Idiots, he thought, swerving the golf cart around a pair of middle-aged hikers who seemed to think the road belonged to them, letting the air horn rip one more time. The hikers scowled at him, and the woman flipped him the bird, which immediately made him feel better.
The cart lurched to a stop in front of the towering hulk that was Cameron House. Geralt Talbot swung his legs around to stand, but faltered as a wave of dizziness swept over him. Reaching underthe seat, he pulled out a bottle of the lemon-flavored, nutrient-enriched water his staff made sure he was always supplied with. He cracked the seal, swigged half of it down, and grimaced;if this horse piss ever came within spitting distance of a lemon, he thought,I doubt the lemon would bother to spit back.He finished the bottle, tossing it into the back seat of the golf cart with the other empties, then climbed the porch stairs and let himself into the mansion with the key he’d swiped from Aunt Effie years ago, stepping into the grand entry hall of the once-opulent old home.
Susan Davis had done well by the house in the short time she’d been here. Effie had somehow kept the place fairly clean—God even knew how without outside help. But Susan’s restoration work on the old mansion after Effie’s death had been the talk of the village. She had replaced missing balusters along the second-floor landing and repaired cracked boards on the curving grand staircase; formerly drafty window frames now kept out all but the harshest Maine winds, and the old wraparound porch was more stable and level than it had been in decades. And she did it all with recycled and repurposed materials, the very same ones that would have been in use when Cameron House was first built—no plastic wood putty or vinyl framing would dare come near while Sue was working. Her care for the old mansion and its history had won her the respect of the village. Her willingness to call Geralt a jackass when she opined he was being a jackass had won her his.
He found himself wishing she were there to call him a jackass again, one more time. She surely would, if she knew what he had to do now.
This house was never meant to be hers, he thought wistfully,but my God, what she could have done with it if she’d had more time.Something twisted in his heart; he gritted his teeth against the feeling until it passed. If he were more familiar with the emotion, he might have recognized it as grief.
A calm voice spoke from the second-floor landing. “Good afternoon, Mr. Talbot.”
The hair on the back of the old man’s neck stood up to immediate attention, and an icy chill swept over him. Geralt whirled around at the sound, nearly losing his balance.
The man looking down at him was… utterly unremarkable. Thin, of average height, with dark hair beginning to gray at the temples and a neatly trimmed beard shot through with silver. “Who in God’s almighty creation are you?” Geralt thundered when he regained his voice. “And what are you doing here?”
The man lightly descended the wide staircase, pausing on the bottom step, the grace of his movements making him seem younger than the gray-threaded beard would suggest. “I worked for Miss Effie Cameron for many decades, and for Miss Susan since March.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “You could say I come with the house.”
Geralt’s face hardened. “Well, they’re dead, and I’m here, and Effie’s will says the house comes to me. I don’t need advice, so you”—he jabbed his cane at the man—“had best brush up your résumé and get out.” He turned and stalked back to the door.
“Mr. Talbot,” the man called after him, a hint of tension in his calm voice, “you must not sell Cameron House.”
Geralt stopped short.The unmitigated nerve, he thought, and turned back. He drew breath to start shouting again, but hesitated.This could be bad, Geralt thought.If someone’s spilling the beans, this whole thing could blow up in my face.“What makes you think I would sell the house?”
The man walked closer until he stood face-to-face with Geralt. “Because, Mr. Talbot, you are facing three lawsuits, four attempts at unionization to fight the low wages you pay your workers, and an Internal Revenue Service audit regarding decades of questionable tax practices. What property you do own is mortgaged to the hilt, and I am under the impression you have several balloon payments coming due. Without a strong influx of capital, your entire financial empire will collapse within a matter of months. Perhaps weeks.”
Geralt froze, his face chalk white.
The man smiled gently. “Miss Effie, contrary to what you may believe, was not senile. She paid attention, up to the end.”
Geralt sagged against the doorframe, his bravado gone. “It won’t make a fart in the wind’s worth of difference. At least if I sell before the world knows everything’s falling apart, my wife will be taken care of, and I’ll have a little comfort in whatever time I have left. If I wait too long, I could lose… everything.”
The man gave him a speculative look. “That is all you want? Comfort and care?”
“Do you have any idea what decent care costs these days? I’ll off myself before I wind up in some god-awful piss-stinking Medicaid nursing home.” Geralt shuddered.
“What if I could offer you a chance for something better?” the man asked.
Geralt’s head jerked up and met the implacable dark eyes.
The strange man stepped back and pulled out a ring of keys. He moved to a pair of forbidding, glass-paned French doors opposite Effie’s bright sitting room, a locked doorway in a locked house on an island where few ever locked anything. A brass plate to the right of the doors readTHE NORTH ISLANDS HISTORICAL SOCIETY.
The man turned the key and walked into the dimly lit library, gesturing for Geralt to enter after him.
Geralt followed.
Half an hourlater, the two men stepped out of the library again. Keys reappeared; the door was locked. They looked at one another speculatively. The man in the dark suit stepped back, gave Geralt another deferential nod, retreated up the steps, and disappeared down the hall.
Geralt’s gait was unsteady as he made his way to the front door of the mansion. But his face bore an expression of something like hope.
With a hand on the heavy doorknob, he turned back to look over the foyer one more time. The dark-haired man had gone about his day, but now there was someone else here, standing in the shadows beyond the staircase—a young man, tall and almost impossibly handsome, wearing a gray pin-striped suit and matching fedora.
Geralt’s heart clenched, and his teeth bared in a snarl. “No,” he rasped, “not you. Go away.”
The man did not move or speak.
“Go away!” Geralt cried, lurching forward, cane in hand. “Not you. I don’t believe in you. You aren’t here. Get out.Get out!” His voice rose to a shriek, and he realized he was shaking. He closed his eyes, breathed in and out. Opened them again.
There was no one there.
