The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1) (6 page)

“Seriously?”
 

“Quite. This mansion has served many purposes over the years. At various times it housed a modest orphanage, a small hospice for Civil War veterans, and even an asylum after the witchcraft scare.”

Belinda remembered the cab driver’s words. “Witchcraft?”

“I’ll tell you the story some time.” Grant smiled.

“Okay,” Belinda said. “I’ll wait for that story, but tell me, what is a memento mori?”

“It’s Latin for ‘Remember that you will die.’ They’re literal mementos of the dead. The Mannings created and sold art with this theme, both to the public and to mausoleum and cemetery owners. In the Victorian era, post-mortem photographs became the most desired memento mori. The Manning photographers had their own office and studio here where people brought their deceased children, pets, relatives, whatever they wanted.” He shrugged. “Other times the photographers went to the customers’ homes to do their work. Sometime I’ll show you the little ‘museum’ we have, if you like.”

“She doesn’t want to see that stuff, Grant!” Phoebe said. “Do you, Belinda?”

“Um, I don’t know. Not any time soon,” Belinda said, feeling nervous. “And now? Is there still a mortuary down there?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Manning’s Uncle Albert had no interest in having dead bodies on the premises, even if the mortuary was, handily, in the basement,” Riley said. “You know, Grant, the equipment is all still down there. You could rent the place out to horror movie crews.”

Grant rolled his eyes. “Don’t even suggest such a thing. The boss just might do it.” He winked at Belinda. “Mr. Manning’s uncle returned to a modernized form of monument and memorial making. The Mannings are born businessmen, and he did just fine.
Our
Mr. Manning doesn’t even have the stone works here on the property; he sends that business - a very small part of Manning Memoriam now - to an elderly stone carver, a master of his craft.”

“That’s fascinating,” Belinda said.
 

Grant nodded. “That’s nothing. The business is all about technology now. He’ll even send your Aunt Gertie’s ashes into space and have a star named for her. Or put together a book about her. Or create a computer-generated movie - why, he’s stolen some of Spielberg’s best artists. Disney’s, too. And you know, he still employs artists and photographers for post-mortem portraits? A few people still like that sort of thing.”

“You mentioned Disney artists?” Belinda asked, envisioning something that belonged in the Haunted Mansion.

Grant nodded.

“Animatronic Aunt Gertie,” Riley said. “Picture her, forever sitting in a rocking chair in your parlor, rocking away and telling you what a good girl you are.”

“Better than stuffed like Norman Bates’s mom,” Phoebe said, closing her newspaper.

Belinda narrowed her eyes. “Riley, are you pulling my leg?”

“He is not,” Grant assured her. “Oh, dear … what’s that tap-tap-tapping I hear coming toward our chamber door?”

“Shit,” said Phoebe.

“Exactly,” Riley agreed. “Excuse me, won’t you, love? I have to reattach a broken penis to the statue of Bacchus by the pool.” He turned to leave, listened, then said, “Oh hell, too late.”

The clacking of heels grew closer. Phoebe came out from behind the table and started straightening her uniform. While it wasn’t quite short or low-cut enough to be a French maid Halloween costume, it was similar, with a ruffled white apron and high heels that made the girl’s black lace choker take on a disturbingly sexual appearance. Her lower lip trembled a little, intensifying the look.

The unpleasant Mrs. Heller entered the huge kitchen. Even her heels sounded angry, determined, and concise. Again she wore an all-black skirted suit, but today she had a white blouse beneath the jacket and the shape of her breasts seemed more severe.
Probably one of those old-fashioned torpedo bras.

As Mrs. Heller entered, voices stopped, spines straightened, and tension mounted. Everyone except Grant seemed affected by her.

Phoebe began clearing the table.

Riley seemed to have developed a sudden interest in the shine of the silverware and kept his back to the woman.

Belinda swallowed hard, involuntarily reliving the horrible job interview before Mr. Manning had swept in and saved her.

Mrs. Heller looked at Belinda. Her cold dark eyes appraised her with apparent distaste.

“Good morning, Mrs. Heller,” said Belinda.

Heller made a sound, something between a
harrumph
and an
ahem
. Spying the fruit bowl on the table, she reached for it, her black lacquered nails hovering over the plump fruit, in search of the perfect cherry. She found it, plucked it up, and bit into it.

The sight made Belinda cringe.

