The Blackstone Chronicles (35 page)

Instantly he knew what he would do with the handkerchief.

As he found some paper with which to wrap his gift, Oliver imagined the look of delight on the recipient’s face as she opened it.

Even if old Edna Burnham was right, he thought, and the gifts that had apparently come from nowhere to the homes of Elizabeth McGuire and Jules Hartwick and Martha Ward had brought with them some kind of evil, there could be no doubt where
this
gift had come from.

It had come from his own attic, where it had been stored for more years than he could remember.

And Rebecca would love it.

“R
ebecca?
Rebecca!
I want you!”

Rebecca Morrison cringed as the querulous voice ricocheted from the floor above, immediately followed by the hollow thumping of a rubber-tipped cane pounding against bare hardwood planks. She had come home from the library early today, sent by Germaine to clean out the cupboards under the sink. She wasn’t certain exactly why this chore had to be accomplished today, since it didn’t look to her as if anyone had cleaned anything out from under the kitchen sink for at least twenty years, but it was what Germaine wanted her to do, and she knew she owed Germaine a very great deal. Germaine, after all, had explained it to her the day after the fire that had destroyed her aunt’s home.

“I hope you understand what a sacrifice Mother and I are making,” Germaine had said. She was perched on the edge of the single straight-backed chair that, save for the bed, was the only place to sit in the small attic room that Rebecca had been given. “Except for the cleaning girl, Mother isn’t used to having anyone but me in the house. However, if you’re very quiet, she might get used to you. We’ll have to let the cleaning girl go, of course, but with your extra hands to help us out, I don’t think we’ll miss her too much, will we?”

Rebecca shook her head, as she knew she was expected to do, and when she spoke, it was in the hushed
tone she’d learned to use in the library. “I’ll be careful not to disturb Mrs. Wagner at all,” she said.

“You mustn’t call Mother ‘Mrs. Wagner,’ ” Germaine had instructed her. “After all, you’re not the cleaning girl, are you? I think if you call her Miss Clara, that will be fine.” Rebecca thought calling a widow who was nearly eighty “Miss” was a little strange, but after having worked for Germaine at the library, she knew better than to argue with her. “We’ll be just like a little family, taking care of each other,” Germaine said with a sigh of satisfaction, and for a moment Rebecca thought the woman might just reach out and pat her on the knee. Instead, she rose from the chair and, in the tone of a grande dame, added, “It isn’t everyone who would have taken you in, Rebecca. You should be very grateful to Mother for allowing you to live here.”

“Oh, I am,” Rebecca quickly assured her. “And I really like this room, Germaine. I mean, what would I put in the dressers and closets in all the big bedrooms downstairs?”

For some reason, her words seemed to make Germaine angry; Rebecca saw her lips tighten into the thin line she used to silence rowdy children in the library, but then she’d turned and left.

Left alone, Rebecca had unpacked her few belongings. All her clothes and possessions had perished in the fire, but she’d purchased some necessary items, and Bonnie Becker, Ed’s wife, had brought over some clothing that morning. (“I won’t hear of your refusing me,” Bonnie had said to her. “These things are almost brand new and they just don’t fit. They’ll be absolutely perfect on you.”) After Rebecca hung up the four blouses, one skirt, and two pairs of jeans, and stowed the meager supply of underwear in the tiny pine chest that squatted beneath the one dormer window in the attic room, she started back downstairs. Clara Wagner’s shrill voice stopped her just as she was passing the old woman’s open door on the second floor, near the foot of the stairs leading to the attic.

“You will bring me a pot of coffee every morning,” the old woman had instructed her from the wheelchair in which she was sitting. “Not so hot it will burn my tongue, but not cold either. Do you understand?”

For the next two weeks, Rebecca had done her best, and finally got it right. But more often than not, satisfying Miss Clara’s exacting tastes meant running up and down the stairs at least three times every morning before she and Germaine were finally able to leave for work at the library. During the evenings, and on her days off from the library, she’d been busy catching up on all the housework the cleaning girl never seemed to have gotten around to doing.

Now, her unsuccessful attempt to scrub away the cupboard stains was interrupted by Clara Wagner’s voice piercing through the vast reaches of the house. Rebecca stood up, stretched her aching back, and let the rag she’d been using drop back into the sink, which was filled with a mixture of hot water, detergent, and bleach.

Leaving the kitchen, she made her way through the walnut-paneled dining room, then into the immense foyer. The pride of the house, the entry hall rose a majestic three stories, crowned by an immense stained-glass skylight set in the roof above, its sunburst pattern filling the huge space with a rainbow of color. On the second-floor level, a broad mezzanine circled the foyer. At the end of the hall opposite the double front doors rose a sweeping staircase that split halfway up, branching in both directions. Sometime after the house had been built, an elevator had been installed on the left side of the foyer, directly opposite the marble-manteled fireplace that dominated the right side. Rebecca had been cautioned that she was never to use the elevator; it was only to be used by Clara Wagner on her infrequent forays to the first floor of her house. Rebecca caught herself holding her breath every time the old lady pushed the button that set the machinery, hidden somewhere in the
attic, to grinding ominously as the ornate brass cage rattled slowly from the first floor to the second, or back down. Someday, Rebecca was certain, the ancient contraption was going to break down. She only hoped that Clara Wagner wasn’t in the cage when it happened.

As Rebecca mounted the long flight of stairs, the old woman’s cane struck the floor twice more. “Rebecca!”

“I’m coming, Miss Clara,” she called. “I’ll be there in just a second!” Reaching the second floor, she hurried down the long mezzanine toward the room next to the attic stairs.

“Must you shout?” Clara Wagner demanded as Rebecca stepped through her open door. “I’m not deaf, you know!”

