The staircase zigzagged back and forth all the way to the roof access, with an open concept that allowed you to stare up to the skylight. I followed the housekeeper through an informal gallery at the second-floor landing and into the dining room already set with fine china and silver flatware, ready for a night of expensive wine, half a dozen extravagant courses, and whatever sort of entertainment was suitable for a summer-costume-party-thingamajig. Rounded three-bay windows stood at least six feet tall and boasted a heart-stopping view of the park. They also allowed such a generous amount of natural light inside that I was glad I’d kept my shades on. The motifs and carvings on the walls in this room looked original to the period, and a cursory glance at the furniture, without even being a know-it-all when it came to the subject, confirmed the table was antique and the chairs were reproductions—but very, very good ones. And that was a fine decision to be made, considering Chris and Cynthia likelydiduse this space and you had to be careful when it came to asses on delicate and dated upholstery.
The housekeeper set down the spaniel near the massive fireplace and then motioned back toward the gallery. “I’ll be in the kitchen, if you need anything. Please let me know when you’re ready to leave.”
“Sure, thanks for the help.”
She smiled politely and saw herself out.
I looked at a clock on the mantel above the fireplace—gilded, late-nineteenth century Rococo style, complete with two chubby cherubs. I couldn’t discern if the minute hand was moving, but the home was almost disconcertingly quiet, and after a few seconds, I was able to pick up the very quietticktockemanating from the backside. So 10:23 a.m. was likely correct. I pulled the strap of my messenger bag over my head, set it on the floor, and rolled back the sleeves of my shirt before retrieving a pair of scissors I’d taken from the Emporium.
I carefully began to cut away the outer layer of foam padding before slicing strategically placed strips of packing tape and unwinding the Bubble Wrap and acid-free paper. I pulled on my cloth gloves and took a few minutes to inspect the first spaniel, including the underside with the maker’s mark. Everything looked okay, thank God. Transporting porcelain was always a huge stress for me, because my nightmare scenarios were either spiderweb cracking or the most vulnerable section of the casting breaking off, which in the case of these creepy dogs, would be the muzzle. No way to hide something like that.
I repeated the process with the second statue, which had also come out the other side intact, before situating them on either side of the focal point of the room. I took a few steps backward to the table and open doorway, to take in the complete view.
“Totally disturbing,” I said to myself. I moved to the left, then to the right. “Their eyes never stop following….” I shook my head and added, more like I was addressing the statues this time, “It’s your new owner’s problem.”
“Sebastian,” called a lofty, feminine voice.
I startled and quickly turned, still surrounded by the ocean of paper and foam. Cynthia Manzi stood in the threshold. She looked every bit the model she was in her past life—tall as hell, even taller than me, given that she was wearing stilettos at the moment, a very straight body shape, no wild curves for the runway, with what I assumed was artfully coiffed blonde hair and a probably black dress, which might have been the early stage of her costume or maybe just what she wore on Friday mornings.
“Morning, Cynthia.”
“I’m so glad you could make it,” she replied, clasping her hands together. Cynthia strutted across the dining room, paused as she came to the mess, and looked for where to step.
“I’m going to clean it up,” I stated.
She smiled in that way some do when acknowledging an uncomfortable situation. “Of course.” Cynthia eyed the King Charles spaniels from where she stood. “Don’t those look charming!”
“Charming,” I agreed. “Exactly what I thought.”
Cynthia put a hand to her chest, her nails so buffed and polished with paint that they seemed to catch the sunlight. “Their coloring even matches the walls.” Her eyes made a quick dart in my direction.
Some folks got real weird about me being colorblind.
“I’m glad,” I said, like I simply hadn’t noticed her discomfort.
Cynthia flashed another bright smile as her perceived insult went unnoticed, and said, “Let me get my wallet.”
“Oh, no, Chris already—”
“For the tip.”
“I don’t need a tip, Cynthia.” NowIwas uncomfortable. “The two of you have been very good to me all these years. I was happy to find a way to deliver today.”
“Nonsense. You finish up—I’ll only be a minute.” She left the room, shoestip-tapping until she reached a rug and her steps fell silent.
“Fuck’s sake,” I muttered. I crouched to collect the paper, but my cell started ringing and I quickly answered it before the entire house heard the obnoxious, echoing ringtone. “Hey, Cal.”
“Christopher Manzi,” he stated.
I raised my head and looked around the room, as if half expecting said man to appear in the same manner as what happened after saying “Betelgeuse” three times. “What? Where?”
“Christopher Manzi was the winning bidder of the spiritoscope,” Calvin corrected.
In the seconds of silence that followed, the blood pumping in my ears grew so loud, it was like waves crashing into a cliff eventually destined to fall into the sea. My vision tunneled, grew dark around the edges. My heart felt like it’d skipped a beat and it lurched uncomfortably in my chest.
“Sebastian?”
“A-are you sure?”
