Dark Homecoming (12 page)

R
ita came through the front door of her parents' house and removed her wet, dripping raincoat. It was still pouring out there though the thunder and lightning had at last stopped. Her mother asked her if she was hungry, and Rita replied that she had eaten at Huntington House. She was tired, she told her mother, and she was going to bed early.

But in the privacy of her room, sleep was the furthest thing from Rita's mind.

She had just come from talking with the police. Detective Foley had asked her to come down to the station. He wanted to keep their conversation private, he said, just between him and Detective McFarland and herself. They didn't want anyone else at Huntington House to know they'd spoken with her. Was Rita okay with that?

She told them yes.

They wanted to know about Jamison. Was it true she had seen him at the bar the night he was killed? Yes, Rita, admitted, it was true. And yes, she knew he'd been fired.

But that was all she told them.

When they asked Rita if she knew
why
Jamison had been fired, she had lied and said no. She hadn't told the detectives anything that Jamison had told her about Audra. She had thought long and hard about whether she should say anything about her suspicions that Mrs. Hoffman had killed both of them. She had thought it might be good revenge against the cruel old housekeeper, and give her a freer hand at the house if Mrs. Hoffman was removed. But telling the police what she knew, Rita had decided, might hurt David and his business and his reputation, and Rita would never hurt David.

On her phone she tapped in David's mobile number. She knew it would be the middle of the night in Amsterdam or wherever he was at the moment. But she also knew that David always answered his phone, no matter what time it rang. Whatever call came in on this line was important. Only a select few had David's private mobile number; Rita suspected he hadn't even given it to his new little wife. He'd never given it to Dominique; why would he give it to this one? This number was only for David's closest business colleagues—and his father, of course, who was also his boss. But Rita had the number. David had given it to her back in those terrible days before Dominique died, when he was so upset, so unhappy. How vulnerable he had been the day he gave her this special number. How much like a little lost boy. How cruel Dominque had been to him. She was always trying to make him jealous, to make him feel inadequate. And so David had reached out to Rita and gave her his private number. It was then that Rita had known he truly loved her.

She'd used the number only once, the day Dominique died, and Rita was desperate to know if David was okay. Now, she figured, it was time to use it again.

David answered on the second ring.

“Why are you calling me?” he snapped.

“I wouldn't be calling you if I didn't think you wanted to hear what I had to tell you, David.”

Rita could hear the anger simmering in his voice. “What is it?” he asked.

“Your brother.”

“My brother?”

“He came by the house today to see your wife.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone. The silence was so complete that Rita thought for a minute the call had been dropped.

But then she heard David let out a breath.

“What's the problem with my brother coming by to welcome his sister-in-law to her new home?” he asked her. “It's a perfectly natural, kind, family gesture. Why would you think I needed to know such a trivial little thing?”

“Because I remember what happened—”

“Listen to me, Rita,” David seethed, cutting her off. “You remember nothing. Do you understand? You remember nothing because nothing happened. Not between us, not between me and anyone else.
Do you understand?
”

It was Rita's turn to fall silent. Finally she replied, “Yes, David.”

He hung up on her.

Rita boiled. How dare he just discard her this way? How dare he try to deny everything they'd been through—everything she had witnessed?

She had protected him! She had thought of him first and no one else in those terrible days after Dominique died. How would he like it if she went back to Detective Foley and told him everything she knew? Everything!

Sitting there, staring out the window as the moon rapidly revealed itself from behind the dissipating clouds, Rita vowed one of two things.

She'd get David back, and everything would be just as it was.

Or else she'd make sure that no one—no one!—ever had David again.

Including his mousy little bride.

A
t Huntington House, Liz was looking out at the moon as well.

 

Thin ribbons of clouds were drifting away as the moon rose in all its white shiny glory, reclaiming the sky from the wind and the rain. The moon made Liz happy as she watched it, as if the end of the storm symbolized the end of all her unhappiness since she'd come to this place.

But it wasn't the moon that made her feel better. Not really. It was Roger.

At last Liz felt as if she had a friend here. Someone who understood her and, critically, who understood David. Roger had said things that reassured her, most importantly:
David does
not
want you to be like Dominique.
Roger had reminded Liz that David had married her because he had liked her, loved her, for exactly who and what she was.

