Rancor: Sinister Attachments, Book 1 (2 page)

“Good luck,” Mr. Zimmerman said as the elevator door closed.

Good luck? What is that supposed to mean? She turned back to look at the superintendent, but the door had already closed.

To her left was the open stairway leading back down to the foyer and up to the third floor. A wooden railing encircled the open staircase was partially attached to the northeast corner of the building. She could hear the elevator door open above and the heavy steps of Mr. Zimmerman walking down the hall to his room. Noise traveled easily through the building's interior.

Maggie stood in the hall a moment, looking at the layout of the second floor. Past the stairway and the elevator were two doors leading out to the second-level porch—one to the east and one to the west—leaving only enough room for three good-sized apartments. Apartment 20A occupied the southwest corner of the building, apartment 21B took up the southeast portion, and Maggie's apartment, 22C, sat in the northwest corner. She had not met any of her neighbors, but there would be time to get acquainted later.

Plenty of light spilled into the space through the delicate lace panels of the French doors leading outside. She had a hard time envisioning patients in wheelchairs and hospital beds being pushed through the doors and out onto the porch to breathe in the fresh air, the supposed cure for tuberculosis.

Maggie turned right and walked past the utility room that sat between her apartment and the elevator. Good thing that room was there or else she would hear the rumble of the elevator ascending and descending, she thought.

She walked up to her door, let go of the suitcase, and placed the antique key into the lock. It was awkward turning the lever lock, but after a couple tries, she was able to turn and unlock it. She opened the door, took the handle of the suitcase, and rolled it inside, closing the door behind her.

After sitting her luggage next to a full-length mirror and coat rack, she walked straight ahead through the living room and looked out one of the windows. The view was awe-inspiring. With the building sitting so close to the bluff, and with the veranda blocking the view of the ground, it was as if she were on a ship looking out across a vast ocean.

She opened the window before going into the small galley-style kitchen. A tiny dinette table was pushed against the wall, next to a window. She looked at the rust-stained sink and along the empty countertop, she was happy not to see any mice running next to the backsplash. She opened the refrigerator; it was empty. “I knew a welcome basket of food would be expecting too much,” she whispered, then closed the refrigerator door.

She walked out of the kitchen, toward the two small bedrooms. Each room had a north facing window and view of the shoreline as it stretched toward Saugatuck.

Then her cell phone rang. It was Nora Bella, her literary agent.

“Hi, Maggie. Are you all settled into your new writing studio?”

Maggie gave a half-hearted laugh. “I just walked in the door.”

“The publisher wants to know if you're going to have book four done soon,” Nora said. “I know you've been through a lot, lately, but the show must go on.”

Maggie shook her head, wishing she had let the call go to voicemail. “I'm working on it. I was just getting ready to pull out my laptop.” Not.

“I have a call coming in,” Nora said. “I'll call you in a couple days.”

The call reminded Maggie that she had told Mr. Zimmerman that she was an author. And how Nora was always bugging her about the progress of each book in her series, Raven Ridge Mysteries, like a dog pestering its master to go outside and play. She had told him how Nora's favorite saying was, “Maggie, you know the deadline is soon . . . Chop, chop.” And that she needed seclusion so that she could write and keep Nora happy. That had to be what he meant when he said, “Good luck.”

TWO

Maggie yanked out a shopping cart from the one in the row ahead of it and pushed it into the small grocery store. The only cashier in the store was busy checking someone out as she pushed the wobbly-wheeled cart past her toward the produce department.

She placed potatoes, bananas, lettuce, and tomatoes into the metal framed basket. Bread and condiments were next. Deli meat and salads were too tempting to pass up as were coffee and beer. 

She took her time walking down each aisle before deciding this would be the store she would frequent, especially since it was so close to her apartment.

When she got up to the checkout, she asked the cashier about the store hours. The middle-aged woman, wearing a green apron with Lenny's Grocery written across the bib in big white letters, answered Maggie's question and then asked, “Are you new here?”

“I haven't lived too far from here; I'm just new to this area.”

