The Scent of Heather Page 11

  Maggie stayed silent.

  Rebecca sighed her disappointment. “Suit yourself. Don’t say I didn’t try to tell you.” She clicked off the lamp beside the bed.

  Tell me what? Maggie wondered, but she was too tired to ask.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  She overslept.

  Rebecca was gone when Maggie awoke. The day was overcast but Maggie’s mood, in spite of Sophie’s murder, was unusually bright. She was glad when she found Rebecca’s note saying she’d gone off with David McCloud...they’d gone for a drive.

  Maggie didn’t want Rebecca underfoot. There was so much to be done. She would get Heather Lambert’s portrait back where it belonged and give all the rooms a good cleaning, not only the surface cleaning that poor Sophie had done. There was painting to be done, rugs to be taken up, and the furniture in the living room had to be moved around. She didn’t quite understand why she had to rearrange the furniture, but she had to.

  She worked hard, refusing to let herself think about Sophie and her murderer. After all, the girl was virtually a stranger, so why should her death affect her? But it wasn’t Sophie’s death that bothered her so much as it was the act of murder. As for the murderer, Maggie didn’t feel afraid of him; she felt sure she knew his identity although she hoped she was wrong.

  The portrait in the cellar posed a problem until the carpenter showed up to work on the window in Maggie’s bedroom.

  “Mr. Babcock,” Maggie called as the man started up the stairs with his box of tools, “could you please help me carry something up from the cellar? I’m afraid it’s too large and cumbersome for me to manage alone.”

  “Be glad to, Mrs. Garrison.” He put down his tools and followed her into the kitchen. “Too bad about poor old Sophie. Terrible, the things that happen these days. Some old tramp they say it was.”

  Maggie merely nodded, not wanting to encourage conversation along that line. “I’m afraid the light is burned out down there so we’ll have to use this old kerosene lamp.”

  He took it from her, lit it and they went down the dark wooden steps slowly.

  “Yep, can’t tell who’s running around the streets these days. Now, me...I don’t trust nobody,” he said.

  At the bottom of the steps Maggie said, “Over there against that far wall, there’s a portrait of Heather Lambert which I really don’t think should be left down here to decay. It belongs up in the living room.”

  “Oh, yes indeed,” Mr. Babcock said as he reached the other side of the cellar and stood looking up at Heather Lambert. He held the lantern high, bringing the face to life. “That’s old Heather, all right. Wonder who dragged the old girl down here?”

  “It’s such a lovely painting,” Maggie said. “It’s a pity to hide it away like this.”

  Together they moved the painting away from the wall. When they did Maggie noticed the bricks—a few of which had been blown away near the floor—were covering a doorway. She rested her edge of the portrait down on the ground again and looked at the bricked-up doorway.

  “I wonder what’s behind there,” she said.

  “Old cesspool,” Mr. Babcock said. “Remember Miss Heather complaining about it. Was always overflowing and smelling up the place. She had a septic tank put in outside. Must have had somebody come in and brick up the old room where the cesspool was.”

  “Did you brick it up, Mr. Babcock?”

  “Nope. Don’t know who did that. It’s none of my handiwork.”

  Maggie didn’t give the bricked-up room any more thought. A foul-smelling cesspool held no interest for her, although it was obviously of interest to someone. It was possible, of course, that someone wanted to get them out of Heather House and decided to knock over the bricks, hoping the repugnant smells would rout them. Every town had its mischief-makers and its busybodies.

  Between them they carried Heather Lambert back into the living room, hanging her across from Louis Lambert, where she rightfully belonged.

  “Certainly was a handsome woman, Mrs. Garrison,” the carpenter said as he stood looking up at Heather.

  “Did you know her, Mr. Babcock?”

  “Not socially, of course. Used to do a few odd things about here for her and him.”

  “Did you like them?”

  He looked at her with a strange expression on his face. “Like them? How do you mean?”

  “Were they nice to work for? Did they treat everyone well?”

