The Dog-Eared Diary

Chapter 1

- 1 -

The side of her fist slammed onto the polished desktop, moving the air toward Oxnard Peabody’s face. He detached himself from her toxic energy by wondering why she never spent money on a manicure. Nail polish might ease her nail-biting habit and professional attention could smooth the jagged cuticles made by her relentless oral assault on her fingers.

“You’re keeping something from me, and I want to know what it is!”

“The secrets I keep are for your own good, Beatrice.” Oxnard sighed. His sister tested his patience on a regular basis. He never understood where her anger came from, always bubbling below the surface.

Beatrice folded her arms defiantly, her stance planted, unwilling to yield. Her expensive peach-colored cotton dress hung shapelessly on her lanky figure, with flat brown leather sandals cheapening the look. Oxnard took a deep breath, trying to reclaim the air Beatrice sucked from the room. Suggesting a stylist would send her through the roof. He had learned to divert his attention over the years to her appearance as a stress-management strategy when she was in attack mode.

They had been through all this before. Oxnard knew she was hell-bent on changing everything in her favor and discovering family secrets he promised his father he would keep. Oxnard dug his shiny black wingtips into the worn rug under his desk.

A sinister grin filled Beatrice’s face. “I’m next in line to inherit the stone mansion.”

“The house is not meant for you.”

“Then for who?”

“Be happy with your trust fund and leave the rest to me.”

“You don’t even live there. Why not hand it over while you’re still alive?”

“There is a reason I don’t live there, Beatrice. Besides, Great-Grandfather Horatio left specific stipulations regarding the house.”

Now that it’s yours, you could change that condition.”

His mouth turned down. “Don’t you think I’d want to live in our family’s legacy? And you along with me?”

“Aren’t you afraid I’d kill you in your sleep?” she said with an unnerving smirk.

Even though his sister sounded as if she was teasing him, the thought had gone through his mind as a serious possibility. Oxnard had feared for his life many times after spats during their life under the same roof as children. Battles occurred for a variety of reasons: sibling rivalry, possessiveness over a toy or book, or academic envy, such as on days when their report cards reflected Oxnard’s superiority. All triggered physical confrontations and consequential groundings. Oxnard was a quiet child, preferring books to people. From the day Beatrice appeared, his life had changed and his stress increased.

He struggled to hold his rolling executive chair in place the way he had held his fear around Beatrice. His deepest desire was to get far away from his sister’s fury.

“I certainly hope not.” Oxnard’s voice was steady, but his pulse raced.

Beatrice let out a disbelieving growl. “What’s the reason, then?”

“Father said the house was evil.”

The look on Beatrice’s face told him she was not buying the story.

“Oh, come on, Oxnard. You don’t really believe that, do you? There’s no such thing!”

Oxnard saw Beatrice’s dark brown eyes flash the way they used to just before she sucker-punched him in childhood, and he knew that, in fact, evil did exist.

“He told me to protect you.”

“I don’t need protection, but you do.” Beatrice grimaced.

Oxnard shook his head, suddenly exhausted.

“How many times are we going to have this conversation? Let it go.”

“Not likely.”

Oxnard let out the breath he did not know he was holding.

“Don’t negate the family history. Think about how unlucky Great-Grandmother Abigail was in that house. She was ill before her disappearance. Great -Grandfather Horatio suffered from alcoholism. Grandfather Maynard lived there until Grandmother Jillian had a miscarriage. She refused to live there after that. Once they moved, they were able to have Father. Mother and Father chose not to live there to avoid the dread that surrounds that building and the bad luck that follows.”

“I’ve heard the story before. You know as well as I do it was simple superstition and a series of unfortunate events that could have happened to any alcoholic and his family. The stress could have caused a miscarriage for our grandparents.”

Oxnard sighed, as weary of the repetition as Beatrice. He had hoped the stories would compel her to believe the house was evil. He knew it was not. The only thing malevolent about the house was the heavy energy left by those who lived there. His family members were champions at creating negativity for each other, just as Beatrice did for him.

“I signed over Mother and Father’s house to you and bought one for myself. Isn’t that enough?”

Beatrice ignored his generosity and challenged Oxnard. “I could make the board of the Peabody Foundation decide.” She shoved her glasses higher on her beaked nose with her middle finger.

“The Peabody Mansion is not part of the Foundation. It is mine. The board has no say in this matter. This discussion is over.” Oxnard’s innards felt like mush. He was ready for Beatrice to leave.

“I disagree. There’s a way around everything, and I’m going to find it.”

“Let’s just get through the day, shall we?” Oxnard was tired by this discussion and by her presence.

A hard knock on the heavy wood-paneled door interrupted the argument. Oxnard was thankful to whoever was on the other side of the door. Beatrice pressed her lips together in frustration.

“Come in!”

Greg Manning, caretaker of Peabody Mansion and manager of the Peabody Festival, packed the doorway with his imposing muscular build and sandy blond hair. Greg had been a trusted member of the Peabody staff for the majority of his thirty-seven years, having started out of high school. Beatrice and Oxnard’s father, Edgar, had hired him for a summer to care for the outside of the mansion. He had never left, and Greg’s duties expanded.

His bold good looks and flirtatious ways made him a legend among the women in town. Oxnard had seen women practically swoon in his presence. At first, Oxnard could not understand why they fell for Greg’s manipulations eighty percent of the time and competed for his attention.

Oxnard’s own neat, book-smart appearance did nothing to win him a wife. Then again, his focus on work and family matters made him withdraw from social gatherings, which did not align with courtship. Charm was not his strong suit. He had reasoned that dependability is a trait women want, but discovered by watching Greg’s amorous ways that flattery and attention worked better.

Beatrice glared at him. Oxnard noticed that Greg’s wink and bright smile did nothing to melt the icy stare.

“Are you coming out soon? The place is getting mobbed and they’re looking for the master of ceremonies to kick things off.”

Oxnard did not enjoy public speaking and his argument with Beatrice did not put him in a social mood. This task would test his acting skills to the breaking point.

“Yes, as soon as we’re finished with our conversation.”

“I think we’re done,” said Beatrice, “for now.”

Beatrice stormed out of the office and slammed the door behind her.

Greg stared after her and then looked at Oxnard, who shrugged. Greg nodded in understanding. He had experienced many fights between the siblings over the years. It was a way of life and a constant source of embarrassment for Oxnard.

“Give me a minute,” said Oxnard.

“OK, boss,” said Greg as he quietly closed the door behind him.

Oxnard stayed in his chair, praying that she would not ruin the annual Peabody Festival in honor of Great-Grandfather Horatio. A slight tremor moved through his body, as it did after each encounter with Beatrice. He wanted to love her, to take care of her, but she made that so very hard.