The Woman Who Couldn't Scream

  Merida didn’t look like the most beautiful woman in the world anymore. She’d made sure of that. She wore blue jean bib overalls, a white sleeveless T-shirt that showed off her new tattoo and ragged canvas sneakers. One side of her head was shaved, a long shank of hair grew on the other, and that hair was her natural brown with a bright streak of white—also natural—and an equally bright streak of blue—self-applied. She wore moisturizer with sunscreen, no makeup. There’d been no waxing, no Botox, no filler. She wore no rings, no earrings, no jewelry of any kind. In fact, she didn’t own jewelry of any kind. She had left all decoration behind when she walked away from her last life … except for that tattoo, and it wasn’t really a decoration. It was a declaration; a hunting falcon, talons outstretched, diving for some unidentified prey. Most men, if they were smart, would be afraid of her.

  Yet somehow this officer was posturing in front of her, saying the dumb stuff that some men say when they equate beauty with a clinging need to be cared for. She typed, “Didn’t I read that Sheriff Kwinault got shot a few days ago?” and passed it to him.

  “She sure did. She was sitting in the Oceanview Café with Deputy Bergen, celebrating her victory with homemade donuts, and those wack jobs, the Terrances, drove by and shot her.”

  Merida typed, “So Sheriff Kwinault isn’t feeble. She’s injured.” She turned the tablet and narrowed her eyes at him.

  “Well, sure.” He started to squirm. “But she said the injury wasn’t bad.”

  Irritation heated Merida’s cheeks and the tip of her nose. She typed, “What did you expect her to say? That she was so hurt she couldn’t fulfill her duties?”

  “No, Sheriff Kwinault would never say that. I mean, I don’t think she would. I’m new in town. When they called for extra officers to deal with the crisis, I applied. She gave me a temp job. Three months. I appreciate that, but we’re not old acquaintances. Or anything.” He took off his cap and wiped his brow. He’d been standing in the sun, and suddenly seemed to feel its heat. “Do you know Sheriff Kwinault?”

  “When we were children, we were friends.”

  “So you’re from Virtue Falls?”

  Now Merida was sorry she’d said more than she should. More slowly, she typed, “I knew her in Baltimore.”

  If he was faking confusion, he was doing a good job. “I thought Sheriff Kwinault grew up here.”

  “She lived with her father for a few years.”

  “Really? I knew she’d been in the Coast Guard and went around the country that way, but not—”

  The radio hooked to his belt announced, “The chase is done for the day. Let the roadblocks go.”

  The guy in the car behind her must have heard, because he cheered and turned on his engine.

  Merida put her tablet into her shoulder bag, slid off the car, dusted her rear and looked pointedly at Officer Weston, then at the barrier across the road.

  He didn’t move. “Are you staying in Virtue Falls or headed down the coast?”

  Patiently she dug out her tablet again. “Staying.”

  “Vacation?”

  “Rented an apartment in town.”

  “Really?” Now he was openly eager. “Since I’m new and you’re new, what do you say we get together and explore the coast?”

  She could have simply said no, but she didn’t trust men, especially not men who worked at jobs that put them in charge. So she put on her grieved face and typed, “I’m recently widowed.”

  “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry.”

  She nodded and climbed in the car.

  Sean Weston removed the barriers and waved her forward to the stop sign.

  She figured that was that, but he put his hand on her door and leaned over. “I’ll look you up.”

  She looked at him as if he were nuts and shook her head.

  The guy behind her honked.

  Officer Weston took his hand away.

  She drove into Virtue Falls to create a new life … and at last, to get her revenge.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The old house was a monstrosity, a huge wooden gingerbread house, a parody of early twentieth century Gothic architecture set back on the lot on Lincoln Avenue. Dark Douglas fir trees overhung the dark stained wood, moss clumped on the cedar shingles, the windows were grimy, the yard was overgrown. This place was run-down, ill-kempt and eccentric, unlike anywhere Merida had lived before—and precisely what she wanted.

