Читать книгу Asking For Trouble - Millie Criswell - Страница 8

IVY SWINDEL WAS ADDICTED to porn.

While most seventy-eight-year-old ladies were crocheting afghans or sipping tea from china cups, Beth Randall’s great-aunt was viewing Internet pornography. The fact that the spinster’s father had been a Methodist minister and the old lady still referred to sex as “matters of the flesh,” made her behavior seem outlandish, if not downright abnormal.

But then, no one ever accused Ivy or her younger sister, Iris, of being normal. And at any rate, Beth considered normal to be highly overrated.

“I found the most interesting Web site this morning,” the older woman stated at breakfast, blue eyes sparkling, and grinning like a naughty schoolgirl. “It’s called ‘Balls of Steel.’ Isn’t that colorful?”

Since Beth assumed the Web site had nothing to do with bowling or baseball, or any other kind of vertically played sport, she smiled tightly. Her focus shifted to her great-aunt Iris. She felt somewhat relieved that the woman’s only addiction seemed to be Earl Grey tea, though she did harbor a worrisome fascination with witchcraft, which had the gossip-mongers in town working overtime. But even that didn’t seem nearly as disturbing as the one Ivy had for naked men.

Her great-aunt had never admitted the reason she was so fascinated with male genitalia, but Beth suspected it had something to do with her desire to recapture her youth. The old woman had been the wild child of the Swindel family, and the bane of her father’s existence. She had never lacked for male companionship, or so she claimed. Ivy had admitted in a roundabout way that she’d sown her share of wild oats—a shocking concept in her day and age, when women were expected to be circumspect and ladylike—but had never found a man she deemed worthy enough to marry.

Apparently, Ivy was still looking.

Since that fateful day last year when Beth had given Ivy her old computer and she’d discovered the Internet, Ivy had become fascinated, then obsessed, and finally incorrigible, not to mention unrepentant, about visiting pornographic Web sites. And no matter how many times Beth had teased, cajoled and begged her not to, Ivy hadn’t listened. Fortunately, she seemed interested only in naked men, nothing more sordid.

One had to be grateful for small favors, if one had an elderly aunt into porn.

Beth placed a plate of hot scones, fresh from the inn’s kitchen, on the small round mahogany table in her aunts’ suite of rooms on the fourth floor. Sipping the hot tea, she felt lucky to have these wonderful ladies in her life.

The Two Sisters Ordinary, named in honor of her aunts, had been the Swindel sisters’ former home. Iris and Ivy had encouraged Beth to turn the historic Victorian into an inn so that others might enjoy it. She, in turn, had given them a life estate.

As was her usual custom, Beth proceeded to fill her aunts in on the day’s upcoming events. “We have a new couple checking in today. The Rogers are from Columbus, Ohio. He’s a dentist. They’re coming to celebrate their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.”

“How wonderful! Will they be staying long?” Aunt Iris asked with no small amount of enthusiasm. Her aunt was an intriguing mixture of Mary Poppins and the Wicked Witch of the West and was quite possibly the most upbeat person Beth had ever met, though she was a stickler for the proprieties. Good manners were expected, as was circumspect behavior, which usually created problems where Ivy was concerned.

Ivy Swindel didn’t know the meaning of the word circumspect.

“Just two days, possibly three,” she replied, hoping for three because she needed the extra money.

“Is the man well endowed?” Ivy wanted to know, leaning forward to stare intently at Beth, who bit her lower lip to keep from laughing. “All the young men on the Web sites I visit seem to be. I do hope so. Maybe we can get those Chippendale dancers to come stay at the inn. Wouldn’t that be lovely? I’ve been saving my dollar bills, just in case.”

Iris gasped. “Sister, shame on you! What kind of talk is that, and in front of your niece? Children have very impressionable minds. I’ve told you that numerous times.”

At thirty-four, Beth didn’t think her mind was all that impressionable—warped, maybe; confused, at times; filled with self-doubt, always—she had her ex-husband to thank for that.

Greg Randall’s constant criticism and verbal abuse had taken its toll. “You’re so stupid, Beth! Why the hell did I ever marry you? If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

“I haven’t met Mr. and Mrs. Rogers yet,” Beth explained. And she certainly had no idea about any of her male guests’ physical attributes, nor did she want to know. “This is their first visit to the inn.” And would probably be their last, if Ivy started staring at the poor guy’s…um…equipment, and she wasn’t referring to dental drills. It was hard to believe that this male-nudity-addicted spinster was the same sweet old lady who used to read bedtime stories to her.

“I’m also expecting a young honeymoon couple to arrive at the end of the week,” she announced. “Joan and Charles Murray are from Virginia. They sounded very nice on the phone.”

