by Eliza Watson
“Seeing as you’re wearing a vintage dress, I think people will be realizing a theft didn’t just occur. Make a plea for help with cracking the cold case. And a sexy British accent would make it more authentic.” He wore a sly grin.
“I can’t talk in a British accent.”
“Right, then, forget the accent and just talk very proper and serious. Speak from your heart. You’re passionate about saving the estate, and the only way to do that is to find the blokes who nicked the paintings.” He framed the air with his hands. “Who locked you up in the loo. Ya can do this for George’s sake. Not only are we rooting for George but against that bloody Enid. Don’t want to be letting her win, do ya?”
A growl vibrated at the back of my throat. Mac barked.
I smiled, and Declan began recording.
Chapter Thirteen
After lying in bed all night listening to rain drip into the silver bucket, anticipating water gushing from the ceiling, I got up at 4:00 a.m., deciding to get a jump start on my busy day.
Despite the space heater in the bathroom, I was too cold to shower, and I didn’t want to wake up Mom. I tossed my hair up in a clip but took time for mascara so Declan didn’t think I’d let myself go since arriving in England. I quietly threw on jeans and Declan’s blue wool sweater over a long-sleeved blue tee and wrapped my mohair scarf around my neck. I needed to cut the fingertips off my gloves so I could wear them while typing.
When I entered the library, I swore I could see my breath. Frost covered the bottom of the windows. However, no snow blanketed Thomas’s purple and pink peonies in the garden. Although it was dark out, moonlight cast a faint light over the frosted grounds, giving it a serene, though cold, look.
Shivering, I walked over to the fireplace. I’d never built a fire but had seen Declan do it many times. I stacked kindling, then strategically placed wood on top of it. I lit the kindling, and flames shot up. Holding my hands near the fire, I rubbed them together, the feeling slowly returning to my fingers.
Maybe I could be Little Caity on the Bog after all.
I booted my laptop and pulled up the website for Ireland’s civil records. Having spent so much time on the site, I could navigate it with my eyes closed. Baptismal records for Killybog were only available online until 1900, and merely an index listed civil records. I searched for Grandma’s birth record for the millionth time, checking alternate birth years, name spellings, anything that might be a lead. Dozens of female Coffey birth certificates in County Westmeath were missing first names and parents’ names. Precisely why Nicholas Turney needed to view the original records at the registrar’s office today. My chest fluttered, and I crossed my fingers for good luck.
An hour later I was perusing Canada’s 1861 census, trying to locate Bernice and Gracie’s McKinney family. After murdering the surname every way possible, I still couldn’t find it. I opened the 1871 census I’d attached to James McKinney’s family tree on Ancestry.com. I viewed the scrawled handwriting on the original image, reconfirming it was the correct family.
I scanned the page, zoning in on a Richard McKinney living three houses away with Rebecca Hale, a widow. Richard was sixteen, two years older than James’s brother John McKinney. Had Richard been the oldest son, not John? Had he been living with a widowed aunt or rellie? McKinney was an uncommon name. I was ecstatic at the possibility yet wanted to beat my head against the desk in frustration. I’d spent a hundred hours searching Scotland’s records for a James McKinney born to a John and Mary in the Glasgow area. I hadn’t found it because it likely didn’t exist. I was fairly certain there’d been a James born to a Richard. Ugh!
Mom walked into the room wearing her robe and glasses, startling me. “It’s only six. What are you doing up?”
“Couldn’t sleep. Just doing a bit of research.”
She stood over by the fireplace. “Good job with the fire. Some tea might also help warm us up. Would you like some, and one of Fanny’s scones?”
“A lemon poppy seed would be great.”
Mom went to the kitchen to make breakfast. We really needed to learn how to operate that massive cast-iron stove. It could probably heat the entire house in five minutes flat.
As much as I wanted to pursue this new McKinney lead, I couldn’t get sucked in to genealogy research when I needed to work on my day job.
