by Sara Rosett
She climbed the shallow steps, but before she reached the hefty wooden door, it opened. A plump lady with curly dishwater blonde hair said, “Oh, hello. You’re right on time for the tour.”
“Actually, I’m here to visit the archive.”
The woman looked a little disappointed. “I’ll call Mona for you as soon as I get this set up.” She wrestled a sandwich board out of the door.
“Here, let me help you. Over there?” Zoe unfolded the board with bold letters. Tours start here.
“Yes, there by the edge of the steps. Thank you. Come in.”
A huge chandelier lit the vast hall of rich dark wood. A massive hearth filled one wall, and a grand staircase marched up another.
“Mona came down a moment ago. She should be back—yes, here she is.”
A young woman entered the hall from a side door, holding a mug. She had a peacock-blue bob, and her brightly colored head was tilted down as she studied a notepad as she walked.
“Mona,” the older lady called out. “You have a visitor for the archive.”
Zoe crossed the room to her. Mona’s hair and makeup were perfectly and elaborately done. Her lash extensions and bright red lipstick contrasted with her casual jeans, scuffed boots, and a poncho-like sweater that was trailing threads from the hem. Zoe extended her hand. “Hello. I’m Zoe Andrews.”
Mona tucked the notepad under her arm and switched her mug to her left hand. “Mona Lake.” Her eyebrows, one of which had a piercing in it, flared. “You’re with Throckmorton Enquires. I just listened to your message. I thought you were in America.”
“I usually am, but I’m visiting London and had a free afternoon. I decided to run up here and save you some time. I’m happy to photocopy the rest of Olive Belgrave’s report and the inventory she completed.” An expression that Zoe couldn’t identify chased across Mona’s face, and Zoe quickly added, “Olive Belgrave, the woman who did the inventory here at Hawthorne House in nineteen twenty-three.”
“Oh yes. I know exactly who Olive is. Can I see some ID?”
“Um, sure.” Zoe took out her Texas driver’s license, which Mona scrutinized for longer than Zoe would have thought necessary.
Mona handed it back. “Thank you.” She let out a small sigh, then gestured with her mug to the grand staircase. “You better come up.”
The paper square on the string attached to a teabag fluttered around Mona’s mug as they climbed the steps. “Care for a cuppa?” Mona asked.
“Thank you, but no. I had lunch on the train.” Zoe wanted to get her copies and get back to London.
Enlargements of Sebastian Blakely’s color photographs lined the stairs, and Zoe slowed her steps to give each a quick look.
Mona, who’d been trotting up the steps at a rapid pace, slowed down. “Sorry. I see them every day and forget how eye-catching they are.”
“He did photograph some famous people, didn’t he?” They’d already passed photos of a First Lady, two princesses, and several actresses from Hollywood’s Golden Age.
“Blakely was the go-to photographer. He could make anyone look amazing.” They reached the top of the staircase, and Mona led the way down a corridor with a creaky parquet floor. A series of small chandeliers hung from the lofty ceiling, and a few flower arrangements perched on side tables, but the main focus of the décor was again Blakely’s photographs. These portraits were all black and white and looked from the clothes as if they’d been taken in the twenties, but Zoe didn’t recognize the people in these images. While they might not have been famous, they were glamorous. In one, a beautiful woman with blonde hair posed with her folded hands on a mirrored surface, her cheek resting on the back of her top hand. The mirror reflected her face and hands as well as the multi-strand pearl bracelet she wore. In another, a man in a tux—probably one of the Bright Young People—stood in a formal garden gazing at a classical statue.
Through the open doors along the corridor, Zoe could see the rooms upstairs had been turned into galleries. Photographs lined the walls, and the only furnishings were couches at the center of the rooms. They reached the end of the hallway, and Mona stopped in front of a panel door that was nearly twice her height. A gold plate beside the door had the word Archive on it. Mona blocked Zoe’s view, punched in a code on a lock, waited for a beep, then flicked back the deadbolt.