“Oh good, that’s sure to liven things up around here. Put them in the room with the big brass head-board, so we can—”

“Ivy Swindel!” Iris shook her head in warning. “Merciful heavens! That will be quite enough. What would Papa think to hear you say such things? I’m sure he’s rolling over in his grave at this very moment.”

Looking hopeful, her older sister grinned. “Do you think so?”

Sniffing the air several times at the acrid odor filling the air, Beth scrunched her nose in distaste. “What’s that awful smell?” The lemon sachet, which usually permeated the large suite of rooms, had been replaced by something that smelled suspiciously like marijuana. Not that she’d ever smoked the potent weed, but her ex-husband had indulged, from time to time.

“Incense, dear. I’m trying out a new incantation and thought it would help set the mood.”

“Iris is trying to raise the dead.” Ivy grinned, which increased the multitude of wrinkles on a face that looked like a well-traveled road map. “I told her to start with Phinneas Pickens. That old coot could use some resuscitation. Why, I ran into him at the bank the other day and he pretended he didn’t remember that I’d taught him eighth-grade English. Can you imagine? The man must be senile.”

Iris was trying to raise the dead? Why on earth would she want to do that?

Beth decided she might have to reconsider which aunt was the nuttier of the two.

“Maybe Mr. Pickens is growing a bit forgetful,” she offered, glancing at the ormolu clock on the mantel and knowing what she’d suggested was very unlikely. The man had a mind like a steel trap. “At any rate, he’ll be here soon to inspect the inn for the loan I’ve applied for.”

And she had no doubt he’d remember every debt she owed. Beth wasn’t sure what she would do if she didn’t get the additional funds or how long she could keep operating the inn. Business had been slow these past six months. And though she had bookings for the upcoming Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays, she wasn’t sure the revenue would be enough to sustain her through winter, when tourism slowed down in the rural Pennsylvania township.

Mediocrity received its share of snow, but it wasn’t reliable enough to base an entire industry on; and so the skiers and snowboarders went farther north, leaving only the die-hard antique lovers and Civil War buffs to spend tourist dollars in the quaint community.

“I wish we were able to help out more financially, Beth dear,” Iris said, biting her scone daintily, and then wiping crumbs from her lips with an embroidered napkin. “We never meant for this house to become a burden when we gave it to you. Did we, sister?” Ivy shook her head.

“Don’t be silly. I love this house. But it takes time to grow a business. There were repairs and alterations that needed to be done before we could open as an inn. This relic is a century old, after all.”

Iris still didn’t look convinced and Beth patted her hand reassuringly. “You’ll never know how grateful I am that you and Aunt Ivy chose to share your home with me. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t made the offer. You’ve always been there for me.” Their generous gift had been a godsend to Beth, whose life had fallen apart after finding out that her husband of three years had been having an affair with one of his coworkers.

Greg was the athletic director for Mediocrity High School and head coach of the Miners football team. Penelope Miller, his paramour, was a physical-education teacher who coached girl’s basketball and soccer.

Beth supposed their pairing had been inevitable. She’d never shared her husband’s enthusiasm for sports, while her husband’s lover fit his fantasy image of a female jock to a tee: big boobs, long legs and no brains, or at least none Beth could discern.

What seemed disastrous at the time had actually turned out to be the best thing that could have happened to her. Greg’s nasty moods and the venom that spewed forth from his mouth were now Penelope’s problem to deal with. They deserved each other, as far as Beth was concerned.

Unwilling to turn tail and run after her husband’s affair had become public knowledge, Beth had focused all of her energies on opening the inn, which had given her a chance to regain her self-worth and sanity, and a reason to get her life back in order, which hadn’t been easy on many levels. But she was determined to succeed.

“This house was just too much for a couple of old ladies to manage,” Ivy admitted. “And you love this Victorian as much as we do, so it seemed only fitting that you should have it. We wanted the house to remain in the family, and you’re the only family we have left, aside from your mother, who is quite content with her life in California.”

Thank God for that! Beth loved her mother, but she didn’t like her very much and had no intention of living any closer to the woman than three thousand miles.

Margaret Shaw had a nasty disposition and made everyone around her miserable. Beth had thirty-four years of good reasons to dread her visits, which fortunately were few and far between. They argued over the most trivial things whenever they were together. Margaret took great delight in telling Beth in excruciating detail every little thing that was wrong with her. And she had a very long list!

“This house was the best part of my childhood and holds so many wonderful memories.”

“You mean like the time you tried to help Elmer Forrest paint the front porch and ended up dumping a whole gallon of paint on his boots?” Ivy laughed and Beth smiled.