Heller pulled a face. “You should check these more carefully. This one isn’t ripe yet.” Her black eyes found Belinda for an excruciating moment.

The room was silent.

“Miss Waxwing,” said Heller, turning her gaze on Phoebe, “the state of the kitchen this morning is not acceptable. Surely you realize this?”

Phoebe blinked. “What do you mean, Mrs. Heller?”

Heller crossed her arms over her pointy breasts. She looked incredulous. “There are breadcrumbs on the counter and fingerprints on the stove.”

Phoebe lowered her eyes to her hands, which she now wrung together.

“Mr. Phister,” Heller said, turning to Grant. “I smell peaberry.”

Peaberry?
Belinda almost giggled.

“Are you serving peaberry to the staff?” She nodded toward Belinda’s coffee cup. “I can smell it. Don’t deny it.”

Oh. Coffee.
Belinda sipped.

“I would never deny it, Mrs. Heller.” Grant arched an eyebrow and smirked. “I feel we are all equal here. Don’t you?”

Heller’s face whitened with rage, her lips thinning to a red slit, her powerful jaw flexing. She looked like a cobra ready to strike. As she stepped forward, the twin rubies on the key she wore around her neck glinted in the light. “Equality, Mr. Phister,” she said in measured tone, “must be earned.”

“In my world, it is a right. One we’ve fought long and hard for, I might add.”

She appraised him - from perfect haircut to black Italian loafers. “How easily such words slip from the lips of a man in a Valentino suit, Mr. Phister.”

“I’m wearing what is appropriate. As are you, Mrs. Heller.”

Belinda looked back and forth between the butler and the administrator.

“Yes. And have we not earned our privileges, Mr. Phister? Or are you suggesting everyone should simply be given Armani and Valentino?”

“We are appropriately dressed to represent our employer. These are uniforms, Mrs. Heller, just as Phoebe’s is.” He glanced at his wristwatch and then looked to Belinda. “I believe it’s time you join Mr. Manning and the children upstairs for breakfast.”

“I- Upstairs?” asked Belinda.

Mrs. Heller glared at her.

Grant nodded. “Yes, Mr. Stavros, our chef, will be back momentarily to make the hollandaise and then I will send the food up via the dumbwaiter and will come up to serve you personally today. Phoebe, would you prepare the breakfast table?”

Relief washed over Phoebe’s face. “Yes, Mr. Phister.”

“Head upstairs now. They’ll be seating themselves in just a few minutes. And do let Dominique know she needs to come and clean up the kitchen.” He gave Mrs. Heller another arched brow. “It’s her turn today.”

“Yes, Mr. Phister.” Phoebe moved, nodding at Mrs. Heller with her eyes averted, and favoring Grant with a grateful smile.

Cordelia Heller turned her gaze on Belinda and she felt herself shrink under it. “You have a doctor’s appointment this morning for your employment insurance physical. Be there on time or I will hear about it.” She turned and left, her heels clocking across the marble.

“That woman could give Cruella de Vil nightmares,” Grant said.

Belinda smiled but held her tongue. “I’d better get going. I’ve got butterflies.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll do fine.”

“The Mannings are good folks,” Riley said as he opened the back kitchen door that led outside. “I’m off to take care of Bacchus’ member. See you later.”

Belinda waited until the door shut. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you and Riley. I can be so dense.”

“Embarrass?”

“I didn’t realize you were a couple.”

He chuckled. “You gave us a jolly good laugh is all. You’ll catch on quickly. Now, off you go. When you get back from your doctor’s appointment, come tell me what you think of Dr. Dickey.”

“Dr. Dickey?”

“He’s the physician they use for insurance purposes.”

“Is there anything wrong with him?”

“Not that I know of, except for him telling me to call him Dr. Dickey.” Grant smiled. “I think that’s peculiar, don’t you?”

Belinda laughed. “Definitely.”

In Cordelia’s Chambers

In her black bedchamber, Cordelia Heller picked up her lipstick-red cell phone and pressed the number for Richard Akin, MD. While she waited for his girl to pick up, she ran her fingers over the brocaded silk bedspread. The pattern could barely be seen because it was black on black, but she could feel every bump of the hand-stitched bouquets. They matched the diamonds of satiny flowers flocked on the black-on-gray wallpaper. She’d had two artists work together to ensure perfection.