She held the door so Zoe could follow her in. Rows of metal shelves filled the room, leaving tiny, narrow aisles. Archival boxes of all sizes were stacked to the ceiling. An antique desk with a rope-edge carving stood in one corner. Mona moved behind the desk and gestured to a single straight-backed chair in front of it.
Zoe sat down and wondered if Mona ever felt claustrophobic with the rows of shelves towering over her.
“I’d offer to take your coat, but it doesn’t get warm in here until the sun hits the back of the house in the afternoon. It’s actually a good thing for the documents.” Mona dropped the notepad on the desk beside her computer and set down her mug. “I’ll find the box you’re interested in.”
Mona disappeared down one of the aisles. The shelves were so close together that the hem of her long sweater brushed against the boxes as she walked. She returned and put an archival box on the desk in front of Zoe. “You’re free to have a look, but I have to warn you, you’re going to be disappointed. I sent everything we had to Throckmorton Enquiries. The reports and inventory you’re looking for aren’t in there.”
“Reports? There’s more than one?”
“There were. Olive Belgrave sent several reports to Blakely, but they’re gone.”
Zoe took off the lid. “They’re lost?”
“Missing.” Something in Mona’s tone made Zoe frown. A trace of anger? Mona motioned to the box, and her tone returned to normal. “But feel free to double-check.” Her vivid lips broke into a smile. “I can see you’re the sort who likes to chase down every angle, and since you came all the way from London, I thought you’d like to see for yourself.”
Mona sat down and gave her full attention to her computer, her fingers tapping away on the keyboard.
Zoe pulled the box closer. It contained the originals of Olive’s letter to Sebastian and the few pages of the report Zoe had read along with the family tree, legal documents, and the photographs of the painting. When she’d finished looking through the box, she returned everything and fastened the lid into place. “Could the rest of Olive Belgrave’s reports have been misfiled?” Zoe asked with a glance at the box-filled shelves looming behind Mona.
The clacks from the keyboard cut off, and Mona spun her chair toward Zoe. “No. I’m sure Mallory has them.” The shift in tone was back, and it was definitely anger. “I can’t prove it—or do anything about it.”
“Mallory?”
“Mallory Tredmont.”
Speaking the name aloud obviously annoyed Mona. Her bright lips flattened as she pressed them together.
“Well, if this Mallory Tredmont has them, I’ll have to find her and convince her to let me see them.”
“Good luck with that. She’s very . . . possessive of them. Even though they’re not hers.”
“Why is that?”
“You’ve looked over the genealogy chart?” At Zoe’s nod, Mona sat back in her chair and picked up a paperclip, turning it over in her hands. “Then you know Rosalind Kingwood is a direct descendant of Sebastian Blakely. Mallory Tredmont is on the chart, but she’s such a distant relation she’s barely on the paper—a very distant cousin. But from the way she carries on, you’d think she was Blakely’s daughter! She’s writing a book about Blakely—or that’s what she says, although I have yet to see evidence of an actual manuscript. Mallory wants access to the archive to ‘double-check some facts.’ I told her she had to show me the manuscript before I’d give her access. She’s banned after what happened.”
“Banned?”
“There was something about her visits to the archive that made me uneasy. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I always made sure to stay in
here with her when she came to do research. But then one day she convinced one of the museum docents to let her in here while I was at lunch. When I returned, I found Mallory scattering papers across the floor as she bulldozed through the boxes—including that one you’ve been looking through.” Mona had twisted the paperclip, folding it over on itself. “I kicked her out, of course, but I didn’t think to check her bag.” Mona threw the paperclip onto her desk. “I was so angry about the mess, it never crossed my mind that she’d actually steal documents. But once I’d cleaned up her chaos, I discovered several items were missing.” Mona dragged the mangled paperclip across the desk and tossed it in the trash. “At least she didn’t take any of the original photos or negatives. That would have been a disaster.” Mona flicked her hand to the door. “Mallory is the reason we had to have a deadbolt lock installed.”