  As she made her way up the front walk, she stumbled on the uneven concrete broken by huge tree roots. She clung to the railing as she climbed the porch stairs and watched her footing on the warped boards. A plaque beside the doorbell said:

  GOOD KNIGHT MANOR BED AND BREAKFAST

  IF NO ANSWER, WALK IN.

  So she pushed the button and as she waited, she looked around. Next door, in gaps through the towering hedge, she saw a once-luxurious mansion that was now boarded up and dilapidated. On the other side, that home was smaller, newer, a tall and brightly painted Victorian house now undergoing renovation.

  Interesting! This was a neighborhood in transition.

  She pushed the doorbell again, then knocked loudly and tried the knob. The door opened with a creak.

  To her delight, the interior matched the exterior in eccentricity. The dark wood-paneled walls and worn Oriental carpet made the giant entry feel like an expansive cave. Suits of armor stood on either side of the door, battle-axes clenched in their metal gloves. The candle-like bulbs in the brass chandelier barely emitted enough light to illuminate the dark corners, and if one were fanciful, a goblin might lurk at the top of the shadowy stairway.

  Merida was not fanciful. She already knew that the real monsters lived in the material world: men with too much power, women without kindness or caring.

  A ship’s bell hung from a hook on the wall, a silver mallet hung beside it. A plaque announced, I’M PROBABLY IN THE KITCHEN PREPARING TOMORROW’S YUMMY BREAKFAST ROLLS. RING, PLEASE!

  Merida tapped the mallet to the bell.

  The sound echoed up toward the chandelier.

  In less than a minute, a stylish, middle-aged woman bustled out from the back, wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron. “There you are! You must be Merida Falcon. I expected you sooner!”

  Merida dug out her tablet and brought up her message about being mute, not deaf, please don’t shout.

  The woman did not stop talking long enough to look at the tablet, much less notice its message. “I’m Phoebe Glass, your new landlady. I’m delighted to meet you. Follow me and I’ll show you your rooms. As requested, I gave you a whole half of the house.” She beamed. “You’re going to rattle around in all those big rooms, but since you took it for the year, I thought you might change bedrooms occasionally.” She laughed merrily, stopped in front of a huge solid wood door, inserted a big old-fashioned key into the big old-fashioned lock, turned it and opened the door.

  A dining table long enough to accommodate a dozen Queen Anne chairs—five on each side and one on either end—filled the long room. Four shiny suits of armor each holding a medieval weapon—long sword, mace, lance, spiked club—stood guard against the dark wood paneling.

  Phoebe said, “You can see that this is the dining room and also see why I named my bed and breakfast Good Knight Manor. Eccentric, isn’t it?”

  Merida took to her tablet again.

  Without heeding, Phoebe again swept on. “The home was originally built in 1900 during the first lumber boom by lumber baron Ernest Hagerjhelm—quite the name, isn’t it? The manor is six thousand square feet on three levels, including a full attic where, of course, the servants resided. When Ernest died childless and unmarried in 1932, the house was sold and has been variously a private home, a boardinghouse, apartments and now my B and B. Every morning between eight and nine, I serve breakfast in the kitchen. If you’re not able to attend, there’ll be a pot to make coffee, a basket of fruit and breakfast bars on the buffet, and in the little refrigerator, cold drinks.”

  Merida slipped her table
t into her bag. Phoebe’s dark snapping eyes, curly graying hair and rapid-fire delivery obviously did not require a response.

  Phoebe moved into the room at the front of the house. “This is your small parlor. Most of the wood furniture is original, really grand antiques, but the chairs are new and comfortable. You have your own delightful little gas fireplace. It’s on a timer. Those windows have a view of the street if you’re a curtain-peeper—and aren’t we all?”

  Merida could truthfully say she didn’t care who walked the sidewalks as long as they left her alone.

  “Two months ago, I moved to Virtue Falls, bought the manor and ever since have been madly working to clean it up. You have no idea how difficult it has been to find help! Summer in Virtue Falls is the high season and with the robust economy not even high school students need a job. I did manage to hire a local woman—poor thing, Susie Robinson has a worthless womanizing husband and four children to support. She’ll be cleaning your rooms.” Phoebe ducked into what looked like a dark cupboard. “Right through here, the stairs go up. They’re narrow and steep, originally built for the maids and staff, but darned convenient for you! Follow me.”

