Owen took the door from me and held it open. “My mama makes the best cookies in the world. Why don’t you come on back and have some with a cup of coffee? Merritt can join us when she’s done.” He smiled brightly at me, and I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to hug him or shake him.
The women filed past us, followed by Maris and Steve Weber. Owen closed the door and led the group toward the back of the house. I stared after them, doubting my decision to move there sight unseen, with the belief I could somehow live my new life in peace and solitude.
“This way,” I said to the locksmith, leading him upstairs to the attic door. “All the other doors have antique locks, too, but their keys are still in the locks. This is the only one that’s missing, and the only door that’s locked.”
The locksmith got down on one knee and eyed it warily. “Well, that dog won’t hunt.”
“Is that good or bad?” I asked.
“Depends,” he said, straightening. “This is a real old doorknob and lock—probably original to the house, I suspect. Thick door, too.” He wiped his forearm across his forehead as if I needed to be reminded how hot it was upstairs. “It’s going to be a custom job. It could take a while, and it’ll be pricey.” He looked up and down the hallway, probably trying to find a thermostat.
“Or?”
“Or if you want this to be a quick fix, I could take this whole thing off and replace it with a new modern doorknob with a simple lock. I could get one in brass to sort of match the other doors.”
We turned toward the top of the stairs at the sound of a deep intake of breath. Deborah Fuller stood there with her hands over her heart and her eyes wide, and I thought she’d seen a ghost.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I’m fine, really.” She took a moment to catch her breath before walking toward us. “I was just looking for the powder room. The lovely Loralee told me the one downstairs is leaking and to use one up here. They’ll be up in a moment to start the house tour.”
“The . . . ?”
As if she hadn’t heard me, she turned purposefully toward Steve Weber. “I’m quite sure Mrs. Heyward will want to retain the historical integrity of this house and do what is necessary to get a replacement key for the existing lock. Isn’t that correct, Mrs. Heyward?”
She faced me and I was once again reminded of being sent to the principal’s office for speaking out of turn—something I’d once done with the frequency of somebody who thought she had something worthwhile to say. “I’m . . .” I paused. “I’ll need to have more information—more specific prices and time frame first.”
The locksmith scratched the back of his head, and I noticed the sweat stains under his arm. “Yes, ma’am. When I head back to the office I’ll look up a few things and get you a quote. Can I e-mail you?”
I thought of the ancient laptop computer that I hadn’t even unpacked yet and the old e-mail account that I’d shared with Cal. “I’m between Internet service providers, so why don’t you give me your card and I’ll e-mail you tomorrow? Does that work?”
“Yes, ma’am. That works just fine.” He reached into his pocket and handed me a business card, then hurriedly closed his toolbox as if he couldn’t wait to get into the cooler air outside.
“But surely you could open the door now.”
We both turned to Deborah, who stared back unapologetically. I had no idea why I hadn’t thought to ask. Maybe because the heat upstairs was nearly unbearable, and I was as eager as Mr. Weber seemed to go somewhere else. Or maybe it was because Edith Heyward had locked this door and possibly hidden the key. There was something up there she didn’t want others to see, and like a child reluctant to wind the Jack-in-the-box, I was unsure I was ready to climb the stairs to the attic to see what was there.
Almost reluctantly, Steve put down his toolbox. “Of course. I was going to suggest it, but then I figured it’s probably hotter than Hades, so you’d be in no rush to get up there.”
I wanted to agree with him and tell him to come back later, once we’d decided on a course of action, but there was something in Deborah’s expression that made me stop.
“Yes,” I said. “Why don’t you go ahead and get it open? We’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything—take a right at the bottom of the stairs and go straight back.”
I moved toward the steps and Deborah followed me, apparently having forgotten about using the powder room, although she looked back twice at the closed attic door as we headed downstairs. I paused at the bottom, and Deborah stopped next to me. When I looked into her face, her expression surprised me. Her eyes were wide with anticipation, but there was a glint of apprehension, too.
Steve came down the stairs behind us. “I’ve got to run to my van to get a special tool—it’s an old lock and I don’t want to break anything. I’ll be right back.”