The Little Black Book

Marisol couldn’t believe her luck. She pushed open the front door of her new home and swatted at cobwebs. Velvet curtains hung precariously from rods bending with the weight, and blocked what little light dappled through the live oaks surrounding the cottage. The tiny one-bedroom abode sat in the forgotten back corner of the LeBlanc estate. ‘LeBlanc’ a suitable name for the woman who’d just hired her, as she resembled an old white witch.

Marisol propped the door open with her suitcase. She could glimpse the kitchen from the entrance and excitement bloomed in her chest. Her new job and the cottage it included, brought her one step closer to her dream. One day she would have a kitchen of her own, where she could share her love of baking with the community. She picked her way through dust bunnies and cloth-covered furniture until the kitchen came into view. Not bad, but it definitely needed work, and cleaning. A large stone structure blocked the kitchen from being fully open to the living area. Marisol surmised it had once housed a fireplace or possibly an oil furnace. Madame LeBlanc had said she could make any changes she desired to the cottage and Marisol decided after a good cleaning, the stone chimney would be the first to go. Not only would this open up her living space, but it would allow her room to build a grand island in the kitchen where she could bake to her heart’s content.

After testing the water pressure and examining the stove, Marisol moved to the living area and removed the dust cover from a settee. She retrieved the little black book Madame LeBlanc had given her when she’d told her the job was hers.

“Here child.” She’d croaked in a voice that could have been 60 or 110. “Write my words down carefully and be certain you complete each task. Bring this book with you daily, so the list can be double checked. I have no tolerance for laziness.”

Marisol had dutifully recorded each cleaning chore she was to perform in ‘the big house’, as well as the total salary she’d be paid weekly. The amount was meager but paid in cash, and as it included the accommodations of the little cottage, she’d readily accepted. Working as a maid to an old woman was not a dream job but with only $129.00 left in her bank account, her options were few and her opportunities far between.

She turned past the lists of chores for the big house, to a fresh page in the book. A fresh page for a fresh life, she thought as she began to sketch out the cottage kitchen as it currently stood. On the opposite page she sketched her vision for what it could be. Yes, the stone structure would be the first thing to go. She marked it with an X and wrote #1 beside it on the paper.

***

As instructed, Marisol brought the black book with her to the big house each day and left it on the foyer table, returning to it frequently to double check that her chores were completed. The big house was aptly named; however, Madame LeBlanc’s instructions were that she only need clean the first-floor, so if Marisol worked full out, she could get it done within her 8 hours each day. She hadn’t seen Madame LeBlanc since their first meeting, but she felt her presence as if she lurked somewhere, spying on her, to ensure a job well done. On the Friday of her first week, as Marisol went to retrieve the black book, her pay, in cash, lay amidst the pages.

Though weary from all the cleaning at the big house, a lightness retuned to her step as she walked back to her cottage. She had the whole weekend off and she could focus on her own living space. Visions of the first thing she’d bake once she renovated the kitchen filled her mind as she walked the distance to her cottage. Fresh hot scones, or ooh, maybe she’d bake cinnamon buns. Tucked beneath the safety of the live oaks at the far back of the property, Marisol opened the black book and counted her pay.

The money was as expected but something was not, and Marisol stopped in her tracks. The cash had been placed between the pages of her sketches, specifically one she had done of the outside of the cottage. There, leaning up against the exterior wall, was a sledgehammer. Surely, she would have remembered sketching a sledgehammer, especially one she had never seen. Had Madame LeBlanc added this to her book when she wasn’t looking? Marisol tucked the book in her back pocket and ran the rest of the way to the cottage. There it was, exactly as the sketch predicted. Partially covered in vines, it couldn’t have just been placed there. Could she have sketched it without realizing what it was? Tentatively, she pulled off the old vines and tested its weight. It appeared sturdy and though she could hardly wrap her head around it, this was just what she needed to begin removing the stone chimney from the kitchen.

Inside the cottage, Marisol put the black book on the counter in the kitchen and lugged the sledgehammer to the chimney. She took a deep breath and then swung with all her might. THWACK! The stone crumbled slightly, and a white mark showed where she’d struck. Again, and again she swung the hammer until finally, a tiny hole appeared in the stone. Exhausted, but satisfied, Marisol propped the hammer against the chimney and went to bed.

