Cornucopia (11 page)

“Hear, hear,” I chimed in.

“Does this mean you won’t be working today?” my mother asked.

“Oh, thanks for reminding me,” Uncle Albert said, jumping to his feet. “I’ve got to run. I have a job to do.”

“So you will be working that silly job today?”

“Not exactly.
Chloe, would you mind accompanying me?”

Uncle Albert grabbed one last piece of bacon to take with him on the run. He still hadn’t taken the time to change out of his pajamas. I downed the rest of my orange juice in a few gulps and followed him toward the door. He stopped off in the kitchen and dialed the phone.

“Hello, Bert?” he said into the receiver. “This is Albert Binder. Didn’t I hear you saying while I was at your store that your Christmas sales were down this year? Yep, you’re right, it’s probably the economy. Well, how would you like to make up for lost sales by opening up for an hour this morning?”

Uncle Albert smiled my way and then flashed me a thumbs-up to indicate that he’d received the answer he was waiting for. I couldn’t help but smile back. Then we were out the door and racing to the local store that served the community as grocer, department store, and toy store. Uncle Albert was a whirlwind and must have maxed out all his credit cards on his personal buying spree. He bought toys for the next-door neighbor’s kids, new clothes in
both adult
and children’s sizes, food for a feast, and then came even more toys. By the time we had finished lugging armloads of purchases out of the store, the back of my uncle’s truck was full. Mr. Taggard, the owner of the store, shook my uncle’s hand vigorously and thanked him heartily for his business as we left. Uncle Albert wished him a merry Christmas before hugging him goodbye.

To my surprise we didn’t head straight back to Uncle Albert’s home. Instead, we stopped by Bob’s house. Uncle Albert received a cold welcome from the lady of the house when she opened the front door to find him standing on her stoop.

“May I speak with Bob, please,” he said modestly.

The woman grudgingly stepped aside to reveal her husband who had been standing behind her.

“Mr. Binder, what are you doing here today?” Bob said with some concern.

“Bob, I’m here to offer you a raise and to invite you and your family to Christmas dinner at my home,” Uncle Albert said.

When Uncle Albert spotted the youngest child standing on braced legs and holding onto his father’s pant leg, he dropped down to one knee and addressed him directly.

“Hello, little man. What’s your name?”

“Timmy,” the boy replied shyly.

“Would you like a toy, Timmy?”

“Yes, please.”

“Well then, come with me,” Uncle Albert said, reaching out a hand.

The little boy’s parents showed concern as Uncle Albert led their son slowly across the yard to the back of his truck. When they made it to the truck, Uncle Albert fished a football out of the back and handed it to the boy.

“Here you go, you look like the football-playing type,” he said.

“Gee, thanks, mister,” Timmy said, accepting the toy in wonder.

“Come on kids, I need someone to play with all these toys,” Uncle Albert called back to the house.

The rest of the children rushed from the front door and mobbed my uncle as he proceeded to bellow with laughter while he handed out presents. I remained back on the doorstep with the parents where I shared in the laughter over my uncle’s antics.

That night, Uncle Albert, with the help of me and my mother, presented one of the most luscious Christmas spreads I’ve ever seen. Bob along with wife Mary and their kids were all in attendance. The next-door neighbor’s kids even stopped by for pie afterwards and to open the presents Uncle Albert had gotten them. That night Bob and my uncle discussed plans to repair and expand the house Bob was renting while Albert insisted on lowering the rent. There was even talk of making Bob a full partner in Albert’s business in the near future.

In following years we invited Uncle Albert to come to Hope Falls for Christmas, but he was always already booked to either play Santa Claus at the local children’s hospital or preside over some feast in town. And more importantly, from that first Christmas forward Albert acted as if every day was Christmas and he was Santa Claus. It was said there was no finer or kinder person in the world by his ever growing circle of friends.

As for me, I’m glad I was there to witness my uncle’s transformation. After all, in the end, all there is
is
love.

“But you don’t like haunted houses,” I said, dumbfounded. “Not even a little.”

“But you do. And this has been a rough autumn. And winter. You deserve to have some fun.”

Alex had that right. I had been too busy at Halloween to enter the pumpkin carving contest, had lost most of November to volunteering on a political campaign, and had spent Thanksgiving feeding turkey to a mountain lion. Then there was the episode with the dentist just days before Christmas.

“Anyway, you should ace the scavenger hunt—and first prize is a snowmobile!”

I had no desire for a snowmobile, but I could see that Alex was very taken with the idea and so I resigned myself to spending New Year’s Eve away from home. And I figured he could be right. I might really like going on a scavenger hunt, in a haunted mansion, on an island that could only be reached by boat, in the dead of winter.

Whatever my lingering misgivings with the plan, Blue was dropped off at my parents and Alex and I were on the road early on New Year’s Eve morning. Thankfully we had neither rain nor snow to cope with as we headed for the coast, though a storm was expected later that night.

Gifford House had opted to embrace its bizarre architecture and style itself as a retreat for those who liked mystery weekends, ghost tours, and things of that ilk. Approaching it from the water, painted in shades of red by the dying sun, I couldn’t help but think of that Agatha Christie story,
And Then There Were None
. Thinking about matters literary kept me from feeling the effects of the heaving water.

