Chapter 17
T he next day, dinner was also to be in the dining room, according to Edna, but I hadn’t seen Sinclair at all. When I’d come down for breakfast, he’d already left for work—and, although I was curious about what his work actually was, I vowed not to ask Edna. Although I’d really grown to like her, I couldn’t fully trust her. How much of what I told her was shared with the boss?
Even though I was still smarting after my altercation with Sinclair the night before, working all day downstairs had helped lighten my mood—and I had a proposition for him, something I thought would make the work all the more meaningful.
This time when I arrived at the dining room, Sinclair was already there. Again, he was wearing a gray suit but this time he had a red tie that really popped between the gray jacket and crisp white shirt. Although he was, as always, handsome and impeccably dressed, he was a beast underneath it all—and I’d be smart to remember that.
Because my mind kept going places it really shouldn’t.
Still…if I could soothe him and stop from riling him, maybe the next ten years would be bearable. And, as long as I didn’t think about the coarse proposal he’d suggested last night to tempt me into cutting my time in half, I could deal with him in general.
“How did things go today, Ms. Miller? Anything to report?”
“Um…not so much to report but I do have something to discuss.”
“Do tell.”
After we were both seated with him once again helping me into my chair, I said, “I’ve started entering items on the spreadsheet. I have several columns: the first is for category, like furniture, art, etc. The second lists the item and the third gives details. The fourth column lists where I have stored or will store the item. I spent today mapping out where I would put particular things and, though it might change, I think it will work. I might need shelving or more boxes at some point but I’ve got a good start.”
“Let Edna know what you need.”
“Of course. But I’d like to add another column to the spreadsheet. I’d like to give the approximate value of each item.”
“Don’t bother,” he said. “It’s all worthless junk.”
When Edna appeared, she began getting us set up for dinner just like the night before. I hoped tonight I’d actually be able to eat what she’d prepared.
“It’s not. And I think I could look things up on the internet to get a decent idea of some of these items’ value.”
His lips turned up at one corner. “Okay. Why not?”
“Thank you.”
“But I have to ask: what have you found that makes you think anything down there is worth something?”
“The paintings and sculpture alone have to be valuable.”
Picking up his water glass, he said, “Not if they were created by nobodies. If the artist isn’t well known and it’s modern, not to mention being neglected for so many years, the paintings won’t be worth much more than the canvas they’re on.”
“You won’t know for sure until you have a seller.”
“That may be—but don’t hold your breath, Ms. Miller. I’ve purchased enough fine art to know those aren’t worth anything.”
I refused to let him burst my bubble. “All right, but there’s more. There are dishes that seem very old but are in great shape; vintage clothing that I know has potential; and old books. I was looking inside a couple of them, and one was published in 1888.”
“Again, though—”
“And I don’t know much about the furniture,” I said, realizing I’d just interrupted him—but I was going to keep going until he chastised me for it. “But there are some beautiful antique wood pieces that have stood the test of time. Many of them wouldn’t look out of place if you brought them back upstairs.”
“I won’t argue with you, although I don’t think the whole lot would be worth much—but I don’t want to dampen your eagerness. By all means, add that column and, when you’re done with that project, we’ll see what the numbers say. Just remember that value is determined by the buyer, not the seller.”
As Edna brought in salads and talked to Sinclair about a repair she’d scheduled for the dishwasher, I let my mind wander. If I found something that was worth thousands or more, maybe I could talk him into applying that amount to my debt.
But I’d keep that to myself for now.
We ate in silence and, at one point, I looked up at Sinclair to find him already staring at me. There was something in his eyes that I couldn’t read, but it made me feel like prey. Quickly, I shifted my eyes to my plate but then realized I was letting him win again by doing that—so I forced myself to make eye contact again…but then he wasn’t looking at me.
Had it been my imagination? And why did I find it hard to go to sleep that night?
The next day, I wore an old t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers for work because I intended to start moving furniture to the spots I’d designated. It was bulky and heavy, and much of it was in the way of the smaller things, so I planned to move it all against the back wall, cramming it together so it took up less space. I would leave a short path between two sides but otherwise would slide it all together. And once I got all the furniture out of the way, it would be much easier to tackle everything else.
It was then that I really got to see just how much dust had accumulated down here. And, after I’d moved boxes aside to make room to slide a sofa, followed by a chair and an old-fashioned desk, I realized that this task might take most of my day, especially since I was taking time to catalog items after I moved them. I also had to rest a little between moving each item and, after some time, I was covered in dirt and perspiration.
Already, though, the space seemed to be opening up a bit.
