Better Homes and Hauntings (14 page)

What would it be like, she wondered, to wake up every morning to this sort of luxury? Dotty hadn’t grown up poor, exactly, but her parents certainly hadn’t been able to afford anything like the Whitney manse. What did women like Catherine Whitney do all day? She’d seen enough
Downton Abbey
to visualize a lot of costume changes, dressing appropriately for various meals and activities of the day.

Speaking of which, where were all of Catherine’s clothes? According to Jake’s blueprints, there was a dressing room between Mr. and Mrs. Whitney’s rooms. If she was a woman of means, she would have wanted to keep her clothes and accessories as close together as possible. Could the jewelry be hidden in some secret compartment in her closet?

Dotty crossed the room and opened the door opposite the bed. She coughed, waving the flurry of dust away from her face. A stained-glass window depicting a golden-haired woman in a flowing blue Greek gown provided the only light, giving the room a faint azure glow. Other than a vanity and an enormous floor-to-ceiling gilt mirror, every inch of the walls was occupied by paneled cabinets. No doubt, the clothes were stored in those, keeping the dressing room uncluttered. A dress dummy lurked in the corner, its disembodied presence giving Dotty her first pangs of unease. Catherine’s maid would have hung whatever ensemble Catherine had
planned for the evening meal or other affair over the model. But still, it was creepy as all hell.

What had it been like for Catherine Whitney to get dressed in this room every day? Didn’t she ever want to throw on some comfy clothes and eat cookies? Did she have comfy clothes? In spite of considerable wealth, her life didn’t seem particularly comfortable. What would it be like to spend every moment of your life being watched?

She shivered, turning her attention back to the cabinets. Where to start? She’d read up on what passed for security systems in the Gilded Age. While heavy-duty vaults were still entrusted with major financial holdings, Dotty also knew that the rich kept smaller caches in hiding places in their close quarters. Cabinets, dressers, desks. Furniture makers who could specialize in artful pieces with hidden compartments were in high demand.

Dotty studied the cabinets. The panels were carved with designs, but dust obscured them. Dotty tugged her scarf from her neck and began swiping at the panel closest to the vanity. In the dim light, she could see elaborately curlicued waves and seashells emerging. As she moved closer to the mirror, she uncovered the beginning of a much larger seashell and a pair of feet rising from the shell. Judging by the other mythological themes found around the rest of the house, she would guess that the carving was of Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty, a rather unimaginative motif for a dressing room. She was a little disappointed in Catherine for being so prosaic in her decor.

Dotty rubbed a little harder at the curls circling the
goddess’s knees and flowing down to her feet. At the very bottom of the panel, about three feet from the floor, she felt a tug on her scarf. Dotty stepped back. Had she snagged something? Pursing her lips, she continued to scrub at the carved feet. The cloth snagged again, and she yanked hard to pull it free. Somewhere under the panel, she heard a distinct click and the whir of rollers. She glanced down just in time to see what looked like some sort of support beam for the cabinets pop out. She danced out of the way before it whacked her in the shins.

Realizing what she’d uncovered, she shouted, “Destiny, you sneaky little bitch!”

LUGGING THE HEAVY
cube-shaped box under one arm, Dotty was perfectly comfortable walking through the series of doors and false walls that led into Deacon’s new private office. Tucked behind the library, the ten-by-twenty room had once served as a secret storage place for spirits, as Gerald Whitney didn’t like the idea of leaving his personal stash of Scotch housed in the wine cellar. It was one of many secret rooms and passageways the original architect had tucked around the house. Dotty and Deacon had discovered most of them as children.

Dotty punched the entry code into the security panel mounted outside his door. Without being told, she knew it would be 51939—the release date of the first
Batman
comic. He’d used some variation of the code for his high school locker combination, ATM PIN, and garage-door key. The oak-paneled door slid left with a hiss.

Dotty rolled her eyes heavenward. Only her cousin would put a comic-book spin on an antique door. Even after spending time in Deacon’s just-short-of-the-holodeck-on-the-starship-
Enterprise
offices in Boston, she still was stunned by the contrast between his office and the rest of the house. Unlike the elegant decay of the mansion’s other rooms, the walls here were painted a smooth, blinding white, with huge high-definition panel screens covering nearly every inch from waist height to her line of sight. Instead of sports on every screen, Dotty spotted the EyeDee home page, Deacon’s personal e-mail account, his business e-mail, and his Twitter feed.