  “Okay, I guess. She was a nice lady. Him, he wasn’t nothing much. A real snob. Not regular like you folks. Thought he owned everybody. Him and Miss Heather were as different as day and night.” He scratched his head. “Nobody could figure out why poor Miss Heather could have been so blind to his ways.”

  “What ways?”

  Mr. Babcock lowered his head but raised his eyes. “Had the morals of an alley cat. Right under her nose, too. Everybody used to try to warn Miss Heather about him but she only got mad at them and flew off the handle. Told them all to mind their own business and she’d take care of hers.” He gave a soft little chuckle. “A real little wildcat, that Miss Heather, but when it came to him, she never raised her voice. Loved him more than life, everybody says.”

  “I understand she just died without any reason,” Maggie said.

  “Yep. A broken heart, the old doc said. Just sat up in that tower window all day and all night watching and waiting and hoping for that no-good husband of hers to come back.” He shook his head slowly from side to side. “A pity. A real pity, if you ask me.”

  “A woman’s love is very different from that of a man’s, Mr. Babcock. We feel differently about things. And when we love a man, we can overlook and forgive just about anything in the world, just so long as we won’t lose him.”

  Mr. Babcock scratched the back of his head. “Never could understand you ladyfolk. That’s why I stayed a bachelor all these years. I tried once. Never could make hide nor hair out of that girl, so I just left her and all the rest of them alone.”

  Maggie laughed softly. “You just didn’t try hard enough. Well, I’m keeping you from your work. Do you think you’ll have that window upstairs finished today?”

  “Nope. Had to order the panes from over in Anderson. They won’t be here for a day or two.”

  “I see.” She hesitated. “By the way, Mr. Babcock, I’ll need some men to move furniture for me, take up some of the rugs, things like that. Would you know anyone to recommend?”

  “Could do it myself, with Charlie Pickendaw’s help.”

  “Good. Do you think he’d be available tomorrow?”

  “Old Charlie’s available all the time. Don’t work at all. Never did. Just plain lazy, I guess.”

  “Would you bring him tomorrow...early?”

  “Be glad to, Mrs. Garrison.” He cocked his head. “Pay in cash, though. Old Charlie don’t like checks and banks much. Likes to collect his pay by the day. Only works day to day when he works, which ain’t often.”

  “I’ll stop at the bank and have cash on hand,” Maggie said.

  Mr. Babcock scratched his head again. “Of course, if you’re going into town you might ask him yourself. Old Charlie’s a funny cuss. Don’t like to work for nobody he ain’t met before. Stays in a room at old Mrs. Johnston’s. Ain’t much of a room, but it’s a room and Mrs. Johnston let’s him work off the rent and meals by doing odd jobs around the place for her. Husband ain’t worth nothing; just sits around in that wheelchair of his sleeping and staring into space, never talking to nobody, never doing anything but sitting and staring.”

  Maggie didn’t relish the idea of going to Mrs. Johnston’s, but the work needed to be done and old Charlie Pickendaw was a chance at getting it done. “I’ll stop and talk with him,” she said.

  * * * *

  Maggie knew the town would be buzzing with talk of Sophie’s murder but she girded herself for it. She decided she would not speak of it to anyone.

  At the hardware store she bought the largest flashlight they had, together with several doz
en light bulbs of different sizes. She picked out paint for the breakfast room and told them to hold it, that Mr. Babcock would pick it up.

  She finished her other chores...buying more Chopin recordings, a stack of change-of-address cards from the post office and a supply of writing paper from the stationery store. She stopped at the library and got a library card. She checked at the freight office about her trunks, knowing, however, that they couldn’t possibly have arrived yet.

  Every stop she made she could tell people were anxious to talk about Sophie’s death, but Maggie held herself as aloof as possible and did not encourage any conversation that started to lean in the direction of the horrible happenings of the previous evening.

  She was tempted to stop at David McCloud’s office and check on his and Rebecca’s whereabouts. She did not.

