Mirror image, p.1
Mirror Image, page 1
Mirror Image
by Theresa Jenner Garrido
Published by L&L Dreamspell
Spring, Texas
Copyright 2010 by Theresa Jenner Garrido
All Rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.
This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real people is a coincidence. Places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.
ISBN- 978-1-60318-169-3
Published by L & L Dreamspell
Produced in the United States of America
Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To Barbara and Noel, who remember our own “perilous” adventures on Bainbridge Island.
ONE
He saw her silhouette through the gauzy curtains; saw her pulling a T-shirt up over her head…slipping on a pajama top. Swallowing the mirth that threatened to betray him, he picked up a fir cone and threw it at the window. Too light…didn’t make much of an impact. Patting the ground around him, his hand found a small rock. Perfect. He tossed it, chuckling as it made a loud clunk against the glass. She had to hear that. She did. The curtains parted and a white face appeared. Backing deeper into the shadows, he watched as she stared out into the night, searching for the cause of the sound. He hoped she’d open the window so he could do it again. She didn’t. Instead, she left the window…letting the curtains fall back into place. Probably thought it was a fir cone dropping from one of the trees close to the house. No way she suspected he was out there…watching…waiting…
TWO
“Know who’s moving into the brick house?” I looked over my shoulder at my dad, hidden behind the newspaper. As usual, he hadn’t heard me. “Dad? Do you know who’s moving into the brick house across the bay?”
Dad lowered the paper. “Uh…think their name’s Davidson or Davis or…something…”
“Okay…know anything else?”
“Nope.”
“Hmmm, they look like they have money…two big boats by the dock…” I glanced at him again, hoping he was still looking at me. He wasn’t. “Dad.”
He put the paper down. “What?”
“The Bartlett House. What do you remember about the original owners?”
Dad folded the newspaper, stood and stretched. “Not much.” He carried his dirty dishes to the sink, dried his hands on a towel and shrugged. “All I know is Franklin W. Bartlett built the mansion in the early part of the twentieth century for his wife and five children. When three of his children drowned in a freak boating accident, the wife was too distraught to stay in the house a day longer, and they packed up everything and moved to Seattle or Olympia or some place.”
“Jeez…how awful. Sounds like a plot for one of your books.”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. As a matter of fact, I read some old newspaper clippings about the place just the other day, looking for info on the thirties.” He stared off into space.
“And?”
He blinked. “Oh…let’s see… After the Bartletts moved out, I think a second cousin took ownership of the property, but he stayed only four or five years before moving to I-don’t-know-where. For thirty-one years after that, a family named Dobbs lived in the mansion. When they sold the place, a wealthy family in Seattle purchased it, but they only used it sporadically, like a few weeks in the summer and in the fall. Remember the two kids who water-skied all day long—rain or shine?”
“Not really. Been vacant for as long as I can remember. Kids at school say it’s haunted. Babs and I took the boat over once last summer to look around, but the place gave us the creeps. Yard was all overgrown…windows looked like blind eyes.”
“Yeah, ’bout time someone moved in. I’m surprised it took so long. Place is an expensive piece of real estate. I’ve seen old snapshots. Was pretty impressive seventy years ago. Well, gotta hit the keys. Don’t worry about lunch for me.”
Dad disappeared into his study at the end of the hall. Half the time he acted like I didn’t exist. This morning’s conversation was the longest one we’d had in months. I’d realized on my ninth birthday I’d been an accident. They’d forgotten; had thought it was the next Tuesday. Even though they’d heaped apologies on top of me and promised a trip to Disneyland, I’d cried for two days. That’s when I figured my parents hadn’t really wanted kids. Both lived in their own worlds, and those worlds didn’t have room for a child. I’d pretty much raised myself. I’d stopped hoping for a brother or sister when I turned twelve. Now, at sixteen, all I wanted was to go to college—preferably out of state—and get my own place.
