Whose Angel Keyring

by Mara Purl

  There was still one more conversation he needed to have before calling it a night. Heading down the hallway, he walked into the kitchen and found James rinsing pans in the utility sink. A large apron covering his clothes, his hands encased in rubber gloves, he looked both authoritative and endearing.

  James looked up at Zack’s entrance, and both men began speaking at once.

  “I deeply regret—”

  “Thank you, James—” Zack smiled at the family butler who was so much more—a mentor, a second father, a friend. “Just wanted to thank you. It . . . she. . . .”

  “She was very special, and oh, how she loved you,” James said quietly.

  “I’d forgotten,” said Zack. “Now I remember.” He paused for a moment, then lifted the key ring. “You’re the keeper of keys around here,” he said. “Mom entrusted you with this. I better do the same.”

  “Very good, Master Zackery,” James said, slipping the key into his breast pocket.

  The fire in James’s cozy cottage had nearly burned itself out, and it was time to go to bed. The angel key ring had absorbed the last heat in the room, making a hot-spot in the palm of James’s hand. As if the angel had one more task for him. As though it wants to go home, he thought.

  Standing up from his comfortable chair, James pulled a winter coat on over his robe, then stepped out of his slippers and into gardening boots. When he opened his front door, fog swirled around his ankles and moistened his cheeks. Shivering against the damp chill, he hastened down the stone pathway to the main house and let himself in through the back door.

  Leaving his boots behind, he padded quietly into the den. The sight of Mr. Zackery sleeping on the couch did his heart good. The boy was sentimental after all—not wanting to leave the room where his dear mother’s letter had reached him at

  last. Tiptoeing past his sleeping charge, James lifted the golden

  ring from his pocket. Carefully, he inserted the key in its lock. He couldn’t help standing in the quiet room for a moment, reflecting on an eventful Christmas. Unexpected letters had appeared from two women—each important in Zackery’s life, but for different reasons—the new letter leading to the old one. And all day, the key ring had rested against the clock, shrouded in Miss Cynthia’s envelope. Like a magnet, he thought, the key drawn to its lock.

  As James crept from the room, the clock on the Calvin mantel chimed twelve times. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw the little angel dangling from her key ring, her bright gold glinting in the Christmas tree lights.

  After all these years, it was good to have her home.

  Cast of Characters

  Joseph Calvin: mid-60s, 6'1, gray eyes, steel-gray hair, clean-shaven, lean, handsome; CEO of Santa Barbara’s Calvin Oil; eligible widower; dates several women including Christine Christian.

  Zackery Calvin: mid-30s, 6'2, blue eyes, dark blond hair, handsome, lean, athletic; Vice President of Calvin Oil, works with his father; popular bachelor; dates Cynthia Radcliffe; becomes smitten with Miranda Jones.

  Nicole Champagne: mid-20s, 5'5, brown eyes, brunette, chic dresser; runs Milford-Haven’s Finders Gallery; sells Miranda Jones’s and other artists’ work with skill; originally from Montreal, Quebec and speaks with a French-Canadian accent.

  Stacey Chernak: late 40s, 5'6, blue eyes, blond hair, kind, submissive, speaks with a Swiss-German accent; married to abusive Wilhelm Chernak; works full time as Clarke Shipping secretary, and works part-time for Chernak Agency.

  Wilhelm Chernak: mid-60s, 6', deepset black eyes, salt-and-pepper hair, low resonant voice, a Swiss citizen who still carries an accent from his native Germany; capable of fierce and sudden anger; started the Chernak Agency, a service for locating adopted children; abuses his wife Stacey.

  Christine Christian: early-40s, 5'6, aqua eyes, blonde, vivacious, beautiful, intense; special investigative reporter for Satellite-News TV station KOST-SATV; lives in Santa Maria; frequent international traveler; dates Joseph Calvin.

  Russell Clarke: early 60s, 6'3, coal black eyes, dazzling white teeth, dusky skin, deceptively strong, by turns charming and stern, adopted with unknown mixed lineage; owner of Clarke Shipping; Stacey Chernak’s employer; business associate of Joseph Calvin; commissions Jack Sawyer to build him Milford-Haven’s most magnificent seaside mansion.

  Ralph Hargraves: late 70s, 6', blue eyes, gray hair, a face seamed with smile-lines, pleasant disposition; a fixture in Milford-Haven, owner of Hargraves Hardware.

  James Hughes: early 60s, 5'11, brown eyes, thinning gray hair, soft- spoken with a mid-Atlantic accent; the fiercely loyal Butler at the Calvin Estate, Calma.

