Don't Fear, My Darling

By Laura Stewart Schmidt

It’s been five months since twenty-two-year-old Louisa Berry’s cherished grandfather died, and although she’s determined to live a life that honors his memory, she’s dropped out of college twice, and her refusal to play the corporate game has cost her three jobs. She thinks her new position—a live-in secretary to an elderly author, Marguerite Roberts—is perfect. But the moment she arrives at the Roberts’ house, Louisa senses an undercurrent of menace. The wheelchair-bound Marguerite is confined to her room, and the family members can barely disguise their hostility toward one another. A series of threatening events soon makes Louisa question whether her growing affection for Marguerite is enough to keep her in a house in which she can trust no one—not even Marguerite’s grandson, with whom she is falling in love. As the danger escalates, Louisa is trapped. She can’t leave Marguerite alone and unprotected. But she may be risking her own life if she stays.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Opal Books
• Release date: May 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644371244

Book preview

It’s been five months since twenty-two-year-old Louisa’s cherished grandfather died, and although she’s determined to live a life that honors his memory, she’s dropped out of college twice, and her refusal to play the corporate game has cost her three jobs. She thinks her new position--a live-in secretary to an elderly author, Marguerite Roberts--is perfect.

But the moment she arrives at the Roberts’ house, Louisa senses an undercurrent of menace. The wheelchair-bound Marguerite is confined to her room, and the family members can barely disguise their hostility toward one another. A series of threatening events soon makes Louisa question whether her growing affection for Marguerite is enough to keep her in a house in which she can trust no one--not even Marguerite’s grandson, with whom she is falling in love. As the danger escalates, Louisa is trapped. She can’t leave Marguerite alone and unprotected. But she may be risking her own life if she stays.

KUDOS FOR DON’T FEAR, MY DARLING

"It’s been said that money can’t buy happiness, but when Louisa Berry finds herself employed by the secretive and elusive children’s author, Marguerite Roberts she has her doubts. The family seems to be unfairly blessed with looks, health, and a lot of money. But it doesn’t take Louisa long to figure out that something seems definitely off and that even nice families have secrets. And, at the secluded mansion in which they are all living, everyone has something to hide. Don’t Fear, My Darling is more than a whodunit. It is a psychologically compelling story of love and how, when twisted, it can distort and pervert." ~ Cynthia A. Graham, winner of several writing awards, including a Gold IPPY, two Midwest Book Awards, and named a finalist for the Oklahoma Book Award.

Chilling, intense, and intriguing, this is a story that will grab and hold your interest from beginning to end. A great read. ~ Taylor Jones, The Review Team of Taylor Jones & Regan Murphy

Don’t Fear, My Darling is more than a mystery. It’s a story of tragedy, loss, a compelling need for revenge, and the lengths a twisted mind will go to achieve it--a book you will find both poignant and hard to put down." ~ Regan Murphy, The Review Team of Taylor Jones & Regan Murphy

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A novel takes a village, and Don’t Fear, My Darling has an especially large one. My thanks to the following:

The American Indian Society of St. Louis, for welcoming me and allowing me to be a part of their organization and celebrations.

Bill Royce, for the hours of Native American lore and careful explanations of the many artifacts in Mukwa Canada, his home.

Rissa Fregeau, Michelle Blechmann, and Tami Fernandez for their help with Hebrew.

My long list of readers, including, but not limited to, Karen Lumpe, Rhonda Johnson, Veraellen Goldie, David Bradley, Rochelle Kress, Juliet Popkin, Becky Keough, Angie Stoecklin, Charlotte Zimmermann, Phyllis Wheeler, and Julia Maranan.

Sandy Schertzl of Issaquah Middle School for her help with my research.

Erin Shanks, for inspiring the story about the painting that wasn’t supposed to be Louisa’s.

Barbara Peters of The Poisoned Pen, whose excellent feedback took the early novel in a different--and better--direction.

Jill Marr of the Sandra Dijkstra Agency, who critiqued it at the All Write Now! Conference. Many thanks for her encouragement and great suggestions, including replacing my original long and clunky title. Good call!

Debbie Manber Kupfer for her professional editing work. You were a smart choice.

Cynthia Graham for her review.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Don’t Fear, My Darling uses the terms Indian or American Indian to refer to Native Americans. The novel takes place in 1987. As Louisa tells Tamara, Indian was, at that time, the term used by most Native Americans to refer to themselves.

During my membership in the American Indian Society, I became familiar with the phrases Indian Time (whenever the individual decides to show up) and Indian Car (a vehicle used to transport its owners to powwows, typically festooned with bumper stickers from various locations, and not always in excellent body shape or repair).