  Merida followed and idly wondered if Phoebe had bought a bed-and-breakfast based solely on her need to talk incessantly.

  Phoebe continued, “You have three interconnected bedrooms on the second floor. There are five others on the other side of the corridor, but for your privacy I’ve blocked off all but one of your doors. Here we go, the sitting room for your master bedroom.”

  Merida stayed on the landing and when Phoebe turned, she gestured questioningly up the second flight of stairs.

  “That leads up to the servants’ attic. It’s an apartment—I just rented to a gentleman and his wife.” Phoebe must have correctly read Merida’s expression for she said hastily, “I installed a deadbolt and sliding bolt for security on both sides. All of the outer doors to your rooms have a key-operated dead bolt, a chain and a sliding bolt for security.”

  Merida cautiously considered Phoebe. Before she rented, she had investigated Phoebe Glass. The woman had a few glitches in her background: two dead husbands, a son currently occupying a prison cell and a charge of embezzlement against her which she had soundly beaten. While Merida didn’t entirely trust her—she didn’t entirely trust anyone—still she suspected Phoebe was more sinned against than sinning. Merida had come into the situation knowing she was going to change the locks; she needed more than a mere old-fashioned key, chain and dead bolts to feel safe. Electronics would provide an extra layer of protection; she had brought everything she needed to install a thoroughly secure system and when she was done, she would have surveillance cameras inside her rooms and keyless electronic locks or every outer door.

  Inside the master suite, the nine-foot ceilings, tall windows and creaking wooden floors provided ambiance with a vengeance. The velvet curtains, feather comforter and thick Oriental rugs exuded warmth and luxury. The old-fashioned touches were masterful: a ceramic chamber pot under the bed, a corded rotary phone from the twentieth century on the table, a black-mottled, wavy mirror over the antique dresser.

  Merida could do her work very well here.

  Phoebe asked if she had any questions.

  Merida examined the thermostat.

  “We don’t have air-conditioning,” Phoebe said. “The folks around here keep talking about this heat wave. I can’t help but chuckle. I’m from the south”—a lie and Merida knew it, Phoebe was from the Midwest—“and I know what real heat is. But it’s no problem. The trees around the house are shady, the windows are easy to open, and the ocean breeze so cool and constant, we don’t really need air-conditioning. Isn’t that right?” She beamed.

  Merida could have disagreed. If she could speak.

  But if Phoebe noticed Merida’s silence, she didn’t show it. Instead, she led the way out the one door into the upstairs corridor and down the stairs back to the entry, talking all the while, telling Merida to move her car around to the back by the old carriage house. “I turned that into a cottage for rent, too. On Tuesday, I have a gentleman moving in for the summer. When I bought Good Knight Manor Bed and Breakfast, my sister predicted disaster.” Phoebe nodded, clearly pleased with herself, although Merida could not tell whether more for her own success or proving her sister wrong. “Leave your car unlocked. Susie can fetch your luggage when she arrives to clean.”

  Merida shook her head; she had no intention of allowing anyone to handle her bags.

  “As you like. You have to haul the bags up the stairs, though. The dumbwaiter is broken and I’ve got to finish prepping tomorrow’s breakfast rolls. We’re having pecan sticky buns and a yogurt parfait with fresh strawberries.” Phoebe headed toward the back of the house, then turned. “If this season is as prosperous as it’s starting out to be, come this winter I’ll install an elevator.”

  Merida smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.

  Phoebe hurried back and enveloped her in a hug. “I knew as soon as we met you would be as positive a personality as I am!”

  As Phoebe hustled toward the kitchen, Merida wondered if merely by being silent she had been elevated to a positive personality. And whether Phoebe would ever notice she didn’t speak.

  She parked as instructed, then in two trips she lugged her luggage in through the kitchen, past Phoebe, and into her new home.

  Phoebe followed and ceremoniously turned over the keys. “I almost forgot! Merida, dear, every night at five I serve wine and port in the large downstairs living room, and the guests take that time to get to know each other. It’s so lovely and convivial! On Tuesday night I fix an international buffet, and I promise I am an excellent cook. Make sure you plan to be there!” With a smile and a wave, she left Merida to unpack.