No use wasting energy, wishing. Summer vacation was winding down; couldn’t waste it. Leaving the window, I reached for the phone, punched in my best friend’s number and waited impatiently for her to pick up.
Babs—Barbara Lynn Butler—answered on the third ring. “You’re home. Thanks for letting me know.” I couldn’t hide the peevishness.
“I wanted to call you. But it was after ten and you know my mother. Always bowing to Miss Manners—”
“Who?”
“—I wouldn’t have this problem if they’d let me have my own cell phone, but, no, they say it’s too expensive, while I say there are super family plans and—”
“Babs!”
“—Verizon has one and so does—”
“Shut up. Jeez.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m glad you’re home. How was Bellingham?”
“Oh, man…I love Grams and Gramps—you know I do. But Grams insisted I drink skim milk and eat plain yogurt for breakfast every morning. Plain. Ugh. Both are disgusting and—”
“Okay. I have some juicy news. Someone’s moved into the old Bartlett place.”
“No. You’re kidding. Who’d want to live in that hideous monstrosity?”
“I sure wouldn’t. But Dad said it was pretty impressive years ago. I’ve been watching them all week. They must have money because there’re two really snazzy boats tied to their dock, and the place has been crawling with people, moving furniture and painting. The yard’s really looking good, too. So, do you want to take Sandy out and do some snooping?”
“Of course. I’ll be on the beach waiting.”
Took me only five minutes to get ready—throw on a sweatshirt and find my Mariners baseball cap—then I stuck my head in Dad’s office. “Hey, Dad…” He grunted so I continued. “I’m going out in the boat with Babs.” Receiving his absent-minded nod, I left the house, letting the door slam behind me.
I ran down to the beach and shoved Sandy into the olive green water. Sandy is my beautiful little six-foot motorboat that Dad and I found behind Ostrand’s Hardware store two years ago. She’d been a wreck—all covered in barnacles—but Dad said I could have her. I worked on her all summer, scraping a ton of barnacles off her bottom. Wasn’t easy. After patching her up, I painted her a sandy gray. Sandy and I are out on the water every chance we get. Next to Babs, my boat’s my best friend. And since my folks weren’t taking me out driving so I could get my license, she was my only means of getting out.
Babs and I’ve been best friends since kindergarten and are complete opposites—the yin and yang of each other. I’m slim and Babs is plump. I have straight, brown hair that just touches my shoulders and brown eyes, while she has a mop of short, blond curls and blue eyes. With her big, round glasses, I think she looks like a character in the Peanuts comic strip.
I’m five-foot four and simply tower over Babs, who stands four-foot, zero inches, in her stocking feet. She’s a Little Person. Some people refer to her as a dwarf, but she prefers the LP label instead. Born with a genetic condition called achondroplasia, Babs has really short arms and legs. With me at five feet four inches and her at only four feet, we get stared at whenever we’re out shopping or messing around.
Chugging out of the bay and around the point, I headed up the coast about half a mile to the Butlers’ place. Seven minutes later, I skimmed into shore, waving at my friend, who sat cross-legged on the sand, smiling. “Hey, there!”
Babs’s grin widened. “Man, I’m glad you called.” She splashed into the water and struggled into the boat, making it dip to one side, then plopped down on the middle seat. “I was at my wits’ end unpacking and sorting laundry and giving my mom a detailed description of everything my grandparents said and did while I was there. Man. You would’ve thought I’d been in the Peace Corps somewhere in the back of beyond. So.” She grinned. “It’s good to be home. I missed you.”
I grinned back. “Yeah, me, too. I was going out of my mind with boredom, waiting for you to get back. The only thing to do besides summer reading was watching the action over at Bartlett House.”
“Awesome. So, who are they? I asked Dad and, believe it or not, Mr. Newsman didn’t know. Have to be the Addams Family to want to live in that old house.”
“The who?” My eyebrows rose.