These terms and phrases are used to bring authenticity to Louisa’s character and not, in any way, to show or indicate disrespect.

Multiple Sclerosis is a disease with many different symptoms and forms, and can be unique to each person diagnosed with it. While some of Marguerite’s symptoms are fairly typical, her experience with MS is not meant to represent any experience other than her own.

Don’t Fear, My Darling

Laura Stewart Schmidt

A Black Opal Books Publication

Copyright © 2019 by Laura Stewart Schmidt

Cover Design by Jackson Cover Designs

All cover art copyright © 2019

All Rights Reserved

EBOOK ISBN: 9781644371244

EXCERPT

I was sure someone was trying to kill Marguerite, but why were they trying to kill me too?

The next night I was awakened by Marguerite’s voice shouting a question. I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like, Who’s there?

Her door was open. It had to be or I wouldn’t have been able to hear her. Why was her door open? Who was in her room?

I flung the covers off and a chilly draft hit me. The door that led to the balcony stood open.

There was a dark form by my bed.

I opened my mouth to yell, but all I could do was inhale before the shape snatched the extra pillow and crushed it onto my face.

All Songs Quoted Used with Permission

of the Copyright Holders

HAIR

Music by GALT MacDERMOT Words by JAMES RADO and GEROME RAGNI

Copyright © 1966, 1967, 1968, 1970 (Renewed) JAMES RADO, GEROME RAGNI, GALT MACDERMOT,

NAT SHAPIRO and EMI U CATALOG

All Rights Administered by EMI U CATALOG (Publishing) and ALFRED PUBLISHING CO., INC. (Print)

Used By Permission of ALFRED MUSIC

THE RENEGADE

Words and Music by IAN TYSON and SYLVIA FRICKER

Copyright © 1986 1968 WARNER BROS. INC. (ASCAP)

Used By Permission of ALFRED MUSIC

THE LION SLEEPS TONIGHT

Written by Luigi Creatore, Hugo Peretti, Solomon Linda, and George David Weiss

Copyright © 1961. Renewed and assigned to Abilene Music LLC (ASCAP)

Administered worldwide by Concord Music Publishing.

International copyright secured

All rights reserved

Used by permission

DEDICATION

For my stepdad, Miles Edenburn, who took me to the corner newsstand when I was thirteen and bought me my first Writer magazine. I still have it.

And my father, Wendell Stewart, who took me to the bookstore when I was fourteen and bought me my first Writer’s Market. I traded it in for a later edition, but I still have the cover.

Chapter 1

Just before my grandfather died, he made me promise to stay in school and stop wrecking my life with what he called my stubborn impetuousness.

Five months later, I was doing a great job, if dropping out of community college for the second time and being fired from my third job in seven months could be called great.

Now there was a light in the darkness. My new employer had said some strange things during our phone interview, but I doubted she would tell me my hip-length hair and the dressings I loved to wear in it were unprofessional--as my most recent ex-boss had made the mistake of doing.

If she did, she would be Job Number 4.

I shook my head and my brush caught in an errant tangle. I couldn’t keep getting fired, even if corporate environments made me feel like a falcon shoved into a shoebox. If Grandpa were here, he would be crushed. He’d thought I was capable of a lot more.

This time will be different, I told him silently. I have an elderly woman to work with. I think we clicked when she interviewed me. I won’t let you down this time.

***

Morning rush hour was almost over. It was an easy drive to Issaquah, especially since most of the traffic went the opposite direction into Seattle. I flipped through the radio, pausing on KIRO news. Same stuff as every other day, only worse. President Reagan was admitting responsibility for Iran-Contra after months of investigation and testimony by several of the top people in his administration. Big surprise. Reverend Jerry Falwell thought his fallen comrade, Jim Bakker, who was probably facing some pretty serious prison time, was a scourge on Christianity. Bigger surprise. The Mariners were in second place, the first time they’d done this well in their ten-year history, but the Twins looked unstoppable. I didn’t care. I’d never been a big baseball fan.

I shut off the news and switched to a cassette of Tony Rice. Tony’s soothing baritone kept me company over the bridge and into Issaquah, and I hit town before seven. Issaquah was a historic mining town, settled into its own little carved-out spot in the mountains, untouched by urban sprawl--so far. I wondered how long it would be before the new arrivals to the area discovered it and jacked the prices up beyond even the stratosphere in which they already existed. Clearly money wasn’t an issue for the Roberts family.