After lunch, I kept at it until I started to move a trunk—and discovered by its weight that it was full of items—but it was also locked. One of the things I’d planned to do was catalog everything . For instance, I knew there were a few files in the filing cabinet. Although those likely wouldn’t have any value, I’d document them nonetheless. After getting the furniture moved, I’d planned to start looking up approximate resale values of them before I forgot details—but the trunk had piqued my curiosity. Right now, I felt that it belonged with furniture, but what I found inside might change my mind.
I had to know what was in there.
So I went back upstairs and found Edna chopping vegetables in the kitchen. “Are you thirsty, dear?”
“No. Not yet. I found a trunk downstairs full of something but it’s locked. I wondered if you knew where the key for it might be.”
“Well, I don’t know for certain,” she said, washing her hands at the sink, “but I do know where we have a ring of keys for different locks around the mansion. Let’s get it and you can see if any of those keys fit that trunk.”
“That would be great!”
Soon we were walking down the main hallway past the antechamber toward the east side and she turned down the rear hallway and went right into Sinclair’s office. Even though the door was open, I wouldn’t have felt comfortable entering without permission—but Edna likely had authorization to go in there. Otherwise, she probably wouldn’t have seemed so at ease.
She walked over to Sinclair’s desk and opened one of the drawers on the side. I couldn’t see which one from my vantage point, but I imagined it had three drawers and she was opening the middle one. After a couple of seconds, she pulled out a fairly large ring of dozens of keys. “Here we go.” Then, stepping back around the desk, she rejoined me, handing me the heavy ring. “If the key you need isn’t on there, then it might be lost. If that’s the case, I’ll call a locksmith—but let’s try this first.”
“Thank you.” As I looked over the keys, I spied several smaller ones. “I bet it’s one of these.”
“That seems logical.” When we got back to the other side of the hall, Edna turned toward the direction of the kitchen. “Just bring them back to me when you’re done.”
I nodded but didn’t move, just staring at the ring of keys in my hand. What were they all for? Did one of them go to Sinclair’s bedroom? And what other rooms were locked? I hadn’t encountered many locked rooms yet but that didn’t mean they couldn’t lock. The keys were cool to the touch; some of them were silver, some were gold, and others were black. Most were modern but a few old-fashioned keys were in the mix. So many keys, and I was just letting my imagination run wild with what each one went to, wondering if Sinclair actually knew or remembered.
“Lise?” Edna asked, coming back out of the kitchen.
I startled, blinking my eyes for a moment. “Yes?”
“After you check the keys, would you like to have a glass of iced tea with me?”
“Yes, I think I’d like that.” I headed downstairs, wondering how she’d known I’d just been standing in the hall, but realizing she was used to the sounds of the mansion. I hadn’t opened the door leading downstairs and this was one I’d learned needed to stay closed all the time because it was hiding what I was beginning to think of as a dirty little secret: Decades of junk that no one had bothered to care for. Even though I didn’t think it was junk, Sinclair had made it very clear that he did. I got the feeling he’d be perfectly happy forgetting the downstairs even existed.
As I walked down the steps, I sorted through the ring of keys again, gripping the one I thought most likely to unlock the trunk. Because I wasn’t paying attention, I stumbled on the crumbly step, almost losing my footing. I chided myself, because even though the step without the marble slab wasn’t at the top of the staircase, I would take quite a tumble if I wasn’t careful and stepped on it wrong.
Back downstairs, I strode over to the trunk. It was lovely yet simple, covered in what seemed to be black leather, adorned at the corners and trim in gold, including the hasps and lock. I inserted the key I thought was the winner, but even though it fit, it didn’t unlock it. I began sorting through the keys again, and they made clinking noises as I did. I tried another and it too didn’t make the grade. Finally, I found another one that I’d dismissed earlier as being too large—but it also fit.
And it unlocked the trunk.
I really wanted to open it up to see what was inside but, because Edna had seemed a little suspicious of me and, I had to admit, not without reason, I thought it best to head upstairs and return the keys to her right away.
I knew where they were stored. That was all that mattered.
When I got to the kitchen, Edna had two glasses of iced tea on a tray setting on the cart she used to serve food from the kitchen to the dining room. Also on the tray was a sugar bowl, a container of sweetener packets, a saucer of lemon wedges, and two long spoons. “That was fast.”
I felt relieved that she thought so. “There weren’t too many I had to test. It was this one,” I said, showing her the key that had worked. “I just need to remember to not close the lock so I don’t have to borrow the keys again.”
“Well, it would be no trouble if you did.” She took the keys from me and set them on the cart. “I thought we’d go out to the east patio to take our break. We won’t have the sun beating down on us and usually this time of day, we get a nice breeze moving through there.”