On the screens closest to the sleek white-and-chrome desk were complicated chains of numbers and letters that were complete gobbledygook to Dotty. Deacon was hunched in his white leather captain’s chair, frowning over a wireless keyboard, biting his lip in concentration. Dotty was struck by an image of Deacon in a mad scientist’s lab coat, tinkering with his creature before shouting, “It’s alive! It’s
alive
!”

Smiling to herself, she set the box on a table and cleared her throat. Deacon didn’t look up. She cleared her throat a little louder. Still nothing. She picked up a plush green doll and tossed it at his head. She tried not to let the flash of annoyance flickering across his features hurt her feelings. After all, she had just tossed a Yoda at him.

“Is
this
really what the rest of the house will look like? Because I was hoping that our great-great-grandparents’ house would end up looking like a doctors’ waiting room. On a spaceship. In a future without comfortable furniture.”

Deacon gave her a flat, unreadable expression. She gave it right back to him. He sighed and stood up from his desk. “No, I’ve explained to Regina that if she doesn’t significantly change her designs, her work on this project is over. Is this really why you broke into my office? To insult me and my furniture?”

“No. I
walked
into your office to talk to you about the book.”

He sighed. “Dotty, I don’t want to hurt you, but we both know this new book isn’t ever going to get off the ground. You’ll make a mess of whatever progress Cindy is trying to make organizing the house, lose interest in a few months, and be off to do something else.”

Dotty would allow that, considering that she had cut and run on several projects in the past. “Not this time, Deacon. It’s too personal. I think it’s important to me and to you that we sort through this family stuff once and for all. I mean, how many times did we try to talk to our parents about it, only to have them shut us down and tell us it was too hurtful to talk about?”

Deacon frowned at her. “Uh, that would be never, because my parents didn’t actually talk to me about anything.”

There were times when Dotty hated her aunt and uncle, she really did. Her own parents were decent enough, she supposed. But they were absent, hard to pin down, moving from place to place, because “starting over” in each new exclusive community gave them a new audience for whom they pretend they were the affluent, high-flying Whitneys. Uncle Robert was cold, selfish, and willing to sacrifice his own son’s financial well-being to keep up appearances. When Deacon had
made his money a few years ago, Robert was the first one to come to Deacon with his hand out, claiming that he was owed a share of his son’s success for all of his parental sacrifices.

“It’s important, Deacon. We need to know why this happened to our family, why the effects have rippled through the generations. Is it a curse? Bad karma? Or do we just have unlucky genes? Don’t you want to know?”

“Why is it so important to you to prove that there’s a curse?” Deacon demanded. “Your parents still speak to you. You had a relatively stable childhood, even if they move around a lot now. I don’t get why you need some curse to blame for how your life turned out.”

“Oh, my God, you enormous idiot!”

Deacon frowned. “Well, that was . . . unexpectedly harsh.”

“I’m not looking to blame something for
my
messed-up life. I’m looking for some cause for
your
messed-up life.”

“Uh, Dotty. My life isn’t miserable. I have four houses, the largest collection of
Flash Gordon
memorabilia in the continental United States, and one of the original Batmobiles. William Shatner sang ‘Rocket Man’ at my last birthday party.”

“First of all, that’s a sad commentary on what you think makes a person happy. And second, he didn’t sing it. He
spoke
it.”

“Did I mention I own my own chocolate factory?”

“Deacon!”

He sighed, flopping back into his chair. “Fine.”

“Despite that rather upsetting list of assets you just mentioned, Deacon, you still act like you expect everything
to just—
poof
—up and disappear. Because of the curse, you think you’re going to lose everything.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Really? You don’t think that investing a crapload of money to restore our great-great-grandparents’ cursed house is some sort of subconscious curse-breaking gesture?”

“I think that was a crapload of pop psychology.”

