The Secret Staircase (A Wendover House Mystery Book 1) Read online

  Mr. Ladd looked startled.

  “You wish to sell Wendover House?”

  “Well, you see I own a newspaper in Minnesota. It would be rather a long commute.” Especially given that the paper was on its last legs and I had to work about three different jobs and might have to take on a fourth since my paper boy was threatening to quit if I didn’t give him a raise. You know the difference between a small-town editor and Sisyphus? In addition to pushing a heavy weight uphill forever, I also have to pay taxes and rent.

  “I’m sorry to sound so surprised. Of course you would want to sell. Just because there has been a Wendover on Little Goose since the late eighteenth century doesn’t mean that you would want to stay.”

  He did not sound convincing and I am not tone-deaf. In fact, I was pretty sure he felt that a failure to stay would be a complete dereliction of duty on my part.

  “Wanting doesn’t have much to do with it,” I replied apologetically and then paused to think about my wishy-washy answer. Did I truly want to stay? “It’s the ways and means that are troublesome.”

  He sat back in his chair.

  “I see. But you would like to stay if it were possible? We should think on this. There could be ways to arrange things, creative sources of income that might allow you to hire someone to manage the paper for you.”

  We. That was kind of nice. His suggestion was not really practical but I appreciated the sentiment.

  Certainly there wasn’t anything drawing me back to my cracker-box apartment, and only duty to my grandmother’s memory forcing me to work every day. I’m not saying this wasn’t a strong compulsion, but I was awfully tired of the burden.

  However, if I did move here, what would I do? How would I make a living? Two hundred and fifty thousand was a lot of money, but it wouldn’t last forever. I would need a job.

  “The housing market isn’t strong right now and the house does need a little work to make it appealing to outsiders,” Mr. Ladd said. “You know, we have a newspaper here and they are always looking for contributors. It was established in 1820, the year we broke from Massachusetts and became a state.”

  “No, I didn’t know.” But I could imagine all too well. I, too, was always looking for contributors who would work for free or very little. I didn’t even require that they be able to spell.

  “Well then. First of all, it’s time to eat. One can’t make decisions on an empty stomach.” He stood up, removing his strange eyeglasses. He looked younger without them.

  “Really? I do it all the time. It’s the lot of the owner-publisher of a small-town paper to go lunchless.” I smiled as I rose to show I was joking. Mr. Ladd smiled back but I don’t think he saw the humor of what I was saying.

  “We’ll have something to eat and then we’ll head out to Little Goose so you can look over the house. How can you decide anything when you haven’t even been to the island?” He was sounding cheerful again so I decided not to say anything blighting about my decision-making skills being excellent even without seeing the house. “Leave your bag here for now. I promise it will be safe. We have very little crime here.”

  We walked out of the office and he didn’t lock the door. About forty feet up the street was the Great Goose Public House. The hour being advanced, we had the restaurant almost to ourselves. The interior was gloomy with soot-stained walls and small windows, but I thought it would look nice with a fire in the hearth and the candles lit.

  “Is it sacrilege not to order lobster?” I asked, forgetting Mr. Ladd had no visible sense of humor. If Shakespeare’s Beatrice was born to speak all mirth and no matter, then I was her opposite. But Mr. Ladd made me feel like a veritable comedian.

  “Not at all—but you do like fish, don’t you? It comes over fresh from Goose Haven daily. That is where most of the fishing boats are docked. They also have a lovely chowder house.”

  I do not especially like fish, but I didn’t say it aloud since he seemed worried about pleasing me and dining options were limited. Scanning the menu I saw corn chowder in a bread bowl and opted for that.

  There was a short wine list, but Mr. Ladd didn’t even glance at it, so I contented myself with a cranberry soda. He requested coffee when our waitress came to the table. She studied me openly.