  At the Johnston house, Mr. Johnston was sitting in his wheelchair sunning himself on the porch, although there wasn’t much sun. The gray still lingered heavy in the sky, casting a pall over everything except Maggie’s spirits.

  “Good day,” she said cheerfully. “You must be Mr. Johnston. I’m Maggie Garrison. I was looking for a Mr. Pickendaw.”

  Mr. Johnston kept his eyes fixed on Maggie’s face. He didn’t speak for a moment. He just kept looking at her. Then he said, “You’re the one who’s living in the Lambert place?” His voice was low and smooth.

  “Yes, my sister and I leased it just the other day.”

  “I see.” He breathed a deep sigh. “I suppose it was inevitable.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Maggie frowned.

  He shook his head. “Never mind. I think aloud sometimes. Bad habit of mine.” He turned his chair and wheeled it toward the front door of the house. “Charlie’s inside somewhere. Come on, I’ll show you his room.” He pushed himself forward. Maggie opened the door for him.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you. Isn’t Mrs. Johnston at home?”

  He didn’t answer. He propelled himself down the hallway toward the back of the house. “Charlie,” he called in a loud, angry voice. “Somebody to see you.” When no one answered the man yelled, “Charlie, blast it, where the devil are you?” Still no answer. “Must be out back,” he said, scowling.

  “Please,” Maggie said. “I am being a bother to you. I can come back another time.”

  “You’re a bother all right,” Mr. Johnston said, glowering at her. “Why don’t you two women go back where you came from? You’re not wanted here, you know.”

  “Sir,” Maggie said sharply. “I am sorry if I’ve troubled you. You can be sure I will not do so again.”

  She let the door bang shut after her and didn’t realize that she was shaking with rage until she got outside. The nerve of him, she thought as she walked hurriedly toward her car.

  “You looking for me, lady?” someone called.

  She turned and saw a heavyset man coming out of the house and hurrying down the steps.

  “I’m Charlie Pickendaw.”

  “Yes,” she said curtly, managing a smile although she was still angry. “I’m Maggie Garrison. Mr. Babcock said you might be interested in helping him do some work around my house. I’m the new tenant of Heather Lambert’s place.”

  “The Lambert place, huh?”

  “Yes,” she said in a sharp edged voice.

  “What kind of work?” He squinted, studying her face.

  She told him.

  “Well, don’t know.” He stroked his chin with his forefinger and thumb.

  “I haven’t all day to waste, Mr. Pickendaw. If you’re not interested I am sure I will find someone who is.”

  To her surprise the man laughed “Doubt it, Mrs. Garrison. There ain’t many who’d work there, exceptin’ maybe Babcock and me.”

  “And why not, may I ask?”

  “After what happened to old Sophie...and then there’s Heather Lambert’s ghost, of course. Don’t believe in ghosts myself. Me and old Babcock don’t believe in much exceptin’ ourselves maybe.”

  “There are no ghosts in Heather House,” Maggie said angrily. She thought briefly of that white, wispy thing that had hovered in her bedroom the night before but pushed it off with a shake of her head. “I do not intend standing here all day arguing that point. Do you want to work for me or don’t you?”

  “Spunk. Just like her. Look a little like her, too.” The man laughed again. “Sure. Okay, Mrs. Garrison. I’ll come. When do you want me?”

  “Mr. Babcock said he’d pick you up in the morning if that’s all right with you. Early.”

  “Tomorrow, then. Early. Pay in cash. No checks. Don’t like banks and don’t like nothin’ I can’t spend at the roadhouse.”

  “Cash is fine. I’ll see you in the morning, then. Good day, Mr. Pickendaw.”

  Mr. Pickendaw was still laughing low in his throat as she got back into the Mercedes. She’d forgotten about the bank and was doubly annoyed when the clock on the dashboard reminded her it was a quarter of three. But was that really why she was annoyed? Or was it the continual mention of ghosts...and a ghost she’d possibly seen herself? Or maybe the rudeness of Mr. Johnston?

  She gave an angry grunt as she switched on the ignition. The Johnston’s...they deserved each other, she thought. Well, she wouldn’t have anything to do with them in the future.

