Better Homes and Hauntings (9 page)

The empty fireplace at the far end of the entryway was dark and dirty. She could make out lighter places on the faded cream silk wallpaper where paintings had once hung. There were a few spots on the tables where rings of dust clung to the surface, indicating that some little objet d’art had once stood there but had been snatched years ago.

Even with Deacon’s money, how would they ever make this place feel cozy? It was more than a matter of a few throw pillows and a photo collage. How were they ever supposed to make this tomb into a home? And then, she remembered, Deacon didn’t really want a home. He wanted a showplace, and this house was definitely suited to
that
task.

“I know it doesn’t look like we’ve made much progress,” Cindy said. “Mr. Whitney wanted me to zero in on key areas of the house before we really got down to business.”

Nina could see it in her head, the way it used to be, shining gold leaf and gleaming dark wood. She imagined what sorts of flowers would look best in an explosive arrangement over the round marble-top table. She would use freesia, for their sweet, light perfume, and the citrusy delight of commuter daylilies.

“So the decorating style was called Le Goût Rothschild, which, as far I can tell, means ‘cram as much overpriced crap into your living space as possible,’ ” Cindy said, with the bored yet reverent air of a historical-society maven chosen to give summer tours of the Gilded Age monuments on the mainland. “Unfortunately, generations of Whitneys have been sneaking into the house over the years and picking off the most obvious valuables, whatever was left after the bank took its share from Gerald. But Mr. Whitney insists that he wants to keep the style a bit more contemporary anyway. Everything else is going to be restored and scattered around the house or shipped off to said thieving relatives.”

As Cindy led Nina toward large double doors on the
left, from behind which could be heard the murmur of male voices, Nina’s attention was captured by the dark grand staircase that swept majestically from the center of the room to the next landing, splitting in two before ascending to the second floor. It was the sort of staircase that an old black-and-white movie queen might descend wearing a Charles Worth–style gown, to be swept off her feet or devastated by some heartless cad. Had Catherine Whitney ever come down those stairs to make her entrance into a room full of admirers? Her tenure as mistress of the house had been so short. And it sounded as if she’d been so unhappy while she was here. It was doubtful that Catherine had much opportunity to make good memories.

Nina could hear the music in her head, a sedate waltz to give the ladies a chance to show off their carefully practiced skills. She could hear the tinkling of crystal punch cups and murmured conversation. She could feel the warmth of wax tapers and dozens of bodies pressed into the entryway as they waited for the famed Mrs. Whitney to open the first dance. From the corner of her eye, she could see a dark shape hovering at the banister, a feminine shape, from the hips down, a series of tiered, swishing skirts. But the figure had no—

“Hey, we’re going this way,” Cindy said, making Nina jump.

“Sorry.” Nina drew a shaky breath and nodded, trying to keep her face impassive. “Just got distracted.”

“Yeah, dust bunnies the size of tumbleweeds send my OCD tendencies jangling, too. Don’t worry, my crew will get it straightened out,” Cindy said, pulling on Nina’s arm until they entered what was once the
music room. The windows stretched from floor to ceiling, letting grime-filtered light tumble over the remains of moldering couches and battered musical instruments. A grand piano stood collapsed in a corner, one leg bent out from under it. Above their heads, the ceiling was pressed tin, with molded plaster cherub faces in the center of every square.

Nina stared up at the multitude of white babies, frozen with perpetual smiles. “So . . . there’s that.”

“I spent about a day trying to find an explanation for it,” Cindy said, shaking her head. “And then I realized that would only upset me more. Anthony assured me they’re coming down soon. And then they will be destroyed with fire on holy ground.”

Nina and Cindy shuddered in tandem. In the meantime, Deacon was pouring himself what looked like an enormous amount of vodka from an improvised wet bar on a defunct harpsichord.

“Dude!” Jake cried. “It’s eleven o’clock! When I said ‘have a drink,’ I meant soda or an iced tea or something.”

Nina crossed her arms over the chest of her green Demeter Designs T-shirt. “He had liquor, and he put it in here? Why not in the staff quarters?”

“Oh, there’s a bar in the staff quarters, too,” Cindy told her. “On the men’s side.”

“The boys have been holding out on us!” Nina grumbled.

