Salem's Daughters (22 page)

Chapter 37              Winds of Change

Bob was standing in his gray world again, riding the same neutral-colored speeding bullet train. He gripped a handle that controlled where the train could stop. Looking out the windows, he saw countless terminals where people got on and off.

Bob was never more stressed. He needed to disembark and move forward with his life. But which station was his? It was all so baffling. Until he knew, he couldn’t stop the train.

Bob woke and turned his head to look at the clock. It was barely seven in the morning. The sleep was healing. He was no longer exhausted.

But he was drained: mentally, physically, and emotionally. As his head cleared from his dream and he saw the two, no three bottles of empty wine on Debbie's nightstand, he realized he was also financially drained.

He bolted upright in bed, three sleepy cats grousing and rolling off his chest. Murcat Manor was empty again.

Debbie emerged from the sheets and mumbled something.

Bob looked at the elongated lump under the sheets. “I think you asked what time it is. It's a little after seven.”

“Evening or morning?”

Bob found enough humor in his wife’s innocence to form a chuckle. “Morning. It's Monday morning.”

Debbie sat up and held her head. “How long did we sleep?”

“Let’s see. We came home early yesterday morning. Darrowby left around noon. Then we drank a lot of wine and crashed about five. That's fourteen straight hours of sleep.”

Debbie shook her head and rubbed her eyes. “The guests. I have to cook breakfast.”

Bob placed his hand on her shoulder. “Don't worry about it. The place is empty. Again. I'll give you a few minutes to wake up.”

Debbie gently pushed three sleeping cats off her and crawled out of bed. She looked in the mirror, tried in vain to make sense of her hair, then stuck out her tongue.

“That's right. I remember now. Bob, just what the hell is happening to us? To Murcat Manor? Three more people died, including Maria. And guests are leaving like a flock of flies.”

Debbie was interrupted by muffled pounding from above. Bob looked up at the ceiling. “What the heck is that?”

“I don't know.’

Bob walked over the bedroom window and opened the shutters. “Strange. I see three pickup trucks in the driveway. They have Hill Construction on the doors.”

“Now that is weird. I didn’t think they liked us. Anything else?”

His chest caved in a deep sigh. "Ross and Erma's car.”

“Grandma and Grandpa. Thank God. They can help us.” She tossed Bob his robe. “Put this on.”

“This can't be good,” he grumbled as he thrust his arms through the sleeves.

“As dark as things seem, don't be too sure. Grandma and Grandpa, they always have the solution. We need to trust them.”

Bob knew Debbie was right. But he did need something to help take off the edge of Erma before leaving the sanctity of their bedroom. He turned on his cell phone and used Voice Command to text Raymond Hettinger.

We’re coming out now

I see Ross and Erma’s car in the driveway

Need fresh java

Thanks

Bob then went to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. He found what he was looking for. Advil. After popping four into his mouth, he turned on the faucet and cupped his hands to capture water and swallow the gel caps.

Knowing relief was minutes away, he walked back into the bedroom. Debbie had put on her white cotton robe and was fixing her hair with her hands while slipping her feet into slippers. “What a way to wake up. My head is pounding.”

Bob held up the Advil. “How many?”

“Three. Thanks.”

Bob found a wine glass half full and handed it to Debbie, who used it to wash down the pills.

“I think we’re ready. After five deaths, what's the worst that can happen? Let's go.”

He took Debbie by the hand and entered the kitchen. Ross and Erma sat at the table. Their laptops were open. Raymond was brewing fresh coffee.

“Well, good morning, sleepy heads.” Ross made a vain attempt to display his usual jovial way as he stood and gave Debbie a hug. But the smile was forced. It wasn't close to the traditional Ross smile and laugh.

Erma remained seated, looking down at her laptop. She was reserved. Bob had never seen them this way. It was as if a spell of despondency had fallen on them. Things were far worse than he’d expected.

“Grandma,” Debbie said as Bob pulled out a chair for her to sit. “I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do. But now that you’re here, everything’s going to be okay. I just know it.”

“There, there child,” Erma said in a soft, comforting tone. “There's nothing you, or Bob, can do at this point. Just leave everything to us. Again.”

Erma ignored Bob, and that was fine with him. She remained silent as she raised her arm, aimed the remote at the kitchen TV, and flipped through various channels airing morning news shows. The leading stories were the same:
Murder at Murcat Manor. Is Murcat Manor Haunted? Murcat Manor, Not What It Seems To Be.

“Please. Remain seated,” she said, her expression flat, voice even. “Both of you. Coffee's finished.”

Raymond brought two cups and set them in front of Bob and Debbie.

Ross again tried, with marginal success, to don a smile. “I know this has been all too traumatic on you. But you have to understand we have a lot of work to do. We can't stop. You both slept all yesterday afternoon through this morning. It's now time to get right back to work.”

“Not only is Murcat Manor empty once again,” Erma said in a calm but lifeless monotone. “There have been many cancellations through August and well into September. Do you know what this means?”

She lowered her arm and turned off the TV. “I don't think I need to go to any more channels. We all get it.”

Ross folded his hands on the table and leaned in. “Bob. Debbie. You realize at this rate, we will begin to miss monthly payments. That's eighteen thousand to the bank. Five thousand in food bills. And another two thousand in utilities.”

Although Bob’s brain was mush, he still needed to try to take the lead. Can’t let Ross and Erma run the entire show.

“We won’t have the huge food bills while we’re empty. But yeah—we just need to get people back in here. Once we show the banks we have full occupancy again, they'll work with us.”

Erma closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “No, no Bob. No. The bank will not help us. Since there have been three more deaths, I doubt they will restructure the loan. And we have to think of the insurance on the place. A total of five deaths in just a few months? Think about it. They could cancel the policy on Murcat Manor at any time.”

