Permanent Vacancy

TWO

“Dead?” Gretchen gasped. “Nobody wants me dead.”

Do they?

No, of course not. She fought with the doubts that had appeared in her head the moment her back had come into abrupt contact with the dirt floor. “Why would you say such a thing?” Her words rose in defiance as she pushed her sore body up to stand, biting back the aches. “I’ve lived on Stepping Stones my whole life. The people here love me. They would never hurt me.” The statement fell flat even to her ears.

“After seeing these boards and the public notice on your front door, I’d say not all of them love you. You’ve lived here long enough to make a few enemies, and one enemy is really all it takes to cut a few floorboards.”

“How do you know they were cut? Unless...” A breath-halting realization struck her. “You cut them. That’s why you know they were tampered with. You probably did this for your show. To up those ratings you were talking about, am I right?”

Please, let me be right.

“Now, wait just a second. You are way off. I would never—”

“You came inside before I returned home and set the scene up. I played right into your plan. Contrary to what people think around here, I do have a brain. I know when someone’s playing me.”

“Playing you? Why? Who played you before? Your islanders? The ones you say love you so much? I thought you just said none of them would ever hurt you. Perhaps you want to modify your words. Someone has messed with you. Am I right?”

Gretchen opened her mouth to deny it but in all honesty couldn’t. But that didn’t mean she would admit it. Never could she admit it to anyone.

Not when she’d let it happen.

But it didn’t matter: Colm McCrae already knew. Maybe not all the details, but he knew. Shame doused her attempt to make sense of the situation. The fact was, when she fell through the floor, she had a good idea who had done this. But instead of admitting to knowing what her ex was capable of and his possible involvement in this incident, she was quick to find blame elsewhere. Anywhere. Even the crew that was here to help her get out from under Deputy Billy Baker’s hold.

But why? Why couldn’t Gretchen just say there was someone who’d want to hurt her and had?

Oh please, you know exactly why.

Deep down she wanted to believe she would never date a man capable of such a thing. Billy may have been controlling. He may have misused the word love. He may have gone above and beyond his duty to protect her by smothering her instead. But none of these things meant he would kill her.

But he had hit her.

Gretchen reached again for her right cheek. How could one slap have such a lasting and debilitating effect?

“You’re right.” She dropped her hand to her side. “There is someone who hurt me once. I can’t say they did this, but I can say that’s why you’re here now—so I never have to depend on anyone again. I contacted Rescue to Restoration for more than a rehab. It’s not only the house that’s getting a rescue, it’s me, too. And when you finish, and I open the front door to my first guests, it will be the beginning of a fully restored me. It will be the beginning of my new life.”

Gretchen released a deep breath, wishing honesty came this easily with her family and friends. Maybe someday when she was stronger, after she’d proven she could succeed with not only the business, but also with the plans she made for her life, she would tell them, too. “Mr. McCrae, as you can see, we have a lot of work to do if we’re going to reach our goal in only three weeks. Obviously, the person who did this wanted to halt the project at the get-go. So, what do you say? Can we show them they didn’t win and get started?”

Colm’s smile widened to deepen his famous dimples. Gretchen let a smile grow in return. Then again, she wasn’t sure if she had any control over her lips at all. The man was gorgeous.

“I’m your man, Goldie, love.” He lifted a hand and made a slicing action across his neck. “Cut. That was perfect, Gretchen. The viewers are going to love you.”

“Cut?” she replied, stunned and confused at the same time. She felt her smile droop. The room darkened as Nate removed the camera from his shoulder and took the light with him toward the stairs. “Wait! This whole thing was filmed?” Her confession blared in her mind. The admission she had withheld from her family and friends would now be viewed by the whole country, the whole world, perhaps. But most definitely the island.

“Oh, no! You can’t air what I said. Please!” She rushed out to follow Colm and Nate. They gave no response. “Please, listen to me. People around here won’t understand.”