“Well, I stole their tequila yesterday morning, so I think that makes us even. We’re making margaritas this weekend, lady.”

Jake took the bottle out of Deacon’s hand when their
fearless leader began pouring himself a second shot. “Seriously, man, it’s not that bad! You love Dotty. I love Dotty. I don’t see why you’re upset. It will be just like old times, having her around.”

“Just like old times?” Deacon scoffed, snagging the vodka bottle out of his friend’s hand. “Oh, you mean like the time Dotty convinced us that the polo ponies at the club were being mistreated, so we should set them all free? I got grounded for two months!”

“We were eight!” Jake exclaimed.

“I missed space camp!” Deacon shot back. “Or how about our junior year, when Dotty got it into her head that you and Genevieve Malloy were some sort of star-crossed supercouple, so she set up some John Hughes machination to make sure you ended up together on prom night?”

“That one wasn’t that bad, actually.” Jake shook his head.

“Yeah, until Genevieve’s Cro-Magnon gorilla of a boyfriend saw you and tried to kick your ass. I jumped in, like an idiot, to defend you and ended up with fourteen stitches in my scalp. Or how about when we were in college, and Dotty decided I needed a tattoo, got me drunk, and took me to ‘her’ tattoo guy?”

“OK, OK, I get the point,” Jake said, snagging the bottle out of Deacon’s hands.

“Misspelled!” Deacon exclaimed, gesturing at his shoulder blade. “In two places!”

“In her defense, it’s binary code, so no one knows that it’s misspelled. And technically, it’s not misspelled; some of the numbers are just out of order. So it’s misnumbered.”

“
I
know it’s misnumbered!” Deacon groused. “It’s not that I don’t love my cousin. You know that I do. It’s just that she sows destruction and chaos wherever she goes. She’s like a chipper, chirpy goddess Kali.”

“Try saying that three times fast,” Jake muttered.

“Deacon, what is your problem with me being here?” Dotty demanded from the doorway, hands on hips. She’d removed the colorful scarves, revealing a wild shoulder-length mane of dark chestnut hair streaked with purple and red. The eyes that had been hidden by oversized sunglasses were so blue they were practically Liz Taylor violet. She looked like a delicate, whimsical—and at the moment, very pissed-off—creature from the Irish fairy tales that Nina’s nana used to tell her. All puckish good humor until you crossed her, and then she salted your farmland and turned your milk cows sour.

Jake stood behind Dotty, arms crossed and leaning against the doorframe, surveying the scene with a shell-shocked expression as Dotty stood toe-to-toe with her cousin and poked him in the chest.

“You know how seriously I’m taking this book project. You know how important it is to me to finish it before you toss our family history into the Dumpster.”

“First, that family-history crack was uncalled for,” Deacon told her, poking his finger at her forehead. He did it without much force, but it seemed to annoy Dotty thoroughly. “And second, pardon me if I don’t take your commitment to this project very seriously. Oh, I know, it’s very important to you. Just like it was very important to you to spend eight months documenting the deterioration of cave paintings in Australia, which became less
important when you decided to do a coffee-table book on the annual migration of red crabs across Christmas Island, which became less important when you decided to do a book on modern-day prospectors in Alaska. And then you decided to take off to Mexico to do sunrise studies of ancient Mayan ruins, which somehow ended up becoming a two-month-long trip down to Brazil because you met a guy who owned an emerald mine. Look, I love you, but writing this book you’ve planned is going to be another thing that turns out to be less important than whatever comes up next. And in the meantime, you’re distracting my staff, interfering with my progress, and generally being a pain in my ass. And frankly, I’m getting a little tired of being the guy who cleans up your messes, bails you out of jail, or ends up with a misspelled tattoo!”

“He bailed you out of jail?” Nina asked, frowning.

“It was just a little protest on my college campus,” Dotty assured her. “No big deal. The campus security guards had no sense of humor.”

“She was naked,” Deacon told Nina.

“I was a little naked,” Dotty admitted. “But it was for a good cause.”

“You were protesting the use of hormone-injected chicken in the campus cafeteria. How did that cause require you to be naked?” Jake asked, giving in to the need for a large drink.

“I think we’re going to like her,” Cindy told Nina.

