Five Stolen Rings

Chapter 2

STELLA

I’ve never actually met Maude Ellery, but when I arrive at her home in the foothills later that evening and then call her for the key code to enter—as per her instructions to my mother—the voice that answers my phone call is brisk and slightly nasally.

“Hi, Mrs. Ellery,” I say, scooting further into the respite of the porch. The wind is brutal today. “This is Stella Partridge. I’m the one?—”

“ Miss Ellery, please, if you don’t mind,” she cuts me off, only she pronounces it Miz, dragging out that z sound so it buzzes down the line. “You’ve arrived at the house?”

“Yes,” I say. I stare up at the massive oak front door that somehow makes me feel much shorter than my five-foot-seven.

“Excellent,” Maude Ellery says loudly. “Go ahead and let yourself in, then. The passcode is 0131 . Hit the pound key after.”

I punch the numbers in, and a short second later a little whir and click sound from the door. It opens with a lurch when I pull on the large brass handle.

“I’m in,” I say to Maude as I step inside. A cloud of warmth envelops me and grows even toastier as I shut the front door behind me.

“Perfect,” she says. “The animal supplies are in the closet off the kitchen; you should find everything you need there. I want the windows opened in each room for thirty minutes daily,” she goes on, “because my allergies are very sensitive, and stale air always sets them off. There are thorough instructions on the refrigerator about the plants and the pets.”

“Sounds good,” I say. I’m not particularly looking forward to taking care of four birds and two cats for the next week and a half, but beggars can’t be choosers—and I am a beggar. I am the begging-est beggar that ever did beg.

Just for now! I tell myself, inhaling deeply and trying to pull some enthusiasm in with the oxygen. You’ll turn things around and everything will be great.

“Well, hop to it, then,” Maude says, and there’s a faint note of haughtiness in her voice now. “Your mother says you’re a responsible girl, an architect , so I’m sure everything will be taken care of properly. And remember the security cameras are placed in every room.”

A warning for me to behave. I don’t let myself take offense at this. If I hired someone to watch my house based only on their mother’s recommendation, I’d take precautions too.

“Of course,” I say. “I’ll get started right away.”

“Good. Oh—and dust the portraits while you’re there, too, won’t you? They’re some of my most prized possessions, you know.”

I blink. “Sorry—the what?”

But Maude Ellery doesn’t seem to hear me. “I’ve got to dash, Miss Partridge. I trust you will not need further instruction, but should you need to get in touch, texting this number will suffice. Bye bye, then.”

And she’s gone, and I’m left half-confused by her words and half-awed at the sight before me.

The first impression this house gives is of vast, dark luxury. It’s Victorian, probably authentic, with panels of dark wood and ornately carved details. Everything is heavy— the rich red fabrics, the intricate chandeliers, even the air itself as it drags and pulls into my lungs and then settles with unnatural stillness.

I trail through the foyer, my jaw hanging as my eyes take in the details, my steps quiet on the deep green Turkish rug that covers a large portion of the hardwood floor. There’s a massive staircase that splits in two halfway up and winds around; I pass underneath the right branch and into the next room.

It’s a lot of the same. Velvet and opulence and stained-glass light fixtures and?—

“Oh!” The word jumps to my lips as my wandering feet stop abruptly in front of a large painting hanging over the fireplace. “My goodness. ”

My first instinct is to cover my eyes, which have popped about as wide open as they’ll go, because there are things on display here that are none of my business. This must be what Maude meant about the portraits.

It’s a giant painting of a middle-aged woman with a blondish-grayish pixie cut, dressed in a slinky leopard-print dress that rides high on her thighs as she lounges sinuously on what looks like a velvet chaise. Gravity is doing dangerous things with the plunging neckline of the dress and the body parts it’s supposed to cover, and I wince when I realize that Maude mentioned portraits —plural. There must be more of these around here, watching me with uncomfortably seductive eyes.

Forget about security cameras. No one would dare do anything sketchy with a picture like this watching them—I certainly wouldn’t.

I trail into the kitchen, glad to put some distance between me and the lounging lady—it must be Maude, right?—while I pull my mom’s number up on my phone and then press Call.

