Page 14 of The Woman Who Couldn't Scream
Interesting! This was a neighborhood in transition.
She pushed the doorbell again, then knocked loudly and tried the knob. The door opened with a creak.
To her delight, the interior matched the exterior in eccentricity. The dark wood-paneled walls and worn Oriental carpet made the giant entry feel like an expansive cave. Suits of armor stood on either side of the door, battle-axes clenched in their metal gloves. The candle-like bulbs in the brass chandelier barely emitted enough light to illuminate the dark corners, and if one were fanciful, a goblin might lurk at the top of the shadowy stairway.
Merida was not fanciful. She already knew that the real monsters lived in the material world: men with too much power, women without kindness or caring.
A ship’s bell hung from a hook on the wall, a silver mallet hung beside it. A plaque announced,I’M PROBABLY IN THE KITCHEN PREPARING TOMORROW’S YUMMY BREAKFAST ROLLS. RING, PLEASE!
Merida tapped the mallet to the bell.
The sound echoed up toward the chandelier.
In less than a minute, a stylish, middle-aged woman bustled out from the back, wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron. “There you are! You must be Merida Falcon. I expected you sooner!”
Merida dug out her tablet and brought up her message about being mute, not deaf, please don’t shout.
The woman did not stop talking long enough to look at the tablet, much less notice its message. “I’m Phoebe Glass, your new landlady. I’m delighted to meet you. Follow me and I’ll show you your rooms. As requested, I gave you awhole half of the house.” She beamed. “You’re going to rattle around in all those big rooms, but since you took it for the year, I thought you might change bedrooms occasionally.” She laughed merrily, stopped in front of a huge solid wood door, inserted a big old-fashioned key into the big old-fashioned lock, turned it and opened the door.
A dining table long enough to accommodate a dozen Queen Anne chairs—five on each side and one on either end—filled the long room. Four shiny suits of armor each holding a medieval weapon—long sword, mace, lance, spiked club—stood guard against the dark wood paneling.
Phoebe said, “You can see that this is the dining room and also see why I named my bed and breakfast Good Knight Manor. Eccentric, isn’t it?”
Merida took to her tablet again.
Without heeding, Phoebe again swept on. “The home was originally built in 1900 during the first lumber boom by lumber baron Ernest Hagerjhelm—quite the name, isn’t it? The manor is six thousand square feet on three levels, including a full attic where, of course, the servants resided. When Ernest died childless and unmarried in 1932, the house was sold and has been variously a private home, a boardinghouse, apartments and now my B and B. Every morning between eight and nine, I serve breakfast in the kitchen. If you’re not able to attend, there’ll be a pot to make coffee, a basket of fruit and breakfast bars on the buffet, and in the little refrigerator, cold drinks.”
Merida slipped her tablet into her bag. Phoebe’s dark snapping eyes, curly graying hair and rapid-fire delivery obviously did not require a response.
Phoebe moved into the room at the front of the house. “This is your small parlor. Most of the wood furniture is original, really grand antiques, but the chairs are new and comfortable. You have your own delightful little gas fireplace. It’s on a timer. Those windows have a view of the street if you’re a curtain-peeper—and aren’t we all?”
Merida could truthfully say she didn’t care who walked the sidewalks as long as they left her alone.
“Two months ago, I moved to Virtue Falls, bought the manor and ever since have been madly working to clean it up. You have no idea how difficult it has been to find help! Summer in Virtue Falls is the high season and with the robust economy not even high school students need a job. I did manage to hire a local woman—poor thing, Susie Robinson has a worthless womanizing husband and four children to support. She’ll be cleaning your rooms.” Phoebe ducked into what looked like a dark cupboard. “Right through here, the stairs go up. They’re narrow and steep, originally built for the maids and staff, but darned convenient for you! Follow me.”
Merida followed and idly wondered if Phoebe had bought a bed-and-breakfast based solely on her need to talk incessantly.
Phoebe continued, “You have three interconnected bedrooms on the second floor. There are five others on the other side of the corridor, but for your privacy I’ve blocked off all but one of your doors. Here we go, the sitting room for your master bedroom.”
Merida stayed on the landing and when Phoebe turned, she gestured questioningly up the second flight of stairs.
“That leads up to the servants’ attic. It’s an apartment—I just rented to a gentleman and his wife.” Phoebe must have correctly read Merida’s expression for she said hastily, “I installed a deadbolt and sliding bolt for security on both sides. All of the outer doors to your rooms have a key-operated dead bolt, a chain and a sliding bolt for security.”
Merida cautiously considered Phoebe. Before she rented, she had investigated Phoebe Glass. The woman had a few glitches in her background: two dead husbands, a son currently occupying a prison cell and a charge of embezzlement against her which she had soundly beaten. While Merida didn’t entirely trust her—she didn’t entirely trust anyone—still she suspected Phoebe was more sinned against than sinning. Merida had come into the situation knowing she was going to change the locks; she needed more than a mere old-fashioned key, chain and dead bolts to feel safe. Electronics would provide an extra layer of protection; she had brought everything she needed to install a thoroughly secure system and when she was done, she would have surveillance cameras inside her rooms and keyless electronic locks or every outer door.
Inside the master suite, the nine-foot ceilings, tall windows and creaking wooden floors provided ambiance with a vengeance. The velvet curtains, feather comforter and thick Oriental rugs exuded warmth and luxury. The old-fashioned touches were masterful: a ceramic chamber pot under the bed, a corded rotary phone from the twentieth century on the table, a black-mottled, wavy mirror over the antique dresser.
Merida could do her work very well here.
Phoebe asked if she had any questions.
Merida examined the thermostat.
“We don’t have air-conditioning,” Phoebe said. “The folks around here keep talking about this heat wave. I can’t help but chuckle. I’m from the south”—a lie and Merida knew it, Phoebe was from the Midwest—“and I know what real heat is. But it’s no problem. The trees around the house are shady, the windows are easy to open, and the ocean breeze so cool and constant, we don’t really need air-conditioning. Isn’t that right?” She beamed.
Merida could have disagreed. If she could speak.
But if Phoebe noticed Merida’s silence, she didn’t show it. Instead, she led the way out the one door into the upstairs corridor and down the stairs back to the entry, talking all the while, telling Merida to move her car around to the back by the old carriage house. “I turned that into a cottage for rent, too. On Tuesday, I have a gentleman moving in for the summer. When I bought Good Knight Manor Bed and Breakfast, my sister predicted disaster.” Phoebe nodded, clearly pleased with herself, although Merida could not tell whether more for her own success or proving her sister wrong. “Leave your car unlocked. Susie can fetch your luggage when she arrives to clean.”
