House of Ashes Read online

  It had all happened so suddenly. Looking back now, it was amazing how immediate our connection had been, and how quickly the loose ties of a mutually beneficial arrangement became tightly woven into bonds of friendship.

  I sat a moment longer, gazing at my bare hands. My wedding band was tucked away in a box somewhere, but I could come up with no logical explanation for what had happened to my grandmother Fiona’s emerald ring. I didn’t suspect my tenants and hadn’t wanted to mention it to Brooks, for surely Ashley and Vince would stand accused by those who didn’t trust them.

  I considered how little I knew about their lives. Had I been so consumed with my own problems? Upon honest reflection, regrettably, the answer was yes.

  On my walk back to the house, I took the picnic basket from my car and fingered the tangled line that had been used to secure it to the bike. It might have been the same rope I’d used to teach Vince about sailing knots. “That’s strange,” I mumbled, pondering the incongruous series of knots.

  After removing the rope, I returned the picnic basket to its proper hook. A moment later, Whistler stood and growled an alert, which was followed by a knock at the door. The dog sprang forward, offering the fierce greeting reserved for strangers.

  Agent Daniel Benjamin jumped back when I opened the door. “Does he bite?”

  “Only federal agents.” I cringed the moment the clichéd joke escaped my lips. “Kidding. Just give him a moment to get familiar with your scent, and he’ll be fine.”

  “If you say so, Ms. Mitchell.” He gingerly opened the screen door and offered his hand to the dog. After a few whiffs, Whistler was wagging his approval.

  “Please, it’s Cassandra, or Cassie.”

  “If you’ll call me Daniel.”

  “Thank you, Daniel, for taking this seriously, for coming out so quickly.”

  He dipped his head. “You sounded desperate. I couldn’t refuse.”

  He stood close, encroaching on my personal space, perhaps to intentionally unnerve me. He had piercing gray eyes, and was what my grandmother would have described as a ruggedly handsome sort of fellow. I was unnerved by the sudden warming of my cheeks. This was not good.

  I swiveled away and picked up the kettle to fill it. “Care for a cup of tea?”

  “Do you mind if I have a look at where your tenants were staying, first?” He glanced around the house.

  “Sure. This way.” With Whistler at our heels, I led him up the narrow back stairway, contemplating whether I should admit to my sins. However, one glance into the room, and it was fairly obvious their belongings had already been disturbed. “Here’s their room. And there’s an en suite through that door.”

  “Thanks. I can handle it from here.” A not-so-subtle dismissal.

  “Of course.” I tried to cover my dismay. “Yell if you need anything.”

  “Will he be okay?” he asked, pointing to the dog.

  “Come on, boy.” I patted my leg, but Whistler seemed disinclined to follow me. “He’s good.”

  Agent Benjamin did not look convinced. But having been abruptly dismissed, I didn’t really care if Whistler bit him. No matter how attractive I found him.

  “Find anything?” I asked when the agent returned to the kitchen fifteen minutes later.

  “Just this.” He held up a clear evidence bag containing a small slip of paper. “A receipt.”

  “For what?” I tried to get a look, but all I could make out before he pocketed it was a glimpse of the store name. Sincere House, maybe? I’d never heard of it.

  “Don’t know yet. I’ll get my team working on it.”

  “Where was it?” I asked, trying to determine how I’d missed it during my search of the room.

  “You must not have looked under the bureau.” His eyes crinkled into a half wink.

  I frowned, recalling Brooks’s displeasure when it had become clear Agent Benjamin intended to involve himself in the case. “What about Chief Kincaid?”

  “I’ll make sure the local guys are informed.”

  “Were the phones found in the barn—?”

  “—your friends’? It’s the most probable scenario.” Daniel sniffed the air. “Oatmeal raisin?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ve been baking something.” He shrugged. “Cookies was my guess.”

