The Scent of Heather Page 9

  “Oh, not until after her husband disappeared. In her earlier days this house was a regular mecca for parties and balls and dinners. My father tells me that Heather Lambert was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. Of course, I’m prejudiced toward my own generation; I don’t think Heather Lambert could hold a candle to you.” He looked over at Rebecca, “Or you,” he added.

  “Who lived here before the Lamberts?” Maggie asked.

  “Heather’s parents. Her family built the house. Her husband’s name was Lambert. Heather’s maiden name was Alquárez. She was a dark-haired, dark-eyed, fiery Latin beauty with the complexion of cream ivory.”

  “And a heart of blue steel,” Rebecca commented in between spoonfuls of soup.

  “Why do you say that?” Maggie asked, glancing at her sister.

  Rebecca shrugged. “Just this house, I guess. I get the impression that only a very cold and calculating woman would enjoy an atmosphere like this.” She kept her eyes leveled straight at Maggie.

  “We are all quite aware, Rebecca dear, that you do not seem to favor this place. You needn’t remind us at each and every turn of the conversation.”

  David cleared his throat. “The soup is heaven. Did Sophie make it?”

  “No, I did,” Maggie said.

  Sophie appeared to clear away the first course. She had a disturbed, almost frightened, expression on her face. When Maggie noticed it she asked, “Is anything wrong, Sophie?”

  “Miss Heather says somebody took her gloves.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Maggie saw quick glances exchange between Sophie and David. “Nothing,” Sophie grunted as she piled the soup plates one on top of the other and went out of the room.

  When the swinging door closed Rebecca said, “She said, ‘Miss Heather says somebody took her gloves,’ whatever that means. That one’s a bit off the deep end, if you ask me.”

  Sophie came back in carrying the next course. Everyone remained silent until she was out of the room again.

  “She’s perfectly harmless,” David said. “Poor Sophie has just refused to believe her mistress is gone. She idolized her.”

  Before any of them could touch the fish the door swung open again and Sophie appeared, but briefly. She just poked her head into the dining room. Her eyes were on fire. “Whoever took them better give them back. She’s really mad.” The door swung shut.

  In the dead silence that followed it started. The ice cubes in the tall water goblets began to rattle against the sides of the glasses. The prisms of the overhead chandelier began to tinkle like wind chimes heralding a storm.

  The bases of the candelabra thumped and the floral centerpieces inched this way and that on the table.

  “What in heaven’s name?” Maggie exclaimed.

  The whole room began to tremble. The floor beneath their feet shook. A low, rumbling sound—like that of distant thunder—got louder and louder.

  “Earthquake,” David shouted. “Quick. Under the table.”

  They threw themselves down.

  Deep in the recesses of the house someone screamed.

  The three were huddled together, stiff as figures in a painting, waiting for the rumbling noise to stop and for the house to settle. When all went quiet David, as though coming alive, got slowly to his feet. The others followed suit.

  “I think it’s over,” he said as he headed toward where he thought the scream had come from. Maggie and Rebecca were close at his heels. “It’s a good thing you ladies are from around these parts. Easterners just can’t cope with our little earth tremors.”

  “Do you think that’s what it was?” Rebecca asked anxiously.

  “What else could it have been?” Maggie said.

  They pushed their way through the butler’s pantry and out into the kitchen. Sophie was on the floor, seemingly cowering near the big stove.

  “Are you all right, Sophie?” Maggie asked, rushing over to her. She went to lay her hand on Sophie’s arm, but before she touched her she gasped. She saw the blank stare, the sagging mouth.

  “Oh, my God!” Maggie gasped. “She’s dead!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  She scarcely knew Sophie, yet the sight of her frail little body being lifted onto the stretcher and carried out to the waiting ambulance brought tears to Maggie’s eyes. She couldn’t decide if they were tears of grief or of fear. There was a stabbing in her breast and a voice kept telling her that Mrs. Johnston had been right after all. Heather House was evil; she must get away from it.

