Twelfth Night (A Wendover House Mystery Book 2) Read Free

wanted to
avoid Brandy’s wiles. He might avoid them since she wanted marriage and he said
he didn’t. I had told Ben once that I wanted a relationship with someone who
really knew me. His response had been to shake his head and say, “That only
works if you have no flaws. It’s better to get involved with someone who still
has illusions about you.” Brandy couldn’t have many illusions left when it came
to men, but she was great at pretending.
    Behind Brandy was a window that looked out into the garden. I
had not drawn the curtains or pulled the shutters. There were greenery and candles
in the window but it was not a festive prospect beyond the glass. If I went to
it, what would I see? What would the others see? Just the wind that had tried
to tear the rain away—and failed, as it so often did on this island whose
weather defied meteorological explanation? Would we see more—things more frightening
than storm clouds? Could I end up with five more houseguests at least until
dawn?
    That wouldn’t be convenient, though Jack was good about
helping and I would not find myself alone with the dirty dishes and laundry, and
the need to make breakfast for eight out of the party’s grisly remains.
    “What is it?” Harris whispered, leaning forward to speak in
my ear. His eyes were fixed on the dark glass.
    “I thought I saw Kelvin,” I lied. And then, when I saw
Harris looked shocked, I clarified. “The cat—not my
great-grandfather.”
    “Of course.”
    But there was no of course about it. Harris Ladd, legalist
and rationalist in all other ways, believes in curses and ghosts and I think he
always half expects a visit from the astral plane when he comes to the island. Probably
he thought my great-grandfather had come back to haunt him for installing
electricity in his house. Of course, hearing it was the cat might not reassure Harris
either since Kelvin had “taken a spite” to him, and there is a local tale about
witches transforming themselves into cats and tormenting people.
    In the beginning I had sneered at such ideas—and still I
take everything I hear and read with a big grain of salt—but little by little I
was coming to think that maybe there was more in heaven and earth than I had
previously dreamed. Take Wendover House and Little Goose Island. From the first
day, the house felt not just lived-in but actually alive, an antique but one
which wished to be used. It was too pleasant to think of it as haunted, at
least not in any traditional way. In fact it was the opposite. It felt
enchanted. Not so large as a fairytale castle, and not made of so many rooms
that it had a south parlor or a west wing, but spacious and able to accommodate
any size of gathering that I might want. And though old, it had adapted well to
modern conventions and needs. I have a living room, a bathroom, a porch. The
rooms easily lent themselves to changing fashion. Furniture moved about easily,
though I had felt little need to change anything.
    There was also a smuggler’s cave reached by a secret stair.
But now that the cave was empty of illegal whisky, even that felt oddly charming.
In fact, the only places I did not feel at home were the basement, the backyard,
and one room in the attic where the family’s dirty secrets were stored.
Everywhere else I basked in the glow of contentment.
    This had never happened to me before, but from day one I had
understood that the house needed to be inhabited and little was required to
make it feel like my home, thanks to
Harris removing some of the more disturbing artifacts and secreting them in a
hidden room in the attic. I loved every curtain and cushion and shrub in the
yard, and felt they loved me back. It was perfect in every way. Except that I
was not like my great-grandfather. I needed power—lights, a computer, and
refrigeration. I am an effete creature of the late twentieth century and I
require these things to be happy.
    And now I had them—for the low, low price of one crying
ghost.