The iron gates creak behind me as I make my way toward Mr. Blackwood’s front door—a door that’s already partially opened, allowing me to hear his grunting before I even get up the porch steps. I poke my head inside. I don’t immediately see anyone, but Mr. Blackwood’s gruff voice is clashing against a sharp, feminine one. They’re talking over each other like it’s a competitive sport neither will quit until the trophy’s in their hand.
Cautiously, I step inside, closing the door behind me. A second later, a plump woman exits the kitchen, her chest puffed out and agitation written all over her flushed face. “You hired me for the job, which means I’ll use whichever methods I—”
“Bullshit methods produce bullshit products.” Mr. Blackwood is right behind her, practically shoving her through the living room with his barking voice alone. “If I wanted candles and chants and whatever other nonsense you have up your sleeve, I would’ve called a goddamn reality show to get this crap on camera.”
The womanhumphsandtsksand shakes her head. “For seventeen years I’ve been doing this, Mr. Blackwood. I certainly know what I’m doing.”
“Yeah, yeah, like I haven’t heard that before.” He yanks a leather wallet out of his pant pocket and shoves a wad of cash toward her. “Thank you for wasting my time. Now have a nice day.” He extends a wrinkled hand toward the front door, not two feet away from where I stand.
The woman glances at me and flushes again. I offer a sympathetic smile, which earns me a glare from Mr. Blackwood. After a moment, the woman grabs the cash, lifts her chin, and gives Mr. Blackwood a pretty impressive do-your-damnedest look. “Fine. If this is how you do business then that’s just fine. But when another year passes by and you still haven’t made contact, just remember it wasyouwho kicked me out before allowing me to finish the job.”
With that, she turns on her heel, opens the door, and slams it behind her, the clicking sound of her shoes fading as she makes her way down the winding path. I glance over at Mr. Blackwood, trying to assess the situation.
I notice then that he looks different today. His long grey hair isn’t stringy like usual, but smooth and freshly washed. He’s dressed in a decent, if understated, grey suit—sans the tie—and his beard is neatly trimmed. Looking around the living room now, I see that there aren’t any empty glass bottles either. I sniff the air, taking a few steps forward until I’m right in front of the old man, then sniff again.
The aged lines around his hazel eyes crinkle as he narrows them at me. “Quit it.”
“Quit what?” I ask innocently, giving his suit another whiff.
“That . . . thing you’re doing. It’s weird.”
“Is it?” I suppress a chuckle. “You smell nice today, Mr. Blackwood.” My eyes wander around the room until they land on an opened water bottle at the breakfast nook. “Have you been drinking water?”
He ignores me, turning away and limping into the kitchen. I follow and watch him open a cabinet door, shuffle things around for a second until he retrieves a small bottle of whiskey. He turns around, looking me straight in the eye as he downs a large gulp and lets out a satisfied sigh. “Can’t be reeking of liquor during a business meeting, can I?”
I quirk a skeptical eyebrow. Claire’s already told me he doesn’t work, so what kind of business meeting would he be having? I want to straight up ask him, but I don’t want to overstep anymore. Not when he’s given me a job—something I know he didn’t have to do, wasn’t even looking for. Plus, the man gets enough nosiness from the rest of the town as it is.
Instead, I ask, “Why’d you hire me?”
“What kinda question is that?” He slams the bottle on the counter and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He leans forward, eying me like I’m a child who doesn’t know when to shut up. “Needed a job, didn’t you?”
“Well yeah, but…”
“So?”
“So . . .” He’s trying to intimidate me. I keep my voice nonchalant, my posture casual as I lean a hip against the wall, still lingering in the opening between the kitchen and the living room. “Why didyouhire me? You were ready to throw me out the door when I showed up. In fact,” I pause, narrowing my eyes as I recall the odd look that flashed upon his face when he finally looked at me that first day. “You didn’t offer me the housekeeping job until you looked at me.”
I’ve gone over the scenario in my head more than once, and despite knowing it may not be true, I can’t fathom why else he would’ve reacted as he did after seeing my face that first time. Hearing my full first name.
I have to know. I have to say it aloud. I take in a deep breath, willing myself to just spit it out.It’s been over a month since she’s been gone. You can talk about her without falling apart, Lou.
“Did you know my Grams?” I finally ask. “Tallulah Mulligan?”
He brings the bottle back to his lips, taking several long sips before pulling it away. He lets out a low hiss and shakes his head. “What, did no one ever tell you never to trust a loony alcoholic’s memory?”
I roll my eyes for two reasons. One, he’s avoiding the question. Two, a housekeeper collects more insight into their employer’s life than a hired detective could. In just one week of employment, I’ve already begun to suspect Mr. Blackwood isn’t as physically reliant on alcohol as he appears. Nor is he as—in his words—‘loony’ as he lets the town think. For these same reasons, I decide to ignore his question altogether and ask another of my own. “How well did you know her?”
Before the last word’s even out of my mouth, Mr. Blackwood’s setting down the whiskey bottle and striding toward the living room. Just as he’s about to walk right past me, though, he pauses. “Well enough to recognize the spitting image of her with one glance.”
He allows only a second for that to sink in before he’s off again. I look over my shoulder to find him settling into a spot on the sofa and digging through a small pile of papers on the coffee table.
My feet are glued in place, a small smile playing on my lips. That may seem like an evasive answer, but really, what he just did was give me what I needed—confirmation that he knew Grams, and hope that he’ll, one day, tell me more. And maybe . . . maybe he’ll even get more comfortable having me around. Open up, wanna chat more, and we’ll become almost friends, or—
“Hey,” he grumbles from behind me, “am I paying you to stand there and stare at the wall?”
Yeah, too soon, Lou. Too soon.
Chapter 16