  But another voice told her that wherever she went this evil would follow her. It wasn’t Heather House that bludgeoned the life out of Sophie, it was someone in the house.

  But who? Maggie asked herself.

  She felt Rebecca’s arm go around her. “Don’t think about what’s happened, Maggie. As the policeman said, it must have been a prowler or some horribly demented vagrant who Sophie had taken in.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill Sophie? It makes no sense,” David said.

  “Nothing makes any sense anymore,” Maggie answered, her mind wandering back over the past year.

  Rebecca hugged her. “Come on, Maggie. Let’s get out of here.”

  “And go where?”

  “Any place but here.”

  Maggie shook her head. “I couldn’t face that house of Mrs. Johnston’s. Besides, the police searched the place. They found tire tracks leading away from the back of the place. Whoever killed Sophie won’t be back, I’m sure.”

  “But the place is giving me the willies. I’ve got to get out of it, at least for a little while,” Rebecca said.

  David touched Maggie’s arm. “Rebecca’s right. Let’s take a drive. At least a change of scenery will help. What do you say?”

  Again Maggie shook her head. “No, you two go along if you want to. There’s so much to straighten up.” She let her eyes wander toward the kitchen.

  “Don’t you dare go into that kitchen tonight, Maggie,” Rebecca said firmly. “I forbid it. You’re upset enough.”

  “Please, Rebecca,” Maggie said, regaining her composure. “I am not a child. I think I’d like very much to be left alone. You and David go for a drive if you wish. I just want to be alone and think.”

  “Alone? In this house? Over my dead body,” Rebecca said.

  Maggie turned to David. “Take Rebecca for a drive, David. She’s more upset than I am, although she doesn’t want to show it. I’ll be fine, really I will.”

  “I’m sorry, Maggie, but I think Rebecca’s right. You mustn’t stay alone in this house. You should get out of here, at least for an hour or so.”

  “No,” Maggie said. “Whoever killed Sophie is far gone by now.” What she didn’t say was she was certain there was some evidence the police had overlooked that would give her a clue as to who that someone was. She had a good idea of who, but the thought was so disturbing she didn’t want to think about it. Yet, she had to be sure her suspicions were correct. She had to search the house and find out whatever she could without Rebecca or David being there, spying on her.

  “Go along, you two,” Maggie insisted. “I’ll be fine. I’m going to bed.”

  “Surely you can’t think about sleeping after....”

  Maggie cut Rebecca off. “I’ll take a pill. I’m very tired and upset. Good night,” she said firmly. “Don’t stay out too long.”

  She went up the stairs quickly and closed the door of her bedroom. She waited until she heard David’s car drive off, then she came out of the room and went back downstairs. Without hesitating she went directly toward the kitchen. If she came face to face with him she was certain she had nothing to fear. She could talk to him, reason with him as she had done so often in the past.

  Maggie didn’t feel afraid. He loved her; he meant her no harm.

  There was no one in the kitchen when she got there; the cellar door, however, was ajar.

  As she touched the knob a strange, peppery odor caught in her nostrils. She pulled the door ope
n. The odor sharpened. Maggie thought about the smell of heather she’d experienced the night before. It wasn’t heather this time; it was much too pungent to be anything as pleasant as that.

  Maggie searched for a light switch. There wasn’t any. Of course there wasn’t, she told herself, remembering the police with their flashlights. She turned back and took an old kerosene lamp down from its nail. She stood at the top of the stairs, looking down into the dark, dusty cavern of the cellar. There was nothing to be afraid of, she kept telling herself.

  The cellar was strangely warm, with a close, smothering atmosphere. She was forced to breathe through her mouth to get rid of the biting sensation in her nostrils. Something thin and wispy trailed across her face and she gave a little gasp. The cord from a light socket hung in front of her eyes. She yanked at it but nothing happened. She would make a point of replacing the bulb tomorrow. The thought made her pause.