Roberts, as in Airtech, one of the biggest companies in Seattle. In the country. As in Oh, those Roberts, which was what I’d thought when Marguerite Roberts explained who her family was. Until then I’d thought I was speaking just to a Newbery Medal-winning children’s author.

Her newspaper ad had asked for a competent and discreet typist to help with her latest novel. I hadn’t had a chance to ask her why she wanted discretion. Nor why her family lived with her but went their own ways, in her words.

Nor why she had offered me a live-in job within a day after our phone interview--just long enough to check the references I’d given her. If indeed she had.

Clearly there was something Mrs. Roberts wasn’t telling me.

But whatever it was, it couldn’t be worse than the three jobs I’d been fired from. Nothing could.

And if I kept telling myself that, I’d believe it.

The town was quiet and cool. Morning fog hadn’t dissipated yet, and the surrounding mountains were green and silver. It promised to be one of the days when Seattleites say, The Mountain’s out, meaning we can see the white crown of Mount Rainier over the city instead of its usual veil of clouds. Even in mid-August, Seattle mornings are light jacket weather, and I had to run my defroster as I drove down the narrow street past the Historic Society and up the road that wound by the high school.

The side road Mrs. Roberts had told me to look for was about a mile beyond the school. Signs bellowed PRIVATE PROPERTY NO TRESPASSING. The road was so steep I had to shift gears, and then a mansion came into sight, looming before me, a Colonial design with a flat façade.

The gate was open, so I didn’t have to bother with the passcode she’d given me. As I drove up the long, curving driveway, I got a better look at the house. Utilitarian popped into my mind. The stark, glassy architecture was broken only by a long balcony extending from the front of the house to the right side. The kind of walkway someone was always getting shoved off in old movies.

You just got here, I told myself. How about putting your imagination on a leash? But something about the house didn’t give off a welcoming vibe, and I wondered if this had been such a hot idea. I felt like Maria in The Sound of Music, arriving at her new job and taking one horrified look before whispering Oh, help. Like the Von Trapp castle, this house had a personality, and if the inhabitants’ matched it, maybe I should turn around and drive like hell in the direction of out.

Apparently most of Mrs. Roberts’ family had already left for work, as there was only one car in the open garage--a brown Nova, dusty spots from the latest drizzle peppering its trunk, and stickers covering the bumper. Surf Naked. Party Naked. Study Naked. Let’s All Get Naked and Get in a Pile.

I’d have to find out whose car that was and thank them. I wasn’t intimidated anymore.

I knocked on a massive front door with a knocker shaped like an airplane. It was opened by a woman, thirtyish, in khakis and a pink blouse. Are you Louisa Berry? she asked.

Yes.

I’m Carol, the maid. Follow me, please.

I stepped inside and my scuffed moccasins sank into a cream-colored carpet. I tilted my head back as far as it would go to find the ceiling. When I looked back down, Carol was waiting with a patient twist to her mouth that could have been either a smile or a smirk. Mrs. Roberts would like you to go to her room. She led me to a staircase and pointed up. Her door is that first one on your right.

Thanks.

The staircase was steep as stadium bleachers. No banisters, either. Unless Mrs. Roberts was in exceptionally good health or was younger than I had thought, that probably made it a challenge to get around the house. There was a mosaic of family pictures along the wall. I wanted to take a closer look at them, but it would have to wait until later. I did pause long enough to pick out the people I’d be living with for a while. From what Mrs. Roberts had told me, the impeccable redhead had to be her daughter-in-law, Jenna. A young man with dark hair and eyes and the kind of smile that made you wonder what he was thinking--Mrs. Roberts’s grandson. A movie-star blonde, hair worn in stylish chaos and probably dyed, and the kind of suntan most Pacific Northwesterners had to pay for--her granddaughter.

I reached a landing with a bay window that overlooked acreage no one would refer to as a backyard. There was a covered swimming pool and a tennis court, surrounded by woods that sloped into the mountains. The fog veil was gone and everything sparkled green.

The next door down from Mrs. Roberts’s opened just enough for me to catch a glimpse of tawny hair and hazel eyes narrowed in a frown. I could smell coffee coming from the white cup held in raspberry-tipped and multi-ringed fingers just before her other hand bumped the door closed.

Nice to meet you too.

I took a deep breath, turned right, and knocked at the first door. Mrs. Roberts?

Come in, Louisa.

I opened the door and stopped short.

Marguerite Roberts was not even close to what I expected.

I hadn’t realized she would be in a wheelchair. Nor that she would be so attractive.

She smiled at me. Is something wrong, dear?

