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.The door stood ajar, opened an inch or two.That made him uneasy, and he took a step back, steadying himself with his cane as he pondered this incongruity.Had she left it open by mistake? Or had someone entered the house after she had gone, leaving the door ajar to make good an escape?His heart quickened its beat as his mind worked.Something in the heavy silence spooked him, and he nearly turned and fled back to the safety of his own place.Better to call the police and let them handle the matter.They could search the home faster and more effectively than he could.But he dismissed that idea almost at once.He would not let himself be rattled like a child.He thought of her and pushed at the door.It hinged open with a faint, elongated squeal.He stayed on the porch for a few moments, his gaze sweeping the gloomy interior.Nothing looked wrong so far as he could see.He stepped inside, leaving the door open behind him.The sound of his breathing was raspy in his ears now, but it was the only sound he heard.He took a few more steps, putting out a hand to lean on the scrubbed wooden table at the center of the room.She had set the table for two, with rose-patterned porcelain plates, fine polished silverware, crystal goblets, and a cream-colored candle at the center.His head swiveled toward the sideboard on his right, where she kept the dinnerware as well as a dozen empty ketchup bottles, lovingly displayed, a small portion of her vast collection.These were some of her most prized bottles, dating back decades, to the early years of the previous century.A warm swell of emotion flowed through him as he fondly recalled what had started her obsession with those bottles so long ago.They were scattered all over the house now, on shelves and in cupboards, arranged carefully in glass cabinets, and many more stashed away in closets and cardboard boxes.Probing slightly ahead of him with his cane, as if he were looking for soft spots in the floor, he moved forward, through an archway and into the living room.Here the ticking of the ornate grandfather clock in the corner filled the silence in an almost intrusive manner.He was tempted to shush it, to tell it to quiet down.Instead, he pursed his lips in annoyance and looked around.The faded, overstuffed sofa and armchair were carefully brushed, fluffed, spotlessly clean, and decorated with large white doilies, which she had made herself back in the sixties, she’d told him once with not a hint of pride.Photographs in mismatched frames stood on a side table against one wall.Many of them showed her with her husband, a tall, gaunt, dour gentleman who never smiled in the photos and always wore a coat and tie.In the photos, he had noticed years ago, husband and wife stood side by side but rarely held hands or touched.He shook his head sadly, thinking of what might have been.There were photos of her as a young woman as well, including one taken up north with the Lodge in the background.But there were no photos of him in her collection.He had checked, many times.He crossed the room and passed under another archway into the hall, which stretched from the front entry to the kitchen at the back.A formal dining room with a large mahogany table and high-backed chairs was directly in front of him.To his right was the staircase to the second floor, with its polished dark-wood banister.Sighing, he took a few steps along the hallway, toward the back of the house.The place was empty.There was no one here.He had been mistaken.He was about to call out, just to make sure, when he heard a noise from above his head.A creak, as if someone had stepped on a loose floorboard.He froze.His head tilted back slowly as his gaze followed the rise of the stairs.Was someone up there? He swallowed hard.He half expected an attacker to come racing down the stairs toward him.But the landing at the top was shrouded in darkness.He saw no one there.He heard the footsteps then, as abrupt as gunshots in the stillness.Someone was crossing over his head, walking from the back of the house to the front.To the spare bedroom, he thought.He’d been in there a few times.There was another display cabinet in that room for her ketchup bottles, he recalled.And a twin poster bed with a white coverlet.An antique floor lamp with stylized crystal droplets hanging from the edges of its shade.Her trusty old Singer sewing machine, vintage 1960s.And, of course, the magnificent wall-length shelving unit, with its secret document drawer.He felt a chill go through him.Could that be what the intruder is looking for? The ledger?Determined to find out what was going on, he returned to the foot of the stairs, clamped his hand tightly on the banister, and slowly started up, half pulling himself as he went, coaxing his tired legs to take the steps one at a time.He’d climbed only a half dozen steps when he started breathing heavily.He stopped midway to catch his breath, and paused again a few steps from the top.As he climbed, he could hear someone opening a drawer, closing it, opening another, moving things around.Looking for something, he thought.His anger grew, propelling him up the last few steps to the top.He stood on the landing, huffing, and clenched his cane tighter in his right hand.At least he had a weapon, and he intended to use it.He stepped from the landing into the hallway.It was directly above the one below, connecting the bedrooms at front and back [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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