Help Wanted (4 page)

“So,” he said, picking up a poker, stabbing at the fire. “You think you'd like this job, do you? Well, I think you would, too. I've done some checking on you.”

“On … on me?”

“Of course on you. Why would I check on someone else if you're the one who wants to work here?” He took one jab at a log, and it promptly dissolved into hissing sparks. “My grandson had quite a lot to say about you, Robin Bailey.”

“Your …” She felt her voice die. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I don't even know Parker, Mr. Swanson. I mean, well, I know who he is, and—”

“And you have English literature together every afternoon,” the man continued, nodding emphatically. “But he knows quite a lot about
you
, young lady. Enough to convince me you'd be perfect for this job.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Swanson, but really, I—”

“He said you were smart. Smartest in the senior class, was what he said.”

“Well, no, actually—”

“And popular. With girls
and
boys. Truthful. Helpful. Kind, he said. And unpretentious. Can you imagine that—Parker knowing what unpretentious is! Kid thinks he's God's gift to women!”

Robin's mouth dropped open.

“You agree with me, too,” Mr. Swanson said triumphantly. “But that's neither here nor there. Important thing is, I believe him, what he says about you. And he wasn't wrong, either, saying you're pretty.”

Robin felt her cheeks flame. She stared at the floor and tried to tuck one sneaker behind the other leg of her jeans.

“And modest,” Mr. Swanson added. “I like that. Now, look here, Robin Bailey, I need someone I can count on—depend on. And I think you're just the one for—”

“Excuse me, sir,” a voice interrupted from the doorway, “but I didn't hear the doorbell ring.”

“Because it
didn't!
” Mr. Swanson clasped his hands behind his back and bent forward at a forty-five degree angle. “Because Robin here didn't
ring
it! Because I was right there waiting for her when she
got
here!”

To Robin's dismay he threw a big wink back at her over his shoulder and looked immensely pleased with himself.

“This is Robin Bailey, Winifred.” He waved one arm vaguely in Robin's direction. “She's come about the advertisement I had Parker put up in his school today.”

There was a slight movement from the shadows beyond the threshold, and Robin saw a woman step forward into the light. She was tall and straight and rather prim and looked very much like the plain old broom she was holding.

“Shall I get refreshments?” she asked, and Mr. Swanson deferred to his guest with a nod.

“No, thanks,” Robin said quickly. “Nothing for me.”

“Then get out of here, Winifred,” Mr. Swanson said. He flapped his arms wildly toward the woman, but she merely turned without the slightest show of alarm at his behavior.

“If you need me—”

“Yes, yes, we'll call you,” Mr. Swanson shouted after her impatiently. “Well and good, Winifred, well and good.” He glanced over at Robin and chuckled, affording her a loud stage whisper. “Winifred's been with us for years. Thinks she runs the place—
and
us! Thinks we can't do without her. Well, we can't! But I won't
tell
her that! Don't want her getting a big head!”

Robin looked down at the floor and sighed.

“Please, Mr. Swanson—”

“Don't call me Mr. Swanson. Makes me feel old. Call me Herk.”

“But—Mr.—I mean, Herk—”

“A hundred dollars a week,” he announced. “Does that suit you?”

“A hundred …” Robin nearly choked, but the old man rushed on.

“I see it does. Good! ‘Get rich quick'—wasn't that what the ad said? That was
my
idea. ‘Get rich quick'—catchy, huh? Well, it caught
you
, and I'm glad. A hundred dollars, Robin Bailey. That'll make the job more tempting. You'll need all the stamina you can muster.”

“Stamina? You mean because the job is demanding? I don't mind hard work. I do tutoring and I also help out in the school administration—”

“Not stamina for the job. Stamina to deal with this nutty family! Look here.”

Robin looked. Herk fairly skittered over to a wall of small mahogany doors and began to open them, one by one. In each compartment there were books, books, and more books, and boxes stacked one on top of the other, all of them neatly labeled but unreadable from where Robin sat.

“See this?” Herk barked.

Robin nodded.

“These are Lillith's things.” His eyes narrowed, as though he were angry about something. “Her books. Tons of them. Millions of them.”

“Lillith?” Robin echoed, but he rushed on.

“All these”—he indicated the whole wall of cupboards with a sweep of his hand—“are being donated to the local library here. But before we can give the blasted things away, they need to be appraised. And before the appraiser can come, they need to be cataloged. If it were up to me, I'd dump the whole caboodle in the fireplace and have done with them! But it's not up to me! 'Cause I'm old! No one cares to hear
my
opinion!”

He stopped. He leaned over even farther and yanked one book from its shelf, rifling haphazardly through its pages.

“This one's art. But I don't know what all's in the rest. Nonsense and whatnot. Think you can handle it?”

Robin nodded. The old man flashed her a grim smile, then jerked to attention.

“What was that?” he said sharply. “Did you hear something?”

Robin jumped in her seat. She watched as Herk's eyes quickly scanned the room and finally stopped at the far wall, where a set of French doors stood slightly ajar. Filmy white curtains fanned in on the night breeze, and Robin glimpsed what might have been a shadowy patio lying beyond.

“What?” Robin whispered.

Herk had gone stiff and silent. He held one finger to his lips, but after a moment he lowered his hand again and shook his head.

“Thought I heard something. Did
you
hear something?”

“N-no.”

“Crazy house. Crazy family,” Herk muttered. “Some of these books are falling apart, they're so old. You don't have to be careful with them—I just want the job done. Want to get them out of here. Family won't do it. They're all insane.” He straightened and replaced the book, then slammed the cabinet door.

