Maudlin's Mayhem (Bewitching Bedlam #2)(4)

She shrugged. She was dressed in the dress she had died in—a sky blue muslin gown à la Jane Austen, over which she wore an ivory corset and a matching lace shawl. She was pretty in a serious sort of way, with blue eyes and blond hair spilling out of a messy bun.

“Oh, this and that. I watched the gardeners plant the new roses from out of the library window. Thank you, by the way, for setting up the computer e-reader for me.” Franny flashed me a rare smile. “I just read a marvelous book by a Mr. Mark Twain. It’s called Tom Sawyer.”

I grinned. I had been around during Twain’s time, and figured she would like some of his work. “Glad you liked it.”

Franny loved to read. In fact, that was how she died. On a warm August day in 1791, Franny had been walking along the second-floor hallway, reading, and she missed the first step as she turned to go downstairs. She broke her neck in the fall and had been trapped here ever since. Franny had spent a long time alone until I had bought the old mansion. Those who could see her had run in fear until Aegis moved in. And he had pretty much ignored her. When I bought the house, I gave him hell for treating her like she didn’t exist.

Franny loved to read, and she missed it most of all. So I had set up a spare computer in the library. I kept the computer on constantly, and the e-reader program was always open. I had programmed it to voice control and since Franny could speak as clearly as I could, she could command it. I programmed in some basic commands—Turn Page, Go to Page, Open New Book, Close Book. Now she could read to her heart’s content. Every few weeks, we’d go through the online bookstore and add a few new books for her.

I finished with my lipstick and sat back. I was about as presentable as I was going to get for the morning. Bubba let out another squeak.

“Yeah, yeah, Bub. I’ll feed you. Franny, come on down to the kitchen if you like. I have someone coming at ten, but if you want to talk…” I left it open ended. Franny resented any trace of pity, for which I didn’t blame her, but she also liked to chat. Granted, she was angsty as hell, but I couldn’t help but feel that I should treat her as one of my permanent houseguests. You didn’t just ignore someone because she had a chip on her shoulder about being dead and stuck in a house.

She brightened. “All right. I can tell you what I found out about your guests—”

I stopped in the doorway, glancing at her. “What did I tell you about spying?”

She rolled her eyes. “I know, but can I help it if I happen to be around when they don’t know I’m watching?”

Shaking my head, I headed down the stairs, listening to her ramble on about Mr. Mosswood’s habit of rubbing his scalp with rose-scented lotion, and how Mrs. Periwinkle, a very old witch who seemed to have misplaced her marbles along with her late husband, had been trying to convince the grandfather clock to tell her where we kept the hidden treasure. What treasure she was talking about, I had no idea.





AT TEN O’CLOCK, prompt to the second, Thornton Weston was sitting in my parlor. He was human and in his early thirties. He was also a fine-looking piece of man flesh. Five-ten, pale blond hair in a Euro shag, trim but not overly thin, with a wisp of a beard and deep blue eyes that sparkled when he said hello. He was dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, but it was obvious he belonged in a leather blazer. I could easily see him driving some classy little number like a Jaguar or a Lotus. In fact, everything about him smelled like old money, so why was he applying for a housekeeping job?

“Are you sure you’re interested in this job? It’s not very glamorous. You’d be cleaning the mansion every day. You won’t be responsible for laundry, except for the sheets and blankets in the guest rooms. We have three rooms for paying customers, a personal guest room, and my bedroom. You’d be cleaning the guests’ rooms every day, the other two bedrooms once a week. We have six baths—they need to be cleaned daily. The kitchen gets cleaned every day, and it must be spotless due to health code regulations. You won’t need to cook, but you may be called upon to wait tables occasionally. There’s the daily dusting and tidying things up in the living room, library, parlor, and grand ballroom. I have someone to wash the floors once a week and windows once a month, so you don’t have to worry about those.”

As I paused, he shrugged. “I’ve had worse jobs. I’m not afraid of a little work.”

“We have a maid’s room on the main floor, which would be your living quarters, and a butler’s pantry. You’ll eat in there. Room and board are included in your salary. I take care of Bubba’s litter box. Oh, and whatever you do, please don’t pet his belly.” I didn’t want to tell him that Bubba was a cjinn until I knew him better. There were people who weren’t above trying to steal the creatures for their own use.

Pausing, I let the information settle. “So, are you interested?”

“Definitely. What are the official hours?”

Surprised, I said, “The job is full time, but since I won’t ask you to be on call 24/7 unless there’s an emergency, you’ll have Tuesdays and Wednesdays free. They’re our least busy days. We ask longer-term guests to waive daily cleaning for a reduced rate, so you only have to clean their rooms twice a week. Right now, we have two of them, actually.”

“The job sounds good to me, especially the live-in part. I’m between apartments right now.” He flashed me an easy grin.