The Darkest Corner (Gravediggers #1)(15)

"Dammit, Lucifer," she hissed, letting out a shaky breath. She shone the light on the cat and he hissed back and ran upstairs. She wasn't sure how he'd do it since she'd closed her door, but he always managed to find a way into her room. When he was in an extra special mood he'd leave a mouse on her pillow for her.

The black cat had come with the house, and according to Mr. Jessup, Lucifer's ancestry went back as far as his own family. Tess was more inclined to believe that Lucifer was actually the devil incarnate and had been the only cat ever on the premises, since no one could remember kittens being born or a female cat in the general vicinity to make the mating dance possible.

Tess kept him fed, but he was just as unpredictable as the men who'd taken her van, coming and going at all hours of the day and night and generally being rude and surly. Though none of the men had bitten her on the ankle yet.

The beam of the flashlight didn't hide the disrepair of the upper floors. The red-and-gold floral wallpaper had faded to orange and was peeling in places, and the carpet runner was thin and worn. The second floor wasn't in use. The doors were always kept closed and most of the rooms were vacant. The rooms that did have furniture had white sheets draped over it. There was a full second-story balcony that went the entire way around the house, and there were white rocking chairs placed in pairs every so often. Green ferns hung from hooks and the glass gleamed. But the exterior was a façade that only pretended to welcome guests. Who'd want to be a guest at a funeral home anyway?

Once she got to the landing between the first and second floors, it was like walking into another house. The curved staircase and bannister were a focal point from the front of the funeral home. The carpet became thick and lush beneath her feet, and the bannister gleamed with polish. The original chandelier, which had once held tapered candles that some poor soul had to light every night, hung from the foyer, only with the candles replaced with candelabra lights. 

Flashes of lightning lit the interior ominously as she crept down the stairs. She hadn't heard the rumble of the garage door open, but the thunder had been pretty vigorous, and with the electricity out they probably couldn't get the door open anyway.

It was an old house that creaked and moaned from time to time, but tonight, as the storm raged around it, it was silent. If there was anyone in the house, she should've heard them.

Unless they didn't want to be heard.

She shivered, her flesh pebbling despite the heavy heat. The beam of her flashlight seemed insignificant against the big and drafty house. The front door was locked up tight, and she shone her light into the room to the left of the door-slumber room one. It was empty. At least for the next few hours.

Across the foyer was slumber room two, the wooden double doors wide open. Tables were set up with dark blue cloths for refreshments, which reminded her that she needed to put in a call to Piper Prewitt to see what time she could deliver the cookies for the viewing the next night. Piper made cakes and other bakery items out of her house because rent was too high in the strip down Main Street. But there wasn't a person in a fifty-mile radius that could bake better than Piper.

Toward the back of slumber room two was a small formal parlor that had been beautifully decorated in shades of ivory and cream. The furniture was antique and uncomfortable, and the room was only used to meet with grieving, and sometimes not grieving, families as they picked out burial plans. She hated the room. It seemed cold and distant, whereas the rest of the rooms were done up in warm, tasteful colors.

Her office was under the stairs directly across from the parlor. Her door was also closed, which was just how she'd left it. She turned the knob to see if it was still locked. It was. The house opened up toward the back, where the kitchen was, and a wall of bay windows looked out over the rose garden. They were taking a beating out there, thanks to the storm.

She crept into the kitchen next, her favorite room in the whole house. It was open and airy, and there were pale yellow padded benches with pillows beneath each of the bay windows. She'd often grab a book and read there for hours, occasionally looking out into the gardens and daydreaming. Or when her grandmother came to visit, she'd make a pot of tea and wheel it over on the little tea cart, and they'd sit and talk about everything from the weather to politics. And they'd do it in Russian, because her grandmother was always afraid that the harsh, heavy language that was a part of their family heritage would someday be lost if not used.

Tess spent most of their time together promising her grandmother that she'd teach her children the language and tell them stories of the old lands. Though Tess wasn't going to tell too many stories, because her grandmother had led a pretty colorful life. As the daughter of a Russian mobster she'd picked up a lot of things that most children shouldn't.