Winifred Carrington.
The name sounded old-fashioned. I pictured a woman with iron-gray hair, black shoes, and the kind of posture that made children sit up straighter with one stern glance.
Honestly, that sounded promising.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome.” She tucked her handkerchief back into her bag. “And bring the children by my house for tea sometime.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. They can hardly be worse than my nephew.”
“Well, I’d hope not. He tried to sell you your own silver.”
“And did a dreadful job.” She glanced toward the path, where her driver now stood beside the car with the rear door open. “Give her a call. Promise me that you will.”
I nodded and waved goodbye, watching as she slowly made her way to the car.
We went home after that. I got everyone inside, warmed up, fed leftover pancakes, and assigned chores. CJ was supposed to putaway the board games from the night before. Bianca was told to finish her reading log and not include footnotes this time. I gave Billie a damp cloth and told her to clean the batter mural off the wall.
Grinning, she saluted.
That worried me, but I had other matters to handle.
I shut myself in my office and began the long, humiliating task of asking strangers whether they would consider employment in a house that had developed a reputation around town.
The first agency put me on hold for twelve minutes, then disconnected.
The second said they were “at capacity,” which might have been true if the woman hadn’t whispered, “Is this the flour family?” to someone in their office before hanging up.
The third asked for my surname twice, then said, “Oh,” in a tone usually reserved for disappointing lab results.
The fourth had availability until I mentioned live-in hours were unnecessary, but after-school supervision was essential.
“Are the children under eight?” she asked.
“One is.”
“Ah.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, no.” Paper rustled on the other end. “And the others?”
“Nine and eleven.”
Another pause. “Would you classify them as spirited?”
“Legal counsel has advised me not to answer that.”
She laughed, then stopped laughing when she realized I was only partly joking.
The fifth agency remembered Miss Kearney and asked, with genuine concern, whether the attic situation had been “resolved.”
I told them I still didn’t know what had happened in the attic. They said that was unfortunate.
The sixth told me they had an excellent candidate until I gave my address. Then, according to the woman on the phone, the excellent candidate developed “a scheduling conflict.”
