The Secret of Bourke's Mansion Read online

  “Who are you?” she choked.

  “Luke Morgan from down the road. The wife said you had some things wanting fixing.”

  “You have a key,” she said accusingly. “You’ve got a key to my house.”

  “Of course I got a key,” he acknowledged. “I’m the caretaker and anyway it’s the Bourkes’ house.”

  “Not any more, but thank you for starting the fire,” she said weakly. “I guess I’ve become too much a city girl. It’s a shock to find strangers walking into the house.” She tried to sound casual. “Does anyone else have a key?”

  “I suppose so,” said Luke. “We all spent considerable time here at the Bourkes’.”

  “Does Casey have a key?”

  “Might have,” was the brief answer as he lit a lamp and descended into the basement.

  She retreated, washed her face, combed her heavy black hair, and brushed her teeth before marching down the stairs. “I’d appreciate your telling me how to operate the furnace,” she said to his back bent over some pipes.

  “I’m warning you now, lady. You’d be smart to go back to where you come from and let us look after this place. It won’t come to no harm. It’s better that way.”

  “I should think that you’d be glad to have new neighbors on the island,” Kate said defensively.

  “We get along fine by ourselves,” was his taciturn reply. “The mice have chewed some of them old wires. Bourke bought some new wire to have me fix it just before the accident. I think it’s out in the shed.”

  “That’s good news,” said Kate. “Will it take you long to fix?”

  “About a day, I guess.”

  He pulled a pair of pliers from his pocket and turned back to his work. As Kate climbed the stairs, it occurred to her that, despite his almost- threatening words, his face reflected a sad kindness. His eyes lacked the dark anger she had met in Mrs. Morgan’s.

  During the morning, she worked on the itemized inventory lists while Luke Morgan banged away in the basement. It was comforting to have company in the house, reserved as he was. She heard him go out the door, for the wire she supposed, and as he came back into the kitchen she was surprised to hear him say, “Well, hello, Casey! How are you, old friend?”

  Kate straightened her back, brushed the hair from her eyes, and went to greet him. There was no one in the kitchen but Luke Morgan and the cat.

  “Did I hear you talking to Casey?” she asked quizzically.

  “Yeah. Old Casey and me have been friends for a long time,” he said as he scratched the cat’s neck.

  “Oh, I see.” Kate laughed at last in comprehension. “You mean the cat’s name is Casey. I didn’t know that. I thought you meant Casey from the marina.”

  Luke continued on his way to the basement and Casey stretched out by the stove. Kate stepped into the yard appreciatively, savoring the warm, still air. As she strolled through the garden, she was delighted to find chrysanthemums still blooming. She broke off stalks of bronze and gold blooms thinking how nice they would be on the kitchen table. As she meandered around, she became aware of the smell of smoke. It almost smelled like the cigarettes that Grev smoked. She looked about searchingly until her eye caught a thin spiral of vapor wafting up from behind the stone wall a few yards ahead. Walking quietly, she reached the spot and peered over the wall to look down onto a head of black hair. A young man, wearing a red lumberman’s jacket, blue jeans, and tan leather boots, was seated on a log, his back against the wall, smoking a cigarette. He sensed her presence,

  Kate was almost certain, but he remained seated, slowly smoking until he at last carefully ground the butt into the dirt. Then with a catlike litheness he came to his feet and turned to face Kate, silently clutching her flowers. The person she had seen joining Mrs. Morgan had been wearing a red jacket, she recalled.

  Dark Indian eyes swept over her. She felt close to tears, sensing instinctively what he would say. At last he spoke, quietly but with great conviction. “Please leave our island.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. It seemed everyone had decided to hate and reject her. Nothing had prepared her for this animosity.

  As she walked back to the house, a wave of depression washed over her. Her nerves felt ragged and tattered. This was supposed to be a restful holiday sojourn, she thought angrily as she stabbed the mums into a copper pot.

  “Mr. Morgan,” she called after a while, “can I make you some lunch?”