  “Louisa, this is Theresa MacKay. Louisa and Jeb Parker run this place.” Louisa Parker was forty going on sixty, her blonde hair fading into gray. Her eyes were pale blue but friendly enough even with their drooping lids. Her husband, who was working behind the bar, nodded but said nothing. He seemed a little older and not so much wrinkled as withered. His smile was charmingly puckish though.

  “Please call me Tess,” I said. Neither of us offered to shake but we smiled and nodded. “This is a lovely building. It’s very old?”

  “Ayuh, built in 1863,” she said proudly.

  We all smiled some more and Mr. Ladd ordered food with our drinks. I was a little surprised at him giving my order for me, but supposed it was just an old-fashioned courtesy that lived on in that small community.

  I was given a local history lesson while I spooned my chowder, which was quite good. Mr. Ladd talked about the American Revolution, the fishing trade, the weather, the current inhabitants of Great Goose. Since I interview people for a living it was easy to absorb his lecture and nod at the right moments without ever betraying that parts of the verbal tour were not entirely fascinating.

  He did not mention anything about my family or their place in local events.

  Now I don’t talk about my family either, but it seemed odd that given the Wendovers had been around for two or three centuries, he made no mention of them while recounting local lore. Finally he ran out of local wild birds and flowers to list and then apologized for monopolizing the conversation.

  “That’s alright. I don’t actually know anything about the area or the Wendovers so it is all very interesting.” Okay, I lied just a little. The recitation of local birds and flowers had gotten a bit tedious and I had stopped paying attention.

  “Your grandmother never spoke of your family?” He was looking worried again.

  “Almost never. She was very busy with the newspaper after my grandfather died and very … forward focused.”

  “This is the paper you now own?”

  “Own and run. And write for.” And printed, cut, and folded.

  “Your hands are full then.”

  “Always. Fortunately I’m ambidextrous.”

  This got me another perfunctory smile. So he understood my jokes, he just didn’t share the humor of them. Or maybe he didn’t like being reminded that I had a life elsewhere and wouldn’t be staying on the island, though why he should care so much remained a mystery.

  After lunch, which he paid for and tipped a strict ten percent, he took me up to the market. It was in a corner building with a low ceiling. It was perhaps fifteen feet wide and maybe twenty long, about the size of a mini-mart, but it felt smaller and had less variety. There was no slushy machine or microwave food. Almost everything came in cans and they gave the impression of being dusty, though of course they weren’t really. The shelves sagged slightly and there were footpaths worn into the floor.

  Again, Harris Ladd placed my order after consulting me, explaining to the proprietress, Abigail Sibley, that I would need a few of the store’s perishables. He recited the small list. Twice. This time I was feeling annoyed at his assumption that I would stay at the house long enough to need eggs and bread, but good sense came to my rescue before I spoke out loud. There probably weren’t any inns on Great Goose and certainly not on Little Goose. If I wanted a place to lay my head that night, without returning to the mainland, it might have to be in Wendover House. And come morning, I would be wanting some breakfast.

  Miss Sibley nodded, smiling blankly as she rang up my purchase on an antique register with a bent dollar sign. Reminded of Ladd’s words, I began to hope that those small repairs to my house that the attorney had mentioned did not include the roof or broken windows.


  After we collected my groceries from the ancient shopkeeper, who murmured something about being happy I was there, we went back to Mr. Ladd’s office and picked up my shabby suitcase. As predicted, no one had stolen it.

  We walked down to the empty docks to a small motor launch and Mr. Ladd handed me aboard. I have done some boating at home so managed to climb in with a bit of grace and stow my small bag under my seat while he cast off.

  Little Goose was clearly visible from the waterfront and looked close enough to swim to, but the sea was not entirely calm and a quickly dipped finger assured me it was numbingly cold. Clearly I could rid myself of any notions about swimming in the frigid waters. That was okay. I had not packed a bathing suit.

  The trip took only ten minutes and I enjoyed it thoroughly. The wind was brisk but the sun made it pleasant and I was getting very curious about the slanted island where my family had lived.