But even more: Roger promised her an escape from the dreariness of this house.

Liz had found Roger's gallery on Facebook and sent him a message, telling him how much she'd like to attend his opening. He'd quickly replied that he'd love to pick her up tomorrow—if she was free—and show her around town. Since Liz didn't have a driver's license yet, he was glad to be her chauffeur. Although Liz had her pick of drivers at Huntington House, she much preferred the idea of being shuttled around town by Roger. She'd told him that yes, she was free, and yes, she'd love to go out with him tomorrow.

Liz pulled away from the window. For the first time since coming to this house, she was going to sleep honestly looking forward to the next day.

But as she crossed the room to her bed, she was distracted by a sound.

The same sound she had heard before—heard a number of times over the last couple of weeks, in fact.

The low, muffled banging—from behind the wall—or perhaps it was above her.

Liz could never quite be sure where the sound was coming from. But there it was again.

She stopped the clock on the mantel and pressed her ear against the wall. There was
definitely
a sound.

The soft rapping of a hammer?

Or . . . a series of footsteps?

Then, as always, the sound ceased as suddenly as it began.

But this time, with the end of the sound, came the sudden overwhelming fragrance of gardenia.

M
rs. Martinez wasn't pleased by the conversation she overheard in the kitchen when she reported to work the next morning. Rita was standing in the middle of the room, speaking in hushed tones to Variola. But Mrs. Martinez could hear all too clearly what the maid was saying.

“You said you could help me,” Rita implored.

“Of course Variola can help you.” The chef smiled. “The question is, what is it that you truly want? The man you claim to love, or happiness and well-being?”

“I'd say they're one and the same.”

Variola rolled her eyes. “Oh, such a foolish child. Very well. Variola will help you nonetheless.”

“Why have you offered to help me?”

Variola shrugged. “I thought maybe we could be better friends.”

“And you need friends,” Rita said. “To help you against Mrs. Hoffman.”

“Now, girl, you are just concocting scenarios.”

“I've watched you. I've watched you both for a long time. There is a rivalry there. She was once your pupil. I saw the two of you, in the garden, picking flowers, boiling them on the stove, chanting words over the steam that rose from the pot.”

Variola nodded. “She was interested at one time in the magic and the remedies of the islands. I taught her. She and the first Mrs. Huntington were both my pupils.”

“And Mrs. Hoffman has learned maybe a bit too well?” Rita asked.

Variola leveled her black eyes at her. “She has concluded her lessons. I no longer teach her.”

“But you can teach me,” Rita said.

The chef was nodding. “If you want to learn.”

“I do.”

“Let me tell you something, Margarita Cansino,” Variola said. “Papa Ghede is a compassionate deity. But he can take back as much as he gives if your aims are impure. And your desire to lure a man away from his marriage . . . that is impure. That is selfish. That is evil.”

Rita laughed. “But you've offered to help me, to teach me the ways to do just that.”

“What I will teach you,” Variola said, “is how to go after what you think you want and how to understand that what you get is what you deserve.”

“Whatever,” Rita said, seeming to become bored with all the talk. “Just help me get him.”

“You'll only get him if it's meant to be,” Variola cautioned her.

Rita folded her arms across her chest, impatient. “It is meant to be. He'll realize that soon enough. He just needs a little . . .
shove
in that direction.”

“If he truly loves you, why is he so resistant?”

Rita stiffened. “He's under a spell.”

From her hiding place, eavesdropping on the conversation, Mrs. Martinez winced.

“Is he now?” Variola asked. “Who placed this spell on him?”

Rita frowned. “When I came to work here,” she said, “shortly before the first Mrs. Huntington died, I heard the whispers about witchcraft being practiced in this house. Even after seeing you and Mrs. Hoffman brewing up your potions, I didn't believe the stories. But Jamison did.” She paused. “When he was killed, I realized the stories had been true.”

“So you believe I have bewitched Mr. Huntington.”

“Either you, or Mrs. Hoffman.”

In the shadows, Mrs. Martinez tensed. Did the child not realize how dangerous her words were becoming?

“Why would either of us do such a thing?” Variola asked.

“Because there is a war between you two. You want control over this house. Over the Huntingtons. Over their money and their estate.”