  Maggie hadn’t prowled through many cellars and the sensation was a strange one. It was like walking through a tunnel that had no end. She saw the crates and trunks and wondered what long-past memories and secrets were locked up inside them. Possibly clothes from bygone days worn by people who were long since dead and in their graves. Perhaps collections of love letters, Heather Lambert’s love letters, tied neatly with ribbons and laid lovingly to rest.

  The peppery smell became more pronounced. It seemed to come from the direction of the far wall.

  At the far wall Maggie found nothing but solid brick and stone encrusted with dirt and dust. The wall felt rough when she touched it. She reveled in its solidity, the firmness of its texture. The roots of Heather House, she thought, so deep and secure, so unyielding. Nothing, not even nature’s cruelties, would ever represent a threat to this foundation. She wanted to press herself against this buttress, this bulwark, and make herself one with it. It was the strength she’d never had.

  As she moved along, her hand bumped against something less solid that was leaning against the wall. Maggie held her lantern up close to it. It was flat and rectangular in shape, draped with a thick canvas which was layered with dust. On impulse she pulled away the canvas.

  Clouds of dust swirled up and over her. She began to cough, groping for a handkerchief to cover her nose and mouth. Her coughing spasm almost caused the lantern to fall from her hand. She set it carefully on the floor and fanned the air to clear the swirling dust. She stepped back and waited for the gray, powdery grime to settle.

  Gradually there materialized before Maggie’s eyes a portrait of a woman dressed all in white, holding a small bouquet of what was unmistakably heather. Maggie stared at the bouquet for a moment, then slowly raised her eyes to the face.

  “Heather Lambert,” she said aloud.

  The name came to her spontaneously. She had never seen Heather Lambert, nor had she ever heard a description of her other than the sketchy one David had given; yet she knew instinctively that this was a portrait of Heather Lambert, mistress of Heather House. This was the portrait that had been taken down from the wall of the living room.

  Maggie had never seen a more beautiful woman. Her hair was dark as a raven’s, hanging long and loose over her naked shoulders. The creamy whiteness of her dress brought out a smoldering of the eyes. Her long, delicate fingers encircled the stems of the bouquet of heather, which was painted in such exquisite detail that Maggie almost mistook the acrid smell in the cellar for the heather in the painting.

  She stood there gazing up at the exquisite features of the woman and thought the artist must indeed have been very much in love with her. Every man must have been in love with her, Maggie thought. How could they not be? She was the loveliest woman Maggie had ever seen. And yet her husband abandoned her. How could he have?

  Maggie’s eyes noticed the handsome gilt frame around the canvas. The frame and the portrait itself were in perfect condition. Why, then, was it buried down here in this murky old cellar? Why had someone draped it in canvas to hide it from the appreciative eyes of the rest of the world? It was a masterpiece. She couldn’t possibly let it remain down here. It belonged in a place of honor, a place where everyone could enjoy the exquisite beauty of Heather Alquárez Lambert.

  Maggie had trouble lifting the painting, as it was large and heavy and awkward to maneuver. She glanced down toward the floor where she’d placed the lantern. The beams of light illuminated the dust and dirt on the floor and Maggie frowned, noticing that she wasn’t the first to have tried to move the painting. The ground was scuffed. It appeared that the painting had been pushed or dragged away from the wall, and rather recently, because the floor looked newly scratched.

  She tried lifting the painting but it was far too wide and much too tall for her to grasp. It threatened to tumble down on her. She’d have to wait and get Rebecca or David to help her with it in the morning.

  As Maggie struggled to put the portrait back against the wall something black and jagged caught her eye. She picked up the lantern, eased the portrait forward silently and peered behind it. The smell, strong and peppery, was intense. It was oozing from a large, gaping hole that had apparently been blasted into the lower part of the wall. She felt the ragged edges of bricks.

  Someone must have recently tried to blow away a section of the wall. She could not fit herself behind the portrait and was afraid she’d knock it forward and deface it if she tried. She attempted to push it aside but something was holding it fast. When she investigated she found that a pile of bricks had been knocked to one side, butting up against the frame of the portrait.