***

The smell woke her before the sun, lingering in her nostrils like a distant memory. She sat up in bed, sniffing the air, not quite catching the scent. She shook it off as the residue of a weird dream and readied herself for a weekend day of hard labour in her cottage.

Once again, she swung the sledgehammer, slowly breaking the stone and finally revealing a hole as big as her hand. The sweat on her brow felt good. She wasn’t just waiting for destiny; she was the creator. She took a break and opened the window. The dank smell that woke her still lingered, but the fresh air should help. A breeze blew in, gently lifting the pages of her black book. Marisol stared at her sketch of the kitchen. The X on the chimney was still present but…What? How could that be? She picked up the book to examine it closer.

There, in her very own sketch was the hole she’d just made in the chimney. It wasn’t…it couldn’t…She looked up at the chimney and down again at her sketch. Unbelievably, they matched. The book slipped from her hand and she took a step back. What was happening here? A breeze from the window caught the hair on the back of her neck and she shivered as she took a deep breath to calm her nerves. Steady, she told herself, and bent to pick up the book. She turned to the page and studied it closer. In her sketch, there was something sticking out of the hole. She willed herself to walk back to the actual chimney. Her heart pounded in her ears as she took a step forward. It looked like the side of a belt, or maybe a strap?

She reached for it, half expecting it to disappear as she touched it, but it was real and it was leather. She tugged slightly. There was weight to it. Another firm tug and some small stones broke free, toppling her back onto the ground with a brown leather purse in her hands. She scrambled to her feet and looked around the room.

What on earth was happening? A purse in the chimney, that materialized from her sketch? She looked from the purse to her book and back again... Whose purse? She opened the flap and gasped. There was cash, bills, hundreds of them.

Not hundreds, thousands. Twenty thousand to be exact. Marisol had no idea what was going on or how the money had come to be in a purse in the chimney. Or how the sketches in her book kept changing. Should she take the money up to Madame LeBlanc? Her mind raced with scenarios. Madame LeBlanc was wealthy and elderly. She lived in a huge mansion on this huge estate. Twenty thousand was probably nothing for Madame LeBlanc, whereas for Marisol it could mean everything. Was it even technically Madame LeBlanc’s money? Finders keepers, right?

Marisol sat on the settee and stared at the money. The stacks of bills on the table fluttered with the breeze from the window and before she’d made a conscious decision, Marisol put all the money back in the purse and ran to her bedroom, shoving the purse between the mattress and box spring of her bed.

She didn’t have to do anything really. There was no rush to decide. She could take her time, weigh the options. She wasn’t due back at the big house until Monday. She could sleep on it, literally.

***

The acrid smell permeated her dreams and Marisol woke up coughing. She rose from the bed and went directly to the chimney in the kitchen. Yes, the smell was definitely stronger near the chimney. She peered inside the tiny hole but only darkness met her gaze. She retrieved her black book and turned to the sketch of the kitchen. She shook her head in disbelief. It couldn’t be. With a growing sense of urgency, she grabbed the sledgehammer and she struck at the stones. Again, and again she swung, until the hole opened large enough to reveal the contents of her sketch. The light was poor but she could just make it out. There, inside the chimney was the decaying body of a woman.

If she’d had breath, she would have screamed but instead she stood frozen, grappling with the smell and the horror. Her mind spun. What could she do? Call the police? No, the cottage was ancient and had no phone lines. Tell Madame LeBlanc? But what if the old woman was the one responsible for the body? She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth. She had to do something, tell someone. She’d leave. Take the money and run. Make an anonymous call to the police to tell them.

Wary of taking her eyes off the hole in the chimney, Marisol hurried to her bedroom, packed her things, grabbed the purse of money and slung it over her shoulder. As she rushed to the front door her toe caught on something and she stumbled to the ground. She turned to see what had tripped her and the black book lay open, with her sketch, but not her sketch, staring up at her. Her heart pounded as she stared at the drawing, right there in front of her, predicting the future. And Marisol found her scream.

***

Madame LeBlanc looked around the room in the cottage. All was as it should be, except for the black book which lay open on the floor. She picked it up and gazed upon the sketch; an image of Marisol pounding on the stones from inside the fully restored chimney.

Madame LeBlanc smiled and the wrinkles faded from her face. She rolled her shoulders and the weariness left her bones. She straightened her spine and youth and vitality flooded her body once more. And the sketches slowly faded from the little black book.