Embers (57 page)

Their luck did change, but not for the better. Incredibly, Meg got a call the next day from the wife of a second cousin who happened to be the mother of a young man engaged to a secretary whose downtown lunch mate's sister-in-law worked for one of Bar Harbor's best-known probate attorneys. The word was that Joyce Fells was planning to challenge Orel Tremblay's bequest of the dollhouse to Meg.

And there wasn't a damn thing Meg could do about it except hire an attorney herself to defend her prize.

"You know, even for a nightmare, this is getting tired," she told Comfort, who had stopped by the Inn Between to check on their progress and feed them lunch. "It's like there's some big wet cloud above my head that won't go away. Sometimes it rains, sometimes it pours, and sometimes it just plain drizzles. But it won't go away."

"Do you think Joyce Fells was right?" asked Comfort with a worried look in the direction of the shed. "
That the doll
house is rightfully hers, and that it carries a curse for anyone else?"

"That's Allie's theory, not Joyce's," Meg said, pushing half of her huge tuna-fish sandwich on her sister-in-law.

Meg added, "I think the dollhouse is something, though. Not cursed, exactly, but imbedded with some kind of energy. Although, who knows? Lately it just sits there, doing nothing."

"Oh, it could be dangerous, Meggie, it could be; you don't know," said Comfort. "Come back with me to Uncle Billy's," she pleaded.

How anxious Comfort looked to Meg; how beaten down by events. Her pale green eyes seemed to wash out to a lighter shade after every bout of tears. It was the pregnancy, of course; that was how she was with the twins, too. Meg should never have been so candid with her about the dollhouse just now. That was the kind of thing she could share with Allie, not with poor, misnamed Comfort.

So
Meg laughed reassuringly and said, "I think everything that
could happen has happened. I'll be fine here, Comfort. I'm still working through the bookings
—
did I tell you I'm offering a half-price rate?
—
and now I'm making inquiries everywhere I can to sell the dollhouse."

"Before Joyce Fells can stop you?"

"You bet," Meg said dryly, and changed the subject. "Okay, tell me what this typing assignment is you have for me."

Comfort took a letter typed on heavy stationery out of her bag. "I took this to the hospital because I thought it might cheer Allie up. I knew it was good news because I held the envelope up to the light and saw the words 'very pleased' in it," she admitted, blushing.

Meg scanned through the letter, which was an enthusiastic job offer from the Castle Inn in
Chicago
—
the first, no doubt, of two or three.

"But Allie dictated this to me," Comfort said, taking out a note written on the back of the letter's envelope. "I don't know how to type business letters; can you do it? She's turning it down, Meg, I don't know why. She don't have to see him. It's a big city. And look, they offered her so much
money,
more than she could ever get around here. Why don't she take it?"

Meg scanned the gracefully worded refusal. "Because money isn't everything, Comfort," she said, sighing. "Even though it seems that way right now to you and me."

****

Comfort left with her newly typed rejection
,
and Meg went back to her phone work. Through her open window she heard Tom's Cutlass pull up; Lloyd had mentioned that Tom would be coming back to help. Meg was careful to stay upstairs for as long as they stayed downstairs. Later in the day she watched from her window as both men loaded the pickup for a dump run, then said good-bye to each other.

Tom had his hand on the door to his car when he looked up suddenly at Meg's lace-covered window. She stepped back quickly, like a nosy neighbor caught in the act. It was wrenching to have him so close. Couldn't he see that? Did he
have
to behave so reasonably
—
helping just because they needed help? He was supposed to have gone back to
Chicago
by now. If he was going, then he ought to just
—
go. Why drag it out?

With a heavy heart she dragged herself back to her list of potential saviors. Meg had thrown her net wide and far, and so far she hadn't caught a thing. It was almost unnatural. She'd left tempting messages on answering machines of miniatures dealers and collectors all over the country; they couldn't
all
be out of town. Still, for the moment there was nothing to do but wait.

That was hard. For one thing, Meg wanted to run out and double-check the shed. She couldn't shake the fear that Joyce Fells was going to steal the dollhouse
—
lock, stock, dolls, and bedboards. But Meg was a hostage to her phone. So she brewed more tea, and paced from room to room, stopping once in a while to stare through a window into the foggy night, and tried to pretend that the house didn't stink to high heaven.

The silence, inside and out, was unnerving. Meg missed the random shouts of the twins, and the quiet murmurs of the guests, and the bouncy laughter of their latest chambermaid, a college girl from
Ireland
. She missed Lloyd's gentle grousing, and Comfort's call to supper, and Allie's high-spirited babble.

She felt so alone. Even the pets were gone. The cats had passed through the house and decided, apparently, to stay with friends. Meg would've liked to keep Coughdrop with her, but Terry, convinced that the dog would come down with asthma from the fumes, had talked his great-uncle into taking his pet too. So now Meg was left with the sound of her own silence, broken only by the squeaking of the old oak floors under her bare feet, and the low moan of a foghorn drifting through the open windows.

When the phone rang, she jumped sky-high. Praying for a fairy godmother to be at the other end, she said eagerly,
"Yes?"