By 9:00 a.m., I’d downed six cups of tea and eaten three lemon poppy seed scones. High on caffeine, my fingers were flying across the keyboard. I’d booked a Dublin restaurant for the twenty-person meeting at the Connelly Court Hotel in two weeks. Found a template for requesting hotel proposals on a planners’ forum. After going through the binder, I determined that last year’s hotel contract was missing and contacted the hotel for a copy. I was currently typing away as Declan fired off hotel and venue recommendations for Florence and Dubrovnik. Surprisingly, Rachel was still in bed, so now was the time to pick Declan’s brain.
“Planners are always asking me for recommendations. You shouldn’t hesitate to ask Rachel about the contracts. I’ve never negotiated one. I haven’t a clue about group rates.”
“I’ll negotiate provisions based on last year’s contract. Once I get it from the hotel.” I glared at the massive binder on the desk, which was undoubtedly missing more than the contract. “The rates will just be different.”
“Accounting for fluctuating exchange rates might be a wee bit of a challenge. Croatia isn’t on the euro.”
Lovely. One more issue to deal with.
“How do you spell that villa in Italy?” I asked.
“What villa in Italy?” Rachel shuffled into the library in George’s red wool slippers, tightening the sash on his navy robe. She plopped down on the couch with her laptop.
“Nothing, just chatting.”
Declan left me with a kiss to begin his third painting.
“I can’t believe you slept in.”
“Didn’t go to bed until after two. Finished the website. We just need to test it this morning before we start promoting it. I also created a flyer to hand out in town today.” She eyed the printer under the desk, which looked like it should be housed in the Smithsonian. “If that doesn’t work, we’ll find a place to have them printed.”
“Wow, you did have a busy night.”
She nodded. “Where’s Mom?”
“Took Mac for a walk. Will probably have him fully trained by the time they return. And Thomas is outside redesigning his damaged shrubs.” I cringed at the thought of David’s missing body parts.
“Did you talk to your boss yet?”
I shrugged. “It’s Monday. He probably has loads of e-mails to get through and calls to make.”
“He’s the CEO. He checks e-mail and voicemail twenty-four seven. You can’t put this off.”
“Okay. I’ll do it now.”
Rachel sat there, watching me.
“I can’t call with you listening.”
“Fine.” She dragged herself up from the couch. “I’ll go grab something to eat.” She walked past me, her gaze narrowing on my computer screen. “Is that my VIP suite checklist?”
“Yeah, I was just looking through my file of meeting notes.”
She squinted at the screen. “You have twenty-three pages of planner notes?” She sounded impressed. “That’s great. That’s how you learn, by watching other planners and asking questions.”
Maybe I should ask Rachel for some hotel suggestions…
“Even though I wasn’t happy about you going for the job, I know you can do it. I’m proud of you for landing it on your own merit.”
Rachel was proud of me?
It wasn’t a warning disguised as a compliment that I better not mess up. But it convinced me even more that I couldn’t ask her for assistance on the Europe incentive after she’d said on my own merit. And made me more worried about her reaction when she discovered I hadn’t started the citizenship process after assuring my boss it was a given.
She pointed to the white binder. “That’s i
nsanely huge.”
Rachel stored meeting documents in a computer file but kept paper backup copies for critical ones like contracts… Which she also kept on Brecker’s network drive… A drive I had access to. I didn’t have to ask Rachel for help. I could review her contracts online. Not like I’d be hacking into her computer system. I had legitimate access. Yet it still seemed wrong to not ask her, and what if she could tell I’d accessed the files?
Rachel headed toward the door.
“If you’ve run out of energy drinks, there’s a stash in the cupboard by the fridge.” I was going to be hitting them before this day was done.
“I still have some cold ones. Trying to cut back. Figured vacation would be a good time to wean myself off.”
Seriously?
Speed-dialing my boss, I took an encouraging breath, peering out the window at the rain watering the pink and purple peonies. I stifled a yawn right when my boss answered the call.
I explained my circumstances.
“Family comes first,” he said.