  “Baking is my way of dealing with stress,” I said, covering my surprise with a small fib, while breathing in the sweet familiar scent wafting through my home. I’d never told anyone—not my sister, Zoe, not even my Granny Fi—about the smell of burning sugar, which always accompanied the hovering spirits of my ancestors and original owners of The Bluffs. I’d only recently come to understand the nuances of those scents. Could it be that Agent Benjamin was especially intuitive? More likely, he had a particularly good nose and was picking up on the same hints of sugar and vanilla from the old converted pantry. “And right now my stress level is pretty high.”

  “As it should be.” He rubbed his hands together in what appeared to be a habit.

  “So what do you think happened to my friends?” I brought the discussion back to Ashley and Vince. “Are they in trouble?”

  “Too soon and too few clues to answer.” He pulled out his notebook and was poised to write. “But you can help by telling me everything you know. What brought them to Whale Rock?”

  “They’d just finished graduate school. They’d never been to the Cape before and thought it would be a fun place to explore before settling into real jobs.”

  “So where were they from?”

  “I’m, uh, not sure. Maybe the Midwest? I think Ashley was a Southern girl originally.”

  He consulted his notes. “Chief Kincaid mentioned that people around here didn’t feel quite so positive about your tenants.”

  “Nobody knows them like I do.” My annoyance flared. “Vince and Ashley are more than tenants. They’re my friends.”

  “And just how long have you been associated with these friends?” The sarcasm was underscored by his dubious expression.

  I forced myself to swallow a smart response. “Four months.”

  “Not all that long, and yet …” He left the thought dangling, but I understood the implication: I should have known a few personal details—at the very least, where they were from.

  My face warmed from a mixture of shame and anger. “They’ve been busy doing reno work for me, so we didn’t spend a lot of time talking about their lives.”

  The agent’s brows popped up in a doubtful way. I had to agree, it was flimsy.

  “They’re pretty …” I hesitated, searching for the right word.

  “Secretive?”

  “No, not secretive.” My defensiveness provoked another eye raise, so I softened my tone. “They’re just intensely private people.” The kettle whistle offered a momentary save. I filled two cups to steep before adding, “The Jacobsons rallied round me at the lowest point of my life. And they would never leave without an explanation. Something isn’t right.”

  Agent Benjamin flipped the notebook closed and blew out a deep breath.

  “You’re right,” he agreed, staring hard. “Something is very wrong here, Cassie. But the biggest problem is that there’s no record of your Vince or Ashley Jacobson. According to the US government, they don’t exist.”

  2

  Present day ~ Whale Rock ~ Cape Cod

  Four months earlier

  “Losing The Bluffs? How did your life get so out of control, Cassandra?”

  I was used to my sister’s disapproving tones, but today her patronizing attitude was especially disheartening, considering the reason for my call.

  Not wanting to alienate the only lifeline for saving my home, I tamped down a smart-ass reply.

  “We haven’t lost it yet, Zoe.”

  “So it’s we now?” No doubt my sister was referring to all the unsolicited advice I’d rejected through the years.

  “You have every right to be disappointed in me.” I tried to sound remorseful.
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  “I heard that,” she chastised.

  “What?”

  “The ‘nobody understands me’ sigh. Don’t forget, I was as much a mother to you as Mama.”

  This time I did sigh, but not audibly. With a decade between us when I was born, Zoe had treated me as her own private living doll from the start and had never abandoned her protective yet bossy role. If she’d had her own children, the maternal grip might have loosened. That hadn’t been in her proverbial deck of cards, however.

  She never understood that it wasn’t a second mother I needed, but a real sister I desperately wanted, a best friend to whom I could confide my secrets, my dreams, my fears. And it would have been helpful to have someone with whom to share the burdens of family obligations.