"Mrs. Hazard?" asked a voice that sent shivers through her. "This is Gordon Camplin. We met at the Children's Charity dance at Fairlawn."

Not a fairy godmother. Meg took a deep breath and said, "I remember."

"I'm glad," he said pleasantly. "Do you remember singing the praises of the Eagle's Nest miniature? You invited me to come by and see it. I confess I didn't have much interest at the time; but now I understand that the replica is being offered for sale. Is it?"

The answer was almost impossible to get out: "Y-yes."
Not him! Anyone but him!

"Have you fixed a price?"

"I
...
I'm open to offers," she forced herself to say.
This can't
be happening.

"The reason I ask is, I'm flying to Nice tomorrow to visit my daughter. We were talking earlier, and I happened to mention the miniature, and she was very curious to know what condition it was in
—
whether all the pieces were still there, that sort of thing. She seems to remember it quite well, or to think she does. Of course it was
never a toy; but a three-year-
old sees things differently from an adult. In any case, she was thrilled to know it was being made available."

"She's welcome to look at it," Meg said faintly. "Naturally."

A daughter. Meg couldn't deny an innocent daughter.

"She's asked
me
to look at it and advise her. "I told her I wouldn't have the time; but as it turns out, I do. It's terribly short notice, I know. But if I could have five minutes
—"

"I was just about to go to bed," Meg blurted stupidly. It was eight thirty.

"Oh? Well, maybe someone else is available to show it?"

"There's no
—" But she was loath to admit she was alone in the house. "When
...
when can you be here?" she said, struggling to handle this unexpected twist. Her mind was reeling; the sound of his voice was making her completely irrational.

"I'm just downtown," he said, sounding relieved.

Shuddering, Meg said, "I'll give you directions."

"No need," he said cheerfully. "I know just where you are."

Meg hung up in a state of shock. The one thing she hadn't anticipated was the worst thing: that Gordon Camplin might still care enough to pay hard cash for the dollhouse. It was a hideous thought. She didn't think for a minute that he was looking at the house for his daughter's sake. He was coming because he couldn't stand not to, because the rumors and stories had begun to pile up.

Meg knew
Bar Harbor
. Her uncle had told everyone about the secret compartment, trying to drum up interest in a sale. That, coupled with Tom's remar
ks at the dance about the doll
house being haunted, was enough to bring Gordon Camplin scuttling to the Inn Between. Maybe he
was
merely curious; after all, he was leaving for Nice and couldn't be sure the dollhouse would still be around when he returned.

Maybe he had thoughts of hiding behind his daughter's skirts and buying the dollhouse for himself, now that he knew it was for sale. Maybe he wanted to relive the moment over and over in the privacy of his fantasies. Meg had heard of sicker things.

Maybe
he wanted to know if Meg had found his letter. What if he'd figured it all out
—
where Margaret Atwells had stuffed the letter at the last minute? He might have forgotten all about the secret compartment until Uncle Billy went blabbing around town about it. All these years, he hadn't known the dollhouse even existed; there'd been no cause to worry. But now he had a reason to worry, and an excuse to come.

And she was alone.

She went into a subtle panic, not enough to be considered hysteria, just enough for her to change quickly into a smock with big pockets and drop a small folding knife, with the blade open, into the right one.
This time,
she thought,
I'll be prepared.
And then she realized: there'd
been
no other time.

So her grandmother was still around, after all.

Meg raced through the house, turning on every lamp; the place was as bright as a baseball park for a night game. After that she took up a post in the front room near the window. She remembered Tom's words at the Children's Charity dance:

"You watch and you wait."

He hadn't told her it would be in a state of terror.

Get a grip,
she told herself.
He's an old man; why should you worry? Old men don't kill. They certainly do
n't
rape.

Still, at the last minute she dashed into the sitting room and turned on the television, then swung through the kitchen and turned on the radio there. She wanted the Inn Between to look as though it was up and running, a happy place to be. By the time she got back to her post, a dark gray Mercedes had pulled up and Gordon Camplin was walking to the front door. In the golden light of the porch fixture he looked younger and fitter than a man his age was supposed to look, and far more grim than would be expected of a man running a pleasant errand for his daughter.

The effect on Meg was overwhelming. Her stomach constricted as if she'd taken a vicious blow, and her heart began to hammer violently. This was a dreadful form of
fear,
utterly new to her, more intense even than the fear she'd felt when she was unpacking the little dollhouse bed. She was in danger of fainting on the spot and had to grab the doorknob to steady herself. At the same time, Camplin was lifting the brass knocker on the other side and dropping it in three firm raps.

The result was electric. A current of terror seemed to make a circuit through the door, leaving her limp from the jolt of it. Her head told her there was nothing to fear on the other side, but her spirit
—
her spirit was making another connection altogether. She rallied herself and swung the door wide, ready for the dread engagement.

"Hello; I see you found me," she said with a lift of her chin.

"There wasn't a doubt in the world," he said amiably. He seemed much less startled by the sight of her than he'd been at the Children's Charity dance. Whatever he'd felt there, he obviously had
that
emotion thoroughly under control. He began to say something, then suddenly stopped and grimaced.