“Mr. Forrest wouldn’t talk to me for months after that.”

“Elmer felt badly about his behavior after we explained about your parents’ divorce.”

Thinking back to the heartache her parents’ divorce had caused, Beth sighed. She’d often wondered if she’d been the cause of their breakup, but her aunts had assured her that Margaret and Melvin Shaw’s failed marriage had been due to her father’s wandering eye. She hadn’t fully understood what that meant until the day her mother had explained in graphic, horrifying detail just what her father had done, shattering her childish illusions about a man she had worshipped and adored.

“My dear, are you all right?” Iris asked, her brow creased with worry. “You look positively glum.”

Forcing a smile, Beth nodded, picking up the thread of their conversation. “Once I get the loan I’ll be able to finish the landscaping and pay off the bulk of the debt I’ve accumulated trying to bring the inn up to code, which is why I intend to bribe Mr. Pickens with a jar of your damson plum jam. Mrs. Pickens is wild about it.”

Ivy pursed her lips. “Humph! If you ask me, Finnola Pickens thinks too highly of herself. She was a very poor student—didn’t know a verb from a preposition, as I recall.”

Neither did Beth, but she wasn’t about to admit that to the former schoolteachers. English, and grammar in particular, had never been her forte, though she adored reading, especially romantic novels. At least relationships in romance novels always worked out; they were required to have happy endings.

Too bad real life wasn’t like that.

“We don’t think you should show Mr. Pickens the cellar, dear. It’s so cold and musty down there. We think it would be best if you just ignored it completely. Don’t we, Ivy?” Iris appeared uneasy as she glanced at her sister, twisting her napkin into a tight knot.

“It’s so damp down there,” Ivy agreed. “And you know how much you dislike it.”

Dislike wasn’t quite the word Beth would have used. Hated. Despised. Abhorred. Those words fit so much better. “True. But I’m desperate. Don’t worry. I’m taking Buster with me for moral support.”

Aunt Ivy tsked, and then shook her head. “But you’re terrified of the cellar, and that dog is useless as a watchdog. Why, he practically licks Mr. Jessup to death every time he brings the mail.”

Buster was no Lassie, that was certain, but the black Labrador was the only good thing she’d gotten out of her divorce settlement with Greg, and Beth loved him. He’d given her unconditional love, something she’d never received from her ex—or any other man, for that matter.

“Don’t worry. We’ll be just fine. I’ll be back up later this afternoon to let you know how my meeting with Mr. Pickens went. Until then, try to stay out of trouble.”

The two old ladies glanced at each other before breaking into a fit of giggles.

HER RIGHT HAND TREMBLING over the rusty handles of the root cellar’s wide double doors, Beth felt her heartbeat crashing against the walls of her chest like a wild hummingbird and nausea rise in her stomach. Fearing eruption was imminent, she breathed deeply several times to calm herself.

No way did she subscribe to that whole “when the going gets tough” scenario. She’d never gotten over her fear of the dark, dank, spooky place. Not after accidentally being locked in the cellar at the age of six by her aunts’ cleaning lady.

But dammit! Mr. Pickens would be arriving at any moment to make his inspection and she needed that jam!

Beth might be chicken, but she wasn’t stupid.

At Buster’s morose whine, she inhaled deeply, and then swallowed with some difficulty. “We’re going, we’re going. Just be patient.” But she couldn’t get her feet uprooted. Her legs were shaking so badly the soles of her tennis shoes had attached themselves to the lawn like Mrs. Abernathy’s ugly pink flamingos next door.

“I can do this!” A familiar feeling of panic started setting in. “Just pull the doors open,” she told herself. “You haven’t got all day.”

Buster barked, apparently agreeing with her.

“Oh, shut up! Who asked you?”

Clasping sweaty fingers around the handles, she pulled up, holding her breath and praying the ghost of alleged murder victim Lyle McMurtry wasn’t waiting on the other side to grab her. Feeling something furry on the back of her leg, she screamed, but then realizing it was only the dog, she frowned at the grinning animal.

“Stop that or you’ll make me pee my pants!”

As she threw open the doors, Buster rushed in ahead of her, and Beth pointed the flashlight down the stairwell of the cellar, which smelled like hundred-year-old onions, despite the fact that none had been kept there for years.

Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she took her first faltering step. “I can do this! I can do this!” Think of that woman from Tomb Raider, who ventured into scary places and kicked everyone’s butt. The wooden step creaked, and she halted in midstep, her heart pounding loudly in her ears. She was tempted to flee—so much for Tomb Raider—but knew she couldn’t. Her aunts were counting on her to get that loan.

