Phantoms Read Free

beauty of the mountain village.
    “It doesn’t make you . . . uneasy?” Jenny asked.
    “What?”
    “The silence.”
    “Oh, I love it. It’s so peaceful.”
    It was peaceful. There was no sign of trouble.
    So why am I so damned jumpy? Jenny wondered.
    She opened the trunk of the car and lifted out one of Lisa’s suitcases, then another.
    Lisa took the second suitcase and reached into the trunk for a book bag.
    “Don’t overload yourself,” Jenny said. “We’ve got to make a couple of more trips, anyway.”
    They crossed the lawn to a stone walkway and followed that to the front porch where, in response to the amber-purple sunset, shadows were rising and opening petals as if they were night-blooming flowers.
    Jenny opened the front door, and stepped into the dark foyer. “Hilda, we’re home!”
    There was no answer.
    The only light in the house was at the far end of the hall, beyond the open kitchen door.
    Jenny put down the suitcase and switched on the hall light. “Hilda?”
    “Who’s Hilda?” Lisa asked, dropping her suitcase and the book bag.
    “My housekeeper. She knew what time we expected to arrive. I thought she’d be starting dinner about now.”
    “Wow, a housekeeper! You mean, a live-in?”
    “She has the apartment above the garage,” Jenny said, putting her purse and car keys on the small foyer table that stood beneath a large, brass-framed mirror.
    Lisa was impressed. “Hey, are you rich or something?”
    Jenny laughed. “Hardly. I can’t really afford Hilda—but I can’t afford to be without her, either.”
    Wondering why the kitchen light was on if Hilda wasn’t here, Jenny headed down the hall, with Lisa following close behind.
    “What with keeping regular office hours and making emergency house calls to three other towns in these mountains, I’d never eat more than cheese sandwiches and doughnuts if it wasn’t for Hilda.”
    “Is she a good cook?” Lisa asked.
    “Marvelous. Too good when it comes to desserts.”
    The kitchen was a large, high-ceilinged room. Pots, pans, ladles, and other utensils hung from a gleaming, stainless-steel utility rack above a central cooking island with four electric burners, a grill, and a work area. The countertops were ceramic tile, and the cabinets were dark oak. On the far side of the room were double sinks, double ovens, a microwave oven, and the refrigerator.
    Jenny turned left as soon as she stepped through the door, and she went to the built-in secretary where Hilda planned menus and composed shopping lists. It was there she would have left a note. But there was no note, and Jenny was turning away from the small desk when she heard Lisa gasp.
    The girl had walked around to the far side of the central cooking island. She was standing by the refrigerator, staring down at something on the floor in front of the sinks. Her face was flour-white, and she was trembling.
    Filled with sudden dread, Jenny stepped quickly around the island.
    Hilda Beck was lying on the floor, on her back, dead. She stared at the ceiling with sightless eyes, and her discolored tongue thrust stiffly between swollen lips.
    Lisa looked up from the dead woman, stared at Jenny, tried to speak, could not make a sound.
    Jenny took her sister by the arm and led her around the island to the other side of the kitchen, where she couldn’t see the corpse. She hugged Lisa.
    The girl hugged back. Tightly. Fiercely.
    “Are you okay, honey?”
    Lisa said nothing. She shook uncontrollably.
    Just six weeks ago, coming home from an afternoon at the movies, Lisa had found her mother lying on the kitchen floor of the house in Newport Beach, dead of a massive cerebral hemorrhage. The girl had been devastated. Never having known her father, who had died when she was only two years old, Lisa had been especially close to her mother. For a while, that loss had left her deeply shaken, bewildered, depressed. Gradually, she had accepted her mother’s death, had discovered how to smile and laugh