“Mom,” I say when she answers, cupping my hand around my mouth and speaking quietly in case the security cameras around here pick up audio. “There’s a big portrait of a half-naked lady over the fireplace.”

My mom bursts into laughter, a bright, cheerful sound that calls to mind sunshine and a childhood full of love. “You know, I can’t say I’m shocked,” she says. “Maude is an interesting lady.”

“I’d say so,” I say, glancing around the gleaming kitchen until I spot the refrigerator. “How do you two know each other, exactly?” My mom is friendly and vivacious, and even though I only talked to Maude Ellery for two minutes, I can’t imagine them as friends.

“Oh, I don’t know her, per se,” my mom says, her voice thoughtful. “She’s somewhat of a regular at the store. She came in yesterday evening and I rang her up, and I asked about her holiday plans. She mentioned she was going out of town today and was looking for someone to watch her house last minute, since her previous plan fell through—she seemed agitated about it. That’s it, really.”

“That makes more sense,” I say. “She doesn’t seem like your type of person.”

“Every person is my type of person,” my mom says, and she’s not wrong; she can make friends with anyone, anywhere, in any amount of time.

It’s not a trait she passed on to me, sadly. I can make friends, but it takes time, and effort, and a lot of overthinking on my part. Thank goodness for the friendships I made when I was young that stuck around, the ones that grew as I grew. Those are the relationships that have stayed the strongest.

Well, I think as a little blip of guilt bubbles in my stomach. Most of them have stayed strong.

No need to think about him right now, though—or ever again, for that matter.

Water under the bridge and whatnot.

I chat with my mom for a minute while I check out the closet with the animal supplies, and I lie blatantly to myself while I do, refusing to admit that this place is a little creepy and I’m glad for someone to talk to. I only hang up with her when I go meet the animals.

“All right,” I say, referring to the sheet from the fridge as I peer into the large glass terrarium-like room that almost certainly was not part of the original home. It’s on the other side of the kitchen wall, brightly lit and lush with plants and even two small trees. “How am I supposed to tell four green birds apart?”

Because they’re all parakeets, according to the info sheet—Chanel, Gucci, Louis, and Ralph—and according to the occasional squawks that reach my ears through the glass, they take their noise-making very seriously. But they all look alike, energetic and vividly green, and I’m not a bird girl.

“You will be a group noun from here on out,” I tell them apologetically. “Because I cannot tell you apart. Sorry.” I let myself into the glass-walled room and dole out the feed, and I hate every second, because I swear I can feel them looking at me—a prickling sensation on the back of my neck, probably as they try to decide if they want to dive-bomb me or not. I get out of there as quickly as I can, and then I google what the collective noun for parakeets is.

“A pandemonium of parrots,” I mutter, glancing over my shoulder at the birds, one of whom is still watching me. “Or a chatter of budgerigars.” Both of those seem fitting. I sigh. “Well, let’s find the plants and open some windows, I guess. And where are those cats?”

Me

Have you ever seen a giant painting of a sixty-something woman in a hot-pink minidress straddling a motorcycle?

India

It worries me that you’re asking this.

Me

What about a painting of a sixty-something lounging on a chaise?

India

Don’t make up words, Stella

Me

CHAISE. It’s a chair-couch.

India

Then why wouldn’t you just say chair-couch??

Me

There’s also a portrait of this same lady lying on a massive bed, surrounded by rose petals and covered strategically with a blanket

Hang on, I’m sending you pics

India

NO

DO NOT SEND ME ANY PICTURES.

Are you gonna get in trouble for taking photos???

ME

Oops. Maybe? Too late either way

I refuse to suffer silently or alone

India

brb, gotta find some bleach for my eyes

I keep waiting to enter a room that isn’t intensely opulent in Maude Ellery’s mansion, but the time never comes. Every single room is richly decorated, overdone, and it seems unbelievable that someone actually lives here full time. I would be entirely uncomfortable in such a stiff, dark environment—it’s seven-thirty in the evening, so the sun has set, but even in broad daylight this place would be gloomy. I would suffocate, as surely as if all that brocade was pressed over my face.