  She stood there staring down at the rubble. What could it mean? Who had pushed aside the portrait of Heather Lambert and had tried to blast a hole in the brick wall, and for what reason? Maggie rubbed an idle finger across her chin. Her nostrils stung from the sharpness of the smell. The explosion had been recent.

  Then another thought grabbed her mind. There had been no earthquake! Someone had been in the cellar, had moved the painting and had set off a charge. Sophie had obviously seen whoever it was. Someone had come down here carrying some kind of charge and had detonated it, shaking the house. But why?

  Maggie remembered the fire in her bedroom. Had someone tried to burn her out, and, having failed that, was now trying to blow her up? No, Maggie was sure Rebecca was responsible for the fire. She remembered the gloves with the hardened wax and she remembered something similar happening a long time ago.

  Rod? Had he crept down here? A man could easily have managed moving the portrait. No, it couldn’t have been Rod, not if her suspicions were correct. Rod would not chance blowing up the house with Rebecca inside it. And David...?

  Maggie reached behind the portrait again, groping around the opening. Several of the surface bricks had been blasted away near the bottom, leaving a gaping black hole. The charge had only succeeded in knocking away part of the wall and weakening it.

  If someone had taken the time and trouble to blow a hole in the wall, whoever it was would surely be back to finish the job. No one had intended to blow up the house; that could easily have been accomplished by simply using a bigger, more devastating type of explosive. No, there was obviously something behind the wall—or under it—that someone desperately wanted.

  Why had anyone tried tonight when it was obvious there were people in the house? Certainly whoever it was had seen the cars parked in the driveway, had seen the lights, had heard the voices and the music. Maggie pondered that for a moment. Of course! Before today there hadn’t been any need to remove whatever was being searched for because there had not been anyone living in the house prior to today, only harmless old Sophie.

  “That has to be it,” she said aloud, proud that she had finally solved this part of the puzzle. She glanced again behind the portrait. Someone knew something was hidden under or behind the bricks and had to get it out before anyone else discovered it. Someone afraid the new tenants might renovate the place from attic to cellar and discover something damaging. What?

  Overhead she heard a door sla
m shut. She lifted the lantern and peered up into the face of Heather Lambert. The face seemed to be smiling at her. There was something about the expression on the face of the painting that told her she was right. Woman’s instinct, premonition, call it what you will, Maggie knew she was thinking along the correct lines.

  She almost felt like laughing. They wouldn’t trick her. Nobody would trick Maggie Garrison. The intelligence of Heather House was offering itself to her and as a team they could not fail.

  “We’ll wait them out,” she found herself saying up into Heather’s painted face. She didn’t quite understand why she’d said that, but it seemed right to say it to this beautiful woman, standing so tall and regal in her gilt frame.

  Footsteps sounded overhead, walking across the kitchen floor. Rebecca was back earlier than she’d expected. She’d worked faster than Maggie thought she would.

  “Maggie! Are you down there?” Rebecca called.

  “I’m coming,” she called back.

  She turned and looked up at Heather Lambert. “We’ll wait,” she whispered, and then turned and hurried out of the cellar.

  She’d wait for tomorrow.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Why did you turn off all of the lights?” Rebecca asked when Maggie emerged from the cellar. “Had you expected me to stay at David’s?”

  At a glance Maggie could tell she was upset, and it wasn’t over Sophie’s death. Rebecca, contrary to what Maggie told David, never got upset over anything unless it concerned herself personally.

  “I didn’t turn off the lights,” Maggie said. She blew out the lantern and replaced it on its nail.

  “The lights were off when David drove me back...except for that weird light in the tower.”

  “So they were off,” Maggie said flippantly. “What does it matter? A woman was killed in this house tonight and you’re concerned about lights being turned off.”

  “And what on earth were you doing in that dreary old cellar? Just look at your beautiful dress. It’s ruined.”