“Well …” Robin ventured cautiously, “will Lillith be working with me? To tell me exactly what she wants me to say about the books?”

“Don't see how she can!” he snorted.

“Oh.” Robin nodded again. “Oh. So … will I meet her?”

“Meet her?” Herk echoed. As Robin watched, his eyes narrowed and swung toward the door. “There she is,” he muttered. “You can meet her now.”

Automatically Robin turned. She could see the walls and the archway and the foyer beyond that, and the lights glowing softly all around. But besides the strange little man by the fireplace, there was no one else in the room.

“Where?” she asked uneasily. “I don't see her.”

“There. Just behind you.”

A sudden draft swept through the room, so piercingly cold that Robin caught her breath. She could see the French doors shivering and the darkened patio crouched outside and the curtains billowing like restless phantoms on the chilled autumn wind. And as her eyes struggled to focus on the night beyond, she could swear she saw something else—
something moving
—for just the briefest instant—a subtle thickening, then fading of the darkness …

Robin gasped and jumped to her feet, turning again toward the hall door.

She hadn't noticed the portrait when she'd first come in. Even though it was quite large, it hung inconspicuously to one side of the arch, positioned within a niche, hiding from the light. Now, as Herk continued to gaze at it, Robin started forward, half fascinated, half repulsed by what she saw.

The woman was delicate and childlike, her small face ghostly pale and painfully vulnerable. Long blond hair streamed out like wings around her head and shoulders, and her clear violet eyes gazed wide with some unknown horror. She wore a beautiful white robe, yet it hung in shreds from her fragile body—the sleeves, the skirt, the bodice slashed and torn, smeared and stained with blood. Her right hand plunged a knife deep into her breast. She was smiling.

“My God …” Robin murmured, but before she could say anything more, Herk spoke out from the shadows behind her.

“She always had a fear she would die violently.”

Robin couldn't make herself face him. “And did she?”

“Oh, yes. She killed herself.”

R
obin couldn't take her eyes from the painting. The face was so innocent, yet at the same time so filled with pain and unspoken terror.…

“She was an artist, you know,” Herk went on, his scowl deepening. “And that was her favorite—that self-portrait. It shakes people up, but I like it there. Just to remind me she's really gone.”

“But … how can you … it's so …” Robin's voice trailed away, but Herk picked up her thoughts.

“You think I'm mean. Mean and cruel and insensitive. Well, I'm not, Robin Bailey. She was an evil woman, and she never should have married my son. She got exactly what she deserved.”

Robin didn't want to hear any more. She glanced longingly toward the door, but Herk kept on.

“She was the second Mrs. Swanson. Married Gardner after his first wife died.
Against my wishes
, I might add! Nothing good came from
that
match. As if Lillith weren't bad enough, Claudia moved right in with her—along with the suitcases and all these damn books.”

Robin was getting more confused by the minute.

“Who's Claudia” she murmured.

“Lillith's daughter.” Herk's face darkened. “Creepy kid. She
should
be in school now, but she's still grieving, is what the doctor said. Lillith's been dead nearly six months now, and Claudia still can't get over it.”

Robin heard the irritation in his voice and finally turned around.

“But—I mean—it
is
her mother who died—”

“Don't give me that sad old mother-daughter bonding stuff—they fought like two cats over a saucer of cream! Couldn't stand each other when Lillith
was
alive—can't see why Claudia's so broken up over her now.”

He hobbled over to the portrait and studied it silently for several seconds. Robin gave it one more reluctant glance, then dropped her eyes. Her heart felt immeasurably sad.

“How—how did she die?” Robin spoke at last.

“Messy. Very messy.” Herk shook his head. “Slit her wrists and threw herself into the ocean. Wanted to make sure it worked one way or the other, I guess.”

Robin stared at him, wishing she'd never asked.

“Thing is, she must have changed her mind at the end. Changed her mind and started calling for help. Fishermen bringing in their boats heard her. Said she was calling Claudia's name. It was windy that night, and stormy. By the time they got help out there, Lillith was gone. It was Claudia who finally found her—later on—washed up on the beach.”

“You mean—Claudia saw her after it happened?”

“Horrible sight. You ever see anyone drowned? Been in the water a long time? Course, she'd practically bled to death before she jumped—”

“Jumped?”

“Off the cliff!” Herk sounded impatient. “She cut herself, and then she jumped! I remember like it was yesterday. Body ended up in a little cove near our house, and Claudia just standing there on the rocks screaming and screaming.”

Robin closed her eyes, feeling suddenly queasy. “Oh, that poor girl. It must have been so horrible for her.”

“Went all to pieces. Of course, she always
was
a strange little thing. But after that …” Herk lifted one bushy brow. “Hasn't been dealing with a full deck, if you know what I mean.”

Robin said nothing. She told herself she wouldn't look at the painting again, yet she felt her eyes lift helplessly, felt herself gazing at the beautiful, tortured face and feeling so sorry.

“Secretly you're wanting to know why Lillith did it.” Herk gave her a look that was almost smug. “But you're too polite to ask.”

“No. It's none of my—”

“It's always like that with suicide, isn't it? Wanting to know—but
not
wanting to. We see ourselves in those poor doomed creatures. We see ourselves and the times we've needed a way out, and we can't help but wonder … was it worth it for them? Did it solve what they hoped it would? Or do they wish they were back here … with the same set of problems to face?” He stared at her a long moment. “Do you believe the dead come back, Robin Bailey? Especially … the evil ones?”

“I have to go,” Robin said abruptly. She forced herself to move through the doorway and out into the entrance hall.