The Housekeeper's Reckoning

Chapter 2 The Wolves at the Table

Dinner at Bellhaven had always been a ritual. Eight seats, crystal and silver, the good china that had belonged to Eleanor Whitmore before she fell down the stairs. Marguerite used to host dinners twice a week. She said it kept the family close. I had always suspected it kept them where she could watch them.

Tonight, Julian sat at the head of the table. That was the first thing wrong. The head of the table belonged to Marguerite. Even when she had been too ill to eat, a place had been set for her, and no one had ever dared claim it.

The second thing wrong was Julian's fiancée.

Her name was Alicia Farrow, and she was exactly the kind of woman Marguerite had spent forty years keeping out of Bellhaven. She was blonde, polished, and wore a diamond ring the size of a cherry pit. She was also, according to the file Marguerite had written out in her shaky handwriting, the daughter of a man named Richard Farrow, who had tried to buy Bellhaven out from under Marguerite fifteen years ago. He had failed. He had also died of a heart attack three years ago—the same year as Charles.

"That's a coincidence," I had said when I read it.

Marguerite had written a single word in response: No.

Alicia smiled at me across the table. "So you're the famous Mrs. Keene. Julian has told me so much about you."

"I'm sure he hasn't," I said.

Her smile tightened. "He said you're a legend around here. The woman who knows all the secrets."

"I know where the good silver is kept. That's about it."

Julian laughed. It was a practiced laugh, the kind that men learn in boardrooms. "Mrs. Keene is being modest. She's been with this family longer than anyone except Grandmother. She practically raised my father."

"Almost," I said. "Your father was already grown when I arrived."

"But you knew him well."

"I knew everyone well. That was my job."

The dinner was served by a catering staff that Julian had hired—not the same kitchen staff that had been at Bellhaven for years. Marguerite had written that Marta, the cook, had been let go three weeks ago. So had the housekeeper, the gardener, and the two maids who had been with the family for more than a decade. They had been replaced by strangers. People who didn't know the house. People who didn't know the secrets.

People who wouldn't notice if something went missing.

I ate the food. It was good—French cuisine, the kind you paid three hundred dollars a plate for in a city. But it wasn't Marta's food. Marta had cooked for the Whitmores for twenty years. She knew that Marguerite preferred her lamb medium rare and her coffee black with a single sugar cube. She knew that Charles had been allergic to shellfish. She knew when to serve dinner and when to serve silence.

After the main course, Julian cleared his throat. "I'm sure you're wondering why I asked you to come, Mrs. Keene."

"Your grandmother asked me to come."

"Yes, well." He glanced at Alicia. "Grandmother's mind isn't what it used to be. The stroke affected more than just her body. Her doctor says she may be experiencing delusions."

"Delusions," I repeated.

"She's become convinced that people are trying to harm her. Specifically, that I'm trying to sell the house out from under her." He spread his hands. "Which is ridiculous. I love this house. I grew up summering here. I would never sell it."

Marguerite had written something else in her notes: He has a buyer. A developer from Boston. They've signed letters of intent. Close to done.

"What about the letters of intent?" I asked.

Julian's eyes narrowed. "I'm sorry?"

"Your grandmother mentioned something about a developer. From Boston. I'm just asking."

Alicia set down her fork. "Julian, I told you she would do this."

"Do what?" I asked.

"Come in here on Grandmother's orders and stir up trouble. She's been trying to divide this family for years. Ever since Charles died."

I looked at her. She was young. She was pretty. She was also very, very stupid, because she had just admitted that she knew about the letters of intent.

"I didn't mention a developer's name," I said. "Your fiancée did. Just now."

Julian's face went still. It was the same expression he had worn as a boy when he had been caught doing something he shouldn't—breaking a vase, or raiding the pantry, or reading his father's private papers. He had been twelve then. He was thirty now. But the face was the same.

"I think," Julian said slowly, "that you should leave, Mrs. Keene. I'll have someone drive you home in the morning."

"I don't have a home here anymore."

"You have a cottage in Marbury. I know all about it. I did my homework."

"Did you find out about the trust?"

The word landed like a stone in still water. Julian did not blink, but Alicia did. She looked at him, then at me, then back at him. She didn't know about the trust. That was interesting.

"What trust?" she asked.

Julian ignored her. "You're referring to the family trust. The one Grandmother set up after my father died."

"I'm referring to the trust that your grandmother controls. The one that owns this house. The one that pays your allowance."

"I don't receive an allowance."

"You receive a monthly disbursement from the family trust. I've seen the books. Your grandmother showed them to me before she lost the ability to write."

Julian's jaw tightened. "Those books were private."

"They were family records. I've been keeping them for forty years. You don't just stop being the keeper of the records because you retire."

Alicia stood up. "This is absurd. Julian, let's just call the lawyer. We don't have to listen to this."

"Sit down," Julian said. His voice was flat. She sat.

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he smiled. It was not a warm smile. It was the smile of a man who had just realized that the game was more complicated than he had anticipated.

"Mrs. Keene," he said. "You're right. I should have been more transparent. The truth is, Grandmother's condition is worse than we've been telling people. She has good days and bad days. The doctors think she may need full-time care. This house is too big for her. It's too much work. And yes, I've had preliminary discussions about selling it. But nothing is final. And nothing will be final until I'm sure Grandmother will be taken care of."

"You want to put her in a facility."

"I want her to be safe. And cared for. That's all."

"Then why did you fire Marta and the rest of the staff? Why did you bring in strangers who don't know her routines? Why are you isolating her from everyone who has ever cared for her?"

"She fired them herself. Ask her."

"She can't speak. That's convenient for you."

Julian's smile disappeared. "I think we're done here. Rogers will show you to your room."

Rogers was the new driver—a man I had never seen before, who materialized in the doorway as if he had been waiting for his cue. He was tall and broad-shouldered, the kind of man who could block a hallway without trying. He looked at me the way a bouncer looks at a drunk.

I stood up. "Your grandmother asked me to stay. I'm staying. But not in the guest room."

"The guest room is perfectly comfortable."

"I'll be staying in the blue room. Next to your grandmother's."

That got a reaction. The blue room had been Charles's room. No one had stayed in it since he died. Alicia actually flinched.

"That room is closed," Julian said.

"Then open it. I'll be fine."

I walked out of the dining room before he could argue. I knew the house well enough to find the blue room on my own. Rogers followed me for a few steps, then stopped. He knew better than to drag an old woman down a hallway.

The blue room was dusty. The bed was unmade. But the window looked out over the same garden I had spent forty years tending, and the door connected to Marguerite's bedroom through a small sitting room. I could hear her breathing through the wall. Slow. Steady. Alive.

I sat on the edge of the bed and took out my phone. Then I sent a text to the one person I knew I could trust.

Me: It's worse than we thought. Get here as soon as you can.

The reply came within a minute.

Ruth: Tomorrow. 10 a.m. Don't let them see you sweat.

Ruth was my niece. She was also a lawyer. She had spent the last ten years building a practice in family law and estate disputes. She had seen families tear each other apart over money and houses and old resentments. She had told me once that Bellhaven was the most complicated estate she had ever encountered. She had also told me that she would drop everything if I ever needed her.

I put the phone away and lay back on the bed. The ceiling was the same pale blue it had always been, with the same faint water stains in the corner. I had stared at that ceiling many times over the years, in moments of exhaustion and moments of grief. I had thought about all the things I had done for this family. The things I had hidden. The things I had broken.

Now I had one more thing to do. And I was going to do it, no matter what it cost.