“Well, if she has the reports, that’s what I need. I will just have to convince her to let me see them.”
Mona gave Zoe a long look, then said, “Perhaps you can. Don’t tell her I set you on her trail. She hates me. I’m the reason she can’t finish her book. It has nothing to do with writer’s block—or laziness.”
“I read one of her blog articles that mentioned her book about Blakely.”
Mona snorted. “I doubt she’s got more than a couple of chapters finished, if that. She’s one of those people with grand plans but no follow through.”
“She has some sort of secret about Blakely . . .?”
Mona rolled her eyes. “Mallory has no new information. She’s quite good about creating fiction—her own truth. There’s nothing new out there about Blakely. She thinks the hint of a juicy bit of gossip will draw in a publisher or an agent.”
Zoe stood up and handed Mona her card. “Thank you for seeing me and letting me look through the materials myself. You’re right, I had to check them.”
“I understand.”
Zoe put her messenger bag on her shoulder, letting it drape across her chest. “Can you give me any information about where I can find Mallory Tredmont?”
“I’m afraid it will be a bit of a journey.”
“Is she in some remote village in South America or something?”
“Not quite that far. She’s in Amsterdam.”
“Actually, that works out perfectly.”
10
“That’s who we’re meeting?” From his seat beside her in the airplane, Jack studied the photo of a young woman that Zoe had brought up on her phone.
“Attempting to meet. Yes, Mallory Tredmont. I wasn’t able to track down a good phone number for her. The number Ava found was disconnected, but I do have directions to the houseboat she’s sharing with a boyfriend.”
Zoe zoomed in on the image of Mallory to make it larger. Zoe had found many photos of Mallory Tredmont online—she had a big social media presence with thousands of followers—but in most of her selfies, she wore a hat, either a wide-brimmed fedora or a floppy sun hat, and it was hard to see her face. Zoe had only found one clear photo of Mallory. She sat at a desk with a fountain pen poised over a stack of paper as she held a thick book open. Behind tortoiseshell glasses, her eyes were deep set. Dark brown shoulder-length hair fell in fashionable loose waves around her face. She looked like a college student who’d been interrupted in the library cramming for final exams.
Zoe had spent their short flight from London to Amsterdam skimming Mallory’s blog posts while Jack slept. He’d seem preoccupied and tired after his meetings, and Zoe had learned to give him some space when he was in that state. He’d bring up whatever was bothering him soon enough. “There’s very little information about her and only a smattering of posts about her book, which are vague and brief. Tons of posts about living in Amsterdam—lots on cycling as well as the best museums and restaurants, how to get to Keukenhof Gardens to see the tulips—I bookmarked that one. I think there’s a bus service, but it’s been a while since I proofread the Amsterdam Smart Travel guidebook.”
“There’s a bus. All-day departures from the airport as well as several locations around Amsterdam.” Jack’s preoccupation slipped away as he talked about the tourist sites. He pulled out a printed list that had been tucked between the pages of the guidebook.
“You did make an itinerary for us.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not written in stone.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” He grinned. “Although I will admit I created a color-coded highlighting system to help me find everything in the travel guides.”
“Ugh. You can color-code all you want, just don’t expect me to use it. You know systems and plans make me twitchy.”
“Oh, I’d never do that.”
The flight attendant announced they were preparing to land. Jack moved his seat forward one inch, out of the so-called reclining position. “Do you want to see if we can find this Mallory person before we go to the gardens or a museum?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“No. I did a little work on this trip. Now it’s your turn.”
Zoe wrinkled her nose. “We’re both sort of workaholics, you know.”
“Perhaps just a touch. But this stuff you’re working on is interesting. It’s not like you’re shut away in a conference room pitching potential clients or inputting data in spreadsheets.”
“I draw the line at spreadsheets on vacation. I do have some boundaries.”