Where would Ivy and Iris live if she lost their house? Where would she?

Directing the narrow beam of light into the darkened room, she scanned the area, hoping she wouldn’t discover a nest of spiders, or worse, rats hovering on the hand-hewn beams overhead. If there was one thing she hated worse than spiders, it was rats—big black ugly rats with skinny pink tails and gnawing sharp teeth.

Suddenly something scurried across her foot and she jumped back, nearly losing her balance. The flashlight flew out of her hand and dropped to the earthen floor with a thud. “Oh hell!” In its beam she saw the small, hideous face of a rodent, its whiskers twitching and tiny feet pawing at the metal stick. “Shoo!” She clapped her hands loudly to scare it off, hoping upon hope that it was the only one she would find.

The hell with Lara Croft; Beth was no Indiana Jones!

The inn’s cellar had a rather nefarious reputation. It was rumored that a man named Lyle McMurtry had been murdered in it over fifty years ago. To make matters worse, the alleged victim had once been engaged to Beth’s great-aunt Iris, which made the eccentric old woman and her sister suspect to the residents of Mediocrity. Everyone in town knew that Iris and Ivy were inseparable; where one went, the other followed.

Did that include murdering former fiancés?

A chill went through Beth, but she shook off the ridiculous notion that her aunts might be murderers and that McMurtry’s ghost might be lurking about. Picking up the flashlight, she continued her surveillance.

Row upon row of her aunts’ preserves, pickles and canned goods lined the rickety old shelves that were nailed to the walls of the room. A vintage 1950s rusted lawn mower and other assorted gardening utensils hugged one corner, and crates and boxes of every size and shape imaginable were stacked six feet high, making Beth aware of the fire hazard they presented.

The ancient dwelling, though up to fire code, would go up like a tinderbox if those cartons ignited. She made a mental note to discard them as soon as she could make the arrangements.

Grabbing a jar of damson plum jam off the shelf, she dusted it on the leg of her jeans, calling out to the dog, but he refused to come. “Buster, Buster, where are you?” She didn’t intend to spend one more minute than necessary in the bowels of the Ordinary. “Let’s go, boy. I’ve got a treat for you.” But still the dog refused to heed the command.

Cursing softly beneath her breath, Beth moved cautiously toward the other end of the cellar, directing the shaft of light to reveal an old wooden work-table. There, resting on top was a small metal camp shovel. She searched her memory, finally remembering where she had seen the tool before. It had been the day her aunts had been arrested for shoplifting from Herb Meyer’s Hardware Store.

On a whim Aunt Ivy had secreted the shovel beneath her coat to see if she could get away with stealing it. She hadn’t. And it had taken all of Beth’s persuasive powers and a promise to buy all of her gardening implements from Meyer’s Hardware, even though they were twice as expensive as Builder’s World, before the man agreed to drop the charges.

Guiding the beam of light to her right, she discovered Buster frantically clawing the earthen floor. “Stop that, you naughty dog!” Concerned the inquisitive pooch might accidentally expose and damage some old water pipes—a repair she could hardly afford—she moved closer to investigate.

“What’re you doing, Buster? I told you we have to leave. Now!” Flashing the light on the dog’s find, she gasped when she saw what looked to be a large, dirt-encrusted bone and stared in openmouthed horror as Buster’s digging produced more skeletal remains. She inched closer, unable to take her eyes off the ghastly discovery.

“We don’t think you should show Mr. Pickens the cellar, dear. It’s so cold and musty down there. We think it would be best if you just ignored it completely.”

Her aunts’ emphatic insistence that Beth avoid the cellar came flooding back and she started to get a really bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. It might have been the four scones slathered with strawberry jam that she’d eaten that morning, but she didn’t think so. She clasped her churning stomach, feeling as if she was going to throw up or faint—she couldn’t decide which—and inhaled deeply.

Why had her aunts advised her to avoid the cellar?

It was pitch-black. The flashlight, waving up and down because her hand shook so badly, didn’t shed much light or meaning as to what exactly she was looking at. Or maybe it was the fact that she didn’t want to believe what she was looking at. She grasped it tightly with both hands to steady it, and herself.

What were those bones doing in her cellar? And who had put them there?

Her aunts were the only ones who ever ventured into the bowels of the Two Sisters Ordinary on a regular basis. They were fond of canning applesauce, putting up jams and jellies, and they stored the canned goods in the cellar, where the temperature was cooler.

“Iris is trying to raise the dead.”

“Lyle McMurtry.” Beth whispered the name, then shook her head. The possibility was just too ridiculous to consider.

Or was it?