Weaving the Strands (10 page)

Chapter 23

Maggie leapt out of bed the next
morning at the first buzz of her alarm. Eve didn’t seem anxious to do the same,
and Maggie rushed to her side. She stroked the shaggy head gently as Eve
thumped her tail against the bed and slowly stretched. Eyes now bright, she
jumped down and circled. “Just tired from being in the hospital?” she asked as
they headed downstairs. “Well, I didn’t sleep well without you, either.”

Maggie let Eve out into garden while she retrieved
her paper. A cold blustery day had been anticipated, but the weather was calm
now. It being Saturday, she didn’t have to rush out the door. She and Frank
Haynes had planned to discuss the Fairview Terraces matter, but they weren’t
due to meet until midmorning. She’d throw on some old clothes, feed Eve, and
take her for a walk. Maybe even do some yard work if the weather held.

By the time she returned to the kitchen, leash in
hand, Eve was fast asleep in her basket by the breakfast nook. Maggie stood
quietly and watched the steady rise and fall of her chest, broken by the
occasional deep sigh and snuggle into her blanket.
She deserves this rest,
Maggie thought.
I’ll leave her be.

Maggie stepped outside; an icy wind swept her hair
from her face. She exhaled and her breath crystallized, hanging expectantly in
the air. Winterizing her garden could wait. The weather might be better later
that afternoon. Or tomorrow. She retreated to the warmth of Rosemont.

She had at least two hours before she needed to
get ready to meet Haynes. She headed upstairs, intending to find her winter
boots, when her eyes fell on the small, recessed door to the third floor and
the attic beyond. Sam Torres, her faithful handyman, had taken her up to the
attic shortly after she had moved in, but she hadn’t been up there since.

She drifted over to the door and turned the knob.
Nothing. She gave it a solid push, but it still wouldn’t yield. Determined, she
leaned into and shoved the door until it finally gave way. A cold draft hit
Maggie; she’d have to remind Sam to replace the seals on the windows.

She had a vague memory of the attic being loaded
with the discarded treasures belonging to prior occupants of Rosemont, remnants
of lives well lived in days gone by.
I’ll just go upstairs for a few
minutes,
she told herself.
Just to take another look around and get an
idea of what’s up there.
That way she’d know if it was all junk that some
overly thrifty owner hadn’t been able to part with—cooking utensils and discarded
furniture, and old records and papers—or whether there might be something
of value, either historical or monetary.

She found a flashlight in the drawer of the
secretary in the upper hallway and cautiously ascended the steep stairs. At the
top, she flipped the switch for the bare bulbs positioned erratically
throughout the space. Their scant illumination provided a theatrical effect, as
if items within the pools of light were on stage while those in the shadows
observed from the audience.

Maggie edged her way cautiously through the
clutter on the front side of the house along a pathway that someone had cleared
long ago. Her sneakers left footprints on the dusty floor. The grimy windows
rattled in the wind. She shivered.
This feels like the point in a movie when
the heroine is creeping along and the audience is mentally shouting “You idiot!
Get out of there! Run away!”
she mused.

She carefully trained her flashlight around the
room, making sure she was alone, even though she felt foolish for doing so. As
the beam of her flashlight rounded the final corner, Maggie caught a quick
flash of something metallic. She slowly retraced the light’s trajectory and was
about to give up when she found the object she sought. There was definitely
something shiny in the far corner.

Making her way to it would be quite a chore. She
really should wait until Sam was there to help her, she told herself reasonably
as she began gingerly picking her way across the detritus, sliding aside a
stack of boxes and crawling over an old trunk that proved too heavy to move.
Curiosity had always gotten the better of her.

Maggie’s jeans were covered with dust when she
reached the spot where she had seen the reflection. There, hidden by an old
tarp, was a stately mahogany secretary with an intricate filigree key
protruding from its lock. The key must have caught the light. This piece alone
would be worth a tidy sum. Excited, she propped her flashlight on a nearby box
and worked the key until the lock finally yielded and the door swung open.