“I’m sorry, Miss Clara,” Rebecca apologized. “I was in the kitchen trying to—”

“Do you think I care what you were doing?” Clara demanded. Her wheelchair was drawn up close to the room’s fireplace, in which a few embers were glowing brightly. With one clawlike hand she pulled her shawl tighter around her thin shoulders, while she used the other to jab her cane toward a glass that sat on a table no more than two feet away.

“Hand me that glass,” she said. “And put some more wood on the fire. It’s freezing in here.”

“Would you like me to turn the heat up?” Rebecca offered.

Clara glared at her. “Do you have any idea what oil costs these days? No, of course you don’t! Why would you? You always had your aunt to take care of you, didn’t you?”

“Heating oil costs a dollar a gallon,” Rebecca offered.

“Don’t you dare mock me, Rebecca Morrison!” the old woman snapped. “You might get away with it with my fool of a daughter, but I won’t tolerate it. As long as you’re living under my roof, you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head!”

Rebecca’s face burned with shame. “I’m so sorry, Miss Clara,” she began. “I didn’t mean to—”

Clara jabbed her sharply with the cane. “Don’t tell me what you meant and what you didn’t mean! Now, what are you waiting for? Hand me that glass, and do something about that fire. And mind you, don’t leave the door open when you bring the wood in! I hate a draft as much as I hate laziness,” she added, glaring pointedly at Rebecca.

Rebecca handed her the glass from the table, then hurried out of the room and downstairs. The woodpile was back behind the garage; Germaine had forbidden her to move any of the firewood closer to the laundry room door, where it would have been much handier. “The woodpile has always been behind the garage, Rebecca,” Germaine had explained. “And that is where it will stay. Mother doesn’t like to see things out of their usual place.”

Rebecca, though, was fairly sure that Clara Wagner hadn’t been anywhere near the laundry room in years. Except for her brief public appearance at Elizabeth McGuire’s funeral, Rebecca doubted the old woman had even been outside the house in years. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to argue with either of the women who had been kind enough to take her into their own home. Picking up the leather sling that was the only thing Germaine allowed her to carry wood in, she went out to the backyard, stacked five pieces of wood into the carrier, and returned to Clara’s room.

“That’s hardly enough to keep me warm for the evening,” the old woman observed tartly as Rebecca piled three of the logs onto the fire, then used a bellows to fan the embers back to life.

“I’ll bring more later on,” Rebecca promised. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was nearly five. “Right now I have to finish in the kitchen. Germaine wanted the cupboard under the sink clean before she came home today.”

“Then I suggest you don’t waste any more time chattering,” Clara told her. “And I shall have tea this afternoon. In the front parlor. Have it ready at six. And I don’t mean ready in the kitchen at six, Rebecca. Have it in the
parlor at
six!”

“Yes, Miss Clara,” Rebecca replied, scurrying out of the room.

As she returned to the kitchen, she wondered—not for the first time—if perhaps she’d made a mistake moving in here. But where else could she go? Oliver had offered to take her in—he was so sweet—but Germaine made it clear that such an improper arrangement simply would not do. Even now Rebecca could remember Germaine’s words as she’d brought her into the house the night of the fire.

“There aren’t many people who would do this for you, Rebecca. So I suggest you make everything as easy for Mother and me as you possibly can.”

Since then, Rebecca had been laboring to please Germaine and her mother, and she would continue to. But sometimes it seemed that no matter what she did, it was never quite enough.

As she lowered herself back down to her hands and knees, determined to go after the stain under the sink and vanquish it, Rebecca chastised herself for her ingratitude.

She would just have to try a little harder to please Miss Clara, and everything would be all right.

They would be just like a little family—just the way Germaine had said.

Oliver’s timing was almost perfect: he’d added fifteen extra minutes to his estimate of the time it would take him to stroll along the path through the woods to the top of Harvard Street, then down to Main and over to the library. Ten minutes had been added in response to his
spring fever, which had noticeably worsened as the weather improved throughout the afternoon. He’d tacked on another five to account for a few minutes to survey again the ruins of Martha Ward’s house: he was still trying to fathom the twists of psychosis that had led to that strange night a month ago when Martha had burned the place down around herself while she prayed in the flickering light of her votive candles, surrounded by her beloved religious icons. The fire chief determined that the blaze had been deliberate, but no one had yet found any trace of the dragon-shaped cigarette lighter, although Rebecca guessed that they’d find it in the ashes that were all that remained of her aunt’s chapel. While he’d said nothing to Rebecca, Oliver privately suspected that someone—perhaps one of the volunteer firemen—had indeed found it, and simply pocketed it as a macabre souvenir of that terrible night. Still, after circling the blackened pit where the house had once stood, he’d poked among the ashes for a minute or so on the off chance that he might stumble upon it.

He hadn’t.

Now, at precisely five minutes before the library was due to close, he jogged up the steps and pushed through the double set of doors. As usual, Germaine Wagner glanced up as Oliver entered her domain; also as usual, her expression hardened into a thin-lipped grimace as she recognized him. Since Rebecca had moved into the Wagners’ house, Oliver had decided, Germaine’s disapproval of him had grown stronger than ever. When a quick glance around didn’t reveal Rebecca, he forced himself to give Germaine a friendly smile and approached the counter.

“Is Rebecca around?” he asked, hoping to seem casual, though he did not feel at all nonchalant.

“No,” Germaine replied. For a moment there was an impasse as the editor and the librarian gazed at each
other, neither of them willing to impart any more information than absolutely necessary.

Oliver broke first. “She isn’t sick, is she? Did she come to work?”

Germaine Wagner seemed to weigh the possibility of getting him to leave without pressing her with endless questions but quickly decided the chances were close to nil. “Rebecca’s fine,” she reported. “She simply left early today. There were some chores at home she needed to complete.”