Shake Down. Jill Elizabeth Nelson

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СКАЧАТЬ be more troublesome than Janice would have anticipated. At any other time in her life, she’d have sold the property, sight-unseen, and called it good riddance. But she had her reasons for coming to Martha’s Vineyard to handle the transaction personally.

      If her superstitious days weren’t well behind her, Janice might be tempted to think Moran Cottage was bent on doing her in. At her first step onto the front porch, she had nearly plunged her foot through an eroded board. Then as she’d explored the walk-in kitchen pantry, a shelf let loose, tumbling expired canned goods onto her shoulders. A few aches across her back betrayed bruises forming. Now she’d wrestled open a trap door in the floor of the hallway outside the miniscule bathroom and found the cellar.

      At least her decade of experience as a Realtor had prepared her to deal with little issues such as lack of power in a run-down property. Janice swiped a flashlight from her belt-loop clip, clicked it on and pointed the beam into the pit. A set of treacherously steep stairs ended in a packed-earth floor.

      She frowned. If she wanted to sell this unexpected—and unwanted—inheritance, besides adding onto the bathroom and completely renovating the kitchen, she might have to invest in pouring cement down here. Those projects would eat up a lot of her budget, making it doubly important that she do as much as she could of the simpler tasks herself—basic cleaning, wall-painting, buffing and refinishing the vintage wood floors and brightening up trim and moldings.

      The plank steps appeared thick and sturdy, though the pitch of the descent was almost like a ladder’s. Surely there was another entrance from outside the cottage, probably a set of those nearly flat-to-the-ground cellar doors, but why traipse through the overgrown weeds outside when access lay before her?

      Janice hauled in a cleansing breath and squared her shoulders. If snakes or spiders lurked below, she might be startled for a split second, but she could thank God neither arachnophobia nor ophidiophobia numbered among her issues.

      With one hand on the adjacent wall, she lowered herself and found the top step solid, though the nails emitted small creaks that echoed faintly through the darkness. She continued her descent until her head dipped below the floor then panned her flashlight around the space that yawned like a man-made cavern. Square, oaken pillars, similar to the ones that held up the porch roof, supported the floor above in strategic places. The area seemed to be as large as the entire cabin and to have no interior walls, but the flashlight beam didn’t penetrate far enough to tell.

      Could she turn this space into another living area? She’d have to find a better light source to make that decision. There must be an overhead lightbulb with a string, or even a light switch, down here. It would be nice to know where it was for when the power company turned on the electricity later today—provided its staff kept their promise.

      Peering intently into the shadows, hunting for that elusive bulb or light switch, Janice lowered herself onto the next step.

      Crack!

      The board collapsed beneath her foot, pitching her forward. A scream rent her throat and her flashlight flew away as her hands thrust out instinctively to catch her fall. She hadn’t far to go, but far enough for impact with the hard-as-cement earthen floor to rattle every bone in her body. Bright pain speared up her left arm.

      Janice lay flat on her stomach, fighting breath into her lungs and groping for a coherent thought. Stupid! She’d become distracted and forgot to pay attention to the conditions in an unfamiliar environment.

      Tears filled her eyes and she whimpered as she gingerly gathered herself into a sitting position. Heat banded her left wrist and she hugged the arm to her chest. Great! Now she was injured—whether a sprain or a break had yet to be determined. Either condition could incapacitate her for weeks, and she’d allowed herself only the summer to finish the work, sell the place and shake off the muck of family legacy. This time forever.

      Janice collected her flashlight and hooked it to her belt loop. Then she struggled to her knees, and from there, to her feet. One knee stung, but at least no other body part seemed to have suffered more than minor abrasions and bruises. Biting her lower lip between her teeth, she cautiously started up the steep stairs. The third from the bottom step had given way where it would have been fastened to the side panels. Those creaky nail sounds took on new significance.

      With a soft moan, she lifted her leg high over the missing step and finally managed to emerge onto the main floor hallway. As much as she would have liked to slide down the wall, huddle on the dusty floor and indulge in a good cry, she forced herself to head up the passage.

      Her rental car sat in the weed-infested gravel parking area beside the cottage. The drive from here to the hospital, shaken and hurting, didn’t appeal to her, but neither did calling for an ambulance—if cell service even existed out here.

      She rounded the corner into the main room, empty of furnishings like the rest of the cottage. Movement outside the mullioned picture window stopped her in her tracks. Her jaw gaped as oxygen vacated her lungs.

      Someone stood on the porch, face framed in a rectangular pane. In the shade of the porch roof, she couldn’t make out features, but the dark craters that must be eyes fixed her with molten intensity. She’d never been one to sense emotion from people the way her psychologist friend Laurel did, but the sheer malice of the glare wrapped Janice in a sheet of ice. So this is what people meant when they said their blood ran cold.

      “Who—who’s there?” She forced the words past rigid lips.

      The porch boards moaned as the figure tromped away. By an act of will, Janice wobbled out the door in pursuit. Trespasser or not, surely she’d imagined the ill intent. Maybe this person would help her get to the hospital. If not, she’d at least like to be able to describe the intruder if she decided to report the incident to the authorities.

      Avoiding the rotten board, Janice crossed the porch and trod down the front steps. A tangy Atlantic breeze billowed through her windbreaker and tossed a veil of chestnut hair across her face. With an exasperated huff, she used her good hand to brush the long strands behind her ear. She should have bound up the unruly mop in a ponytail this morning.

      Where had the person gone?

      Her gaze spotted no intruder scampering down the hillside strewed with boulders and tufts of greening vegetation. At the bottom of the incline, the slim ribbon of white beach lay empty except for small rocks glinting like grayish marbles amidst shiny granules of fine sand. The playful tussle between surf and sand made a chuckling, shushing sound as sunbeams danced on lacy blue waves as far as the eye could see. The sights and sounds would be calming if she weren’t in pain and alarmed by an intruder.

      Clutching her throbbing wrist, she started a cautious circuit of the cottage. If someone was there she’d easily see the person. Moran Cottage poked up from the ground like an impudent blip on ten acres of overgrown pastureland. Though the cottage came with a shed and, of all things, a functional outhouse, the nearest inhabited structure lay beyond a distant stand of oak and maple trees.

      At the side entrance to the kitchen, Janice climbed up pitted cement steps and tried the door, but found it locked. At least a vandal or a robber would have to break something to get in. Like the front window? What would the intruder have done if he hadn’t caught sight of her? Was the trespasser merely curious or bent on mayhem?

      She moved to the rear of the cottage. Still no one. The pastureland stretched barren and empty. The outhouse was vacant and the shed was locked up tight—no hiding place there. A little farther up the back of the cottage, she found the outside cellar entrance. A rusty chain and enormous, aging padlock secured the doors. She’d need chain cutters to gain access unless the key to the old lock СКАЧАТЬ