Darkwood Manor. Jenna Ryan
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visualizing a shriveled-up corpse, aren’t you? Some creepy-bird lover’s mommy, stuffed and propped in the attic.”
“Cellar.” Isabella stopped snapping. “And what I’m imagining is the kind of hatchet job David would have done if he hadn’t driven his car over that cliff last month.” The sadness that swept through her brought a sigh. “I just wish he were alive so someone could talk him out of it.”
Katie cast her a shrewd look. “Someone you, or someone else?”
Standing, Isabella shouldered her camera strap. “David and I were done. It wasn’t the worst breakup, but it wasn’t pretty, either.” She studied the vaguely Gothic structure at the end of the driveway. “Not sure why he left this place to me, but he did, so there you are. Grandma C’s delighted on a visceral level while Grandpa C and Aunt Mara have dollar signs in their eyes.”
“Don’t you love the dynamics of a family business?”
Isabella smiled. “Actually, I do.”
“Well, hell, so would I if I got to search out and develop prospective hotel sites. I crunch numbers, Bella. My job’s not as glamorous as yours.”
“It is when you get to descend unannounced on one of our hotels for the express purpose of exposing an embezzler.”
“Yeah, that is kind of cool.” Her cousin tapped out and lit a cigarette. “But are you telling me you had no inkling that David was going to leave you his—ha, ha—country house?”
“Nope. All I know is I got this place, and some distant blood relative got the rest.”
“Lucky relative.” Katie rattled the bars. “At a guess, I’d say your ex was worth at least…uh, okay.” She released her grip as the gate stuttered inward. “I suppose this means welcome.”
“Or run if we’re smart?”
Katie drew a triangle with her cigarette. “Sherlock, Watson, Baskerville Hall, aka Darkwood Manor.”
The gate gave an ominous creak. Not exactly a warm welcome, but Isabella was used to that. The people she met in her line of work weren’t always eager to part with the structures her family wished to acquire.
Leaves swirled by a strong breeze blew around her booted ankles, and for the first time since the reading of her ex-boyfriend’s will, a shiver danced along her spine. It wasn’t so much a sense of foreboding, she realized, as a feeling of uncertainty.
David Gimbel had possessed many odd qualities, with quirky riding high on the list. Why he’d left her this recently purchased property in Maine might not make particular sense, but the intrigue factor far outweighed any doubts she might have. And Isabella was nothing if not easily intrigued. Her cousin—not so much.
During the walk from gate to front door, Katie bombarded her with questions. What had David planned to do with the multiwinged monstrosity before them? When had he purchased it? And again, why had he left it to Isabella rather than one of his much-despised stepsiblings?
“Face it, Bella, if a person wanted to get back at an evil step, what better way to do it than by leaving him or her a white elephant that I swear no one except maybe Edgar Allan Poe would call home?”
“So Baskerville Hall’s become the House of Usher, huh?” She made a crushing motion with her foot as she spoke.
With a last deep drag, Katie ditched her cigarette. “If this place had turrets and a tower, I’d call it Dracula’s castle. I can see the possibilities, though—if only from your and Grandpa C’s perspective. A hoard of contractors, electricians, plumbers, painters and cleaners later, you might make a lifestyle hotel out of this. Or to use Aunt Mara’s preferred term—a boutique hotel. Although why any sane person would go for Early American Gothic on vacation is…”
“Yes, I get it.” Isabella surveyed the grimy windows of the second and third floors. “You won’t be booking a room here.”
A reluctant smile crossed Katie’s lips. “Book a room on two, and you’ll wind up on one. Unless you’re a ghost and you can float over floorboards that are bound to be rotted through.”
Isabella gave her head an amused shake. “Your glass isn’t half-empty, it’s bone dry.”
“Only until I get back from Bangor. Once I light into those hotel ledgers, my glass’ll be overflowing. Maybe I’ll quit smoking for good, give you and Aunt Mara a mid-October Christmas present.”
“We nag you because we love you, Katie.” Isabella gave the support beam at the base of the porch a tentative poke. “Not sure about this.” However, when her finger didn’t penetrate, she set her foot on the first tread. It groaned but held.
A gust of wind sent a scatter of leaves across the sagging stoop, and caused a tattered screen to flap like bat wings. The shadows shifted accordingly.
Scraping her midlength hair into a stubby tail, Katie offered a flat, “So my vision won’t be obscured.”
“Did I ask?” Isabella regarded the cockeyed double doors. “We might need a battering ram to get inside.” Backing up, she snapped another picture. “For the photo wall.”
“That’ll be some fun wall.” Katie glanced skyward. “Why is it getting dark at three in the afternoon?”
“Because there’s a storm brewing?”
“Now there’s a promising answer.”
Isabella inserted her key and twisted the ancient lever. To her surprise, the door moved. Only ten inches, but there was room for them to squeeze inside.
“The lawyer said it was wired,” she remarked over her shoulder.
“By Thomas Edison?”
Isabella flicked the first switch she spied while Katie ventured in deeper. When a bare bulb crackled overhead, she smiled at her cousin. “Original fixtures to match the original plaster falling from the ruins of a coffered ceiling.”
“And a six-inch layer of dust on every visible surface.” Katie yelped as her ankle turned on a piece of broken board. “The word visible not being applicable to the floor. This isn’t a project, it’s a death trap.”
“It has good bones, though.” Isabella zeroed in on the staircase. “That banister’s spectacular. Carved mahogany.” She took two shots. “The newel post’s some kind of leaf and vine depiction. And don’t say poison oak.”
“I was thinking hawthorn. Bella.” Katie caught her arm. “You can’t seriously plan to stay here.”
If this was the habitable section David’s lawyer had mentioned, even Isabella wasn’t that adventurous.
When her cell phone rang, she answered with a preoccupied “Isabella Ross. Hi, Aunt Mara…Yes, we’re here…. Uh, well, it’s—”
“Amityville,” Katie declared. “And I’m being generous.”
A protracted creak overhead had both women raising their eyes.
“Not sure—maybe,” Isabella allowed in response to her aunt’s question about ghosts. She squinted into a cobwebbed corner. “Either that or a really big rat.”
“Like there’s a difference?” Several yards away, Katie blew on a carved molding, then stood back, triumphant. “Behold your resident gargoyle, Bella, trapped in a sea of hemlock.”
Grinning, Isabella returned to her call. “It gets better the deeper you go inside, Mara, which suggests a secondary entrance.” A parlor drew her forward—until she caught a movement on the floor. “I’ll get back to you when I’ve seen the rest.” Slapping her phone closed, she dropped it in her pocket. With a wary eye on the rubble to her left she hopped onto a length of rolled carpet. “Why is there always a snake?” she muttered, shivering. “Katie, can you hear me?”
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