Debbie did what she usually would do when overwhelmed by stress. She folded her arms on the table and buried her head in them. A muffled voice escaped. “I’m sorry. I don't know what to do.”

Ross patted Debbie's hands and stroked her hair. “But we do, sweetie. Once again, it’s Grandpa and Grandma to the rescue.”

Bob could hear more noise upstairs. Hammering. Cordless drills. Nail guns firing off. More miscellaneous banging. Footsteps walking back and forth. Orders shouted out.

“I saw the pickup trucks in the driveway. What's going on up there?”

Ross stood, sucked in his gut, stuck out his barrel chest, and took an exaggerated breath. That was his way of taking control when changes were needed.

“Bob, we need to do something drastic to save Murcat Manor.”

“How?" Debbie said, lifting her head. "Guests are dying here. Five people in nine weeks. I'm starting to believe the rumors this place is haunted.”

“Precisely, my dear. Precisely.”

Ross's jovial smile returned. But this time, his expression was different. Bob discerned there was something sinister behind the face. “Now you’re onto something. And this, we will turn to our advantage.”

Bob didn't know what Ross and Erma had in mind. But he didn’t like whatever was coming. Ross continued to stand, chuckling, as if he had lost a portion of his sanity. Jared Leto’s portrayal of The Joker in
The Suicide Squad
came to Bob’s mind. Ross seemed maniacal. And money—the one thing that Ross could get maniacal over—was always the driver behind his decision making processes.

The banging from upstairs became louder, the pace of work faster. Bob craned his neck to look through the living room at the front door. Carpenters and painters came down the stairs and exited the front door.

“Who are they?”

Ross pursed his lips, sequence-tapping his fingers against his chest. “Men from Hills Construction, my boy.”

“What are they doing here? With Hill’s death, I didn’t think they’d step foot on our property. They thought we had something to do with his accident.”

Bob noticed Erma staring at him with an incredulous look when he said the word
accident
. Ross gave Bob a stern look. His lip quivered. Bob could see spittle coming from his mouth. He felt he was back in the board room being stared down by a really pissed off CEO. Ross was quickly rising to the level of detest Darrowby had so far held all by himself.

“I have my ways, Bob. I have connections. Okay?” He pointed toward the front door where two workers entered while locking eyes with Bob. “DeShawn Hill’s wife and brother have kept the company in business. So I brought in those familiar with building Murcat Manor to help with the changes.”

“Changes? What kind of changes?”

“We're converting the themes on some of the rooms,” Erma said with little reflection in her voice.

Bob didn’t like change. Major changes meant he failed and was no longer in control. He stood and stepped into Ross. “Whatever you’ve concocted, just stop. Okay? I don’t like any of this.”

Ross was relentless. He stuck his forefinger in Bob’s chest. “Listen to me, my boy. As of today, Murcat Manor is a sinking ship. If we stay the course we're all going down. This bed and breakfast is a post-iceberg-collision Titanic, and we need to make a serious transformation. Right now.”

Two more workers entered the front door, loaded down with—what? Bob couldn’t make the items out.

“Where do you want these, Mr. Dempsey?”

Ross stepped away from Bob. “Upstairs. You’ll see the rest of the crew. Just join up with them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bob stepped through the open arced kitchen door to get a better look. “What are they carrying? Did I see whips, chains, and, is that a
thumbscrew?
I'm not following. How's this going to change our fortunes? And just what the heck are those things the guys are taking upstairs?"

“Bob, we need to fill rooms. Fast. As in yesterday. Capish?”

Bob watched as another worker bring in what appeared to be a straightjacket. “Well, yeah. But I don’t think bringing in instruments of torture and death is the answer. Just how do you expect to fill the rooms this way?”

Erma shook her head. Ross continued his sneer. “Not how do we, my boy, but how
did
we.”

Bob turned back to Ross. “You’ve filled the rooms with reservations?”

Ross spread his arms wide, his genuine jovial smile returned. “Many of them. But don’t you worry. We’ll pack ’em in again.”

By now, Bob knew Ross’s earlier dour demeanor had just been a setup, a ruse and ploy to manipulate the situation to his advantage. The sly old dog had been setting him up like a world class pool hustler.

Bob looked at the clock. “Fourteen hours. That’s how long Debbie and I slept. That’s not much time to, wait, how did you manage—”

Ross held up an open palm. “I can accomplish more during that amount of time than most men can do in a week. That’s how I got in life to where I am. Understand? I get things done. I do them fast and finish them right the first time.”

“Allow me to get to the point,” Erma said. “We’re now appealing to the fringe element.”

Bob didn’t like what he’d already seen or heard. But this was beyond sanity. The fringe element? Inside his house? His mind raced as he envisioned every possible form of life from a freak show invading Murcat Manor. Sitting at their kitchen table. Lounging in the living room. Breeding in the upstairs rooms. He shuddered.

Bob glanced around Ross to see workers bring in what looked like an operating table and chainsaws. “Are those what I think they are?”

Ross turned around, a relaxed smile on his face. “Yes, they certainly are. The Victorian Room will be renamed the Insane Asylum. It’ll be a creepy lab inside a white padded room. The operating table is the bed, complete with fake blood stained sheets. Rubber dissected body parts will be arranged around the room. Pretty cool, don’t you think?”

Bob struggled for words. Debbie raised her head. Erma pulled out her flask, took a long swig, and handed it to Debbie, who also took a long drink.

Debbie, drinking whiskey for breakfast? Erma? Yes. But Debbie? Never. She was stressed more than ever, and now Ross was sitting at the kitchen table demonstrating tools of medieval punishment.

Bob shook his head. “And the torture machines?”