  I was only seventeen when Mama died, but by then the Cape was firmly in Zoe’s rearview mirror. She’d rushed into marriage five years earlier with a spring break fling, the overly charming and handsome Oliver Young, who’d been on a fast track to a promising future in a prestigious San Francisco firm. At first glance, it appeared my sister had stepped into a fortunate situation, but the enviable role of a young executive’s wife had its hidden costs, and soon she was barely treading water in a sea of demands: keeping up with the other executives’ wives, joining the Junior League, hosting cocktail parties to impress the boss, shopping for outfits to impress the boss’s wife.

  She’d barely made it back to Whale Rock in time to witness the last breath of life drift from our mother’s ethereal being. Zoe returned again three years after Mama passed, for Papa’s funeral, but that was her last trip home. She couldn’t even be bothered to make it back when Granny Fi died. I swallowed the bitter taste that always accompanied a reflection back to the difficult time in our past. Resurrecting the grudge would not serve me well today.

  “It’s time to put The Bluffs on the market. Free yourself from the lurking shadows of Percy and Celeste,” Zoe said.

  I was momentarily taken aback. Zoe had always eschewed my notion that the spirits of our great-grandparents were a presence in the house.

  “So you’re finally admitting they exist?”

  “Of course not,” she clucked with disdain. “But there is something sinister lurking within those walls, and your attachment to that house is unhealthy. Its kept you firmly tethered to a provincial Cape Cod existence, strangling possibilities. You’re only thirty-seven. There’s a big world out there, waiting to be explored.”

  “Yeah, I know. ‘The world is my oyster.’ I’ve heard the speech before.”

  “Well you might try listening to me occasionally,” she pouted, strapping me with feelings of guilt on top of all my other shortcomings. “Regardless, I see no other way out but to sell.” When I said nothing, she added, “You’re always welcome to come live with us for a while.”

  I nearly gasped. Move in with her and Oliver? Not happening! I’d live on Papa’s sailboat first.

  “Selling would be disrespectful to Papa’s legacy.”

  “Legacy? Pfft. For whom are you proposing we preserve that antiquated monstrosity?”

  I winced at the sharpness of her words, knowing Zoe’s strong reaction reflected bitterness over her inability to conceive a child. And she was right that there were no future heirs to the stately Victorian our great-grandfather had lovingly built for his family. My mother had tried her best to fill it with children, suffering seven lost and debilitating pregnancies, with only Zoe and me surviving. I myself was perched precariously on the end of the last dying limb of the Mitchell family tree. That our bloodline was on the threshold of extinction was the fulfillment of a prophecy, a century-old curse cast upon Percival Mitchell by a lifelong nemesis and rival for his wife’s affection. The lighterman’s curse.

  “This is a beloved historic home, and it would be a dishonor to let it slip away.” I sucked in a deep calming breath before pressing on with my appeal. “I have a proposal.”

  “Why do I have a bad feeling?”

  “Please hear me out?”

  “Fine,” she sighed.

  “I realize you don’t share my love for The Bluffs, or Whale Rock for that matter, but this is the only home I’ve ever known, and I’d like to make a try at saving it.” I let that sink in before adding, in the most matter-of-fact voice I could muster, “I just need a small loan.”

  “What on earth happened to your trust fund?” The dressing down continued. “I can’t believe that trustee, what’s-his-name, didn’t request an accounting for where the money was going. Or at the very least some tangible evidence of an investment.”

  Evidently she’d forgotten that control of the trust fund set up by our maternal grandparents had been turned over to me on my thirtieth birthday. My sister was careful with her money and incapable of grasping the notion that anyone could let a million dollars slip through her fingers. I did the math. And yes, it was inconceivable to think all my money was gone in just seven years. It wasn’t lost on me that my marriage had only lasted as long as my trust fund.

  “Zo-Zo, at the moment I need a solution.” I managed to choke back, Not an “I told you so.” Our differences aside, my sister was the only one left I could turn to; even when my soon-to-be ex-husband was still around. Ethan had been the ultimate dream weaver, one failed venture following close behind the last. Then—poof!—he was gone. And so was all my money. The most significant remnant of my marriage was a staggering mortgage.