  She was surprised to hear his voice come from the living room. “I wouldn’t mind at all.” He came into the kitchen, seating himself comfortably at the table. “Just checking the heat ducts,” he said, avoiding her eyes.

  When she had set a plate of ham and eggs before him, she asked, “How are the repairs coming?”

  “No problems,” he said as he turned his attention to the meal.

  “Why does everyone want me to leave?” she asked. When it appeared there would be no reply, she continued. “I just found a young man, an Indian, by the wall. He told me to leave as well.”

  Luke gazed at her. “You should pay some mind to what people say and leave,” he said sternly as he stirred his coffee.

  “Who was the man in the garden?”

  “I reckon that was Samuel Moonsong. Fine lunch. I thank you.” He clumped down the basement stairs.

  Samuel Moonsong. There had once been a large Indian settlement on the island, she knew. It was now reduced to a few traditionalists who had resisted the lure of jobs brought so close by the ferry. Grev had told her how the Indian popula­tion had dropped steadily in recent years, with fewer young people choosing to make their living by fishing. Samuel Moonsong was apparently one of the few who had elected the old way of life. I must remember to ask Casey about him, she noted. Casey, thus far, seemed to be her only ally on the island. Just the same, he was curiously evasive about himself and inclined to be abrupt. Thank goodness, Lynn was coming tonight. She would put things in their proper perspective.

  The inventory work was becoming tedious. It was one thing to itemize collections, antiques, and books but when it came to personal things, she felt a distaste as though she were trespassing into the Bourkes’ private life. She really hated to do it, but someone had to. It was a depressing task to poke through jewel cases on Mrs. Bourke’s dressing table, sort clothing and correspondence into neat impersonal piles.

  These personal items, she decided could simply be packed away without being catalogued. Perhaps they would be appreciated by friends on the island.

  “Mr. Morgan, do you know where I could find some cartons?” No answer. Kate strode into the hall in time to see Luke Morgan hastily replacing objects on the secretary top. “I thought I remembered seeing a few nuts and bolts in one of these little dishes,” he stammered.

  “I haven’t seen any,” Kate said slowly.

  “I’ll guess I’ll have to bring some back tomorrow. That’s all I can do today.” He made his way to the door.

  “Mr. Morgan, wait. I’ll go along with you,” Kate said, grabbing Grev’s letter and her jacket. “My friend is coming on the ferry and I have a few errands as well.”

  Chapter 6

  Luke Morgan was tersely silent as they strode briskly down the road. Any trace of kindness that Kate had discerned had dissipated.

  “The island is beautiful. I expect you think so too. Mrs. Morgan mentioned that you’ve been here for twenty-two years.”

  He nodded, looking uneasy as though he wished to be shed of this persistent girl.

  “Where is the Indian settlement?” she asked almost pleadingly.

  He jerked his thumb to the left toward the rocky hills.

  “How odd!” she exclaimed. “I would have thought that they would live near the water. I understand that they are fishermen.”

  There was no indication that he heard her, and he abruptly veered over toward the gray farmhouse.

  “Good-bye and thank you,” she called after him stubbornly, remembering her mother’s admonition of catching more flies with honey
than vinegar. He seemed to be a tough fly to capture.

  Despite the Morgans’ coldness, she was hoping to meet more of the island residents. Surely they would be warm and welcoming with the tradition­al friendliness of a small, isolated community. She was anxious to learn more of the island’s history, and surely the people would be glad of an avid listener. Perhaps Casey would give her more specific directions to the Indian settlement.

  She was so awed and touched with the island’s beauty that it was a surprise to round the curve in the road and find before her the business district. From Casey’s marina came the sound of a boat motor sputtering lamely. Several fishing boats were heading into the harbor, and three brown- skinned young boys walked down the wharf, fishing rods slung over their shoulders in the classic manner of young boys the world over.

  A young woman with swinging red hair came out of Grayson’s store, the screen door banging behind her. Kate watched as she put a bag of groceries into the basket of a bicycle, then walked over to the drugstore. The village appeared reassuringly serene, but Kate felt shy and self- conscious.

