Page 1 of The Dead Come to Stay
Chapter 1
The man on the doorstep of Jo’s cottage dripped rainwater; it trickled from wet-plastered hair to overcoat gun flap and onto the overnight bag clutched under one arm. Jo had remembered to say hello, but that didn’t stop him staring at her, all wide-eyed and open-mouthed. He reminded her of a disheveled pigeon after colliding with a windowpane.
“Mr. Ronan Foley?” Jo asked, stepping back to give him entry room.
“I—Yes.” He shuffled onto the flagstone cottage entry. “I—I thought keys would be in a lockbox?”
“Um?” Jo had practiced every opening line, but not this one. She blinked twice. “I have the keys for you. It’s for an attic en suite... in my... house.”
“Youlivehere?” The way he looked around himself wasn’t entirely complimentary; Jo chose the high road.
“Don’t worry! You’ll have total privacy,” she insisted. That was the point of going through all that trouble of installing a full bath on the second level (including hoisting a freestanding tub through the attic casements, quite a feat when you’re five foot four and one hundred fifteen pounds soaking wet).
“Of course, of course,” muttered Mr. Foley. “You... meet all your guests in person?”
Jo decided not to tell him he was her first guest. Or that she’d locked her knees to keep from bouncing up and down with nervous energy. She also fought to urge to ask if he was Irish. Instead, she dangled the keys.
“The door at the top of the stairs locks with the minikey,” she said. “The brass ones are for the front door and dead bolt.”
“Thank you, Ms....?”
“Jones. Jo Jones.” She smiled, probably a little too much. He had a broad face and smile lines, but he wasn’t smiling now. “Always ask if you can get them something,” Tula had said when she informed her about her decision to rent the cottage. “It’s welcoming.” Wise words from the Red Lion innkeeper and the one person Jo considered a truly close friend. She might have suggestwhatto offer.
“I could get you... something? I can cook. Well. I can warm things up. Actually, I can drive into town and get food. Or maybe you’re thirsty?”
“Tea,” the man said, and of course he would say tea. They were in Yorkshire.
“Yes! Yes, that I can do. And cookies. You don’t call them cookies—but little shortbreads with the jam in the middle?”
Maybe it was the fact that Jo had forgotten to call them tea biscuits, or maybe it had to do with the fact she wasn’t taking breaths between sentences, but the startled pigeon suddenly began to... laugh. It worked a change in him, shaking all the stiffness out.
“Teabiscuits. You’re American—you are, aren’t you?”
“Erm” was the best she could do, but now,nowhe smiled.
“Delighted,” he said, shaking her hand. “May I?” He pointed up the stairwell, but Jo looked at his wet mackintosh. Obviously, he needed to clean up. And she should, as they say,putthe kettle oninstead of jawing at him like an idiot. He hadn’t actually waited for an answer, though, just gave the keys a jingle and disappeared up the stairs.
This wasn’t how she’d pictured her first experience as a host—and she’d run every possible scenario right down to the mise-en-scène. She’d try again when he came downstairs. Better make it abigplate of biscuits.
***
Jo hadn’twantedto rent out her little cottage, but the attic wasempty, and her bank account soon would be as well if she didn’t find some work. A year ago when she’d first moved to England, Jo had envisioned herself freelance editing, but that still hadn’t taken off yet. Plus, she had been spending all of her time in the Abington Archive searching for any scant information about her ancestors with the long-suffering elder museum curator, Roberta Wilkinson. Needless to say, it wasn’t exactly a moneymaking endeavor. It was obsession.
But she couldn’t help it: Jo had moved to the Ardemore property last year in a surprise inheritance following the death of her mother, who conveniently never mentioned that her will would leave Jo with a giant crumbling manor home (unlivable), the small cottage attached (slightly more livable) or the gardens upon which they were built, which turned out to be quite famous. The cottage made for a simple, straightforward home that suited Jo nicely, but she’d learned in a hurry that the manor across the hill housed only secrets.
The mysteries of her ancestors William and Gwen, for example, who had lived in the estate house a century prior. They were lord and lady so to speak; their portraits had hung regally in the estate house as a constant reminder of their strange marriage and even stranger living arrangement with Gwen’s sister,Evelyn. Some handwritten letters revealed that Evelyn and William were having an affair. How much sister Gwen knew about it all was unclear.
Jo had been the one to bring all this to light last year when she discovered, buried beneath the crumbling estate, the remains of Evelyn herself—and the telltale signs of pregnancy etched in her bones. Curiously, no remains of a child were found with her, only a hope chest filled with baby clothes buried in the garden and the letters between her and William.
The questions surrounding the strange love triangle at Ardemore estate a century ago and what exactly happened to Evelyn’s child haunted Jo, but the constant dead ends threatened to drive her mad. Even Roberta, who worked in a museum after all, was ready to let it go.
“Face facts,”said the crusty old woman; the Ardemores had always been a “bad lot” who didn’t care about community, and Evelyn and her baby “obviously” died in childbirth. Time to focus on the better part of the Ardmore property: Jekyll Gardens, about to open to the public in an event that would be historic for the town of Abington.
The kettle whistled and Jo jumped; she usually tried to stop it before the unholy screech. She poured hot water in the pot and steeped; if her sojourn in the north of England had taught anything, it was toneverleave the tea bag in.
Her guest was awkward. But so was she. This could work.
She reached into the cupboard for the package of Jammie Dodgers. Jo bought them because, as a New Yorker, “Dodgers” would always mean Brooklyn, even though they had been in LA since 1957. Of course, there was the Artful Dodger, too, from Charles Dickens’sOliver Twist.A silly name for cookies, maybe, but the mix of American baseball and Victorian pickpocket appealed to her sense of incongruity.
