That was odd. She didn’t remember seeing that doll when she’d come in. Then again, she hadn’t been paying attention to the bed she’d made earlier, noticing instead the discarded shoes. Jessie must’ve set the doll up there, trying to make nice after putting them all away last night.
She left the room, and the butler fellow was out in the hall. The tuxedo was overkill and the cape just plain odd. She didn’t dare mention it to Jessie so as not to upset her, but he was a weird man. Very eccentric.
“Good morning.” Martha smiled at him. His coloring box might be shy of a few crayons, but manners were free and friendliness went a long way. Maybe he was just depressed and acting erratically. With a new house owner, he’d had some adjustments as well. He didn’t seem dangerous and treated Jessie with the utmost respect, and Jessie did have good locks on her doors—Martha had tested them—so there didn’t seem to be anything to worry about.
“Yes. Good morning. I trust you slept well,” he said, the words polite but the tone stuffy. It was like he fashioned himself after the butlers in those black-and-white British movies. Someone should tell him he’d gotten the dress code wrong. She’d never known a butler to wear a cape, not even a British one. Although all the men in the house except Austin seemed to wear them. It must’ve been some sort of peer pressure situation, or fashion sense gone wrong.
She smiled brighter to break through those clouds. “I did, yes, thank you.”
“Martha!” Pete’s voice rang through the hall. “Martha! Come look at this.”
“Will he be needing a bullhorn? I’m not sure the neighbors heard.” Tom—or maybe Earl; everyone called him something different, perhaps contributing to the poor man’s confusion—lifted his chin and walked on by.
“What is it now?” she grumbled to herself, startling at the sight of a red-haired doll with a devilish smile standing at the end of the hallway, where the path turned right to another set of rooms and then some stairs leading to the back of the third floor. Standing, on its own. But a doll like that shouldn’t have been able to stand; its feet were too small and body top-heavy. The thing had an enormous head. Maybe it was leaning?
She slowed, Pete momentarily forgotten. There was definitely a feeling of something being off in this house. Like a presence, or presences, resided here. She’d seen two different doors move on their own—one opening, and another closing. Pete had said it was probably the wind, and that if she didn’t watch it she was the one who’d get shipped off for losing her faculties. She had no idea what he was talking about, but she knew what she’d seen. No breeze in this house could’ve blown those doors open and shut that fast. He might not believe in ghosts, but she did, and this house was plenty old enough to have a whole bunch of them.
That didn’t explain the doll, though…
She approached it slowly, half wondering if it would come alive, like in those scary movies.
“Don’t go scaring yourself, Martha. Those are only make-believe,” she murmured, getting within feet of it and peering over, trying to see if it was leaning.
“Martha!”
She jumped and squeaked, slapping her hand onto her mouth.
“I’m coming!” she hollered at Pete. “I don’t have a jetpack on. Hold your horses.”
A little closer and she could see over the doll’s head. The back of its head touched the wall. It was leaning. Someone had clearly placed it there.
“Of course they did.” She shook her head. “Of course someone placed it there. It couldn’t have just walked there on its own.”
She rolled her eyes at herself and took a deep breath. The house was getting to her.
Pete stood at the base of the stairs that led up to the third floor, this set reserved for the house staff of old, she bet. There was a larger and grander set nearer the front of the house. He held a big battle-axe positioned across his body, the edges gleaming. There wasn’t a stich on him.
“Pete!” She jammed a fist onto her hip. “For the love of God, put some clothes on!”
“Why? Martha, the whole place runs around naked. It’s like a damn nudist colony. If they can do it, I can do it. You don’t have a set of begonias, you just don’t understand.”
“Would you stop saying—” She tried to will herself some patience. “Maybe not, but I have a set of garden shears and have done a lot of pruning in my day.” She paused to let that sink in. “Pete, you are a guest in your daughter’s house. She doesn’t want to see you with your testicles out. Put on some clothes.”
He gave her a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. But look at this.” He hefted the large axe.