the sunlight into glittering shards of color. The door opened easily under Abigail's hand, and she put her key back in her purse.

"Hello?" she called into the silence. The muffled clang of metal against metal somewhere in the far reaches of the house was the only answer. "Hello," she called again, louder, but there was still no response. Abigail hesitated, wondering whether she should track the man down before she started showing the house, but decided not to. He expected them, after all.

A wide, graceful staircase with beautifully turned balusters rose from the elegant entry hall with its marble floor and polished oak paneling. Mr. Peterson went one way, drawn by the beveled-glass-fronted bookcases in the library, while Mrs. Peterson peered into the front parlor. "The ceilings must be fourteen feet high!" she exclaimed, impressed. "And the floors are beautiful. Are they oak?"

"No, maple," Abigail informed her. "The wainscoting and woodwork in here are, too." A magnificent marble fireplace dominated one end of the room, made airy by the extremely high ceiling banded with delicate plaster garlands.

The front rooms were skimpily furnished; Abigail knew that when he'd inherited it, Ed Phillips had emptied the house of the more valuable furnishings, keeping a few treasures and selling the rest. She had to assume the lovely pieces here belonged to the mysterious renter, who clearly had very good taste and loved antiques.

It was while Mrs. Peterson was opening and closing cupboard doors in the kitchen that Abigail first became conscious of the smell. Faint but unpleasant, it had been with them since she first opened the front door, she realized now. Neither of the Petersons had commented yet, so Abigail glanced around casually, wondering if the renter needed to take his garbage out. Something was certainly rotting somewhere. But the bag under the sink was empty, and the sink itself and the new Italian tile counters were spotlessly clean. Abigail frowned, and wrenched herself back with an effort to answer a question from Mr. Peterson.

"Yes, the sink and countertops are new. There is a disposal now, and, of course, a dishwasher."

The Petersons murmured as they wandered through the kitchen with its glass-fronted maple cabinets, and Abigail lapsed into silence again. She liked to give potential buyers the space to really get a feel for what they were seeing. At the moment, though, there was more to it. She was increasingly bothered by the odor, which she was certain was becoming stronger. Mrs. Peterson's nose twitched a little as she, too, looked into the cupboard under the sink as though involuntarily drawn. Another housewife wanting to throw out the trash, Abigail diagnosed.

She cleared her throat, forcing a chuckle. "Smells like the renter must have made egg salad sandwiches this morning, doesn't it?"

They both laughed, too, and seemed to relax. "Is there a bathroom on this floor?" Mr. Peterson asked.

Abigail didn't like the association, but smiled. "Yes, indeed, and three more upstairs. There's a utility room back this way, too, with a chute from both floors above. I'm sure with children you'll appreciate that!" She led the way, her high heels clicking on the polished wood floor.

The instant Abigail swung open the bathroom door, she wished she hadn't. A condensed odor that any pulp mill would have been proud to claim wafted out, a thickness in the air so palpable it should have been visible. Gagging, she stumbled back a step, bumping into Mr. Peterson, who was retreating just as quickly. Abigail had just the presence of mind to pull the bathroom door with her, sealing the worst of the sulphurous stench in.