The light from a small crystal bedside lamp on her ebony nightstand illuminated little except the crystal vase holding three white rose buds, but the midnight ceiling held dozens of small recessed lights that always cast the proper glow. She adjusted them now with the remote. Except for the crystal accessories, the roses and a toss of red pillows on her sleigh bed, the room was the color of darkness. Black velvet draperies were closed over large windows. No paintings disturbed the walls and for Cordelia, it was the most peaceful room in the house, except of course, for the dungeon.

“Devilswood Medical Offices. How may I direct your call?” The voice on the other end was young, vibrant.

Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Dr. Akin, please.”

“He’s with a patient I’m afraid. Can I take a -”

“Tell him it’s Cordelia Heller. He’ll take the call.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

After a few moments, Dr. Akin came on the line. “Mrs. H.,” he said, too cheery for her taste.

“Heller,” she corrected.

“And you can call me Dr. Dickey. What can I do you for, Mrs. Heller?”

“I’ll call you no such thing. You have an appointment today with a young woman named Belinda Moorland. She was hired by my employer and is scheduled for a physical with you.”

“Yes. Special instructions?” His voice smarmed through the phone.

Mrs. Heller grinned in the darkness. “As a matter of fact,” she said, “yes. A couple of them.”

There was a silence, then, “I’m intrigued.”

“You ought to be.” She could almost hear the man salivating.

“What are my instructions?”

“My, my, Dr. Akin. Aren’t we an eager beaver this morning?”

“Always.” His voice was flat, serious.

“First I want you to check her and find out if she’s … intact.”

Heller thought she heard him scribbling on a pad.
 

“And?”

“And if she is, I want you to …” She paused. “Take care of it.”

More silence. “Take care of it?”

Mrs. Heller clenched her jaw, impatient. “Put an end to it. But in no way that is pleasant for her.”

Dr. Akin sighed.

“I want it done professionally. Medically.”

“Understood.” More scribbling sounds.

“For your trouble, I’d like you to feel free to entertain yourself with her however you choose - as long as it’s medical, of course. But remember, it must
not
be pleasant for her.”

“Entertain myself?”

“Oh, Dr. Akin. I know how you enjoy your work … and your younger, more attractive patients.” She heard him swallow hard. “What I’m saying is, be thorough.
Very
thorough. And enjoy yourself. Compliments of the house.”

“As you wish, Mrs. H.”

“Mrs. Heller. My name is Mrs. Heller.”

“My apologies.”

“I don’t want your apologies, I want your cooperation.”

“Consider it - and Miss Moorland - done.”
 

She could hear the smile in his voice. “Perfect.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got Mayor Claxton waiting. In stirrups.”

Mrs. Heller smiled. “I’m sure he loves that.”

“He hasn’t complained yet.”

She ended the call and lay back on the bed, pleased.

Family Breakfast

The family breakfast room on the second floor was bright and cheerful. Windows clad in open white wooden blinds lined one wall of the room. The oak-planked flooring gleamed beneath the round table, which was clothed in blue linen. A huge oak sideboard sat next to the dumbwaiter.

It was a good thing the room was so welcoming; it helped Belinda quell an urge to bolt. She forced herself to remain by the window as two children eyed her from the doorway. They’d appeared, as silent as assassins, in the second or two she had turned to peer out the window.

She tried a smile. “You two must be trained ninjas.”

The boy stared, the girl glowered.

“My name is Belinda and I’m your new governess. Maybe your father told you?”

More staring and glaring.

“Kids!” Mr. Manning appeared in the doorway behind the children and urged them forward. Even this early, his dark blue eyes were lively. “Let’s be seated, shall we? I see you’ve met Miss Moorland?”

The kids nodded.

He turned to Belinda. “I’d like to introduce you to my children. This is Thaddeus, but we call him Thad.” He held a hand out, indicating the blond-haired little boy. He looked like his father. Dimples, blue eyes, smooth skin, and a brilliant smile.

“Hi!”
 

“Hello, Thad. It’s nice to meet you.”

“I’m six and Cyn is nine! How old are you?”

“Thaddeus! Mind your manners.” Mr. Manning’s face was stern.

“It’s okay,” said Belinda. “I’m twenty-three.”

Thad gave her a surprised look as if he was shocked anyone could count so high. “That’s really old!”

“Thad! Hush this instant. You know it isn’t polite to say such things.”