“I’ll be working from here. I’ve started the ball rolling on the Europe incentive, checking hotel rates and availability.”
“Decided to hold a June meeting with our brewery in Kerry, either at the Ballyseede or Ballygarry hotels. They’re both popular, so we need to move on it straight away. I’ll give it to Gemma to plan.”
After the wench had stolen the St Patrick’s Day event, no way in hell was she staying at a castle when I was glamping! I assured him I could handle it and crossed my fingers that I wouldn’t have been deported by then.
“I don’t want you overwhelmed when you’re new to the position and have family issues to tend to.”
He sounded like my mom.
“I can handle it,” I said.
“If you’re sure…”
What did I need to do to gain this guy’s confidence?
We said good-bye, and I sat there with the phone to my ear, staring out at Thomas in his wellies and green rain gear, walking through the garden. Why hadn’t I let my boss hand the new meeting off to Gemma? I didn’t have time for another project. But I needed to prove myself.
An e-mail popped in my inbox from Mindy. She had some great suggestions for Dubrovnik. Some of her Florence recommendations matched Declan’s. Same as Declan, she didn’t negotiate contracts, so she wasn’t familiar with hotels’ average group rates. I might have to break down and ask Rachel to review them. This had to be a killer program. Mindy was in Barcelona working a program from hell with Blair, the planner I’d worked with in Prague.
Weren’t all of Blair’s programs hell?
And to think I’d almost signed on for her May meeting in Monte Carlo. I cringed at the thought.
I’d never seen the Blair Witch Project.
I’d lived it.
* * *
Late morning we went into Dalwick to promote the event. Declan set up his easel next to the quaint stone bridge across from Nicole’s Vintage Finds. A pic of one of the stolen paintings was clipped to the top of the easel. Declan wore black slacks, a white button-down shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and George’s red ascot tied loosely around the shirt’s crisp collar. He’d actually ironed for the occasion. A clump of hair fell over his forehead while he painted with dramatic enthusiasm, capturing the attention of passersby.
I fought the urge to rip off his ascot and shirt.
God, I loved that man.
Rachel waved a hand in front of my face. I dragged my gaze from Declan to my sister in the champagne-colored dress and matching long satin gloves. Wearing high heels, the bottom of her dress came just shy of touching the ground. The rain had stopped, but we’d have to avoid puddles. Dry cleaning was not in our budget.
“Why don’t you stay here and hand out flyers so Declan doesn’t have to stop painting to do it. Mom and I’ll walk around town and drop some off at the gallery.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
A couple was already asking Mom about her burgundy dress and fancy black hat with the gold brooch.
I straightened the green feathers in my headband and secured it in place with a bobby pin. I smoothed a nervous hand over the embroidered jade dress, while Mac relaxed on the grass, sunning himself, not a care in the world.
People were out and about for lunch, so I blew through most of my flyers in an hour. Declan and I were getting ready to pack up and move on to Lancaster when a woman’s voice shrilled through the air. Our gazes darted to Cousin Enid marching across the street in rhino mode, dressed in dark-green breeches, a green tweed jacket, and brown riding boots.
“What do you think you are doing?” she demanded, her stern tone causing several curious people to stop and watch. Her gaze narrowed on Declan’s painting of the stolen artwork, and she gasped in horror. She glared at my dress. “Where did you get that?”
“None of your business.”
“I beg to differ. I know precisely where you stole that from. The theater group.”
“We didn’t steal it.”
She attempted to snag the band off my head, a feather catching in my hair. She gave it a tug, pulling my hair.
Mac let out a bark.
“Ouch,” I yelped, grasping hold of the band so she couldn’t yank it again. I’d won two catfights in junior high. I didn’t plan on losing this one. I gave Enid’s hand a firm squeeze. She let out a squeal and released the band. I blew the feather from my eyes and adjusted the band on my head, trying to regain my composure.
Nicole ran across the street, and the crowd parted, allowing her access to the fighting ring. “What’s going on?”
