Post #261680 by procinema29 on Thu, Oct 19, 2006 3:29 PM

"The Necklace" by Rodd Matsui

Copyright 2006 Rodd Matsui

PART ONE

Let me begin by saying that the mysterious telephone call, with its promise of a profitable short-term job, came after a barrage of bad calls early that morning, the nature of which I won’t go into except to say that after the barrage, I was becoming thoroughly convinced that someone was arranging some plan against me, a plan that seemed to involve sudden simultaneous betrayals on the part of my closest friends. After the last ill communication, I was pretty depressed and preparing not to leave the house that day; the world seemed unfaceable. When the phone rang again, I was hesitant to pick it up. But I did.

“This is Henrietta Phillips,” said the voice, though the hissing static obscured it. “Can you hear me?”

“I think so,” I said. “Can I help you?”

The static seemed to clear slightly, then, “There. That’s better. I have a job for you, if you’ll take it. Can you come up to Annan Woods on short notice?” It sounded like an old woman’s voice.

I told her that I could, and asked the nature of the job and what it was paying. She would only say the matter would be discussed on my arrival, and it would be worth my while.

My occupation is nothing very special; I do odd jobs, fix things, move things, paint. I’ve never had to advertise; work has been a steady trickle ever since I moved to this quiet community. Handiwork will probably never make me wealthy, but I do get by with it; and it is a solitary type of job which allows me to think and ponder things--my inexpensive lifetime hobby.

I grabbed my tool kit and some smokes and headed out to Annan Woods, which I knew was up towards the hilly parts of this area, although I had never had reason to go there. After negotiating a number of increasingly mazelike and narrow streets, I finally came upon the cul-de-sac described to me earlier; at the end of the cul-de-sac there was a large gate of chain-link, beyond it a slim drizzle of blacktop that I supposed passed for a road. The blacktop led to an old two-story house a couple of hundred yards away. This was the Phillips estate. The weeds and dirt that had come to overtake the place told me no one had come to maintain it in some time, though equally apparent was the fact that, some four or five decades past, this rather large area of leveled-out hillside had been home to a wealthy family; in front of the house was a decayed but beautifully constructed courtyard of ancient cement, with raised rectangular structures for flowers to be grown in, and a magnificent fountain now covered with a network of fissures. Even from this distance the place was quite a sight, and I looked forward to getting a better look at it; I got out of my car to open the gate, which had no lock, and drove in.

I parked just in front of the courtyard, and just as I got out of the car I heard the front door of the place squeak open. I turned to see a woman of seventy or more standing in the doorway. She was wearing a long, plain gray dress and slippers, and her hair looked wild, as if she’d just woken up; yet this was a woman of a notable beauty which the years had dampened but hardly extinguished; I observed, for a moment, her proud brow and fine slim nose and strangely piercing dark eyes.