The Secret Staircase (A Wendover House Mystery Book 1) Read Free Page A

wouldn’t last forever. I would need a job.
    “The housing market isn’t strong right now and the house does need a little work to make it appealing to outsiders,” Mr. Ladd said. “You know, we have a newspaper here and they are always looking for contributors. It was established in 1820, the year we broke from Massachusetts and became a state.”
    “No, I didn’t know.” But I could imagine all too well. I, too, was always looking for contributors who would work for free or very little. I didn’t even require that they be able to spell.
    “Well then. First of all, it’s time to eat. One can’t make decisions on an empty stomach.” He stood up, removing his strange eyeglasses. He looked younger without them.
    “Really? I do it all the time. It’s the lot of the owner-publisher of a small-town paper to go lunchless .” I smiled as I rose to show I was joking. Mr. Ladd smiled back but I don’t think he saw the humor of what I was saying.
    “We’ll have something to eat and then we’ll head out to Little Goose so you can look over the house. How can you decide anything when you haven’t even been to the island?” He was sounding cheerful again so I decided not to say anything blighting about my decision-making skills being excellent even without seeing the house. “Leave your bag here for now. I promise it will be safe. We have very little crime here.”
    We walked out of the office and he didn’t lock the door. About forty feet up the street was the Great Goose Public House. The hour being advanced, we had the restaurant almost to ourselves. The interior was gloomy with soot-stained walls and small windows, but I thought it would look nice with a fire in the hearth and the candles lit.
    “Is it sacrilege not to order lobster?” I asked, forgetting Mr. Ladd had no visible sense of humor. If Shakespeare’s Beatrice was born to speak all mirth and no matter, then I was her opposite. But Mr. Ladd made me feel like a veritable comedian.
    “Not at all—but you do like fish, don’t you? It comes over fresh from Goose Haven daily. That is where most of the fishing boats are docked. They also have a lovely chowder house.”
    I do not especially like fish, but I didn’t say it aloud since he seemed worried about pleasing me and dining options were limited. Scanning the menu I saw corn chowder in a bread bowl and opted for that.
    There was a short wine list, but Mr. Ladd didn’t even glance at it, so I contented myself with a cranberry soda. He requested coffee when our waitress came to the table. She studied me openly.
    “Louisa, this is Theresa MacKay. Louisa and Jeb Parker run this place.” Louisa Parker was forty going on sixty, her blonde hair fading into gray. Her eyes were pale blue but friendly enough even with their drooping lids. Her husband, who was working behind the bar, nodded but said nothing. He seemed a little older and not so much wrinkled as withered. His smile was charmingly puckish though.
    “Please call me Tess,” I said. Neither of us offered to shake but we smiled and nodded. “This is a lovely building. It’s very old?”
    “ Ayuh , built in 1863,” she said proudly.
    We all smiled some more and Mr. Ladd ordered food with our drinks. I was a little surprised at him giving my order for me, but supposed it was just an old-fashioned courtesy that lived on in that small community.
    I was given a local history lesson while I spooned my chowder, which was quite good. Mr. Ladd talked about the American Revolution, the fishing trade, the weather, the current inhabitants of Great Goose. Since I interview people for a living it was easy to absorb his lecture and nod at the right moments without ever betraying that parts of the verbal tour were not entirely fascinating.
    He did not mention anything about my family or their place in local events.
    Now I don’t talk about my family either, but it seemed odd that given the Wendovers had been around for two or three centuries, he made no