Chapter 25
The following week, Mrs. Leimberger texted Ingrid to say that Scoot would be dropping by Ingrid’s house on Wednesday to oversee the final installation of draperies, furniture, and appliances and make note of any final touch-ups that might be needed.
Mrs. Leimberger called it a punch list, and Ingrid texted her back, quickly and confidently, as if she was familiar with the term.
She was doing a lot of that these days.
She cancelled her appointments for that day and called Miles to ask him if he’d mind leaving the house to her, so she and Scoot could have some privacy.
She’d decided she would use the occasion to serve the woman lunch so they could talk.
Scoot would see that, no matter what had gone on between Rill and Edie, Ingrid had no ulterior motive. Maybe she would finally accept her.
Wednesday morning, just as dawn was bathing the city in warm pink light, Ingrid collected a few bags of groceries Sarita had set aside for her in the kitchen then walked the few blocks to her house.
Litha met her at the door. She picked up the cat, kissed her nose, and went to wake up Miles.
After practically pushing him into the shower and out the door, she walked slowly through the house, marveling at all the changes.
Slick new thermostats were mounted on the walls, and the sound of the new, powerful AC unit purred, silently and efficiently cooling the whole house.
Every light fixture was polished and in working order.
Walls were replastered, floors were sanded and stained.
Baseboards, cornices, balusters, and windows had every scratch and nick filled in and painted over.
The dining room had been papered in a jade green and peach floral. Rich chocolate velvet drapes were held back with silk cords. Even the old dining room table and chairs had been stripped, sanded, and refinished.
The sitting room was even more grand, papered in a peach moiré.
Edie’s old, rose-patterned rug had been cleaned, the chairs reupholstered in fringed chocolate velvet, and vibrant green print pillows of all shapes and sizes were scattered about, one adopted by Litha as her new bed.
The kitchen was bright with the new high-end range, fridge, and dishwasher.
They’d painted this room a watercolor yellow.
Ingrid went back upstairs and, slipping into Edie’s bedroom, breathed in her grandmother’s familiar scent.
She was glad she hadn’t let Sailor and Scoot redo the bedrooms. Some things should never change and that was just the truth.
She put her copy of Circe, the photograph of Edie and Rill tucked between the pages, on Edie’s nightstand, then sat on the bed.
She was remembering the way she and Edie would snuggle up before bedtime for a story and a song.
For tales about Edie’s family from England and how they learned to work with the light.
“I know, Edie,” she said now into the still room.
“I know about you and him. And I can see why you didn’t tell me.
But … he seemed like he really loved you.
And his children are great. Kind and thoughtful.
They’ve taken me in, you know. Given me work and friendship and so much more.
I just … I hope I’m making you proud. I’m sorry I didn’t hear what you were saying to me back then.
I just … I hope I’m on the right path now to doing what you said. To righting the balance.”
The air didn’t stir. But Ingrid knew Edie had heard her. Every word. And Ingrid would wait as long as it took for her grandmother’s response. For her guidance.
Scoot arrived looking chic in a nubby tweed dress and matching jacket, a two-man camera crew standing dutifully behind her.
“I thought we’d get some photos for Coastal Living or Veranda,” she said as Ingrid stepped aside and let her in. “In case they have any interest.”
Scoot moved through the house, locked in jittery concentration as she adjusted tables and lamps, shook out drapes until they billowed, and rearranged vases and candlesticks.
Different installers arrived to deliver additional items: curtain panels, an upholstered ottoman, a new set of dining chairs.
Another assistant who had appeared out of nowhere scurried around rearranging and adorning every surface with glossy books and potted plants.
As the photographer and his assistant began to set up their equipment, Ingrid suggested she and Scoot eat.
She escorted Scoot into the kitchen, to the small table set with Edie’s fine china and real silver.
Scoot sat, smoothed the linen napkin over her tweed skirt, and proceeded to push the shrimp salad Ingrid had made around her plate the same way she did at the Loeffler family dinners.
“Would you like something else to drink?” Ingrid asked.
Scoot was already reaching into her purse. “I brought a little something.” She drew out a mini bottle of vodka and poured it into the iced tea. “Here we go.” She gave Ingrid a bright, brittle smile. “Cheers.”
In response to every subject Ingrid brought up—Sailor’s wedding plans, the Maine cottage, Clemmie Fairburn’s upcoming Labor Day bash on Isle of Hope—Scoot would sigh and say something vague like, “Oh, well, it’ll all take care of itself.
These things usually do,” and then push a shrimp to the other side of her plate.
Finally, she excused herself, saying she needed to supervise the photographer. Ingrid busied herself clearing their lunch dishes, and when she finished, she ventured back out to see how the crew was progressing.
The photographer and his assistant were outside, preparing to take a few shots of the freshly painted exterior, but Scoot wasn’t with them. Ingrid searched the whole main floor for her with no luck. She glanced up the staircase and was hit with a sharp, dark thought.