She gasped and stood in stunned silence. Shelves
crammed full of silver serving pieces—pitchers and urns, gravy boats and
trays, and an entire row of champagne buckets. Her hand trembled as she
carefully dislodged a small creamer near the front, careful not to cause the contents
of the entire shelf to tumble to the floor.

She reached for her flashlight and examined the
piece. The stamp was unmistakable; this was solid sterling. For the second time
since her arrival at Rosemont, the discovery of a treasure left Maggie feeling
faint. She had just stumbled upon a collection of vintage and highly
collectible silver. All of it was badly tarnished. She’d have to consult an
expert before she attempted to clean any of it, she thought as she began to
cautiously pull additional items from the cabinet.

Finally checking her watch, Maggie realized that
she’d lost track of time and was running late if she was going to get herself
pulled together to meet Haynes. The wind, which had picked up, howled around
the dormers. She’d much rather stay safely inside and continue exploring her marvelous
attic. She’d call him and cancel, she decided.

Maggie reached for her phone, then realized it
wasn’t in her pocket. She must have left it in her bedroom. She’d have to run
down to get it. She reluctantly pulled herself away and attempted to retrace
her steps, this time paying more attention to the items in her path. What other
gems might be laying under these layers of dust and debris?

She reached the top of the stairs just as a blast
of wind hit the house, forcing a draft up the stairway. The door at the bottom
slammed shut with a resounding thwack. Maggie glanced nervously over her
shoulder then carefully made her way downstairs, fighting the urge to race down
as if the bogeyman was at her heels. Suddenly she noticed that the door was
missing a knob on the inside. The skin at the back of her neck began to tingle.
She shoved her hair behind her ears and resolutely reached into the opening
where the knob should have been. Her attempt to turn the outside knob using the
exposed mechanism failed. With mounting panic, she yanked and pulled at the
door, but it wouldn’t budge. No two ways about it, Maggie was locked in her
attic. All of a sudden, it didn’t seem like such a marvelous attic. And she
didn’t have a phone.

Maggie kicked at the door savagely, but the solid
construction of the old house held firm. Startled by the racket, Eve began to
bark downstairs. Maggie slumped onto the bottom step and sagged against the
banister.

She knew that she wouldn’t die in this attic; she
had enough appointments and commitments on her schedule that someone would
notice her absence and come looking for her when she couldn’t be reached. Frank
Haynes might even raise a hue and cry when she didn’t show up this morning.
She’d be out by dinnertime—tomorrow afternoon at the latest. Sam and Joan
would worry when she wasn’t next to them in the pew at church. But what about
Eve? She would become increasingly agitated as it got dark. And she’d miss the
doses of her medicines. Would that set her back?
How could I be so stupid?
Maggie
berated herself.

She hoisted herself to her feet and returned to
the attic. If she was going to be here for a while, she should clear a space to
sit near one of the front windows. She needed to be able to hail any vehicle
that might approach on the driveway below.

With the howling wind as her only companion, she
tested the locks on the windows along the front and found that the third one
unlocked easily and the pulley operating the window was intact. With a
concerted effort, Maggie managed to push the lower pane open six inches from
the sash.
Enough to shout through,
Maggie thought with satisfaction.

She considered leaving the window open so that she
could better hear anyone outside, but quickly abandoned the idea. Although it
wasn’t raining—yet—the wind was cold. Maggie pulled the sleeves
down on her thermal shirt. For the first time, she noticed how chilly it was in
the attic. She’d remain close to the window and stay on lookout duty.

She glanced wistfully over her shoulder at the
collection of silver in the corner. Only moments ago she had happily
contemplated spending the afternoon sorting through it all. The idea still held
a lot of appeal, and she started in that direction. Before she was halfway to
her destination, she realized that she wouldn’t be able to quickly dart back
and forth to the window. She’d also need to use her flashlight and she had no
idea how fresh the batteries were. Being stuck all night in this inhospitable
space was a possibility. She didn’t want to be without a working flashlight.