She gave an exaggerated sigh. “You know. That old sitcom from the 60’s about the weird family living in a creepy old mansion. Gosh, where’ve you been all your life? Don’t you watch any retro-TV?”
“You know we don’t watch TV at my house. Not much, anyway. Dad didn’t know anything relevant, only historical stuff. All I know is t hat someone’s moved in, and I’m really curious about who they are but didn’t want to go over by myself.”
“Okay. What are we waiting for? Let’s go, Nancy.”
“Nancy?”
“As in Drew, numskull.”
I just rolled my eyes, shoved off, and started the motor. We headed back around the point, a frothy wake of spindrift trailing behind. Bartlett House loomed up on the opposite shore. The place was a circus. Men swarmed all over, moving lawn furniture to the patio next to the house, riding lawn mowers on the wide front yard, and walking back and forth on the over-sized dock.
“Whoa, baby,” Babs murmured, “someone really is moving in. I wonder who? Funny my folks didn’t know anything about it.”
“Maybe they’re celebrities and want privacy. Maybe they’re escaping from the paparazzi,” I said in a low voice.
Babs smirked, then inhaled. “Man. Look.”
I followed her up-thrust chin, surprised to see somebody in a wheelchair rolling across the freshly mowed lawn toward the boathouse. The boy looked about our age. Now we were wallowing in curiosity. I steered the boat across the mouth of Reflection Bay then throttled down so I wouldn’t make any wake. We coasted up to the dock just as the boy wheeled onto it. He stared at us like we were wearing clown suits.
“What do you two freaks want?”
THREE
Shocked, we glanced at each other, sending silent signals. We hadn’t trespassed or gotten out of the boat, and he was glaring at us like we’d broken every law in the book.
Babs bristled. “Well, hello to you, too.” she said. “Nice to meet our friendly new neighbors.”
The boy blushed and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the arms of his chair. Her sarcasm hadn’t made points so I decided to speak up. “Hi. My name’s Aggie Callaway and this is Babs Butler. We live across the bay.”
“Bully for you,” he said with another jeer. “Aggie? Aggie? What kind of a name is that?”
“Short for Agnes. I was named after my great-grandmother. Agnes Marie. That’s me.” I fought to maintain a light heartedness.
He snorted. “That’s rich. Agnes. Sounds like somebody’s house maid.” He leaned forward in his chair and studied Babs like she was a museum exhibit. “So what’s wrong with you? You look like you just escaped from the circus, or, no, wait. Maybe, you’re from Oz. What are you, a midget, or something?”
I know my mouth dropped open, and I heard Babs’s audible gasp. He sat back in the chair and laughed. It took her a moment, but Babs found her tongue. She stood up in the boat—rocking it in the process—and let him have it. “How dare you make such rude remarks to people you’ve only just met. Who do you think you are? King Henry the VIII? Wow. You must be simply smothering in friends. Let me tell you something, you-you—” She clamped her mouth shut and sat back down with a plop. Looking up at the boy with unveiled contempt, Babs took off her glasses, polished them on her shirt, and put them back on. Then she folded her short arms across her chest and sighed. “No, I won’t say it. I may be short, but I’d have to stoop real low to get on your level. Talk about short stature. Sheesh. Just know that I could have said something about you not fit to print in the morning paper. Toodle-loo. We are out of here.”
With an imperious wave of her hand, Babs gave me the signal to start up the motor. I did—hiding the grin that threatened to break through. His words had irked me, sure, but the way Babs handled it made me want to laugh.
As soon as we were out of hearing, I shook my head and chuckled. “Well, you told him.”
“Yeah, but we didn’t get much info, did we? Darn. We didn’t even get to know his name. Double darn.”
I looked over my shoulder. “I have a funny feeling we’ll be meeting again. I’m not giving up that easily. I mean, if he’s in a wheelchair, he’s probably ill or handicapped or God knows what. Maybe he isn’t feeling so good, and we caught him at a bad time. He sure isn’t bad looking.”