  She walked down to the marina shed. Casey was outside, tinkering with an outboard motor mounted on a large metal drum full of water. He was greasy and absorbed in his work but smiled winningly when Kate spoke.

  “How is the lady of darkness making out?” he teased.

  In the light of day and a friendly greeting, her fears and apprehensions seemed absurd and silly.

  “I’m managing much better, thank you. As I said at first, I just wasn’t thinking ahead.”

  “Good. Glad to hear that,” he said, peering at the motor.

  “Mr. Morgan said the cat at the house is named Casey. I thought he was talking to you.”

  “I have a dog and a cat named Casey,” he said. “It’s a fine old name.”

  “Yes, it is, but doesn’t it get confusing?”

  He just shrugged.

  “The cat at the house,” she persisted, “seems to be well fed. Also he goes in and out as he pleases and I’ve not been able to discover how he does that.” There was still no comment. “It startled me at first, but I imagine he was the Bourkes’ cat and knows his way around.” She felt her temper flaring as he held his silence.

  “This motor has been giving me trouble for days,” he said at last.

  “Casey!” Kate said sharply, her voice becoming shrill. “Why won’t anyone answer questions? Islanders are supposed to be friendly.”

  “Is that so?” he asked laconically. “You surely are getting riled up. Islanders aren’t supposed to do that. I guess you’re not made of the same stuff that islanders are. Islanders don’t go around asking a lot of questions, either,” he added.

  Kate fought for composure. “I guess maybe I’ve been too pushy. After all, I’ve only been here a few days.”

  Casey seemed to relent and put down his wrench. “Hey, Katie,” he said softly, “did you ever stop to think that people who choose to live in a place like this do so because they want privacy? No one makes them stay and no one asks why they do.

  We’re all reminded of it every time that ferry comes. I guess that each time we watch it leave without us, we’re reaffirming our decisions.” His eyes had a faraway, haunted look, and she knew enough not to ask him why he chose to live here. She was immensely grateful.

  “Casey, thank you. I hadn’t thought of that at all. I simply assumed that these people were a group of colorful characters who would be glad to tell all to an outsider. I must seem very rude and nosey.”

  “Pretty girls are easily forgiven,” he consoled her. “What brings you to town?”

  “To tell the truth, I was getting a bit nervy up there by myself. The day after you brought the groceries, Casey, I was locked out of the house and someone was inside.”

  “Is that so?” he said with no show of interest at all. Kate suspected he was laughing at her.

  “The doors keep locking, the cat goes in and out, someone—Samuel Moonsong, I think—is spying on the house while people like you and Mr. Morgan just walk in when the door is locked.”

  He laughed openly now. “You don’t say? Maybe you’d better go back to the safety of the city.”

  Kate’s temper flared. “Casey, do you have a key? You managed to get in the other night.”

  “I’m a ghost.” He smiled. “I just walk through closed doors.”

  She turned angrily and walked toward the drugstore. He was really hateful. She had assumed that he was her friend and now had found that he had no more loyalty than the cat.

  She marched into the drugstore, her cheeks burning. The red-haired woman, along with an elderly man, had apparently been watching her through the window. They busied themselves at a dusty display as she walked in. The old fellow appeared to be the storekeeper.

  “Hello,” she said shakily, “I’d like to buy some stamps.”

  The red-haired woman glanced at him and left the store as he nodded and led the way to a wicket at the rear of the store. They transacted their business silently. Kate slipped her letter into the slot below the wicket. “I’d like some flashlight batteries, please,” she said. She could see a display of batteries on the shelf up the aisle.

  “Just a m-minute,” he stammered when she told him the size. He disappeared into the back of the store for a few minutes before returning with them. Unable to resist at least one question, she asked pleasantly, “How many families live here?”

  “Twenty-five, until the Bourkes died.” He turned to dust the shelves, clearly unwilling to say more.

  Kate sighed heavily and left the store, already curious as to the reception she would receive at Bayshore Grocery.