The cashier smiled as she continued to ring up Maggie's groceries. “You'll love it here. I've lived here all my life and never plan to move.”

“It is a beautiful area,” Maggie said, pulling the wallet from her purse.

“So where do you call home now?” The cashier asked as she rang the last item and pointed to her name badge. “And, by the way, my name is Valerie, people just call me Val.”

“Nice to meet you, Val. I moved into the Sandpiper Bluff Apartments today, and I'm here picking up my first set of groceries,” Maggie said, swiping her card in the payment terminal. She put the card away and looked at the cashier who was staring at her. Maggie smiled, but the cashier did not smile back. “Is something wrong?”

The cashier turned back to the register, took the receipt, and handed it to Maggie. “Do you know about that place?”

“What do you mean? Are you talking about ghosts? I know it used to be a sanatorium for people with TB, and later it housed the mentally ill.” Maggie looked to her side as an elderly woman sat a cantaloupe and a can of prune juice on the conveyor belt.

A look of concern spread across the cashier's face. “That old sanatorium sets way back in there. It is so deep in the woods that you can't even see it from the road. But obviously you are already aware of that. The wind blows in there hard, and when winter comes you get stranded and the electricity can be out for days.”

Maggie put the grocery bags into her cart. “Winter is a long way off. I'm sure they have someone who keeps the road to it plowed.”

The cashier looked at the old woman, then back to Maggie. “Let me get to the point. You may think I'm crazy, but I don't think people have been there much lately, and when they are, they come up . . . missing. To tell you the truth, I didn't realize it had reopened for business.”

Maggie stared at the cashier, this time. She felt a sense of dread wash over her. “Mr. Carl Zimmerman lives there.”

“That old codger,” the old woman behind her said with a loud whiny voice. “He's nothing but a stinkin' drunk. I'm surprised he's still alive. He used to charter fishing boats out of Lighthouse Marina.” The wrinkled woman stopped talking long enough to cough and then continued. “My daddy once said Carl killed a man out there on the water, right there in front of Lake Shore Sanatorium—all liquored up on Scotch, he was.”

Maggie could not believe what she was hearing, or seeing. An old lady's daddy was talking about Mr. Zimmerman? Had to be Mr. Zimmerman's father. The old woman did not know what she was talking about; she had to be senile.

“That place is cursed,” the old woman blared as Maggie pushed her cart of groceries out the door. “Don't go back there or you'll regret it, girly.”

THREE

Maggie finished putting away the food, opened a can of pop, and then placed the laptop from her backpack on the dinette table. She plugged it in and opened the top. This would be a good place to work, she thought as she looked out the kitchen window next to the table. A far off sailboat floated in the haze of the distant horizon while a flock of seagulls flew down toward the beach. A little distracting, but she could handle it.

She took a sip from the cold can while replaying in her mind what the women at Lenny's Grocery had said to her. They thought no one was living here; she whispered as she watched the laptop wake up. No one here? Of course there was. Mr. Zimmerman was here, and there was a car in the parking lot. 

Then she heard an apartment door open. She quickly got up and tiptoed to the door's peephole. She saw a woman with a headband and wearing a paisley print dress leave apartment 21B with a child at her side. There, proof she was not the only one in the building.

Having been unnerved by the women in the grocery store, she decided to prove them wrong and introduce herself to her new neighbor. She opened the door and walked into the hallway. She smiled and said, “Hi.”

The woman took the young girl's hand and stopped at the top of the stairway. She looked at Maggie, seeming a bit surprised due to the fact she did not say anything for a moment while she studied Maggie's face. “Hi, did you just move in?”

Maggie left her door open and walked toward the woman and child. “My name's Maggie, I just moved in today. This sure seems like a nice place.”

“My name's Debbie and this is my daughter Susie. It's nice to meet you,” she said, extending her hand in greeting. “And yes, I agree, this is an excellent place to live.”

“Have you been living here long?” Maggie asked, releasing her hand from Debbie's overly firm handshake.

“We've been here a long time. So has Bruce,” Debbie said, pointing toward apartment 20A. “He's a cool head.”