“And I promise no more client meetings, not even video calls.”
“Okay,” Zoe said. “It’s a pact. I’ll get the report and inventory from Mallory, then it’s all vacation, all the time.”
Jack nodded. “Deal.”
Zoe considered the photo of Mallory one more time before switching off her phone. Jack said, “That’s a serious look on your face.”
“Just trying to figure out the best way to approach Mallory. I’d like to get her to tell me firsthand about her dramatic scoop on the painting.”
“You think she’ll talk to you about it?”
“You’re thinking like a spy.” Zoe tightened her seatbelt. “You wouldn’t tell some new acquaintance the tiniest bit of info about yourself, but most people aren’t so guarded. They like to talk—especially about themselves. If I can get her talking, she might just tell us the big secret. Big secrets are hard to keep. People are usually bursting to tell someone.”
“So we treat her like a source. Gain her trust and use her knowledge to our benefit.”
Zoe wrinkled her nose. “That sounds so callous. I prefer to think of it as getting at the truth. If there’s an issue with the painting, the buyer needs to know. If not, we need to convince Mallory she’s not doing any good spreading rumors to the contrary.”
“Do you want to go by yourself? She might be more willing to talk if you’re alone.”
“Maybe. Let’s play it by ear. If it seems like she wants to talk to me alone, you’re good at fading out. But—well, let’s just say having you along might be an advantage.”
Jack frowned. “You think we need to tail her?”
Zoe laughed. “No, you’re good-looking. You might be able to break the ice, strike up a conversation with her.”
“Oh, so I’m eye candy now?”
Zoe kept a straight face and lifted a shoulder. “Don’t you like the idea of being eye candy?”
“I think I’d rather fade out.”
“Yes, that does sound more like you. Okay, I’ll do the talking and only call on you if eye candy is absolutely necessary.”
A few hours later, after they’d dropped their bags in their room and had taken a few pictures of themselves beside a planter bursting with red tulips outside their hotel, they set off to amble around Amsterdam. They were walking along a suburban street with a mix of modern and more aged apartment buildings and shops. Small cars were parallel parked bumper-to-bumper on each side of the road, and trees with tender pale green leaves lined the wide sidewalk. They could have been in any European city, but then a blast of the sweet yet pungent smell of m
arijuana engulfed them as they passed an open doorway.
“No doubt about what they serve in that coffee shop, is there?” Jack said.
“We’re definitely in Amsterdam.”
They came to a cross street, busy with small cars jouncing along the bricked roads. The light changed, and Zoe was about to step off the curb, but the tinny sound of a bell rang out, and she jumped back as a cluster of bicycle riders swept by. Most of them were adults dressed for work in business casual clothes, with their purses or messenger bags worn across their chests. They rode sturdy bikes, sitting with perfect posture as they zipped by, the wind ruffling their hair and clothes. Zoe turned to Jack. “I forgot, bikes have the right-of-way here. Can you imagine how healthy we’d be if we rode bikes everywhere?”
“We wouldn’t have to go to the gym as much, but it’s not practical when your work is twenty or thirty miles away.”
“Yes, but I’d love it.”
Jack grinned. “Says the woman who works from home.”
“True, but I could ride down to get my morning coffee.”
“That could be extremely dangerous unless you’d already had at least one cup of coffee—”
Jack broke off as they turned a corner and came to a canal. Zoe checked for swift-moving bike riders, then crossed to the edge of the canal. “Now, this is iconic Amsterdam.”
It was a beautiful day, bright and cloudless. The still waters of the canal reflected the lacy pattern of the elms and the buildings that towered over the trees. The flat-fronted brick buildings rose on either side of the canal to steep-pitched roofs with false fronts in a multitude of shapes—some curved like a bell, others rose in straight lines to a triangular point, while still others sported a stepped outline. A glass-enclosed tourist barge putted along through the serene water, sending out ripples behind it.