  “Who lives here now?” I asked, raising my voice. This had also been absent from Ladd’s luncheon lecture.

  “There is a writer named Livingston. He writes some kind of spy books. He’s from away.” The attorney sounded disapproving. I wonder if it was a contempt of novels or for people who had the misfortune to be born elsewhere.

  “Benjamin Livingston?” I asked, surprised and maybe just a little starstruck. He was one of my favorite novelists.

  “Ayuh. He isn’t terribly personable and always seems busy. Your great-grandfather never made him welcome, so don’t expect him to be knocking on your door with a hot dish.”

  “Oh.”

  “Your other neighbor is Archibald Hicks, a retired marine biologist. He is from away too—Boston, I believe—and a bit of a recluse since his stroke. He lives with a nurse-housekeeper, Mary Cory. Mary’s two brothers own one of the larger fishing vessels on Goose Haven. Nice girl. Very quiet though.”

  “Do people on the island own their own boats?”

  “Most do, but the ferry comes on Tuesdays and Fridays. That is when groceries and mail are delivered. The ferry captain is Marcus Sibley. He’s a quiet man, unless he gets a few drinks under the belt.”

  I was sensing a theme and it centered around “quiet.”

  “He is related to Miss Sibley?”

  “Her brother.” This surprised me.

  “Is he … a younger brother?” Able to see and hear and recall three whole items at a time?

  “Yes, a full decade younger and much healthier. And slightly more sensible.” Mr. Ladd killed the engine and made the boat fast. He seemed to be pondering something and then after a moment, probably deciding that what he was about to share wasn’t actually gossip, he said, “I know that Miss Sibley is rather elderly for the job of postmistress and shop clerk, but she has clung on because she is afraid to retire. Her father retired and died a day later.”

  Miss Sibley looked like she was barely “clinging” to more than her job, poor old barnacle. I nodded sympathetically though.

  “My grandmother died in her office at the paper,” I volunteered, taking his offered hand and allowing myself to be helped onto the dock. There were two other boats already there. One was a motorboat called the Lubbock and the other a tiny cabin cruiser called Blue Ruin. I smiled a little, wondering if the owner knew that blue ruin was an old name for rum. There was a sort of shed at the end of the jetty that perhaps served as a boathouse but it was empty.

  “Did my great-grandfather have a boat?” I asked, thinking it would be convenient to have.

  “He did but he sold it about five years back. He had a lot of trouble with it and once he almost drowned in a storm when the engine went out. He started believing he was a kind of Jonah and in the last years refused to leave the island at all.”

  Mr. Ladd insisted on carrying the groceries but I would not allow him to take my case. It didn’t weigh that much and I was uncomfortable being treated as weak and witless, though that probably was not the intent of his gallant gesture.

  The grass near the dock had been shorn, possibly by goats or sheep since it was uneven terrain. But there were flat places every few inches and we easily climbed through the rocky stubble without turning an ankle. I had read that some islanders imported grazing animals for the summer as a sort of natural weed-eater. Manure in turn attracted birds that ate the grubs in the manure and they in turn fertilized the grass with grub dropping that broke down quickly. This made for new and healthier plants. It was a natural cycle and helped prevent erosion. I just wondered how much the sheep liked riding in boats when it was time to move on to a new location. The thought of seasick ruminants made me shudder.

  I’d best supply a little geography for you so you understand the layout. The island was a kind of triangle with blunted points. The whole thing tilted so two of the points were run right into the water. The remaining point was raised up about forty feet into the air. A fanciful person might think that a sea giant had grabbed one side of the island and jerked it down into the waves.

  “That’s Greyhome where the writer lives,” Mr. Ladd said, jerking his head to the left. The house was not made of stone, but rather brick and wood. It was not large, but had two floors and a steeply pitched roof, probably necessary for shedding snow. “Beyond the copse of trees is May House. They were both built in the early nineteen hundreds. They brought in rental income until they were sold in the nineteen forties.” The tone was trivializing of these architectural latecomers.