She picked up a stress ball shaped like a Storm Trooper and threw it at his head. “Ugh, you are so frustrating. You haven’t dated anyone for more than a few months since college, because you’re afraid to get married and start a family. You bought those houses as an investment, and you haven’t been to any of them except this one. You stay holed up in your apartment because you knew the super before you started making money, and you know he won’t evict you if the worst happened. And the only people you spend any time with are your coworkers, me, and Jake. Everybody else you keep at an arm’s length, because you don’t want to find out whether they’ll stick around if you lose your money. You don’t want to know if they’re true friends.”

He would have whacked his forehead against the desk, but it would have given her too much satisfaction. “I hate it when you’re insightful.”

“Look, the good news is that if there is a curse—which there is—then by the rules of the universe, we can break it. And then maybe you’ll stop waiting for the other shoe to drop and start to really live your life. Maybe with a certain shy redheaded landscape architect who for reasons I don’t understand finds your particular brand of social ineptitude adorkable.”

Instead of protesting, as Dotty expected, Deacon sat straight up in his chair with a suddenly serious expression. “Did she say something?”

Dotty nodded. “I know it’s been a while, doll, but when a woman spends that much time staring at your mouth, it’s not because she’s wondering what sort of ChapStick you’re wearing. She’s been throwing serious come-hither vibes your way, in a socially awkward, almost indecipherable way that most people wouldn’t be able to pick up on.”

“No, really, did she say something?” he asked absently.

“Several things, none of which I am willing to tell you.”

“Because that would be too simple and straightforward?”

“Because that would ruin my fun.” Dotty picked up the cube Deacon was just now noticing on his side table. “Also because I just found this giant box hidden in Catherine Whitney’s room, and I’m pretty sure it’s going to help me figure out what happened to her right before she disappeared.” And with that, she left.

“WHAT? DOTTY!” DEACON
flopped back into his captain’s chair and started talking to himself. “She wants me to follow her. She wants to draw me into this
Scooby-Doo
mystery mess. She wants to Dottify me, once again. So I’m just going to sit here and do my work and stay sane.” He nodded sharply and sat up, pulling his wireless keyboard into place. “Right, good plan.”

Then again, Nina would probably be there when Dotty opened up the box. She seemed just as interested in this family-history bit as Dotty and Cindy. Her big green eyes would probably be bright with curiosity and
excitement. And her cheeks would be all flushed . . . and her mouth . . .

“Damn it.” He sprang up from his chair and followed after Dotty.

NINA AND CINDY
were taking their lunch break in the ladies’ quarters, relaxing at the long table and eating pasta left over from the previous night’s dinner. Jake, the Wednesday-night cook, knew his way around a carb, so it was worth revisiting.

“Hey, look what I found—aw, are you eating the last of the primavera?”

“And I’m not even sorry,” Cindy told Dotty, slurping a noodle into her mouth.

“I saved you a plate,” Nina said, hopping up and cuffing Cindy lightly on the back of her head.

Dotty dropped the heavy box onto the table.

“What’s that?” Cindy asked through a mouthful of pasta, nodding toward the cobweb-covered cube.

“I don’t know. I found it in Catherine’s dressing room. I was going to open it, but now that I know where I fall in your friends-versus-delicious-Alfredo-covered-pasta lineup, I don’t think I’m going to share this with you. Clearly, Nina is a better friend than you.”

“We knew that anyway,” Cindy said dismissively. “Come on, it could be the jewels!”

Cindy disappeared into her room and returned with a pink toolbox.

“Really?” Dotty laughed. “A pink toolbox?”

“It comes in handy,” Cindy told her. “You never know when you’re going to have to hammer in frame hangers or dismantle some ugly entertainment center.”

“They didn’t have one covered in glitter?” Nina asked, smirking at her.

“With
My Little Pony
decals?” Dotty added.

“If you don’t want these bolt cutters to chop that padlock off, keep talking,” Cindy said, holding up the pink-handled tool and nodding toward the rusted brass clasp on the box.

“I don’t need your bolt cutters, thank you very much,” Dotty said primly as she fished a small screwdriver and a long, skinny awl out of her bag. “They don’t make locks like this anymore. We can’t cut it. I can get it unlocked some other way.”