  Merida shuddered inwardly. She didn’t want to—couldn’t stand to—go into a room of strangers and be mute, have people avoid her gaze, or stare, or try to make awkward conversation with her. No, she would not attend Phoebe’s convivial evening.

  Shutting the dining room doors, she locked it, then stood and hugged herself.

  For the first time in many years, she was alone; she didn’t have to smile, to pretend interest in stories she had heard a hundred times, to wait on a cantankerous old man and make his needs and wants her primary responsibility. Her only responsibility was to herself. She headed for the stairway, laboriously carrying the bags into the master bedroom.

  Following instructions, she attached the computer-sized safe to the wall beside the giant antique dresser and behind the large flowered easy chair—she would pay Phoebe for the damages when she left—and inside placed her two laptops and her extra iPad. She set the code, locked it and unlocked it, locked it again, and dusted her fingers in satisfaction. She lugged her suitcase into the dim, spacious closet. A bare bulb with a bead pull-chain switch hung from the ceiling. She reached up and gave it a tug—and touched the sticky thread of a spiderweb. Something landed on her head and scuttled across her ear. She jumped, screamed silently, bent down and thrashed at her hair. The spider—large, shiny, black, horrible—fell onto the faded carpet. She stomped at it in a panic.

  The segmented body crunched.

  She flinched. She shuddered. She stared at the smear of the corpse. Got a tissue and wiped it up. Let her breath out. No servants. No help. She had taken care of the matter herself.

  This incident was not an omen.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Kateri opened the door to Rainbow’s dim hospital room and peered inside.

  Rainbow rested on the bed, immobile, blank-faced, not there. A tube ran down her throat. An IV dripped fluid into her arm. The side rails were raised; for what reason, Kateri did not know. It wasn’t as if Rainbow would suddenly wake, move, try to leave the bed.

  An elderly woman sat close, doing a crossword puzzle under a reading light. From the back, she looked vaguely familiar. But who…?

  Kateri slipped into the room.

  The woman turned her gray head.

&
nbsp; Crap. It was Mrs. Branyon, who said with her usual lack of charm, “Oh. It’s you. I was due for a break anyway.” Grasping the arms of the chair, she leveraged herself to her feet. Leaning over Rainbow’s still form, she said loudly, “Honey, that Indian woman is here to see you, the one you took the bullet for. I know you like her, so I’ll leave you two alone. I’m going to get some dinner—the food here is okay, better than at the nursing home, but nothing like the grub at the Oceanview Café. Since you got shot and gave up the job, even that food is not much good. Dax is too busy crying in his soup. I’ll be back, don’t you worry. You’ll be okay for a few minutes.” Without wasting a glance at Kateri, she creaked past to the door. She opened it and said, “Young lady, don’t you open those blinds. She doesn’t need the sun shining in her eyes. By the way, you look like hell yourself. You got the sheriff’s job. Do us all a favor and try not to die before you take the oath of office.” On that caring note, she left.

  Kateri hurried to Rainbow’s bedside. “Do you know who you had sitting with you? Mrs. Branyon! Holy cow, what did you do to deserve that? Something bad in a former life?” Kateri tucked in the blankets, and picking up Rainbow’s hand, tsked. “Your fingers are frozen. Let me get you a warm blanket. And”—she lowered her voice—“I don’t care what she says, I’m going to open the blinds. The sun is shining outside and I know how much you love the light.” Kateri did as she said; let in the late-afternoon sun, got a blanket out of the warmer. She brought back the blanket, doubled it, placed it over Rainbow’s body from her neck to her toes. “I remember how cold I was when I was in the coma. Seemed like I was in the opposite of hell, but it sure wasn’t heaven.”

  Rainbow didn’t indicate by a flicker of an eyelash that she knew Kateri was here.

  “I thought I’d better bring you up to date. You know your parents are in Nepal doing social work and learning the local techniques and patterns of weaving. We’ve got people looking for them, but no one’s found them yet. They sure know how to wander away, don’t they?”