“That dress belongs to the theater.” Enid’s gray eyes about bugged out of her head as Rachel and Mom marched up. “So do those.”
“I borrowed the dresses for an event they’re holding, along with some furniture and props. None of the actors had an issue with it.”
“Well, I certainly take issue with it.” She peered over at us. “Remove those costumes immediately.”
“I’m not stripping in the middle of town,” I said.
“Are ya mad?” Declan asked.
“I am a major contributor to the theater, and I will not stand for this. You shall return those at once, or I’m cutting off all funding.” She removed an envelope from her purse and held it out. Mac snatched it from her, and she snapped her hand back. “Better watch your mutt, or I’ll be suing you next. Give that to George and advise him he’s being sued for my share of our family’s fortune.”
Enid glared at Mac scratching away at the cobblestone-paved bridge, attempting to bury the letter. “Not a very bright creature, is he? Well, he can eat it, and it won’t matter. I’ll still be suing.”
Rachel got in Enid’s face. “You’re not getting away with this.”
The woman pursed her lips, then spun around on her bootheels and marched off.
Nicole shook her head. “Slag.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “We’ll return the outfits.”
“You will not. We’re fed up with her holier-than-thou attitude, acting like she owns the theater group. However, she’s likely hiring a truck right now to move the furniture or to barricade the entrance. Sorry.”
“Are you sure about the costumes?” I said.
She gave a definitive nod. “Absolutely.” Spotting customers heading into her shop, she excused herself.
We took advantage of the crowd and gave our spiel and handed out flyers before they dispersed.
“Looks like we’ll be the hot gossip.” Declan smirked. “That lady’s tantrum backfired on her.”
Mom adjusted the band on my head. “She’s no lady. She’s a…bitch.”
Rachel and I exchanged shocked looks. We’d only heard Mom swear once. When Rachel and I had gotten into her makeup and resembled cheap hookers rather than the beauty-pageant look we were going for. She’d yelled, “What the hell are you doing in my makeup!” Never having heard her swear, Rachel and I burst into tears and ran into our bedrooms. We buried our faces
in the pillows, smearing red lipstick all over them, making Mom even more furious. But not as furious as when I proceeded to cry so hard I puked all over my bedspread.
Declan curled his fingers into fists. “If our car was big enough, I’d be driving over there right now and collecting the furniture before she could take it.”
“And you know she will.” I growled. “Where are we going to get couches and chairs for free?” I glanced down to find Mac burying the envelope in the dirt. I snatched it up and gave him a pat on the head. “Wish it were that easy, fella.”
“Yeah, maybe we should bury that woman instead,” Mom said.
Wow. This from the woman who used to tell us, You might not like someone much, but you should never say you hate her. That was her advice after we’d had a fight at school. And I’d respond, Then I wish she was dead. Needless to say, that never went over well.
“Now you know how I felt about Missy Puetz.” My archenemy in sixth grade.
Mom nodded. “She was a snotty little brat.”
And so the truth comes out.
Chapter Fourteen
After distributing flyers in Lancaster, we stopped by to visit George. Everyone agreed it was best not to leave flyers at the hospital so staff didn’t tell George about the event rather than us. We told the curious nurse at the reception desk that our 1920s attire was for a historical reenactment, which was the truth. She advised us that George was being prepped to have the fluid removed from his lungs.
“What if he doesn’t make it through surgery?” Mom said.
“It’s not a major surgery, merely a brief procedure.” The nurse gave Mom a reassuring smile.
“How long will it take?” I asked.
“About a half hour. Depending on when the doctor begins, you should be able to visit him in an hour or two.”
“Should we come back?” Rachel asked.
Mom dropped down onto a chair. “I’m not leaving until he’s out of surgery.”
The nurse directed us to a waiting room down the hall with vending machines and complimentary coffee and tea. I sipped tea and munched on cheese-and-onion potato chips while watching some hideous soap opera in which every character should win a Razzie Award for worst actor. Yet we watched three back-to-back episodes before the nurse returned.
