Read Online The Secret Staircase (A Wendover House Mystery Book 1) by Melanie Jackson - Free Book Online

muttered. “He thinks we’re all godless heathens clinging to our pagan, lawless ways. He especially disliked your great-grandfather.”
    Did he think that? I wondered if he were right. Certainly people seemed rather given to strange beliefs and I noticed several of the buildings sported “witch balls.” They were really just old glass balls used to float fishnets, but many people thought that hanging them over the windows and doors would keep out ill wishes and bad luck. Still, that didn’t mean people drank blood out of skulls or drowned virgins on May Day.
    “I suppose, this being New England, that there has to be one religious eccentric in town. Though I think it is rather rude of him to just assume I’m a godless heathen. Just because I apparently look like a Wendover doesn’t mean anything. I might be a lovely widowed person who teaches Sunday school to orphans and gives all my money to the poor.”
    The tension left Harris’s body.
    “It’s very rude and you are a lovely person. Don’t let his prejudice give you a distaste of the town. You will be very welcome.”
    We started walking again.
    “The pagans weren’t really godless or lawless, you know. He must not be much of a historian if that’s what he believes.”
    I think Harris laughed, but it was silent and over very quickly.
    “If you ever choose to tell him so, I would like to be there to hear it. A rebuke from a Wendover might make him faint from fear and spleen.”
    Mike’s Chowder House was doing a brisk business. It was a very masculine place. The only soft touch was an apologetically small vase of dried flowers at the end of the bar, and given its placement, behind what looked like a pickle barrel, I had the feeling it was left out due more to forgetfulness than sentimentality toward the donor.
    It was too early to eat again but I enjoyed meeting the owner and was carelessly introduced to Everett and Bryson Sands, the local law. Though I suspect it surprised them when I reached out to shake hands in a businesslike manner, they took my proffered fingers and pumped them once. I kept my grip kind of limp and ladylike.
    Someone called to Harris and he excused himself and went to collect his winnings. No one seemed surprised about the betting, though the one officer scowled a little as he stared after Harris.
    “So which of you is Bryson and which is Everett?” I asked.
    It turned out that Everett was the younger of the brothers, the thinner, the more bleached, and the more uptight. His smile was there at the proper moments but he didn’t mean a single millimeter of it, and his hands were callused and scarred. I was betting he did some fishing. Bryson had hair the color of peanut butter and was more slow moving and slow talking. I wasn’t sure if this was because of personality, massive size, or a lack of ambition concerning his career. The slightly enlarged midriff and slouched posture didn’t mean anything one way or the other. I’d been a reporter—albeit a small-town one—for long enough to know better than to judge someone by their appearance even if— especially if —they conformed to a stereotype by, for instance, eating donuts and sipping coffee at ten in the morning. He might very well be someone who talked slow but thought fast.
    Bryson offered me a lazy smile and a direct gaze, as though guessing he was the subject of my thoughts and finding my assessment amusing. I adore men with brains and I let myself smile back.
    “I won’t judge if you don’t judge,” I said softly and got a laugh. Everett looked blank.
    “Best offer I’ve had all day,” Bryson answered. “You should try the blueberry donuts before you go.”
    “I will.”
    Harris rejoined us and handed over his ill-gotten gains, asking Everett to give the money to his sister who ran some kind of benevolent fund for injured fishermen. After some polite goodbyes where I found myself saying that the brothers should feel free to visit anytime they came to the