Nina raised her hand. “I have a question. You’re going to write a book about the house?”

Dotty beamed at Nina and practically skipped across the music room to throw her arms around her. She gave
her a tight hug and then moved on to give Cindy similar treatment. Jake immediately poured Nina and Cindy their own drinks. “Yes! Well, it’s not so much a book about the house as it is about our family. I’m a writer and photographer—”

This declaration was met by weary groans from Jake and Deacon.

Dotty glared at both of them. “Shut it, you two.”

Shooing Jake away from the bar, Cindy poured Dotty a large drink of her own.

Dotty continued, “I’m a writer and a photographer, an art form I
happen
to take very seriously. I plan on documenting the entire renovation process, showing the house in its present decayed state and then whatever Deacon decides to do with it. I want to publish the pictures in a book explaining the house’s history and how its construction affected our family.”

“Air out our family laundry, you mean?” Deacon flopped into a nearby wingback chair, which buckled even under his slight weight.

“Deacon, it’s been a hundred years. Trust me, that laundry’s flapped in the breeze for quite a while. If anything, a book like this might clear up some of the more salacious rumors. And once I get my hands on Great-great-grandmother Catherine’s diary—”

“Which has never been found,” Deacon interjected.

Dotty glared at him. “And sorted through the family photos and documents—”

“Which have been ransacked and scattered all over the house by our dear relatives.”

“I’m sure I’ll be able to put together a more accurate picture of Catherine and Gerald,” Dotty finished
huffily. “And I’m sure I’ll be able to explain the Whitney curse and why you seem to have been able to break it.”

“There’s no Whitney curse!” Deacon scowled.

“Oh, and there are no ghosts roaming the halls of the Crane’s Nest, right?” Dotty shot back. “Despite the fact that almost every person who has visited this house in the last hundred years has had some sort of unsettling experience here. And I’m sorry, but what do you call it when—with the exception of you—no Whitneys have been able to make anything of themselves since Gerald Whitney? Any time a Whitney descendant starts a business venture or marries into a prominent family, that venture or that family is bankrupt within a year. The Whitney curse. Pretty soon, not even the pedigree was enough to tempt rich suitors or investors. The only thing the family has left is the island, this house, and what’s left of its contents. And the only reason the family was able to hold on to it was that it was a land trust from the governor. Deacon here somehow broke the chain. I’m hoping that researching the book will help me figure out why.”

Deacon drained his glass. “You are aware that there have already been three books published about Catherine and Gerald.”

Dotty huffed out an irritated breath. A series of nasty pulp tell-all paperbacks had “reimagined” their great-great-grandmother’s bitter end every twenty years or so. The first, in the 1940s, was the least offensive, postulating that Gerald had killed Catherine in a fit of jealous rage over her star-crossed love affair with Jack Donovan, the architect of the Crane’s Nest and a former
childhood friend of Mrs. Whitney’s, and then used the fire in the south wing to distract the staff long enough to dump her body offshore. In the early 1960s, another book insisted that mounting debts and the sheer, overwhelming expense of building the house had sent Gerald into a resentful, murderous tailspin. Hollywood attempted to adapt that version into a thinly veiled feature film, which was slated to star Marilyn Monroe until her death shut down production. And in the late 1970s, the last, most vicious author to rewrite Whitney history accused Gerald of murdering Catherine in an opium-fueled rage after he found her in flagrante with her lady’s maid.

For the first time since her arrival, Dotty frowned, muttering into her tumbler of vodka. “Yeah, and personally, I find it depressing, not just that the slander was so thorough but that investigators refused to deviate from the idea that Gerald killed his wife. No other suspect would do. It’s closed-minded, which isn’t tolerable. But it’s also unimaginative, which is downright unforgivable. And none of those books was written with a family perspective. Face it, Deacon, I have just as much right to be here as you do. I don’t resent you getting the house. Your dad was the oldest, and it was right that it passed to him, then you. But you know that you don’t have it in that logical, mathematical heart of yours to shut me out. You need me here. Jake and I keep you human.”

“You and Jake keep my insurance adjusters busy.” Deacon snorted.

Jake made an indignant sound. “That’s not—Wait, OK, that’s fair.”