  It was late. She’d have to hurry if she intended to reach the bank before three o’clock.

  As she drove off she happened to glance in the rear-view mirror. Mrs. Johnston had come out onto the porch and was standing there, arms folded tightly across her chest. Maggie could almost feel the cold, hateful stare stabbing into her back.

  * * * *

  Rebecca had not returned home.

  Maggie started to worry as she fixed dinner. There was no one to call to inquire about Rebecca except David, and there was no answer when she dialed his number. She could, of course, drive into Pinebrook, but she might pass Rebecca on the drive there, not being able to see her in the dark. Besides, where in Pinebrook would she search other than David’s apartment? Anyway, she refused to face the Johnstons again.

  She went to Heather’s portrait and looked into the painted eyes. “He’ll come back to me,” she said. “I’m sure of it.”

  But the minute she looked away from Heather her strength seemed to go out of her. Perhaps Rebecca wasn’t with David. Perhaps she was with Rod, wherever he was hiding. Perhaps they were plotting to try again at getting her out of the way.

  Maggie served herself dinner and sat at the table in the kitchen to eat.

  What about George, she wondered? Did they kill Rebecca’s husband to keep him quiet? It was unlikely that George would benefit from all this. Rebecca didn’t want him, although it seemed unlikely that Rod would be capable of murdering his best friend. Rebecca, however, never stopped at anything until she got what she was after, even if she did not want it after she got it. She had a way of making people—men in particular—do just about anything she asked.

  Murder? Yes, even that, Maggie had to admit. She shuddered, recalling those terrible old memories.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Rebecca still had not returned by morning.

  Despite a somewhat sleepless night, Maggie woke in the morning anxious to get to the work that needed to be done around the house. The sound of a car driving up brought Maggie to her feet. She hurried to the front door, but it wasn’t Rebecca, it was the carpenter and Charlie Pickendaw.

  After she set the men to work she picked up the telephone and dialed David McCloud’s office number.

  “This is Mrs. Garrison,” she said to the young lady who answered.

  “Oh, hi, Mrs. Garrison. Everything all right?”

  “Yes, thank you. Is Mr. McCloud in?”

  “No. He took some people out to see a piece of property.”

  “Did he say how long he’d be gone?”

  “Maybe an hour or so,” the girl said. “Can I help with anything?”

  “No, thank you. Just have him call me.” She hesitated. She w
as tempted to ask the girl if Rebecca had been with David, but she decided it was best not to stir up possible gossip. “Thank you,” she said abruptly and hung up.

  “Where do you want this old chest?” Mr. Babcock asked as he and Charlie Pickendaw picked up a walnut mudejar chest with ivory inlay.

  “Under that window,” Maggie said, pointing. Watching the men move it across the room, she wondered why she instinctively knew that was the right place for the piece. “I’d like the piano turned the other way around and that refractory table placed up against that wall,” she told them.

  About three o’clock Mr. Babcock and Charlie Pickendaw said they were ready to quit for the day. Maggie paid Charlie and told Mr. Babcock she’d see him tomorrow. She reminded him about the paint she’d bought at the hardware store. He said he’d pick it up.

  Just as they drove off Maggie heard another car and turned to see David’s sedan come up the driveway. “Hi,” David got out of the car with a wave of his hand. “I wanted to return your call but I was coming out this way anyway, so I decided I’d stop.”

  “Isn’t Rebecca with you?” she asked, looking toward the car.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He took her arm and ushered her back inside the house.

  “Is anything the matter?” she asked anxiously as they went into the living room.

  “Hey,” he said, noticing the new arrangement of the furniture. “It looks great.” His eyes went to the portrait of Heather Lambert. “Where on earth did you find that?”

  “In the cellar,” Maggie said hastily. “Where’s Rebecca? What’s wrong, David?”

  David continued to look up at the portrait. “You know,” he said glancing at Maggie, “there’s a great resemblance between you and Mrs. Lambert.”