  The red-haired young woman was back in the store, talking earnestly with a couple—Fred Grayson and his wife, probably. Kate smiled brightly in response to their cold stares. The young woman slipped quietly out of the door.

  Mr. and Mrs. Grayson were much younger than she had expected. They looked Scandinavian, both with thick blond hair and presenting a picture of vibrant good looks. Their eyes, a penetrating blue, looked wary and uneasy. What was going on? Kate wondered.

  “Hello, I’m Kate O’Brian from the Bourkes’ place. I’d like to pay you for the groceries that Casey brought up the other night.”

  They seemed to start in nervous surprise. Mrs. Grayson stammered, “I’m afraid I don’t have the bill prepared. If you’d like to tell me what he brought, I’ll make it up right away.”

  As Kate tried to recall all of the items, Mrs. Grayson jotted it down, her hand shaking perceptibly. Kate was intrigued by the several diamond and emerald rings on Mrs. Grayson’s hands. They seemed to be the genuine article, as did the sparkling earrings glimpsed through the heavy hair.

  The shelves were haphazardly stocked, and the general impression was of a stage set for a store rather than the real thing. Just then a young girl of perhaps twelve walked into the store. Kate’s eyes were riveted to the back room from which she had come. It was an elegantly luxurious living room, carpeted in thick broadloom with tastefully appointed rosewood furniture grouped around the fireplace.

  The girl walked to her father’s side with the graceful nervousness of a young gazelle. Her father held her hand and distractedly stroked her head. No one spoke. They seemed most anxious for Kate to be gone. Their agitation increased when the bill had at last been tallied and Kate requested additional groceries. “My friend is coming for the weekend so I need a few more things,” she explained.

  Husband and wife exchanged furtive glances. The rich timber of Mr. Grayson’s voice, with its slight European inflection, startled Kate. “You are a real estate person?” The question was a statement. She was certain he knew.

  “Yes. We have purchased the Bourke Estate. I’m here to sort things out before it is resold.”

  “No one will ever buy it,” he stated flatly. “So it would be best if you just went away. Forget about it.”

  Her head was spinning. The hostility was so total that it had to be a conspira
cy.

  “But it can’t just sit there, neglected,” she protested.

  “It will be taken care of,” he said stonily.

  “It wouldn’t be,” Kate said hotly. “If you islanders cared so much, why was the furnace allowed to run out of oil, letting everything get musty. The garden was left to go to ruin. Nothing has been tended to since the Bourkes left.” She spoke it as an accusation and was surprised to see that they actually looked reprimanded.

  “I admit that it is shameful, but it will never happen again, if you will just go away.”

  “I’m afraid that is impossible,” Kate said in frustration. “I am responsible for it and I will finish my job here.”

  The Graysons said nothing as she left the store. She was just in time to see Casey speaking to the red-haired girl. Then the girl waved a cheery goodbye and pushed her bicycle up a path that wound up the bank behind the stores.

  Kate hesitated for a minute after the girl had passed from view. Then she set her bag of groceries against the side of the store, stalked past Casey, and began to climb the path, humming to herself. After a few moments, she turned to look back at the view and caught a glimpse of Casey and the Graysons going into the drugstore.

  She continued on the path. It was narrow, the dirt smooth and shiny as though worn by countless feet for many years. At the top, she found herself on a spacious plateau. Ahead she could see the girl skimming over the fields, copper hair gleaming in the sun. A few cattle and sheep grazed contentedly. There were no fences, Kate noted—then she realized that just ahead must be shorefront. It was funny how acclimatized she was to coastal living that she could forget that there would be a west coast of the island that would front on the open sea. She could see spirals of smoke rising from the other side of a bordering stand of poplars. She was certain that the girl was riding toward the Indian village.

  She started to cross the field, then, glancing at her watch, realized that she wasn’t likely to make it there and back before Lynn’s ferry arrived. There would be other days, she admitted as she turned regretfully away and made her slow way down the path toward the town.