There were others on the boat with us.
Bill and
Stephie
Grant from Spokane.
They seemed wonderfully sensible and quite normal. The other couple in our boat was a pair of aging
goths
by the name of Crowe who were from Oregon. Crowe might possibly have been their real name but I suspected that it was assumed.

Our captain, Jack
Ermie
, said little on the way out. Perhaps he had grown jaded transporting guests to the island and was tired of recounting the history of the house to visitors. I rather thought that the owners of Gifford House were missing an opportunity because a good ghost story on the ride out could get people primed. They could even have one of their staff pose as a guest.

Captain
Ermie
set us down at the dock and wasted no time in getting away. He gave the impression of a man wanting to be well away from the island before dark fell. Or perhaps he just wanted to be off the water when it started raining.

I had been aware of a high thin sound even above the waves smacking at the dock but it grew louder as we neared the house. The wind, it was just the wind, but the sound was eerie enough to bother Alex who lacks my imagination. The house sprawled out but also up and it had two towers, one three stories, the other four. The taller one was narrow and covered in some kind of vine that looked like scales.

“Did you say we were in a tower bedroom?” I asked Alex.

“Yes. We’re on the fourth floor. It’s supposed to have a great view.”

Uh-huh, and probably no bath.

The builder had understood drama. The front door was reached up a flight of stone steps made out of some kind of dark granite being
encroached
upon by some sort of creeper. Our hostess was waiting for us in the massive doorway, holding up an oil lantern which I hoped was just for effect and not because we had lost power.

“Good evening,” Mrs. Black said, giving a fair impersonation of the evil Mrs. Danvers from
Rebecca
.

We all said good evening back but everyone except David and Isobel Crowe sounded uncertain. With the weather closing in and the deepening darkness, I don’t think we were ready to commit to the idea that it would be a good evening at all.

The entry hall was large with a highly polished floor of black stone that managed to look like water from the black lagoon. I looked around at the lighting which was cleverly done to enhance but not distract from the gloomy atmosphere, and began to feel some relief that the oil lamp was just for atmosphere. Pretend haunted is fun; real haunted, not so much.

Other guests joined us in the lobby. They were dressed for a cocktail party and I think all us new arrivals were aware that we were windblown and salt sprayed and looking rather shabby.

“There is time to change before dinner,” Mrs. Black said, looking like a waxwork as she began handing out candles—which I was relieved to see were battery operated and not actual naked flames. The house was old and made of very dry wood. They would be crazy to risk handing out live torches to the guests.

Fortunately, since the light from the candles was negligible, there was recessed lighting on the stairs. Again, very subtle but enough to prevent a nasty fall and to highlight the oil portraits on the wall which I was certain had undergone some enhancing. No family could look that sinister generation after generation.

Since Alex had requested a room in the fourth-floor tower, we had a long walk down the right-wing corridor and then a long climb up to our aerie. Since there was no bellman to carry the luggage, we were both perspiring by the time we arrived.

The room was comfortable enough if a bit narrow. There was a fireplace with a surround of nicely carved wood and the bed was a four-poster and covered with fluffy down comforters. We would not have to worry about being cold even if it snowed. The wood panel to the left of the fireplace was slightly crooked, like a door whose hinges had begun to sag. It was hardly surprising. The house was old and was bound to have settled. Up on the fourth floor, every flaw would be cumulative and exaggerated.

As I feared, there wasn’t a full bath, but there was a small room inside what looked like an armoire with a toilet and a sink. That would do for the time being. Warned by the website, I had included a dress—a wool one with beading so it was elegant enough for cocktails. Alex had brought his smoking jacket which he thought made him look like Noel Coward. Five minutes later and we were ready to tackle the stairs again.

I can’t recall exactly what order I met all the guests in. The first were Grace and George Allen, recent retirees from southern California. George was a little loud but outgoing. His wife apparently didn’t feel that she needed to make much effort since her husband was so much the life and soul of the party all on his own. There were the Harts, Tammy and Daryl.
And Peter and Rhonda Schwartz.

We bolted down a
preprandial
glass of wine in the library. Or Alex did. I sipped once, found it too dry, and passed it along to the spouse. I’m not great with alcohol anyway and I figured it would be best if I kept my wits about me for the treasure hunt. While Alex talked computers with Daryl Hart, I wandered over to the fire to admire the rather gothic surround and chimney which had both angels and gargoyles. It was nice and warm by the fire, but it also reminded me of something I had seen online while looking up information about historic homes in Virginia.

In the old days, people in Europe had secret passages and priest holes to avoid assassination and as a means of escape. A few homes on the East Coast had features like this because the owners had been part of the Underground Railroad. But no such necessity existed on an island off the coast of Washington State in a house built just before the turn of the last century, yet I was still willing to bet that there was some kind of hidden cupboard to the left of the fireplace. The architect who had designed the house had obviously had a streak of whimsy. More to the point, the wood panel didn’t line up as tightly with the stone chimney on that side as on the other. Because I am short, I could see that the polished timber was slightly worn right at my eye level, about shoulder height on anyone else. I refrained from attempting to find the way to open the door, which I was
sure
was there, though I really wanted to try it.

“Cold?”
Alex asked from behind me, dropping an arm over my shoulders.

“A little,” I said, though it was actually a bit too warm right next to the giant fireplace that might not have been able to roast an ox, but that could have handled a large pig.