“Terms, Miss Bauer,” Nate reminded her. At the time she’d had no idea the show would be insensitive to her wishes. She should send them away. Risk a lawsuit if need be. Obviously, Billy had been right and she couldn’t make a good decision to save her life. Calling the show could be the worst decision she’d ever made.

No. Dating him was.

And Billy would want her to second-guess any decision she made so that she would ultimately fail at this endeavor. Then she would fall right back into her old life, which included all of the ways he pulled her strings.

At the top of the stairs Nate looked back at Colm. “I’m heading to the bluffs for some stills for fillers while the light’s good. Be back in an hour or so.”

“Sounds good. I’m going to look around here for a while.” All traces of the Irishman’s accent were gone again as the two men carried on with business—as though her future mattered not at all.

“Mr. McCrae!” Gretchen yelled from the bottom of the stairs. He stopped on the top tread and looked over his shoulder. Even in the shadows she could see his perfectly sculpted eyebrows raised in question over the sleepy-eyed stare the camera and his fans loved so much. But Gretchen saw the real, ugly side of Colm McCrae, and as of this moment, he had lost a fan.

“You should know I’m nobody’s puppet,” she stated loud and clear. “Don’t try that again. And I want this whole scene erased.”

“Or what? You think you can rehab this place alone?”

She huffed at this egomaniac—even though her own mother had asked the same unsupportive question numerous times. “Not alone, Mr. McCrae. On my own,” she shot back with all the vigor pent up from everyone’s betrayal. “I will restore this place on my own. There’s a difference.”

He stood silently, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He gave a quick nod and started to walk away. Before he disappeared around the corner, he stopped. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Gretchen stared up at the empty doorway. See what he can do? Wasn’t he the host of the show? Didn’t he have clout? It didn’t make sense, unless...

Gretchen inhaled sharply.

It would seem she wasn’t the only one who had a puppet master. Colm McCrae had to perform for one, too?

* * *

The metal tape measure zipped back into its case after Colm took a few quick measurements of the gaping hole in the foyer floor. He tossed it back into his bucket of tools, figuring he could repair the damage today before his crew and trailers arrived. He also figured Troy would be happy not to have it cut into the strict rehab schedule.

A schedule that didn’t include stopping someone with murderous intent, but now just might.

Colm felt the edge of the rough-cut hole. His fingers came away with chewed sawdust. Whoever cut this had used the wrong size blade. Not that it mattered; Gretchen still fell through. It did the trick.

Her ashen face appeared in his mind.

Almost did the trick, if they were looking for death as the outcome. Would there be another attempt?

She’d told him someone had hurt her once. Once was one too many times in Colm’s book, but also unrealistic. Most lowlifes came back for more. They thrived on the power they held over someone. Had her lowlife returned to strike again? She apparently didn’t want anyone to know.

Textbook response.

Colm felt a deep irritation that had lived in him since he was a wee one. After his da’s death, his mother had remarried a real bowsie of a man. Gil Griffin used his hands for things other than carpentry. Emily Griffin hid her bruises well.

What kind of bruises are you sportin’, Gretchen?

The ceiling overhead creaked, stealing Colm’s attention. Someone was upstairs. He’d just left Gretchen downstairs, and Nate had headed out the back door to walk the path to the cliff’s edge for photos.

Colm pushed up from the floor and approached the first stair. He scanned the second-floor balcony for the visitor. Or perhaps it was the hole-cutter still at the scene of the crime, here to witness the outcome of his or her handiwork.

Colm clenched his fists before remembering his promise to God: no more fighting. The Dublin street fighter Colm McCrae was no more. God’s saving grace made him a new creation, one who didn’t use his fists to settle things. That was his stepfather’s way. It didn’t have to be his.

But that didn’t mean he was going to invite the intruder for coffee. Or approach him or her unarmed.

Colm reached for the hammer in his tool belt. The tool’s head was smooth from virtually no use, even though he’d carried it with him for the past two years as the show’s host. It didn’t matter that the belt was just for show; the tools attached were very real and would do well to strike fear and persuade minds. Colm balanced the weight of the hammer in his hand, testing its potential for use.