I recognized her voice or I would have wondered if I’d made some mistake. Wordlessly, I shook my head and did some quick mental math. Her son had died six years before, in 1981. He would have been forty-three had he lived, so his mother was at least in her mid-sixties. However, she could have passed for a much younger woman. Her nearly shoulder-length dark hair was only half gray, and her brilliantly blue eyes were clear and unobstructed by glasses. Even in her chair she was tall, and she shared her granddaughter’s pert nose and high cheekbones. In her youth, she would have been a very beautiful woman.

Youth, hell. She still was.

My father had that much gray hair at forty, were the first words out of my mouth.

She laughed.

I did too. Of course, he had me.

She gestured to the door. Please close that, then sit down and we’ll talk.

I closed the door then sat in the dusty-pink and white wingback chair she’d indicated. She smiled as I draped my hair over one arm of the chair. What beautiful hair. Do you always wear it so long?

I’ve never cut it. I fingered my hair ties.

What nationality are you, dear?

Yakima. I’ve been mistaken for a lot of things. One time in college some guy walked up to me and started speaking something like Vietnamese or Thai.

I glanced around the room, which was easily double the size of my apartment’s living room. There was enough floor space to allow her motorized wheelchair to move about easily. Her bed was hospital-style, with controls for adjusting the incline. A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf held neatly arranged hardbounds. I could read enough of the titles to tell that Mrs. Roberts’s taste ran to classics--both adults’ (To Kill a Mockingbird, Jane Eyre) and children’s (A Wrinkle in Time, Julie of the Wolves). She also had her own books, with several editions of the Newbery winner, I’ll Take the One On Either End, as well as the expected tools of her trade--a dictionary, thesaurus, and Writer’s Market. A small television rested on a table in a corner, and a remote lay on top of it. My TV didn’t have a remote, but I could see where it would be easier for her.

I studied a five-by-seven photo at my left elbow of a blond young man handsome enough to be a museum piece. Mrs. Roberts saw me looking at it. That was my son, Carl.

I thought so. I didn’t see a computer of any kind or even an old-fashioned typewriter. Where’s your computer?

She waved one hand in dismissal. I hate those things. Jenna bought me a fancy word processor on my last birthday. It was thoughtful of her, but I would have been just as happy with an old Royal standard. I do my first drafts in longhand.

The computer would probably make things easier, especially if you do a lot of re-writing.

That’s why I wanted a secretary. My handwriting isn’t what it used to be, and I’m too old to learn to use a computer.

Will I have to work with your agent or publisher?

I don’t have an agent. I was lucky enough that my first manuscript was accepted by a publisher, and I have good business sense, so I’ve never felt the need for a middleman.

I got the idea Marguerite Roberts didn’t feel much of a need for anyone. No wonder I’d bonded to her so fast. Uhm, do you need help getting in and out of your chair, and can I do that?

She smiled. No, dear. As long as the chair is by my bed I can get in and out of it on my own. Remember I have a nurse who comes to check on me twice a week. Your job is the book, period. That’s why I didn’t tell you I can’t walk. I didn’t want you to think you would be expected to do something you’re not prepared to do.

But you can’t possibly navigate that staircase.

There’s an elevator, she said. However, right now it’s broken.

I’m guessing someone’s coming out to fix it?

Eventually.

She’d said it lightly enough, but I caught the same undercurrent I’d heard on the phone. I wondered how long it had been broken and what the holdup was. However, it probably wasn’t something I should be grilling her about when I’d been there less than fifteen minutes.

I changed the subject. How old are your grandchildren?

Joel is twenty-four and Tamara is nineteen. She pronounced the name TAM-uh-ruh.

I was twenty-two, right in the middle. Do they work at Airtech?

No. Joel has a marketing degree from Seattle University and sells stereos. Tamara finished one year at Seattle Pacific University. She had to take this semester off because she had mononucleosis earlier in the summer.

That explained why she was still at home when the others had, presumably, gone to work. The Nova must be her car. Bad enough to keep her out of school for an entire semester?

She also caught pneumonia and had to be hospitalized for two weeks. She’s recovering fairly well, but her doctor insists that she not go overboard with physical activity. Jenna’s main concern is that Tamara is a competitive swimmer, and nothing in this world can keep her out of a pool. If she’s at home, Jenna can keep an eye on her, but once she leaves the house she won’t obey anyone’s orders. She chuckled. Tamara inherited her father’s stubborn streak, but I don’t think you’ll-- Slight stress on you’ll. --have any trouble getting along with her. You may find her a kindred spirit.

I grinned. It sounded like she loved her granddaughter.

Marguerite gestured to a notepad and pen on her nightstand. When you come back here, we can get to work.

