“Well…” I toyed with the phone cord. “Does trying to convince me that the cottage is haunted count as objectionable?”
“Pardon me, Miss Shepherd. Did I hear you correctly? Did you say haunted?”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“Where my son is concerned, I no longer know what to believe. I really am going to have to speak with the boy.”
“I don’t think he meant any harm by it,” I blurted, wishing I’d kept my big mouth shut. I didn’t like the agitation I heard in Willis, Sr.’s voice.
“Nonetheless, this has gone far enough. He can have no excuse for such unprofessional conduct. If he cannot be trusted to carry out Miss Westwood’s wishes, I shall order him home and appoint a suitable substitute. I am beginning to regret my failure to accompany you myself.”
“You mustn’t do that.” Now I was thoroughly alarmed.
“I am Miss Westwood’s executor, Miss Shepherd. It is my responsibility to—”
“It was just a joke,” I insisted, “a silly practical joke. It didn’t even scare me. Not for a second.”
“You are quite sure?”
“Do I strike you as someone who believes in ghosts?”
“No____”
“Then please don’t give it another thought. I’ll talk to Bill myself.”
“Very well. But if he continues to—”
“I’ll let you know, Mr. Willis.”
“I shall count on you to do so.” There was a moment of silence on the line and when Willis, Sr., spoke again, his voice had regained its customary calm. “Now, Miss Shepherd, if I might turn to a more pleasant subject before I go?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I would simply like to express my heartfelt gratitude for your most thoughtful gift. I attempted to contact you in London, but you were out much of the time, and I did not like to convey my thanks through Miss Kingsley. I am most grateful. I have seldom seen such a fine example of cartographic art and I have never seen such a splendidly appropriate frame. My dear, it quite took my breath away.” His warm words sent a rush of pleasure through me. I twirled the phone cord around my finger and turned a slow pirouette, like a little girl being lauded for a flawless piano recital.
And stopped.
Because there, looking up at me from the arm of one of the tall leather chairs near the fire, was Reginald.
Not my Reginald. My Reginald was upstairs in the master bedroom, in the wardrobe, in the shoebox, in pieces, and this Reginald was here, in the study, in the chair, sitting up as pretty as you please, with every stitch intact, two button eyes gleaming, and both ears on straight, as powder-pink as the day he’d been born.
Except for the purple stain near his hand-stitched whiskers.
“I have to go,” I said abruptly.
“Pardon me, Miss Shepherd?”
“I really have to go,” I said. “Right now. I’ll call you back in a little while.”
“Is there anything wrong?”
“I’ll call you back,” I repeated. I dropped the phone on the cradle, tore out of the study, pounded up the stairs, flung open the wardrobe, grabbed the shoebox, and flipped the lid onto the floor.
The shoebox was empty.
*
There was no way Bill could have known about Reginald. Not even Meg knew about Reginald. Having a stuffed bunny as a confidant isn’t something a thirty-year-old woman readily admits to.
But someone had known about him. Someone who needed to get my attention.
I put the shoebox back into the wardrobe and gently closed the door. I descended the staircase in slow motion, stopped at the doorway of the study, and peeked in. The fire was snapping, the rain was drumming, a book of some sort was lying on the ottoman, and Reginald was sitting beside it. He had moved.
“Reg?” I called softly. “Is that you?”
His eyes glittered in the flickering firelight. I walked over to pick him up. With a trembling finger, I traced his whiskers and touched the purple stain on his snout, then cradled him in one arm and bent to pick up the book. It was bound in smooth blue leather, with a blank cover and spine; a journal, perhaps.
Slowly, I sat down with it in the chair and, even more slowly, I fanned through the pages. All were blank except for the first one, on which a single sentence had been written.
Welcome to the cottage, Lori.
Before I had time to digest that, another formed below it as I watched.
I’m so glad you are here, my dear.
I’m not sure how long I stopped breathing, but it was long enough to make my next breath absolutely essential.
“Dimity?” I whispered. “Is that you?”
Yes, of course it is, my dear. And let me say what a joy it is to make your acquaintance after all these years.
I clapped a hand over my mouth to suppress a quavering giggle. “It’s nice to meet you, too.” I cleared my throat. “Uh, Dimity?”
Yes, Lori?
“Do you suppose you could tell me what’s going on here? I mean, I know what’s going on here, but what’s going on here, if you catch my drift. I mean… what I mean is… I don’t even know what I mean.”