With no railing on the open side of the staircase, Colm stuck closer to the wall, each foot lightly placed and centered. Surprisingly the stairs remained quiet and held his weight well. Overall the house seemed sturdy. When he was down in the basement he’d noticed three-by-ten construction. Everything used to be so well built. Gretchen would have a fine home and establishment when the renovation was complete. That was, if she avoided the person who wanted to harm her.

Colm searched the top-floor hall as he approached the final step. The railing was intact here as it encased the hall. A sweep of his palm met smooth, strong mahogany. Beautifully carved spindles caught his eye for a split second, but they would have to wait for his adoration. The person behind one of the eight doors off the hall came first.

Colm stilled with a wall to his back. He listened for any sounds. All seemed quiet. Maybe he’d imagined the creaking floor before.

He heard a door close at his left.

No. Definitely not imagined.

Colm walked head-on to the back-left side door. He didn’t wait to be surprised but barreled in at full force, hands and hammer raised.

A person with a mass of golden curls stopped him cold, hammer frozen in midstrike.

Gretchen shrank back as her arms flew to her face. Her mouth opened and Colm knew she was about to scream. He quickly lowered the hammer and closed in. “I’m so sorry,” he assured her. “So, so sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He slowly replaced the hammer in its loop and raised his hands surrender-style. “See, I don’t want to harm you.”

Her face had drained of all color. She’d yet to scream, and that was when he noticed air was going in her mouth, but not coming out.

An asthma attack? But she wasn’t wheezing. This was more like hyperventilating. But hyperventilating could lead to an asthma attack if not brought under control.

And with no inhaler since her fall, he couldn’t let that happen.

Colm searched the box-filled room and found a battered chair. He lowered Gretchen gently into it. On his knees, he looked into her eyes.

“Goldie, breathe with me.” He demonstrated a slow exhale and inhale. She seemed to be trying to match him, but unsuccessfully. “Try it. I promise it will work. Just follow my lead.”

She didn’t.

“Let’s see, how about we try this? My ma used to hyperventilate and a sweet chewy always did the trick.” Colm opened a compartment on his belt and withdrew some bubble gum. “I’m going to put this in your mouth. I want you to chew once and breathe out. Then chew again and breathe in. Can you do that?”

At her nod, he slowly placed the sweet gum on the tip of her tongue and mimicked a chew.

She did it, along with a short exhale. Slowly, her mind switched gears and she chewed again and again while breathing steadily in and out.

“That’s right. Just grand.” He beamed at her. When her breaths quieted down, he asked, “Better?”

She nodded, smiled weakly...then jumped from her chair. “Why would you scare the life out of me like that? You could have killed me if that went into an asthma attack.” She scanned the corners of the room. “Wait. Please tell me I’m not going to find another one of your cameras in here.”

“No cameras. And I said I was sorry. I had no idea you were in here, or even upstairs. I heard someone walking around and thought it might be the person who cut the floorboards. Honest. I had no idea it was you. How did you get up here, anyway? You never passed by me on the stairs.”

Still dealing with the aftermath of her hyperventilation, Gretchen fell back into the chair like a rag doll. “Back staircase. There’s a servants’ house with a stairwell that connects to the second floor. I had just come through the door behind me when you—”

“You had just come through? You mean you weren’t up here for a while? Like at least five minutes?”

She shook her head.

Colm looked back out toward the hall. He looked at the back entrance she had used. “And you didn’t meet anyone in the back stairwell on your way up?”

“No.”

“And there’s no other way downstairs but by the two stairways?”

“No.”

“Then I’d say someone else is still up here with us.” He touched the handle of his hammer but paused before taking it out. “Stay here while I check it out.”

She bounced back up. “No way. This is my house, and if someone’s in here, I want to know who it is. Besides, you won’t be able to identify the person—I will.”

Her idea didn’t sit well with him. She could have broken her neck once today. He didn’t like her putting it out there again. He’d rather she leave the house while he searched it, but judging by the tilt of her chin, she wasn’t going anywhere.