Babs glowered at me for a second then laughed. “Yeah, a regular stud-muffin. Man…maybe I should’ve cooled it. I certainly wouldn’t want to be stuck in that motorized chair all day. Can you imagine? So, when do you want to go back?”
I laughed outright at that. “Tomorrow soon enough for you?”
“You bet. So now let’s pay a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Woolley. Want to?”
“The Woolleys? Why?”
“’Cause Kat and Granger Woolley know absolutely everything and everybody around here and can fill us in on our new neighbors. Right?”
I grinned and turned the boat in the direction of a small, white house with blue shutters situated at the end of the bay. One of the first houses built on Reflection Bay, the Woolley’s place was postcard cute with a nice lawn, a small dock, which sagged precariously in the middle, and a grove of apple trees that put out the best apples I’ve ever eaten. In their seventies, Kat—short for Katherine—and Granger were just about the neatest people on this planet. And Kat always had a full cookie jar.
As we putt-putted toward their house, we saw Granger dozing in one of the half-dozen canvas chairs scattered on the lawn facing the beach. Kat was bending over a rose bush and looked up when she heard our motor. As soon as she saw who it was, she waved her trowel and called something to her husband. He didn’t budge an inch.
I let the boat glide onto the beach, hopped out, and pulled her up halfway out of the water. Then I hauled out my small anchor and dropped it into the sand. Babs scooted right behind me, oblivious of the fact that she’d gotten out of the boat into knee-deep water. She never minded getting wet.
“Hi.” I yelled up to the older couple.
“Well, look what washed up with the tide,” Granger said, looking up with only one eye open. “Call the Coast Guard, Kat.”
We laughed at him, ran up the rickety beach steps, and over to his wooden lounge chair. “Hi, you guys,” Babs greeted them. “We’re dying to ask you some questions.”
Kat chuckled and took off her gardening gloves, tossing them onto a nearby chair. “So. It’s questions you have and not the simple desire of giving a bit of pleasure to a pair of lonely, old neighbors. And here I thought it was my pleasant face you’d come to see.”
Babs grinned, forming a deep dimple in each round cheek. “I’m sorry. You know darn well, we love to visit you guys. It’s just that we’ve got sort of a minor mystery on our hands and want to solve it.”
Granger pulled his lounge chair into an upright position and cleared his throat. “Mystery, you say? What mystery?”
“We’re dying to know who just moved into the Bartlett House. I mean, it’s been vacant except for that old caretaker for simply eons and, well…”
“We’d like to know who they are.” I finished for her.
Granger cocked his head and studied us for a moment before answering. “Hmmph,” he coughed. “You two don’t fool me none. You probably know more’n I do.”
Babs shook her blond curls and I laughed. “We only know that they moved in a week ago, have to be loaded by the looks of their stuff, and have a boy about our age who’s in a wheelchair. That’s all,” I said.
“That’s all, she says. That’s all. Well, I don’t know much more’n that, myself. Their name’s Davenport. They’re from Los Angeles, if you can believe that, and bought the place last spring but are only now getting around to moving in.”
“What about the boy?” Babs pressed.
“I don’t know anything else except I think they have two boys. I guess if you two troublemakers saw one of ’em in a wheelchair, then he must be handicapped. I don’t know anything more’n that.”
“Two sons?” Babs’s eyes rolled. “I sure hope the other one is more likable than the Prince Charming in the chair.”
“Ah, so you’ve met him, huh?” Granger winked at me.
“Boy, did we. He called me a midget and said I looked like I’d escaped from Oz. And, he made fun of Aggie’s name, and said a few other endearingly choice phrases all in a matter of ten seconds. We bonded instantly.”
Granger chuckled and heaved himself out of the lawn chair. “Well, that do beat all,” he muttered. Turning to his wife, he asked, “Kat? We got anything edible in the house for these two ragamuffins? The short one looks as though she could use a bit of nourishment. Pining away, she is.”