Cool head? Maggie was not sure what that meant; must be a throwback saying from the 1960s. She smiled and nodded. Then she said, “I know Mr. Zimmerman is on the third floor, is there anyone else in the building?” Maggie needed to know the place was full of life and not dead empty.

“Downstairs is Ethel. She calls herself a seer. I think she uses that crystal ball as a ruse, I wouldn't trust her. She keeps to herself; she's out of her tree,” Debbie said, rolling her eyes. “Her apartment would be directly below yours. We don't talk to her much though.”

Maggie felt better knowing she was not alone. She turned her attention to the girl standing next to Debbie. Her hair was long and scraggly; she wondered when it had last been brushed. Maggie held out her hand. “It's nice to meet you too, Susie. How old are you?”

The girl looked up at Maggie through strands of dark hair, partially covering her face. She did not say anything.

“She's ten, and she’s a little shy,” Debbie said. She cocked her head and asked, “So what do you do for a living?”

“I'm an author,” Maggie said. Even though she had been writing full-time for a couple years, it still felt strange to say it. Her old identity as a nurse was still hard to shake.

Debbie smiled a big, broad smile. “So, does that mean you're home most of the time? You writers do spend your days typing away in seclusion, don't you?”

Maggie could tell Debbie had something on her mind by the questions she was asking. “Yeah, I suppose.”

Debbie looked down at Susie, still holding her hand. “I work nights at the hospital and it is so hard finding someone who can watch Susie overnight. Would you mind helping out? My last babysitter just quit, and I need someone immediately,” she looked at Maggie's bland expression. Maybe it was an expression of shock. “It would only be temporary . . . and I'll pay you, don't you worry about that.”

Maggie was totally regretting having come out into the hallway to introduce herself. It was not that she did not want to help, but she did not even know this woman. If she said no, everyone at Sandpiper Bluff would probably shun her. If she said yes, then who knows how long Debbie would have her babysitting. Maybe Susie will sleep most of the night, she was not a toddler, but it would still put a damper on her writing and the upcoming deadline for book four. “I can help a little while, but I do have a lot of work to do.”

Debbie hugged Maggie. Her blue eyeshadow and dark eyeliner made her look like a Barbie doll. “You don't know how much this means to me. Bruce isn't good with kids, so I haven't asked him, besides, Susie doesn't want him to babysit her. Someone like you, Maggie, can play with her and keep her company.”

What am I getting myself into? Maggie was so angry with herself for accepting the babysitting job. She should have thought of a white lie, but her mind did not work that way. Too late now, she was stuck. Maggie smiled.

“I work Friday night, can you begin then?” Debbie asked, pressing her pale pink lips together in anticipation.

Friday was two days away. Maggie had wanted to explore the area and meet her friend, Jessica, for a few drinks. Those plans would now have to be postponed. Besides, this Debbie did not even know Maggie; she could be a serial killer or child molester for all Debbie knew. Maggie was never good at saying no. “Sure, that would be fine, but you don't even know me.”

“You look like the trustworthy type,” Debbie said, pulling little Susie toward the stairway. “I feel like I've known you forever.”

Maggie stood there, shocked at what had just occurred. Crazy people surrounded the home of her dreams.

As Maggie turned to walk back toward her apartment, the door to apartment 20A opened; a man slightly older than she stood in the doorway. His dark hair was combed into a high mound over his forehead, similar to the pompadour haircut of Elvis Presley and James Dean. “Hi, I heard you and Debbie talking, and I just wanted to introduce myself; I'm Bruce,” he said, opening his door wider. “Would you like to come in?”

Bruce was certainly pleasing to the eye, but she thought she had better get back inside her apartment before she committed to some other duty. “Hi, I’m Maggie, your new neighbor. And sorry, but I have lots of work I have to get started on . . . Deadlines and things.”

He smiled. “Well if you need anything, anything at all, I'm just next door.”

“Thank you, Bruce,” Maggie said, watching him close the door.

She walked back inside her apartment and locked the door. The people here seemed friendly, but a little odd. A fortuneteller in the building? Why would I have expected anything less? she thought.