Page 9 of Falling for the Grumpy Stranger

I sat at the machine she’d pointed out and after a few pushes and pulls it all came back to me. A photo of the old newspaper came up on the screen. The paper was called theWhisper Gazette,and the date was November 3, 1899. The headline was about a fishing boat that had nearly capsized in a storm but still managed to make it safely to shore without losing anyone on board. There was a sale on gent’s raincoats for five dollars and a sterling silver tea set would cost you twenty-three dollars. Dr. Raymond delivered not one but two sets of twins in the same week. I kept scrolling and finally found the very small article about the death of Margaret Grimstone.

Margaret Grimstone of Grimstone Manor died Saturday afternoon from injuries sustained in a fall. Her father, Marshall Grimstone, was a state senator and owned a large share of stock in the Pacific Railroad. He worked as head banker of National Bank for twenty-five years before retiring. He died of a heart attack at the age of sixty-two and left the bulk of his estate to Margaret, his only daughter.

Ikept scrolling, but that was the end of the death announcement, an announcement that mentioned Margaret’s death almost as if it was just a sidenote. The rest of the article focused on her deceased father. “Man, oh, man, what a disgrace,Whisper Gazette. No wonder you no longer exist.” I perused therest of the pages, but there was no more mention of Margaret’s death. I was surprised to hear that she died of injuries sustained in a fall. I remembered stories about the original owner of Grimstone Manor that said she had met an untimely end in a hunting accident.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Ava. “We are making grilled cheese sandwiches. You in?”

“Yes, I am. Make it a double. Two slices of cheddar. It’s been a long day.”

“How did it go with the cookie delivery?”

“It didn’t. I’ll tell you when I get home.” I put away the phone and ejected the disc from the machine. Margaret and her tales of woe would have to wait. I was hungry.

Chapter Nine

ELLA

It seemed the gray skies were back. No light seeped past the curtain edges, but my phone insisted it was well past eight. Somewhere in my hazy dreams about a block of cheddar cheese and Ms. Denton handing me a glass of lemonade, I heard Layla grumbling about having to get up so early for work. I, on the other hand, had landed a job that did not require me to get dressed and go out in the cold, but I’d only keep that job if I could deliver on my first assignment.

Last night’s grilled cheese had helped my hunger, but I was still no closer to writing the first episode in my series about Grimstone Manor. Andrea May had sent my employee paperwork and a slightly more detailed description of what they expected from my first project. “Make it interesting and exciting, but it must be factual.” That was the line that kept replaying in my head as I spent the rest of the evening scouring the internet for information about Margaret Grimstone. I now knew all I ever wanted to know about Marshall Grimstone, her father. Aside from being a bigwig in the railroad, he’d aspired to be governor or even president one day, but his political career ended after he voted for an unpopular bill that would have increased the state income tax. That was when he left politicsto become head of a big chain of banks, and his wealth doubled in that time. It was estimated that he was worth more than 10 million dollars at the time of his death, a sum that would have been equivalent to more than 300 million dollars today. As theWhisper Gazettehad mentioned in its highly lacking article about Margaret’s death, Marshall left most of that fortune to his only child. Margaret’s mother died of pneumonia when Margaret was thirteen, so she stepped in as the woman in charge of her father’s estate at a very young age. Marshall died when Margaret was twenty. She sold his vast estate in the country and purchased the land in Whisper Cove. And that was where most of the information ended. Marshall’s life ended and the Grimstone family story ended with it.

I badly needed more information on Margaret’s untimely demise. It was hard to believe I’d find anything more in the house, but it seemed my new editor expected me to at least get in there and give the place a look.

I pulled on my robe and slippers and followed the delicious baked bread scents to the kitchen. Isla had gotten up early to bake bread and cookies for the café. She was anxious to get into her own commercial kitchen to create her magic. Nonna’s kitchen held a treasure trove of fond memories, but like the rest of the cottage, it was small. Still, Isla managed to bake multiple loaves of bread every morning before the café opened. She’d already delivered her goods, and she was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee as she browsed appliance brochures.

She glanced up at the sound of floorboards creaking. “Hey, sleepy, how is the story going?”

“It’s not.” I walked straight to the coffeepot.

“That didn’t sound very promising. This is the job you wanted, right?”

“It’s definitely one I wanted, but my first assignment already has me twisted in knots. I need to find information aboutGrimstone Manor. I need to know how it became one of the most cursed homes in the country.”

“That actually sounds like something you’d enjoy writing. What’s the problem?”

I pulled up a chair next to Isla and sat down with my coffee. “I have to write five to six episodes for the publication. Naturally, I plan to start with Margaret Grimstone. But there’s very little about her online and almost nothing in the library. I can find plenty about her successful father, but he’s got nothing to do with the house or the curse.”

Isla rubbed her chin in thought. “I seem to remember something about a hunting accident.”

“See, that’s what I remember, too.” I laughed. “Can I quote you on that? ‘I seem to remember something about a hunting accident.’ It’s seriously the only thing I’ve gotten so far. The local paper from that time said she died of injuries from a fall, so that doesn’t line up with what we heard. The rest of her death notice was about her semi-famous dad. Margaret’s demise was just an afterthought in the article.”

“What about the cookies?” Isla asked. “Don’t tell me my chocolate chip cookie recipe failed with the new owner?”

“Yesterday was a failure, but it had nothing to do with your cookies and everything to do with me and my big mouth. I was blathering on to Gemma and Renee about the strange man I saw standing near the cliffs—the apparent new owner of Grimstone Manor—all while I was trying to reach a bag of pistachios on the top shelf in the market. I had no idea the new owner had walked in behind me. I hoped I could break the ice and restart the whole thing with the cookies, but he didn’t come to the door. I left the cookies just in case.”

Isla sat up with a smile. “Then you have the perfect excuse to go back. I assume the cookies were on one of Nonna’s tulipplates?” Nonna’s favorite dish set were white with a yellow and orange tulip border.

“You’re right. I did leave the plate behind. I don’t know what I was thinking. I thought I might still have a chance if I left him the cookies.”

“Then you need to go back and get the plate,” Isla said with a head nod. “And turn on some of that Ella charm. If he’s eaten the cookies, then he’s already sweetened up for a chat.”

“I’m not so sure about that. But I will go back for the plate.” I got up to put a piece of bread in the toaster. “Just need a little fortification first.”

There was a frothy blanket of clouds draped across the sky. They badly looked as if they wanted to drop precipitation on the town. I pulled on my school bus yellow rainslicker just in case. I practiced many greetings in my head on the way to the manor, but all the rehearsed lines vanished once I reached the first step. I stood and stared up at the house. It seemed to scowl back at me from under the stone-gray sky. The old truck stood in the same spot on the gravel drive. It, too, seemed to be asking why I was trespassing.

I took a deep breath, walked up the steps and lifted my hand to knock. The door opened before my knuckles made contact. I stared at him for a stunned moment. He was wearing a dark blue sweater and jeans. His longish dark blond hair and golden-toned skin made him look like a surfer who’d just waded out of the Malibu waves with his board tucked under his arm. He looked less stern, but there was no smile. He was holding the tulip plate.

“Thanks,” I said weakly as I took the plate.

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