Maggie spent the next hour making short forays
into the attic and returning to the window every few minutes. She planned to
open the window as soon as she spotted a car and wave her shirt like a surrender
flag.

By four o’clock, she had finished sorting and
stacking the boxes closest to the window. She’d found tax returns and household
ledgers from the 1920s and 1930s. They would be interesting to go through when
she wasn’t imprisoned in a cold, dark, creepy attic. The set of ancient golf
clubs and the decrepit croquet set would be discarded.

The light began to fade as an early dusk descended
on the cloudy day, and Maggie reluctantly abandoned her efforts to restore
order to her attic. She set her sights on an overstuffed leather armchair in
the middle of the room and shoved aside a stack of banker’s boxes, knocking the
lid off the top box and sending file folders tumbling to the floor. She moaned
and glanced in their direction. Based upon their cleanliness, they looked to be
of recent origin. She’d have to go through them some other time. She tidied
them into a stack, not noticing the thin file folder labeled
F.H./Rosemont
that had slipped to the floor.

Maggie wrestled the overstuffed leather chair to
the window. If she sat just right, she could avoid the springs poking through
the seat cushion. She focused her attention on the driveway and tried to summon
up something productive to think about. Maybe she’d benefit from some quiet
time to consider the myriad of problems she faced as the mayor of Westbury. The
only thing she could think about, however, was how miserable and afraid she
was. The tears she had been fighting broke free.

She quickly stood and stamped her feet for warmth.
This is ridiculous, she chided herself. I’m safer and more comfortable in this
attic than ninety percent of the world’s population is in their homes. Why am I
feeling sorry for myself? The niggling worry at the back of her mind
surfaced—what if no one came for her? Then she wasn’t so safe, was she?

She drew a calming breath and told herself to
focus. Someone would come looking for her on Sunday. At this point in the afternoon,
she had to accept that Frank Haynes hadn’t been alarmed by her absence. He was
probably annoyed that she stood him up for their meeting, but he wasn’t worried
about her. If he had been, someone would have been here before now. She would
have heard them, wouldn’t she? No one was looking for her, but someone would be
tomorrow. The most sensible thing was to stay put and wait. Still, she’d better
come up with a plan B—just in case no one came on Sunday afternoon.

Maggie pressed her forehead to the windowpane. She
was on the third floor and the first two floors had high ceilings. She
calculated that she was at least thirty feet from the grassy area below.
Thank
God, this window is over grass and not the driveway,
she observed. Dropping
this far would be fatal, she knew. She’d have to tie sheets or clothing
together to make a ladder to climb down.
There must be old linens and
clothing up here,
she thought as she glanced at the shadowy attic.
Maybe
even a rope.
She’d have to use the skills she had taught her daughter’s
Girl Scout troop when she was their leader. Still, they’d never really used
them, had they? Never really tried them out. It would be scary and dangerous to
climb down a makeshift ladder from this height.

She might have to.
Tomorrow,
she decided.
She didn’t have any water with her, so she wouldn’t be able to hold out for a
second night. If no one came for her by two o’clock, that would mean that Sam
and Joan weren’t concerned and no one would arrive to save her. She’d have to
save herself. As soon as it was light in the morning, she’d search for
materials and make her ladder.

She was turning away from the window to settle
into the chair when a flash through the trees below caught her attention. She
stood; her eyes riveted on the driveway as a late-model Mercedes sedan emerged
from the trees and slowly approached Rosemont. Maggie tore off her shirt and
threw open the window in a single movement. She screamed and waved her shirt
through the small opening as Frank Haynes emerged from his car, a large envelop
in hand.

Haynes looked right and left, unsure where the
commotion was coming from. Maggie drew a deep breath and yelled, “Up here,
Frank! Frank, up here!”

Haynes tilted his head back and quickly brought
his hand up to acknowledge that he’d seen her. He stepped forward and cupped
his mouth with his hands.

“Maggie, is that you?”

She withdrew her hand from the window and pressed
her face to the opening. Fighting to control tears of relief, she struggled to
make herself heard over the wind.