Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [44]
Simon shrugged. “I told you my mother couldn’t stand the man and my uncle Roger never had a good thing to say about him, either.”
Reaching for his glass of water, he sipped from it, then murmured, “I guess being able to hire a better lawyer didn’t make much difference to Zangara.”
“No, it didn’t. The newspaper accounts say the jury was out thirty-seven minutes. After he heard the guilty verdict, Zangara had the only emotional outburst anyone ever witnessed. He lashed out at everyone, especially Stubbs, who he blamed for taking advantage of him and leaving his wife and son homeless. He swore revenge, you know—a curse upon your house, I’ll haunt you to your dying day, all that stuff.” Laughing, I added, “Maybe it was Zangara who locked the door on me yesterday.”
Simon’s good mood evaporated so quickly, I almost wondered if I’d imagined it. Where an easy, casual, charming man had been sitting across the table a moment ago, there was now a rigid, tight-jawed stranger who’d stopped eating halfway through his second helping.
“That’s absolutely ridiculous.” He rose from his chair, grabbing his plate off the table and taking it over to the sink.
He dumped out a plateful of food. Grandma Rosalita would be making the sign of the cross and whispering the rosary.
“Superstitious nonsense,” he added.
I was about to agree—to tell him I’d been joking, that of course I didn’t believe in ghosts, despite my rather vivid imagination. But before I could do it, Simon had muttered a thank-you for lunch, then stalked out of the kitchen without another word.
Leaving me very curious about what, exactly, had set the man off.
SINCE SIMON AND I had been alone in the house for a few days, walking down the front steps and seeing a woman bent over, washing the tile floor in the foyer came as something of a shock. It was late afternoon and I’d spent the past several hours alone, going through more cartons as well as the drawers of old pieces of furniture in the attic. I’d ventured farther back in the room but still hadn’t explored more than a third of it. There was just so much to see, so many fascinating side trips that had nothing to do with Zangara and everything to do with the price of a new-fangled dishwasher in 1952 or the guest comment cards of 1961.
I wondered how on earth I was going to get through everything in the time I had left. As much as I’d like to stay, I really was going to have to get back to Chicago—and school—soon. I was still thinking about that when I came down the stairs and saw the heavyset, middle-aged woman on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor.
Apparently hearing me, she looked up. The startled, frightened expression on her face was almost comical. She jerked so hard her hand slid out from under her and she nearly went face-first into her bucket.
“Are you all right?” I asked, rushing over to help her, trying to avoid slipping on any wet tile.
The woman nodded, watching me warily as she shimmied backward, then rose to her feet. “Who’re you?”
Introducing myself, I watched the expressions of fear ease a little on the woman’s face. She looked around, her gaze resting on the closed door to Simon’s office, then whispered, “Do you mean to tell me you’re staying here? Sleeping here at night?”
I nodded. “Yes.” Figuring the house’s reputation had the woman on edge, I added, “And believe it or not, I haven’t seen a single ghost.”
“Ghosts,” the woman said with a scoffing laugh. “It’s not the dead you have to be worrying about.” Her milky gray eyes shifted toward the door again. “It’s the living.”
She meant Simon. I knew it and I immediately stiffened. “If you’re referring to my host, he’s been perfectly charming and amiable.”
A bit of a stretch, but the woman had ticked me off.
“Huh,” she grunted, skepticism