“Stay close, and if I tell you to run for the hills, you better leg it.” Colm withdrew the hammer up and out of its loop again. Heading back out into the hall, he stopped at the first closed door and swung it wide. Empty, except for a bed and dresser placed against the far wall. Obviously Gretchen’s makeshift room for the time being. He shut the door to move on, but a sound came from two doors down.

Colm brought his arm up to stop her. She didn’t balk, which told him she’d heard it, too, and understood the danger of the situation. He made his way to the room, shoving the door wide.

Before he could say anything to the man standing there, Gretchen let out a quick gasp behind him and said, “Seriously? How could you?”

THREE

The picture before Gretchen was ludicrous. Len Smith held a crowbar in his withered hand. The ninety-five-year-old man could barely stand up straight, never mind raise the tool above his slumped head to fight Colm, who couldn’t be older than twenty-eight.

“Colm, put the hammer down,” she instructed the younger, very ruggedly strong man who was no match for the elderly, declining one. “This is Len. He’s like my grandfather. In fact, he’s a grandfather to everyone here on the island. I would say he would never hurt me, but lately those words have lost their weight when it comes to the islanders.”

Len grunted, but remorse traced his droopy eyes. “I’m sad to say it, but I would have to agree. It pains me to see such upheaval in Berlin.”

“Berlin?” Colm repeated.

“You mean Stepping Stones, Len, don’t you?” Gretchen asked.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Len looked at the corners of the ceiling. “All because of this house? I don’t get it. You have a fine home, Gretchen.”

“Well, I appreciate that, Len, but it’s going to be a whole lot better when I’m done.”

“I don’t doubt it, and I don’t doubt you. You have to believe that I am on your side.” He smiled. “I hope you don’t mind I gave myself the tour. Nobody was around when I came in. That attic is impressive, by the way. Are you going to finish it and claim it as your living quarters and let out the rooms on this floor to guests?”

“I would have loved that, but I think I’ll make a better income booking the attic. I had hopes it might be an extended rental for the whole summer for someone. I’ll make the servants’ quarters out back my home.”

“You’re a wise businesswoman. Always have been, though. The way you helped your mom run the restaurant, it’s no wonder Tildy is bent out of shape for losing you. You were more than a waitress and businesswoman, though. You’re also a fabulous cook. Your guests will go home ten pounds heavier when they taste your handiwork in the kitchen. I might sell my house and move in.” He cackled his oh, so comforting laugh, one that made her want to crawl up into his lap the way she had as a little girl. “Let you take care of me in my last years.”

“You’re practically a fixture at the Underground Küchen restaurant. Mom would never allow you to leave, too,” Gretchen said.

“True enough, especially with the holes in your floor. So many bombs. When will they end?” Len’s eyes flitted around the room and his shrunken shoulders folded in. He looked so forlorn that Gretchen reached for his arm.

“Len, is everything okay? You seem confused.”

“Is he touched?” Colm whispered into her ear. She shot a questioning look at him. He mouthed back, Dementia?

“Of course not,” she replied, but the old man’s behavior said otherwise. “Len, there are no bombs. I think you’re just remembering the war. All is safe here.”

Colm grunted. “Your floor’s been cut. You call that safe?”

“Cut? What’s he talking about? Who cut your floor?” Len snapped back to the present day.

“Everything’s fine, Len. Don’t worry.”

Len eyed them. She was glad to see his keenness restored but wished it weren’t focused on her. “Glad to hear it, but you might want to make repairing that hole downstairs a high priority. Wouldn’t want you facing a lawsuit so close to your grand opening. Could put a damper on your plans.”

“Interesting you should say that.” Colm had brought his hammer down but still held it in front of him, tapping the face of the tool into his palm. “Do you have any other tools on you besides that crowbar? A saw, perhaps? One with power, I’d imagine.” His threatening stance made Gretchen think he cared about her.

For a split second only.

In actuality, he probably thought the camera was still on him, because the show seemed to be the only thing he cared about.

But he had just helped her through a breathing fit, and there hadn’t been any cameras on him then. Unless...

