Dark Homecoming by William Patterson Page A

replied, opening the door behind her.
    Mrs. Hoffman stood there, filling the door frame with her imposing presence, her frozen face as white as the ceramic of the bathroom. Only the eyes showed any life. They were blazing.
    â€œWhy was this door locked?” the head housekeeper asked icily.
    â€œ Was it locked? Oh, I must have accidentally hit the lock when I came in here.”
    â€œI asked you to dust the parlor. What were you doing in here?”
    â€œI told you. I was cleaning. I noticed there was some residue in the sink. Perhaps Mrs. Huntington used this bathroom . . .”
    â€œThere was no residue in this sink,” Mrs. Hoffman seethed. “I’ve told you, Rita, time and time again, that the servants may use the bathrooms at the back of the house, off the kitchen. Not any of those in the front of the house. You must know your place in this house!”
    â€œReally, Mrs. Hoffman, I wasn’t using—”
    â€œJust get out and get back to work,” the older woman said, and Rita quickly complied.
    She hustled back into the parlor. The nausea had passed. Now it was anger that surged up from Rita’s gut.
    That wicked old witch , Rita thought. If anyone had reason to kill Jamison, it was her.
    After all, Jamison knew the secret she was keeping from police—that, under her direction, Audra’s body had been moved.
    As Rita halfheartedly dusted off the mantel, her mind was far, far away from her task.
    Not only did she suspect Mrs. Hoffman of killing Jamison, but she suddenly believed the old harridan had killed Audra as well.
    Rita had never bought into Jamison’s talk of ghosts and devils. It had been Mrs. Hoffman who had stabbed Audra to death. It had to have been! No ex-boyfriend of Audra’s, who cops thought the most likely suspect, would have been inside the house. No, it must have been Mrs. Hoffman who’d wielded the knife, ending the poor girl’s life, and then she had roped Jamison into helping her move the evidence of her crime. When Jamison had been fired, she’d had no choice but to kill him as well.
    Rita’s heart suddenly began to pound in her chest. A fear overtook her. Did Mrs. Hoffman know that Jamison had spilled the beans to her before he died? Did she know that Rita knew the truth—that the truth hadn’t died with Jamison?
    It wasn’t likely. The police officer said it looked as if Jamison had been killed in his sleep. That was more likely. Mrs. Hoffman wouldn’t have wanted to tangle with him awake. Jamison wasn’t a big guy, but he was bigger and stronger than old Mrs. Hoffman. How much easier to just slit his throat while he slept.
    So there had been no chance for Jamison to reveal that he’d told Rita the truth about the night of Audra’s death. Mrs. Hoffman had no idea that her secret still lived on.
    â€œA penny for your thoughts, Rita, my dear.”
    The voice startled her, and she spun around. Variola stood there across the parlor, smiling at her and gazing at her with those mysterious black eyes.
    Could Variola read minds?
    â€œOh, I doubt they’re worth even that much,” Rita said, trying to smile.
    â€œWith you, your thoughts are always rich,” the house chef observed. “Whenever I see you so far away in thought, I think to myself, ‘There is a master schemer at work.’ ”
    Rita shook her head, trying to mask her thoughts, just in case Variola could see inside her head. It was a crazy idea, but still, Rita worried about it. “I was just thinking about my mother and what to buy her for her birthday.”
    â€œAh, but Variola thinks you were contemplating someone much farther away than that.” She smiled at Rita again. “Someone who right now, I believe, is in Amsterdam.”
    Rita didn’t know David’s exact itinerary, but she knew Amsterdam was one of the frequent stops on his business trips. She smiled back at Variola. Better that the chef