She took the steps, two at a time, with mounting dread, and by the time she was approaching Edie’s bedroom door, which was ajar now, she was practically running. Ingrid pushed the door open and froze in horror—Scoot, the trespasser, invader, was standing in the middle of the Daffodil Room.
Scoot turned to her with a playful smile. “You naughty girl, keeping such a delightful secret from me. What a charming room.”
Ingrid frantically scanned the space, assessing any damage Scoot might’ve done. And yet, nothing looked like it had been disturbed. Everything seemed to be in order.
“I see now why you didn’t want to do the bedrooms over,” Scoot said in a teasing tone. “You’ve hidden all the best pieces up here.”
“Actually, I just … I like the rooms the way they are.” Ingrid glanced back at the door. How was she going to get Scoot out of here? The woman did not belong in this room. She was desecrating Edie’s holy space with her bad aura.
Scoot was taking everything in with a hungry look. The daffodil wallpaper. The bed piled with white, lacy pillows. The black marble mantel holding the three framed pictures.
“It’s absolutely perfect.” Scoot drifted toward the window that looked out over the square. “The bedroom set is 1920s, correct? I want to say Italian. Easily worth twenty to thirty thousand.”
Ingrid felt such soul-shriveling panic, she almost choked on her own breath.
“Oh, trust me,” Scoot said as though Ingrid had tried to argue with her. “I know these things.”
“It all came with the house,” Ingrid finally managed to say.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t take your word for it when you told me about all the treasures you had here.
I have to admit, I can be a bit snobbish.
” She laughed, drifted to another wall, and pointed at sexy Mr. Tumnus.
“If I’m not mistaken, this is a Frederick Arthur Bridgman. A study for one of his pastel pieces.”
Ingrid gave a little shrug, her lips pressed together.
“You may not know this, but the original was recently auctioned off at Christie’s. Quarter of a million.” Scoot shook her head. “Sorry. I know money talk is so tacky. But it’s just me and you. You won’t tell anybody, will you?”
Anybody, meaning anybody important.
“You know, your little boyfriend was right. You could’ve sold all this if you’d really wanted to pay your taxes.” Scoot lifted an eyebrow. “Instead of insinuating yourself into a vulnerable young woman’s life and trying to get her to solve your money problems.”
Ingrid’s mouth dropped open and she heard herself stammering. “I—I didn’t know any of my grandmother’s things were v-valuable.”
Scoot’s eyes continued to sweep over the room. “Uh-huh.”
“I didn’t,” Ingrid said hotly. “And I am friends with your daughter because she appreciates what I did for her. I didn’t ask for one thing from her. And I won’t.”
“What did you tell her that day?” Scoot asked. “Sailor’s never said.”
“That’s private. I don’t share what happens in my readings.”
“I see.” Scoot’s eyes raked over her hair, her face, down her body, lost in thought. “Tell me, sweetheart, have you ever channeled her?”
“Who?” Ingrid’s hackles rose.
Scoot moved closer to her. “Your grandmother. Edie. You’re a medium, aren’t you? As well as a witch and a psychic?”
Ingrid felt ill.
“Surely you must communicate with her. She’s all you have. I mean, besides that boy you keep around for … odd jobs.” Scoot winked.
Ingrid opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Now Scoot was right beside her, her face soft and pleading and somehow, at the same time, evil.
“Let me talk to her,” she wheedled.
“What?” It was a whisper.
“Edith. I want to talk to her.”
Ingrid’s throat felt dry and raw. “I … I don’t think so.”
Scoot’s eyes flashed with something malicious. “Why not? You know how to do it, don’t you?”
Of course she knew how to invite spirits. To channel. But she wasn’t going to admit that to Scoot. She didn’t do it that often, and she certainly wasn’t going to call up Edie simply because Scoot Loeffler demanded it.
“I’ve never asked you for a reading, Ingrid. Haven’t you ever wondered why?” Now Scoot’s eyes turned soft, and Ingrid marveled how quickly the woman could transform herself.
“I just assumed you didn’t believe in what I did.”
“Oh, I believe.” Scoot wandered to the nightstand beside the bed and picked up the book lying there. Circe. Right where Ingrid had put it, the picture of Edie and Rill tucked safely between the pages.
Ingrid felt a zip of electricity travel up her spine.
No, no, no, no …
For one terror-filled moment, she considered snatching the book out of Scoot’s hands and running out of the room, but she resisted the urge.
Don’t look inside …
Scoot inspected the cover of the book. “I’ve always believed.”
Ingrid’s hands, hanging at her side, felt like they were the repository for all the electricity that was now coursing through her.
Scoot absolutely could not see that photo.
It would ruin everything. Scoot would ruin everything.
She would tell Sailor. Tell Cas. Throw Ingrid out of the mansion on her ass …
But there was a way Ingrid could stop her.
Very slowly she opened one of her hands, stretching it wide and holding it flat beside her leg. Then she folded in her middle and ring finger. Stop, stop, stop, stop, she thought, sending the mental message toward Scoot while simultaneously preparing herself for the worst.
Preparing herself to lift up her hand and point the sign of the horns in Scoot’s direction.