All the Little Lights(58)

I sat up in bed, my eyes wide as they adjusted to the darkness. Wrapped in my robe, I tried to remember finishing my shower and lying down, but couldn’t. It was unsettling, losing time.

I slipped on my house shoes and padded across my room to the door, peering out into the hallway. The Juniper was quiet except for the occasional creaking of the walls from the settling foundation.

The wood floor felt freezing under my feet, so I checked the thermostat. Fifty degrees! Oh no. No, no, no. Please don’t be broken.

I turned the dial and waited, sighing when the heat kicked on, and the air began to blow through the vents. “Thank God,” I said.

The downstairs landline began to ring, and I rushed down the steps to the desk in the foyer. “Front desk.”

“Hi, this is Bill in room six. I have no hot water. It’s freezing. I leave to get on the road in an hour. What the hell kind of place are you running? I knew I should have stayed at the Super 8.”

“I’m so sorry about the heat. It was turned down somehow, but it’s on now. It will be comfortable soon.”

“What about the hot water?”

“I’m . . . I’m not sure. I’ll look into it. I’m so sorry. Breakfast will be ready by the time you’re downstairs.”

“I won’t have time for breakfast!” he yelled, slamming down the phone.

I set the receiver in the base, deflated.

“Was that Mr. Heitmeyer?” Willow asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“Uh . . . yes.”

“Did he just scream at you?”

“No.” I shook my head. “No, he’s just a loud talker.”

She nodded once and then headed to the staircase. I ran after her.

“Willow? Checkout time is in an hour. Mama said you were checking out today?”

“She did?”

“She did.”

She nodded and, instead of going up the stairs, walked back toward the drawing room. I waited until she was out of sight and then walked down the hall to the basement door. The tart smell of mildew slipped around the inch-thick cracks of the door. I turned to the table in the hall and took a flashlight from a drawer. The metal of the hinges scraped when I pulled the door open, quietly telling me to turn around and walk away.

Cobwebs swayed from the ceiling, the concrete walls were cracked and water stained, the stairs rickety and rotting. I put half my weight on the first step and waited. The last time I ventured into the basement, someone locked me inside for three hours, and it gave me waking nightmares for a month. As I descended each wobbly plank, the room grew colder, and I pulled my robe tighter around me. The hot water tanks were standing together on platforms against the far wall, just past a row of thirty or so suitcases of various shapes and sizes that were parked along the adjacent wall.

The already dim glow from the overhead lights didn’t quite make it to where the tanks stood, so I pressed the button on the flashlight with my thumb, pointing it into the corner and then gliding it along the wall.

I leaned down, shining my light at the base of the first tank. The pilot lights were on. The thermostats were turned all the way down. “What the . . . ?”

Something creaked behind me, and I froze, waiting for another noise. Nothing. I turned the dial on the first tank and then the next.

Gravel softly scratched the concrete floor.

“Who’s there?” I asked, shining my flashlight.

I jumped and yelped, covering my mouth. Mama slowly turned to face me, standing on her bare feet, looking pale and angry. Her fingers pinched and twisted the same section of her thin cotton nightgown over and over.

“What are you doing down here?” I asked.

The anger on her face melted away, and she peered around the basement, seeming confused. “I was looking for something.”

“Were you trying to fix the tanks?” I asked. I bent down, shining the flashlight on the controls, rotating the rest of the dials. “Mama,” I said, peering up at her, “did you do this?”

She just stared at me, looking lost.

“Did you do that to the thermostat upstairs, too? We have a guest. Why would you . . .”

She touched her chest. “Me? I didn’t do this. Someone is trying to sabotage us. Someone wants the Juniper to close down.”

The pilot lights were brighter, one after another igniting the flames beneath, causing a low humming to come from the tanks. I stood, exasperated. “Who, Mama? Who would care enough about our failing bed and breakfast to sabotage it?”

“It’s not about the bed and breakfast. Don’t you see? It’s what we’re trying to do here! We’re being watched, Catherine. I think . . . I think it’s . . .”

“Who?”

“I think it’s your father.”

My face metamorphosed from annoyance to rage. “Don’t say that.”

“I’ve suspected for months.”

“Mama, it’s not him.”

“He’s been sneaking in here, changing things, scaring our guests away. He never wanted this bed and breakfast. He doesn’t like our guests. He doesn’t want them around you.”

“Mama . . .”

“He left us, Catherine. He left us, and now he’s trying to ruin us!”

“Mama, stop! He didn’t leave us. He’s dead!”