Variola smiled. “My, you have us pegged as real go-getters. So, help me to understand. You come to me looking for talismans or potions to break this spell? You offer yourself as my ally if I will undo the spell I have placed on your lover? Is that it?”

“That about sums it up.”

Variola turned from her in disgust. “I have placed no spell on Mr. Huntington. He operates of his own free will.”

“Then Mrs. Hoffman has done so,” Rita said. “It is Mrs. Hoffman who cast the spell.” She took a step closer to Variola. “And I will help you destroy her. I know you want her gone. I can help you make that happen, in exchange for what you can give me.”

“How can you help make such a thing happen?”

“I know things about Mrs. Hoffman. Things that could remove her from this house for good.”

Variola smirked. “You think Variola doesn't know such things as well? You think Variola does not know things about everyone in this house, including yourself, that would destroy them? You promise me things that I do not need.”

“But you're intrigued, nonetheless,” Rita said. “You want to know what I know.”

Variola's smile disappeared. “You come back this afternoon. I will give you what you want. But remember, Rita. I am giving this to you on two conditions. One, that whatever it is that you go after, you shall get it only if it is
supposed
to come to you, only if it is
right
.”

“Oh, it's right, believe me,” Rita said. “Nothing has ever been more right.”

“And two,” Variola went on, “that you are, as you proclaim, on my side.”

“I understand.”

No more words were exchanged between the two women. Mrs. Martinez waited until Rita had left the kitchen. Then she stepped out of the shadows.

“After hearing all that, I'm more afraid than ever,” she said in a tiny voice. “Is she right? Is there some sort of contest brewing between you and Mrs. Hoffman? What is this talk of sides? Will we be asked to choose?”

Variola didn't even bother looking over at her. She opened the refrigerator, took out some apples and pears, and placed them on the chopping board beside her. “You have got to stop being so afraid, Maria,” she said over her shoulder. “Fear gets in the way.”

“I have children,” Mrs. Martinez said. “And grandchildren.”

She thought of little Marisol and Luis. How sweet and innocent. These sorts of things could ricochet. Mrs. Martinez knew that. Variola had taught her that. If the powers in this house were ever turned against her, no one in her family would be safe.

“Your family will be fine,” Variola assured her. “There was no trouble before, was there?”

“But there might have been. You told me yourself. We were all in danger . . .”

Variola looked up at her, black eyes flashing. “But nothing happened, did it? We were fine! And we will be fine now, too.”

Mrs. Martinez clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling. “You are going through with it? You will use the girl's silly fantasy about Mr. Huntington for your own purposes.”

“She will learn.”

Mrs. Martinez was about to reply when they both heard a step. They fell silent, busying themselves in the kitchen.

In an instant, Mrs. Hoffman presented herself at the kitchen door.

“She will eat lunch in the dining room today,” the head housekeeper announced.

“Oh, really now?” Variola asked. “She gifts us with her presence more these days.”

“She is coming out of her shell, it seems.”

Variola smiled slyly. “Will Mr. Roger be coming for dinner?”

“No.” Hoffman's face turned dark. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

“I just thought, since they had gotten on so well yesterday. . .”

“I have not heard from Roger.”

“I'll make a little extra just in case.”

Mrs. Hoffman stiffened. “There's no need to do so.”

Variola looked up at her. “You don't trust Variola's instincts? Even still, after all this time, you don't think I can know these things, that I can't sniff them out?”

“It would seem to me that you should hope Roger stayed far away from here. He is trouble for all of us. You know that all too well. You remember what happened before.” She shuddered. “If Mr. Huntington knew that his brother was coming around again . . .”

“Maybe he does know.”

“Why do you say that?”

Variola laughed. “Instinct, Mrs. Hoffman. Why will you not trust me?”

Mrs. Hoffman pursed her lips tightly. “All I know is, she has called for lunch in the dining room.”

“I appreciate the information,” Variola said.

Mrs. Hoffman turned on her heel and strode out of the room.

Once the housekeeper's footsteps had faded off down the hall, Mrs. Martinez returned to Variola's side. “I cannot help it,” she said, her face pale and drawn. “I am frightened.”

This time Variola made no reply.