Give me light colors and open spaces and lots of bookshelves. I want comfortable, squashy couches and fuzzy blankets.

I guess that’s why Maude lives here and I don’t, though.

Someday soon you will move out of your parents’ basement, I tell myself as I stare around the living room, checking to make sure I’ve opened all the windows.

Maude Ellery’s house is going to be two degrees by the time she gets back. She wants windows open in every room, and it is cold out there. I rub my hands up and down my arms, my sweater soft to the touch, and then I set a timer on my phone. I put it down on a couch cushion and bite my lip, thinking.

Were there any windows to open in the front entryway? I kind of don’t think so. But should I check?

Yeah. I should check. Maybe it doesn’t matter, but if she’s paying me to do this, I sort of feel like I should do it the way she wants.

So I flick the lights off and hurry out of the living room, keeping my eyes away from the awkward portraits, past the kitchen, under the staircase, and into the foyer. The carpet gobbles up my footsteps, and in a weird way, I’m glad. This place is eerie enough without the sound of echoing steps.

There are no windows in the foyer, I’m pleased to see; I nod decisively and turn to go back to the kitchen. No sooner than I do, though, something sounds behind me—a soft, almost ignorable rattle. I freeze in place, my heart skipping a beat or two.

When I clear my throat, the sound is too loud. The birds in the other room seem to have gone silent. Why aren’t they squawking anymore? Are they trying to spite me? Can they sense how desperately I’m suddenly wishing for ambient noise ?

I cast a glance over my shoulder at the door, even though I know I’m being paranoid. It’s windy outside. Doors rattle. That’s fully a thing.

However. Despite knowing that the wind makes doors rattle, despite knowing that’s a thing—I start walking again, to the kitchen, heading not for the list on the fridge I need to double check but instead to the large stretch of cupboards. I offer up an apologetic look at whatever cameras may be watching. Then I do what any woman alone in a creepy house would do: I find the biggest frying pan I can and practice wielding it like a weapon.

Because what—am I supposed to call the police because the door rattled? No. Obviously not. This is not a horror movie. This is a Stella-has-an-overactive-imagination movie. But me and my overactive imagination will feel a lot better if we have something heavy and metal by our sides.

Just in case.

I blame this on India. I hope no intruders try to break in while you’re there —did she really have to say that?

I set the frying pan on the counter with a heavy metallic clank and then tuck a few blonde strands behind my ear so they won’t be in my face. Then I tighten my ponytail and pick the pan back up—only to drop it once more when, from the next room, a clatter reaches me.

I whirl around, listening intently; my pulse picks up as another sound finds its way to my ears, something muffled this time.

Breathe, I remind myself when I realize my vision is starting to swim. The windows are open, so you’re probably hearing something from outside.

Definitely. I’m definitely hearing something from outside, but I have no desire to check that theory. I would love to head straight for the front door, as a matter of fact, and put this place in my rearview mirror.

But I am strong and brave and smart—and sure, maybe I’ve regressed a bit in my life circumstances, but I am currently in charge of keeping this home secure. So I grab the pan and inch across the kitchen, ever so slowly, emerging past the shiny appliances and into the stuffy, dark living room where Maude Ellery’s portrait reigns.

My hand is sweaty where it grips the frying pan, and my heart thuds uncomfortably in my throat—but even though I stand completely still at the threshold of the room, everything is silent in here now, save for the whistling of the wind coming through the open windows. I exhale shakily as some of the tension leaks out of my body.

I’m hearing things, imagining things. I fed the animals and watered the plants and aired out the rooms. It’s time to get out of here.

So I hurry forward and begin closing windows one-handed, pushing aside the heavy drapes as I go, maintaining my grip on my makeshift weapon. One window, two, three…

It’s only when I reach the last window that I realize the screen is missing.

It was there before. I’m sure it was.

Ice cubes slip down my throat and into my stomach as I hear, from behind me, a voice—a man’s voice—out of the darkness, low and velvet and faintly sardonic.

“Waiting for me in the dark? A little creepy.”

I don’t think, and I don’t hesitate. I just act. With a scream I whirl around, raising the frying pan high in the air—and then I bring it down, hard.