How far are you in the book? What’s its title?

I haven’t titled it yet. I’m on Chapter Two. The computer is in the spare room next to Jenna’s bedroom, but if you prefer, I’ll have Carol set it up in your room.

I can do that.

Let Carol. That’s her job.

I didn’t like the idea of other people waiting on me, especially since I was basically a servant myself, but it was too early to start arguing with my new boss.

In the meantime, why don’t you ask my granddaughter to show you the house and grounds?

You mean the one who shut her door in my face?

There must have been something in my expression. Have you met her? Mrs. Roberts asked.

Uhm, sort of. For once I weighed my words carefully. As I was coming up the steps, she opened her door to look right at me then closed it.

Mrs. Roberts made a rueful face. It’s not personal. She’s having trouble adjusting to being home by herself.

She’s not by herself. She has you.

But I didn’t say that. I sort of got that idea.

She’ll come around. She’s a very interesting and intelligent girl with nothing to do. I think she’ll enjoy having another young person around the house.

I wasn’t so sure. Okay, Mrs. Roberts.

Now, we can’t have ‘Mrs. Roberts’ and ‘Louisa.’ Either you call me Marguerite, or I will call you ‘Miss Berry.’

Okay, Marguerite. As I turned to leave, something thin and pale blue near the floor caught my eye. I bent down to see what it was. What...

What is it?

It’s a piece of fishing line. I couldn’t break it, so I moved aside so she could see. It looks like it’s tied from one closet door to the other. I opened the door and, as I’d expected, it was a walk-in closet, with sliding doors on rollers, everything immaculately organized at Marguerite’s eye level. So, if you...

I trailed off. I didn’t really want to say, didn’t see it and rolled into the closet, your chair might snag on this, and if it didn’t break or come untied, you’d have to catch yourself before you went pitching forward onto the floor.

Who could have done such a thing?

Just what the hell was going on in this house?

Chapter 2

Marguerite wheeled over for a closer look. Hmm. Her tone was noncommittal, and I suspected she didn’t want to show emotion to someone she’d just met. I would have seen it before anything happened.

She wouldn’t be able to bend down to untie the wire. I couldn’t untie it, and couldn’t break it without cutting my fingers. Stay away from it until I bring a knife or scissors.

Marguerite waved one hand in complete disregard, but for the slightest moment I caught a twist to her mouth. It’s harmless now that I know it’s here.

It was way too early to ask her who in her family might do something like this to hurt or scare her. She didn’t even seem scared, but rather almost resigned, as though a mischievous child had done something silly.

Anyone in the house could have done it. It would be easy enough to wait until Marguerite was asleep, or bathing, to tie the wire. Or until she left the room. Even without the elevator, she wasn’t exactly a prisoner here. The hallways were more than wide enough for her chair. Carl might have designed the house himself with her in mind.

I was starting to think my job might entail keeping an eye on her as well as typing her book.

I left and knocked on the door I’d seen Tamara peeking out of. No answer. I followed the sound of blasting music to the first floor and found her in a study or office of some kind, sprawled over a sofa, listening to the La Bamba soundtrack on a boom box. I hadn’t seen the movie, but the music was all over the radio. I was already tired of it.

I had to ask her twice to turn it down before she did. I’m Louisa, your grandmother’s secretary. No response. I hadn’t expected one. She wants you to show me around the house. It can wait, if you’re busy.

She gave a snort that might have been her idea of a laugh. "I’m never busy. I was in bed all of June and July and I’ll be recuperating all term."

Did you catch those UVs in bed? Her skin was tanned nearly as golden as her hair.

She got up and stretched languidly, tugging an oversized pink sweatshirt down over stone-washed Jordache jeans. My big brother takes me to the tanning spa. I don’t have to look like I spent the summer in bed, do I?

She didn’t. She was thin, but too pretty to look sickly. Do you model?

She shook her head. I’m too short. I’m the family shrimp.

Shrimp? She was a head taller than I was. How tall are you?

Five-seven. What about you?

Five feet.

Don’t you hate being short?

I smiled as serenely as I could. Not a bit. I’m a gymnast.

Don’t you have to stand on chairs to get things out of cabinets?

All the time.

Does your hair get in the way?

Constantly. It had to be tied into an elaborate bun during gymnastics, and every once in a while, I looked at someone with a little pixie cut with envy. For about one second.

How come you don’t cut it?

Because I love it.

I guess I would too. Come on, if you want to see the house.

Where does your brother work?

Why do you want to know?

I wanted to stick a paintbrush into her smarmy smile. Just asking.

"Know how many