The Scent of Heather. V. J. Banis

She chuckled softly. “You know me, Maggie. I’m a pushover for a handsome man.”

      Maggie said nothing. She remembered that night a long, long time ago when she came home unexpectedly and found her husband and Rebecca locked in an embrace. No man was sacred insofar as Rebecca was concerned.

      As they opened the front door they bumped into David McCloud. “Well, where are you two off to?” he asked.

      “We’re going to see the sights in your town,” Rebecca said.

      “Don’t get lost. Remember, I’m calling for you at seven.” He gave a little salute and went past them and up the stairs.

      Mrs. Johnston was sweeping the front steps when they came out onto the porch. In her white dress and apron, standing against the white of the building, she was almost invisible. There was a man dozing in a wheelchair at the far end of the porch.

      “I trust the room is satisfactory?” Mrs. Johnston asked.

      “Fine, fine,” Maggie answered. “We were just going for a stroll before dinner.”

      Mrs. Johnston leaned slightly forward toward Maggie, as though intending to impart a secret. “You did say you were only staying for tonight, is that correct?”

      “Yes,” Maggie answered.

      “You’ll be moving into Heather House tomorrow?”

      “Yes.”

      “I know it isn’t any of my business, Mrs. Garrison, but I believe you are making a mistake by leasing that property.”

      “Why do you say that?” Maggie asked, a little taken aback.

      “The house is evil,” the woman said. Her eyes went a little wild and she pulled her mouth down at the corners. “It’s a bad place. Go back where you came from.”

      Maggie frowned. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible.”

      “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I wouldn’t be found dead in that old place.”

      Maggie stiffened. She resented the woman’s familiarity. “I don’t think you need worry about being found dead there, Mrs. Johnston,” Maggie said icily. She took a dislike to the woman. “At least not while my sister and I are living there.” She let the implication rest where it lay.

      Mrs. Johnston gave her an ugly little smile. “You’ll be sorry, Mrs. Garrison. You’ll live to regret your decision.”

      Rebecca, feeling uncomfortable, tugged at Maggie’s sleeve. “Shall we go, Maggie?”

      Maggie felt like giving the woman a piece of her mind but she let Rebecca pull her away.

      “What in the world was that all about?” Rebecca asked when they were out of earshot.

      “Crazy old thing,” Maggie said. Yet as much as she tried to pass off Mrs. Johnston’s remarks, they gnawed away at her.

      She didn’t know why, but she suddenly felt afraid.

      * * * *

      The restaurant David chose was a nice little place with red plaid wallpaper, beamed ceilings and a blazing fireplace. It was a charming room with lots of cozy atmosphere. The food was surprisingly good, the service excellent. The dinner conversation, it seemed, was devoted almost exclusively to Mrs. Johnston.

      “Is she balmy or what?” Maggie wanted to know.

      David chuckled. “Yes, she’s a bit odd, I must admit, but quite harmless.”

      “What’s this thing she has about painting everything white?” Rebecca asked.

      “The house was once a nursing home. Mrs. Johnston and her husband ran it.”

      “That old prune is married?” Rebecca asked, quite surprised.

      “Her husband’s paralyzed.”

      “He must have been the man snoozing in the wheelchair. Remember, Maggie?”

      “Yes,” David said, “that’s Mr. Johnston. He’s a great old guy. Unfortunately Mrs. Johnston doesn’t treat him too kindly. Nobody can figure out why she ever married him, disliking him as she obviously does.” David sighed. “Love sometimes doesn’t last long, unfortunately, which is too bad.”

      “Are your rooms white also?” Rebecca asked.

      “No, poor Mrs. Johnston was quite upset with me at first when I hired a couple of the local boys to come in and paint my little apartment. I didn’t tell her what I was doing until it was well under way. Lucky for me she’s somewhat of a tightwad. She wouldn’t spend a nickel to have it repainted white so she more or less accepted it after she saw it. Naturally she raised my rent.” He laughed as he carved a piece off his steak. “She’s odd, all right, but it is the only place in town where you can get a room.”

      “You should build yourself a motel,” Rebecca suggested.

      “There really isn’t any call for one. As I told you, our tourist traffic is practically nil.” He put the piece of steak in his mouth and chewed.

      Rebecca patted his arm. “Well, if old Mrs. Johnston gets to be too much for you, you can always rent a couple of rooms from me and Maggie.”

      He swallowed hard, giving Rebecca the strangest look. “Yes, that would be nice,” he said. He averted his eyes and busied himself with carving another slice of meat. When he looked up he was smiling. “Of course, the local churchgoers wouldn’t look too kindly on my living in a house occupied by two beautiful and eligible women. We’d be the scandal of Pinebrook.”

      Rebecca smiled. “Good. Maybe it’ll liven things up around here.”

      “Rebecca,” Maggie admonished with a smile.

      “Incidentally,” Rebecca said, “Maggie and I noticed something rather peculiar during our little walk around the town this afternoon.”

      “Oh? What was that?”

      “Everybody here seems to have a penchant for white doors. I thought old Mrs. Johnston was strange with her all-white house, but everyone seems to have a thing for white. Every house we saw had a white front door. What’s the significance of that?”

      David looked sly. He bent his head and concentrated on his steak. “The original inhabitants of this area were the Maidu Indians. They were a very superstitious lot and the white doors you see around here are a throwback to one of their superstitions.”

      “The what Indians?” Rebecca asked.

      “Maidu. It’s believed that they migrated from Russia. From Siberia, to be exact. Thousands of years ago there was no such thing as the Bering Strait, which separates North America from Asia—Alaska from Russia. It was all one solid piece of land. Tribes looking for food and warmer climates crossed over what is now the Bering Strait and kept moving south. The Maidus were one of them, historians believe. There are still a lot of them around. They settled mostly in the Feather and American river valleys. We owe our steam baths to them.”

      “Our steam baths?” Rebecca laughed.

      “Yes. The Maidus and their neighbors to the north, the Pomo Indians, were very adept at constructing all sorts of buildings like dance halls and meeting houses.”

      “Dance halls? You’re putting me on.”

      “No, really. They used them for religious ceremonies and other rituals. They also built what they called ‘sweat-houses.’ They were made out of reeds and bark and inside the Indians sprinkled water over a pile of hot stones to produce steam. Every day the men took steam baths. They slept in those sweathouses and spent much of the winter inside them.”

      “Without their women? Very interesting,” Rebecca said. “But what does all this have to do with white doors?”

      “Nothing actually, except that the Maidus were very big on bleaching