  I could only see the uppermost dormers and chimneys of May House through the leathery foliage. This building was also made of wood that had been painted white. The black shutters were a somber note, but the house was attractive and seemed well maintained and I didn’t understand the sneering attitude.

  “Why are the houses here made of wood and not stone?” I asked.

  “Building materials had to be brought in. The local rock is mainly shale and not good for quarrying. Wood was cheaper and easier to move.”

  “Ah.”

  Something large and gray streaked by us and I gasped before I realized what it was.

  “It’s just a cat,” I said unnecessarily.

  “Ayuh. Your cat, if you can catch him. The thing is half-feral. Kelvin was the only one who could get near him.” Harris frowned at the bushes where the feline had disappeared.

  “Kelvin?”

  “Your great-grandfather, Kelvin Wendover.”

  “Oh.” This information left me feeling disconcerted. Why hadn’t I asked anything about the family on the trip over? For that matter why had I not asked for any details about who was behind “the Wendover estate” when I received the first letter? For some reason I was resistant to the idea that I actually had any kin, even dead ones. Maybe because they had always been characters in a fairytale. Or perhaps it was loyalty to my grandmother, but since she was also dead and I was there, it was time to ask some questions about the family I never knew. It wasn’t like they could give me cooties or anything and, as the saying goes, one should carry rancor to the grave but no further. Whatever the old quarrel between Grandma and her father, it was time to let it go.

  “There’s a bit of legend about Wendover House that I feel I should mention,” Mr. Ladd said. I had the feeling that he was reluctant to tell me the tale, but felt somehow compelled to share the information.

  “What’s that? Not ghosts I hope.”

  He frowned but didn’t deny the possibility of ghosts.

  “It’s said that Abercrombie Wendover bought his property from one of the local tribes who had a sort of hermit medicine man that lived alone on the island, and that they put conditions on his taking up residence here before they would sell.”

  “Conditions or curses?” I asked jokingly when his face remained long.

  “Well, a bit of both, I suppose. The legend has it that the three islands would be protected from invasion as long as there is a Wendover in residence on Little Goose. The owner can leave briefly, but a Wendover must reside here most of the time or on the next New Year’s Eve the whole island will be drowned in
vicious waves and pulled down into the ocean. It will destroy all ships in the water and drive the fish away forever. It is believed that the island is slanted because of the storm caused when the Indian hermit tried to leave.”

  I didn’t say what I was thinking. I was too obstinately rational to believe in curses. Instead I asked, “Has this ever been tested by my family?”

  “Sadly, yes. Abercrombie tried to leave the island but his boat, the Terminer, was overturned and he drowned in the freak storm that caused great damage on all the islands, destroying homes and many boats. His son was persuaded to stay on the island after that. They say he never left Little Goose at all. And his residency seemed to work since neither the British nor the French ever managed to set foot on the island during the wars, and any that tried to come were attacked by the sea and sunk. Having a Wendover on the island is considered a boon for the rest of us.”

  He was serious. The wind suddenly felt a whole lot colder and I considered the idea that I might be on an island with a crazy man.

  “And here is the house,” Mr. Ladd said, sounding awed and also, perhaps, just a bit nervous. “I trust you’ll like it. It really is a historical gem.”

  Chapter 2

  The house was white with green shutters, built in the Federal style, rectangular with no overhangs but a deeply recessed door where guests could stand out of the weather. The foundation was granite slab. It looked impressive perching there on its hill at the highest point of the island. It was ringed with stocks of bright purple fireweed, which I recognized because Grandma had grown it in her patio garden. There was also a kind of lawn area that would have been velvet in the spring but which had weeks ago turned into stiff blades that would poke through your clothes if you sat on it without a blanket. Perhaps once the yard had been manicured, but if so, there were no traces left of a formal garden. I found the wildness charming.

  “You said Wendovers have been here since the eighteenth century?” I asked, not really up on my architectural styles but knowing the house was wrong for the era.