Gretchen’s gaze zipped around the room, but quickly she shook her head at her overactive imagination—or a bit of Len’s paranoia rubbing off on her. Cameras in the rooms would have to be minuscule pieces of equipment. Spy-like even. That settled it. She needed to open for business fast and stop spending her nights watching too many television shows. She zeroed in on Colm’s Hollywood-handsome face. Watching too much TV was what gave her a warped sense of reality in the first place. Did she dare believe Colm McCrae’s show could really help her get on her feet?

“No saw here,” Len responded to Colm’s inquiry. “Found this crowbar on the attic stairs.” He passed it over to Gretchen. “Thought the crew out back might need it.”

Colm darted to the curtainless window. “My crew’s here? They’re early.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about that, but you should have seen that ferry come in this morning all loaded up with machinery and crates and even trailers. That show of yours must be some operation, Mr. McCrae. I’ve never seen the Sunday ferry make the two-and-a-half-hour boat ride out here for anyone on a Monday.”

“Money talks,” Colm said as he turned and rushed into the hall. The sound of his boots echoed through the empty house as they hit each step rapidly. The front door slammed.

“Now,” Gretchen said, leaning the crowbar against the wall and taking a step closer to Len. “Tell me why you’re really here, because it’s not for a tour. You could have asked for that before I bought the home. In fact, you’ve lived on this island since after World War II, so you’ve probably walked the rooms of this house a million times before it was deserted after Hurricane Bob in ’91, and probably after that even. So tell me, Len Smith, what brings you here? More warnings from the islanders? More requests for lengthy dead-end discussions about how I’m ruining the island? How tourists are sure to upset the way of life we’ve had for generations? I’ve heard it all. I’ve listened and taken everyone’s feelings into consideration, but no one has done the same for me. Including you.”

Len frowned. He walked to the window and leaned his bent frame forward to grip the chipped sill. “I’m old, Gretchen. I don’t have much time left.”

“Don’t say that,” she retorted, unable to deny his remark. Especially after she thought how old he looked a moment ago.

He turned toward her, a toothy grin on his cute, wrinkled face. “You want truth? I’m giving you truth. Now listen. You’re not too old to bend over my knee, you know.” He looked at her with grandfatherly eyes, the love in them sobering her.

She smirked back at him and stepped up to the window. “Whether you all want to believe it or not, I’m not a child anymore. I can make my own decisions now.”

Len huffed. “Tell that to your boyfriend.”

She felt her lips tighten. “Billy’s not my boyfriend anymore. And he never will be again.” The television crew down below caught her eye, but her vision was blurred by anger.

“I wouldn’t think so with the way he’s riling up the town by calling all these meetings to stop you from rehabbing this place. If there was a possibility of a bridge, I’d say he’s burned it.”

“That has nothing to do with my reason for ending it with him. I needed something he couldn’t give me.”

“And what was that?”

“Freedom.”

Len grunted before saying, “I figured as much.”

Gretchen shot a look his way. Did Len know? A geyser of shame doused her. No, he couldn’t. There was no way. She averted her gaze back out the window. She caught sight of the director she had met three months ago. He was speaking a little too closely to Colm, although Colm held his ground with folded arms, muscles in forearms flexed. Gretchen wished she could read lips, but by the way Colm’s face took on a reddish tinge, it didn’t look positive. Was Colm asking Troy about putting her fall through the basement on the cutting-room floor? Or at least what she admitted to after the fall? Gretchen looked back at the director. What say you, Troy Mullen?

“No need to pretend with me, Gretchen. I know Billy held on to you a little too tightly. Some would say he meant well.”

“Meant well?” She whipped her attention back to the one man she had hoped to have on her side about this. If she was ever able to tell. “You have no—”

Len held up a gnarled hand. “I said some would say. But still, he’s a deputy in the sheriff’s department. That holds water. The townspeople like him protecting their island from others with agendas.”

“There are no agendas here other than my opening a small bed-and-breakfast to support myself. The crew from Rescue to Restoration isn’t here for any reason but to help me. When they finish they will be gone forever.”