  Ethan saw himself as a real estate speculator, and his enthusiasm for his visions had been contagious. As it turned out, he was an ideas man—big ideas with big budgets—but unfortunately he was not a follow-through guy. He seemed to lack even a basic understanding of what was required to be successful in the real estate game. It was his final investment in a waterfront condominium project prior to zoning approval—which was never granted—that had sunk us completely. To make it worse, he had lied about his plans for using the money. It was a hard lesson, one that had come too late for me and with devastating consequences.

  My sister clicked her tongue. It was possible she was seriously considering my plea, but just as likely that she was suppressing a scolding retort while searching for the suitably nurturing words of refusal.

  To fend off an inclination to refuse me, I forged ahead.

  “I’m thinking of renovating the carriage house. Turning it into a rental to cover upkeep expenses.”

  “Not Mama’s studio,” she protested.

  It was an infuriating objection. I was the one who’d inherited our mother’s artistic gift, and after she died, Papa had turned her studio over to me. Mama had been prolific in her painting, and even now it seemed I couldn’t turn a corner in Whale Rock without running into one of her works, including those donated to the Whale Rock Art Museum or on permanent display at the LK Gallery, owned by local art dealer Lu Ketchner, another of Zoe’s many high school bosom buddies.

  It would be a great personal sacrifice to surrender my sanctuary, but I’d do anything to hold onto this house.

  It took some restraint to leave such thoughts unspoken, but I was desperate.

  More tongue clicking, and then, “I don’t know, Cass. Maybe it’s worth considering.” Was she softening a bit? “Morning, sweetheart. There’s a fresh pot brewing.”

  Evidently my brother-in-law had blessed my sister with his Oliver-ness. I looked at the captain’s wheel clock, which had been a fixture in our kitchen since I was a little girl. Seven AM on the West Coast.

  “I need to get ready for a meeting, Cassandra.” It was back to Cassandra. Not the best of signs. “Let me mull it over a bit.”

  This would translate to Zoe lamenting to Oliver about the mess I’ve made of my life, and should she give in and lend me the money or offer up a dose of tough love, forcing me out of my sheltered existence in Whale Rock?

  After ending the call, I sat dejected, staring into the murky dregs of my long-cold coffee, as if it held answers, until my phone buzzed on the table, waking me from the pall.

  “Go
away, Billy,” I groaned after checking the screen and pressing the ignore button. Why had I agreed to see him again last night? I had an unshakeable habit of avoiding problems, and Billy had long been my go-to diversion. When he’d called yesterday, it was right after I’d received the papers from the bank. The reality of losing my home was weighing heavy, and it had been easier to surrender to Billy’s charms than to think about my problems.

  Until yesterday, I’d been on a strict Billy Hughes avoidance diet for the past three months—ever since the day Ethan found out about us. I shuddered at the shameful memory. And yet, my affair had been but the final splinter in an already fractured marriage.

  I wished I could talk to Brit Winters, my best friend since kindergarten. But Brit had abandoned me in my greatest hour of need. Shortly before Ethan and I split, during the roughest of marital oceans, Brit had enrolled in a professor exchange program from Providence College and was having the time of her life in Milan, Italy. As happy as I was for her, the timing sucked. She alone knew every detail of my decades-long saga with Billy, except for this most recent dalliance.

  “Damn.” I rested my head onto folded arms. I’d screwed up big-time. Looking objectively at my choices, it cast an unenviable impression. Viewing it through my sister’s critical orbs, it was abysmal. Thirty-seven years old. Soon to be divorced. Childless. Alone. Broke. Strike that—not just broke, but on the precipice of homelessness. Aside from the occasional portrait job that came my way, I possessed few other marketable skills, unless unrigging and washing down whale-watching boats counted. I’d avoided admitting to Zoe about the scut work I’d been doing to earn grocery money.

  What would become of me if she said no to the loan?