The Last House Guest(10)

I froze, flashlight scanning the trees, the edge of the garage. Another gust blew in with the rain, and the gate creaked once more, knocking against the side of the house.

The wind, then.

I’d fix it in the morning. The sky opened up. The storm was here.





CHAPTER 3


I was surfacing from a dream when the phone rang the next morning. It was an old dream: the feel of the rocking of the sea, everything unsteady, like I was inside one of my mother’s paintings—stranded in the chaos of the waves outside the harbor, looking in.

The room was spinning when I opened my eyes, my stomach plummeting. It was the liquor in the middle of the night, the lack of sleep. I fumbled for my phone as I glanced at the clock—eight a.m. on the nose. I didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello?” I tried to sound like I hadn’t been sleeping, but I was still staring up at the ceiling, trying to recover my bearings.

“Ms. Greer?”

I sat upright before responding. Ms. Greer meant business, meant the Lomans, meant the type of people who would expect me to be sitting at a desk by this hour instead of cross-legged in bed, tasting stale whiskey. “Yes. Who’s speaking?” I replied.

“Kevin Donaldson,” he answered, “staying at the Blue Robin. Something happened. Someone’s been in here.”

“Pardon? Who was there?” I said. I tried to think when I had scheduled the cleaners, whether I’d screwed up the Donaldsons’ checkout date. People like this didn’t like someone coming and going unannounced when they were away, even me. It was why they stayed in one of our properties instead of a bed-and-breakfast or a hotel suite. I was already heading for my desk tucked away in the living room, opening the folders in a stack beside my laptop until I found the right house.

I had his rental agreement in my hand even as he responded: “We got home late, around midnight. Someone had obviously gone through our things. Nothing was taken, though.”

I was running through a list of who had a key. Whether there were any new hires at any of the vendors we used. Whom to call next, which one I’d bet my money on. “I’m so sorry to hear this,” I said.

My next question would be: Did you leave any doors or windows open? But I didn’t want to seem like I was blaming the Donaldsons, especially if nothing had been taken. Still, it would help to know.

“Did you call the police?” I asked.

“Of course. Last night. We tried calling you first, but you didn’t answer.” Of course. They must’ve tried me when I was at the main house with Parker last night. “Someone came and took our statement, took a quick look around.”

I closed my eyes, drawing in a slow breath. Protocol was always to call Grant Loman before involving the cops. A police report at a rental property wasn’t good for business.

“Look,” he continued, “it doesn’t matter that nothing was taken. This is obviously unsettling. We’ll be leaving this morning and would like a refund for the rest of our stay. Three days.”

“Yes, I understand,” I said, fingers to my temple. Even though there were only two days remaining on their contract. Not worth the fight in the service industry, I knew from experience. “I can get that in the mail by this afternoon.”

“No, we’d like to pick it up before we go,” he said. His tone of voice told me this was not up for debate. I had dealt with his type before. Half my job involved biting my tongue. “We’ll be staying at the Point Bed-and-Breakfast for the remainder of the week,” he continued. “Where’s your office located?”

My office was wherever I happened to be, and I didn’t want anyone showing up on the Loman property with a business concern. We handled agreements and finances online, primarily, and I used my P.O. box for anything else. “I will personally deliver it to the Point later this afternoon. The check will be at the front desk before the end of the business day.”



* * *




I TEXTED PARKER SO I could plan my day’s schedule, but my message bounced back as undeliverable.

Despite the fact that I’d overslept, the walk-through wasn’t scheduled until ten. I had time for a morning run if I kept it short. I could check in with Parker on the way back.



* * *




THE ONLY EVIDENCE OF the storm last night was the soft give of the earth beneath my feet. The morning was crisp and sunny, the way of Littleport postcards in the downtown shops. These were the days that catered to the tourists, that kept us in business: picturesque, quaint, protected and surrounded in turn by untamable nature.

In truth, the place was wild and brutal and swung to extremes. From the nor’easters that could quickly drop an easy foot of snow and ice, downing half the power lines, to the summer calm with the birds calling, the buoy bell tolling in a rhythm out at sea. From the high-crested waves that could tear a boat from its mooring, to the gentle lapping of the tide against your toes in the beach sand. The quaint bustle to the barren loneliness. A powder keg to a ghost town.

As I passed the garage, I noticed that the garbage can had been fixed, the gate secured. Parker was apparently up and out, unfazed by the late night and the liquor.

I had just set my foot on the first step of their porch when the front door swung open. Parker stopped abruptly, doing a double take.