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“No, I’m calling to ask how to use the shower… in the middle of the night, after driving that leaky boat fivemilesto town, and then hunting everywhere for a pay phone because our cell phones won’t work even when we’renoton the island.”
My first impulse is to say that the boat is in better shape than my damn car because I need to keep it that way for guests. Any “leak” was water sloshing over the sides.
But that’s not her point, and so I say, as calmly as I can, “What’s the problem, Mrs. Abbas?”
“There is blood in the green bedroom.”
Madison’s brows shoot up.
“So there seems to be blood—” I begin.
“Not seems to be.Is.My husband is a doctor.” Her voice goes distant, as if she’s moved the pay phone receiver away from her mouth. “Tell her it’s blood.”
“It is blood,” a man says, his accented voice sounding weary.
“Okay, so thereisblood in the green bedroom. The last guests weren’t planning on using it, but I presume they did, and the caretaker didn’t realize that and didn’t change the sheets. I’m very sor—”
“The blood isn’t on the sheets. It’s in the closet.”
“In thecloset?” That’s Madison. I dimly realize I should shush her, but my gut is clenching too hard for me to follow through.
Not again.
Please, not again.
“Yes, the closet,” Mrs. Abbas says. “I woke up cold. You said not to light any fires, so we couldn’t start the woodstove.”
“I didn’t mean the—” I stop myself. “You woke up cold and…”
“I’d already used the blanket from our closet. I was checking the second bedroom. I opened the closet door, and it was right there.”
“The blan—? The blood?”
“Yes. On the door. Alloverthe door. And scratches, as if someone tried to claw their way out.”
“Holy shit!” Madison whispers as I clap my hand to her mouth.
“Blood and scratches?” I say. “Insidethe bedroom closet door?”
There’s a shuffling sound, interspersed with angry words. Then the man’s voice comes on.
“We do not actually believe anyone was confined in that closet, Ms. Kilpatrick. There is no lock, obviously. We believe the last person who rented your house played a practical joke. Your cleaning woman must not have needed to access that closet, and so she did not see the damage. My wife is understandably distraught.”
“Understandably, yes. I am so sorry. I’ll refund the rest of yourbooking, of course, though you’re welcome to stay for the whole thing. Monday was your check-out day, wasn’t it?”
“You’re refundingallof our booking,” Mrs. Abbas says in the background. “And I’m not spending another minute on that island. There’s no cell service. No telephone. No internet.”
All of which they knew when they rented it. That’s a selling point for most renters, and just in case they miss that heavily bolded part in my listing, I make sure they understand before they rent it.
Still, I get what she’s saying. Yes, she knew Hemlock Island was remote and unreachable, but she’d only been thinking of how nice it’d be not to get work messages on her vacation. She hadn’t considered what that would be like whensheneeded to contact someone.
“I understand—” I begin.
“No, I don’t think you do,” she says, still in the background. “You’re lucky we don’t contact the police. Wewillcontact the rental agency—”
“No, Charlotte,” her husband says. “This is not Ms. Kilpatrick’s fault. It is the previous guest playing a prank. You will need to file a report on them with the agency, Ms. Kilpatrick. You might also, if I am not being too bold, suggest that your cleaning woman do a more thorough examination of the house after each rental. I can imagine it is not easy when you have such a popular property and a narrow window in which to clean.”
He’s right about that. How many times has Nate—our cleaner—told me that he’s shown up to find the previous guests still in bed? Or had the next guests arrive hours early and grumble when he politely suggests they explore the island while he finishes cleaning?
