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

mention of them while recounting local lore. Finally he ran out of local wild birds and flowers to list and then apologized for monopolizing the conversation.
    “That’s alright. I don’t actually know anything about the area or the Wendovers so it is all very interesting.” Okay, I lied just a little. The recitation of local birds and flowers had gotten a bit tedious and I had stopped paying attention.
    “Your grandmother never spoke of your family?” He was looking worried again.
    “Almost never. She was very busy with the newspaper after my grandfather died and very … forward focused.”
    “This is the paper you now own?”
    “Own and run. And write for.” And printed, cut, and folded.
    “Your hands are full then.”
    “Always. Fortunately I’m ambidextrous.”
    This got me another perfunctory smile. So he understood my jokes, he just didn’t share the humor of them. Or maybe he didn’t like being reminded that I had a life elsewhere and wouldn’t be staying on the island, though why he should care so much remained a mystery.
    After lunch, which he paid for and tipped a strict ten percent, he took me up to the market. It was in a corner building with a low ceiling. It was perhaps fifteen feet wide and maybe twenty long, about the size of a mini-mart, but it felt smaller and had less variety. There was no slushy machine or microwave food. Almost everything came in cans and they gave the impression of being dusty, though of course they weren’t really. The shelves sagged slightly and there were footpaths worn into the floor.
    Again, Harris Ladd placed my order after consulting me, explaining to the proprietress, Abigail Sibley, that I would need a few of the store’s perishables. He recited the small list. Twice. This time I was feeling annoyed at his assumption that I would stay at the house long enough to need eggs and bread, but good sense came to my rescue before I spoke out loud. There probably weren’t any inns on Great Goose and certainly not on Little Goose. If I wanted a place to lay my head that night, without returning to the mainland, it might have to be in Wendover House. And come morning, I would be wanting some breakfast.
    Miss Sibley nodded, smiling blankly as she rang up my purchase on an antique register with a bent dollar sign. Reminded of Ladd’s words, I began to hope that those small repairs to my house that the attorney had mentioned did not include the roof or broken windows.
    After we collected my groceries from the ancient shopkeeper, who murmured something about being happy I was there, we went back to Mr. Ladd’s office and picked up my shabby suitcase. As predicted, no one had stolen it.
    We walked down to the empty docks to a small motor launch and Mr. Ladd handed me aboard. I have done some boating at home so managed to climb in with a bit of grace and stow my small bag under my seat while he cast off.
    Little Goose was clearly visible from the waterfront and looked close enough to swim to, but the sea was not entirely calm and a quickly dipped finger assured me it was numbingly cold. Clearly I could rid myself of any notions about swimming in the frigid waters. That was okay. I had not packed a bathing suit.
    The trip took only ten minutes and I enjoyed it thoroughly. The wind was brisk but the sun made it pleasant and I was getting very curious about the slanted island where my family had lived.
    “Who lives here now?” I asked, raising my voice. This had also been absent from Ladd’s luncheon lecture.
    “There is a writer named Livingston. He writes some kind of spy books. He’s from away.” The attorney sounded disapproving. I wonder if it was a contempt of novels or for people who had the misfortune to be born elsewhere.
    “Benjamin Livingston?” I asked, surprised and maybe just a little starstruck . He was one of my favorite novelists.
    “ Ayuh . He isn’t terribly personable and always seems busy. Your great-grandfather never made him welcome, so don’t