any rate, she wasn’t alone, not really. Thinking of the house that stood only a few dozen yards from her own, she went to the double window in the small dining room and considered the two-story, vintage Victorian.
Willa shook her head. Her accountant had dubbed her place “The Eyesore,” but that monstrosity was nearly as spooky as its celebrated occupant—and ugly enough to scare off the dead, let alone some demented soul bent on terrifying women.
But neglected mess or not, she still couldn’t believe it. She, Willa Leeds Whitney, was living next door to Zachary Denton, the most successful horror writer since Stephen King! Mr. Denton, however, was the true recluse, and for good reason.
He was confined to a wheelchair, the result of a flying accident three years ago. Although news about the crash had received media-wide coverage, her real-estate agent had been eager to repeat everything she’d ever heard about the incident. Willa had changed the subject as soon as possible, though, not wanting to seem like a snoop, or to be reminded of her own loss. Plus, she figured that if she was meant to know anything else, fate would see she found out soon enough. Who knows? Zachary Denton might tell her himself. Then again, probably not. Mrs. Landers did mention he was worse than ever these days, a certified misanthrope. Willa certainly wasn’t about to begrudge him his right to privacy. She did, however, hope he appreciated having survived the crash. Her A.J. hadn’t been so lucky.
Did Zachary Denton know the house had been sold? Did he care? Well, he needn’t have any concerns that she would bother him. As she noted each successive window, how all the drapes or shutters were tightly shut, she thought he might find it reassuring to understand that she valued her privacy, too. True, the consensus that she never met a stranger was accurate—she liked people and found it easy to strike up conversations with just about anyone—but no one had ever called her a star-struck groupie. Nor was she the stereotypical lonely widow. After what she and A.J. had shared in their all-too-brief time together, she would never settle for anything less; and since that wasn’t likely to happen, she was content to live her life alone and expend her considerable energy toward other interests.
Her gaze settled on the top floor of her neighbor’s house, specifically the window directly opposite the bedroom she’d chosen for herself. Unlike the other windows, it was open to the rain, and the mild breeze gently billowed the sheers. Was that a TV beyond them? No…a computer screen.
Could that be his office where he conjured all those twisted stories? Fascinating. But she shivered, too.
It was from being wet and chilled, she told herself, not because of his dark imaginings. A self-deprecating smile tugged at the left corner of her mouth. Goodness, she hadn’t had one of his books around since…The smile withered, and she wondered how she could have forgotten. It had been the night she’d awakened to the sound of the ringing telephone, reached across A.J.’s copy of The Well, only to learn that her husband’s emergency medical helicopter had gone down in a storm.
Willa backed away from the window and rubbed her bare arms. “All right, you had your ten seconds of self-pity, now stop it.”
She had too much work ahead of her to succumb to melancholia. It was Friday and, ready or not, on Monday morning the movers would be transferring her things here from her apartment across town. Even then there would be plenty of projects left to fill a month of weekends, let alone this one. Floors needed to be scrubbed, wallpaper had to be wiped down, and a mile of trim needed to be painted; but before she started any of that she had the kitchen and bathrooms to scour.
For a moment she wondered if she hadn’t been a bit obstinate in insisting on handling everything herself. Then she shook her head and went to get her cleaning supplies. Of course, she could handle this; she had pep and determination to spare. Besides, there wasn’t anyone available to help even if she had wanted it. Her staff at Whimsy was busy with the store’s big spring sale, her parents were on their annual vacation—this time touring Europe—and in a few weeks her sister was going to make her an aunt for the second time. No way would Willa let her drive down from Dallas, let alone consider seeing her overexert herself doing housework. The only option if she couldn’t “solo” this job was to contract help, and that was—
“Oh, no.”
She’d carried the pail, mop and cleaning supplies to the kitchen, and had turned on the water taps, only to find nothing came out. This couldn’t be happening to her! Yesterday, the city water department had guaranteed she would have service by that afternoon!
She glanced at her watch. It was almost nine. Someone down there had to be in the office by now, but she had no telephone service yet, and wouldn’t until later today. That’s if the telephone company proved more reliable than the water people.
What to do…?
She could drive back to town and handle things in person, but she was hardly dressed for taking care of that kind of business, even if she slipped on the oversize shirt she’d left in the van. She could go back to the duplex and call from there, except that it was even farther out of town. It would be such a waste to lose that much time.
Biting her lower lip, she once again looked out the window at the gloomy house only a few dozen yards away. Would Zachary Denton let her use his telephone? From what she’d heard about his zealous protection of his privacy, she doubted it. On the other hand, who would turn away a neighbor in need?
She had nothing to lose by asking.
CHAPTER TWO
The downpour hadn’t eased a bit. Once outside, Willa sprinted across the two overgrown yards trying not to think about snakes and any other crawling creature. What with the lightning getting closer, she told herself she probably had more to fear from it. Concentrating on her neighbor’s home helped, too.
Zachary Denton’s house belonged in one of his books. Not only did it need a new coat or two of paint—and in a color less morbid than the current grim brown—the junipers and Chinese loquats surrounding it had grown past several of the first-floor windows adding to the general aura of wild neglect. As she dashed up the cracked sidewalk, Willa reasoned maintenance would be difficult, if not impossible, for someone who’d been incapacitated. But the man could easily afford to hire someone, several someones, to periodically clean up around here.
Sprinting up the creaking ramp instead of the stairs, she hurried across the wooden porch to search for a doorbell. As far as she could tell there wasn’t any. Ridiculous, she fumed, feeling like a half-drowned rat. About to knock on the outer screen door, she spotted the security camera out of the corner of her left eye.
Was it running? A momentary spasm of self-consciousness had her wanting to turn her back to it, to dash for the haven of her own four walls. Although she hated to waste time bemoaning hindsight, she also wished she’d taken a second to retrieve that damned shirt. But a sudden, close flash of lightning followed by an ominous crash of thunder stopped that wistful thought.
Get it over with, she told herself. The sooner she made the call, the faster her problem would be solved. Anyway, a man in his condition wasn’t likely to pay attention to her in that way, was he?
Frowning, she knocked briskly, and waited.
Since his computer monitor was on, that probably meant he was awake and working. How long should it take him to get down here? How would he manage? She crossed her arms again regretting her state of dress. But, no, she’d wanted comfort because of the humidity and the dirty job ahead of her.
She knocked again. “Excuse