That explained the cart. “Would you like me to push that?”
“Thank you for offering but that’s all right.”
We headed out of the kitchen into the main hallway and began heading east. When we reached the junction of the back east hallway to the main, Edna stopped the cart, taking the ring of keys and walking to Sinclair’s office. Although I wanted to step backwards or walk down the hall a little to reaffirm where she stored the keys, I thought it better not to.
Soon we were heading back down the main hall toward the east patio. I asked, “How does the mansion stay so clean? Downstairs is dusty—all kinds of dust bunnies and a few cobwebs, but when I cleaned the bathrooms, they were already spotless. Do you do all that, Edna?”
She chuckled. “Heavens, no. I’m responsible for the kitchen, as well as scheduling any sort of repairs or maintenance. I take care of meals and shopping. I don’t even clean the dining room or beverage nook, aside from the dishes, of course, and wiping off the tables, chairs, and bar when needed. There are two sisters who come once a week on Mondays except for holidays. There are specific areas they clean every time they’re here and they have a rotating schedule to make sure they clean every spot in the mansion once every three months.”
As we stopped at the door leading outside, I couldn’t resist—because I already knew they didn’t clean every spot. For instance, they didn’t touch the dungeon, as Sinclair called it. “Even the second floor of the east wing?”
“Well, no.” She picked up the tray and asked, “Would you get the door, please?”
I did so, holding it open until Edna made it outside. The air was quite warm, but it felt good after being inside in the almost too cool artificial breeze circulating through the mansion. Downstairs where I worked didn’t have AC but instead of feeling hot down there, it felt bearable, even when I did work up a sweat moving around large objects.
After she set the tray on the oval table, she said, “They also don’t clean the three rooms the Johnsons use on the third floor. And, of course, the dungeon. But they are responsible for everything else.” When I sat down, Edna handed me a glass and said, “It’s tasty by itself, but I love lemon and sugar with mine. Help yourself.”
The ice cubes were already melting and a light condensation had formed on the glass. I took a sip, appreciating the clean, fresh flavor of the tea but deciding I wouldn’t mind if it was a little sweet too. While we adjusted our drinks to our taste, I said, “I’m still amazed that they can keep it so clean, especially just one day a week.”
“Sometimes they’ll work twelve hours on that day—but they’re quite efficient, the main reason Mr. Whittier has never hired anyone else, even though they raise their rates every year.”
That they came on Mondays explained why the bathrooms were pristine when I recleaned them a day later.
“They seem to be good at their jobs.”
“Oh, they are. I imagine Mr. Whittier will have them change your linens like they do his—sheets, towels, that sort of thing. Unless, of course, you’d rather do that on your own.”
As much as I hated to admit it, having them do it for me made me feel a little spoiled. I hadn’t been waited on like that since childhood. Not having to make the bed, clean the bathroom, or cook was strange but nice in a way. Odd, because I was working for Sinclair too. “I’m okay with them doing that. But I did wonder where and when I can wash my dirty laundry.”
“Good question. The laundry room is on the side of the back west hallway that the kitchen is, but at the very end, by the door to the garages.”
I knew then that that was why that door was closed. It was all about appearances. I imagined people entered through the grand front doors and into the antechamber and down the main hall—all breathtaking. Seeing a washer and dryer might take away from that illusion of grandeur.
“Thank you.”
“Yes, and there’s detergent, softener, bleach, starch, stain remover, an iron and ironing board—just about anything you might need, but do let me know if you need something specific.”
“I will.” I took a sip of tea. “This is delicious.”
“Thank you. It definitely hits the spot.” She adjusted in her chair so she had a better view of the street, even though it was somewhat shrouded by the trees and shrubbery. “It’s nice being able to enjoy a drink or a small meal with someone.”
“It is.”
“I enjoy my job. I’ve loved Sinny ever since he was a baby, and I’d do anything for him—but this job gets quite lonely. I relish the moments when Henry’s here to do the gardening, because he’ll stop in for a few minutes to chat. Every once in a while I can get him to sit, but it’s rare. I hardly ever see Greg and his wife—and the cleaning sisters keep to themselves. They report in and report out. If we have any conversation, it’s usually about a maintenance issue.”
“I hadn’t stopped to think about that.” I’d often relished my moments alone, especially after being tormented in school all day. Attending college hadn’t been as bad, but even it was exhausting in terms of dealing with people. I would run home to escape, but Edna desired the opposite.
Leaning over, she patted me on the shoulder. “Let’s just say I’m very glad you’re here.”
I wasn’t—although I hated it less today than I had the night I’d arrived—but it seemed like a nice thing to say in return. “Me too.”