  Samantha Hugo: early 50s, 5'9, cognac-brown eyes, redhead, statuesque, sharp dresser; Director of Milford-Haven’s Environmental Planning Commission; Miranda’s friend; Jack Sawyer’s former wife; a journal writer.

  Deputy Delmar Johnson: early 30s, 6'2, brown eyes, black hair, handsome, muscular, African-American; with the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff’s Department, assigned to the Special Problems Unit; originally from South Central Los Angeles.

  Meredith Jones: early 30s, 5'8, teal eyes, medium-length brunet hair, beautiful, shapely, athletic; San Francisco financial advisor; Miranda’s sister.

  Miranda Jones: early 30s***, 5'9, green eyes, long brunet hair, beautiful, lean, athletic; fine artist specializing in watercolors, acrylics and murals; a staunch environmentalist whose paintings often depict endangered species; has escaped her wealthy Bay-Area family to create a new life in Milford-Haven.

  Michelle “Shelly” Larrup: mid-40s, 5'6, hazel eyes, bobbed burgundy hair, well-toned dancer's body, flamboyant dresser; originally from Australia and speaks with the accent; owner of Shell Shock in Milford- Haven.

  June Magliati: mid 40s, 5'2, brown eyes, dark brown curly hair, no- nonsense expression that goes well with her thick Brooklyn accent; Sally O'Mally’s trusted friend and employee at the restaurant.

  Mr. Man: age unknown, dark eyes and hair, medium height, medium build; one of reporter Chris Christian’s anonymous sources.

  Will Marks: mid-30s, 6', dark eyes and hair, athletic build; VP at Clarke Shipping; contact of Zack Calvin’s at Calvin Oil.

  Zelda McIntyre: early-50s, 5'1, violet eyes, wavy black hair, voluptuous, dramatic and striking; owner of private firm Artist Representations in Santa Barbara; Miranda's artist's rep; corporate art buyer; has designs on Joseph Calvin.

  Mary Meeks: late 50s, 5'2, warm brown eyes, mousy brown hair perfectly coiffed, trim figure, conservative dresser; loyal secretary at Calvin Oil, remembers every detail of Calvin business.

  Sally O'Mally: early 40s, 5'3, blue eyes, blond curly hair, perfectly proportioned; owner of Sally’s Restaurant; owner of Burn-It-Off; born and reared in Arkansas; Miranda’s friend; dislikes Samantha; secretly involved with Jack Sawyer.

  Burt Ostwald: age unknown, 6'2, dark eyes, close-cropped blond hair, quarter-sized mole on left cheek, burly; taciturn loner; freelance construction worker; temporary-hire at Sawyer Construction—work nickname behind his back “Mole Guy”; has another primary employer.

  Michael Owen: mid-40s, 5'9, blue eyes, black hair, slightly rotund; owner of Lighthouse Tavern.

  Cynthia Radcliffe: early 30s, 5'8, amber-brown eyes, blond, shapely, gorgeous; passionate, petulant, persuasive; Santa Barbara social climber; Zackery Calvin’s girlfriend.

  Randi Raines: early 30s, 5'5, black eyes, frosted hair, cute, athletic; demanding, impatient; a talk-show host in Los Angeles; dates Will Marks.

  Kevin Ransom: late-20s, 6'8, hazel eyes, sandy hair, strong jaw-line, lean, muscular without effort; Foreman at Sawyer Construction; innocent, naive, kind; tuned in to animals; technologically adept; highly intuitive; has longings for Susan Winslow.

  Jack Sawyer: mid-50s, 6', blue eyes, salt-and-pepper hair and mustache, barrel-chested, solidly muscular, ruggedly handsome; Milford-Haven contractor-builder; Samantha Hugo’s former husband; secretly involved with Sally O’Mally.

  Lucy Seecor: mid-30s, 5'6', b
lakc eyes, shiny black hair worn in a long braid; trim figure; photographic memory; manager of Rosencrantz Café & Guildenstern Garden.

  Cornelius Smith: early 40s, 6'3, indigo-blue eyes, black hair, handsome, lean; grew up in Milford-Haven where his parents still live; a professional astronomer who works part time at NASA Ames and plans to build an observatory in Milford-Haven; a loner, an eccentric.

  Susan Winslow: mid-20s, 5'4, brown eyes, long black hair, rail-thin, attractive but sullen, Native American; Samantha’s assistant at the EPC; avid rock-star fan; victim of traumatic childhood; feels trapped in Milford-Haven; defensive about her heritage; toys with Kevin Ransom.

  Milford-Haven Recipes

  Christmas Dinner at Calma

  Yorkshire Pudding

  (As prepared by James Hughes at Calma)

  (Serve with Roast Prime Ribs of Beef au jus)

  1 c flour

  1⁄2t salt

  2 eggs

  1c milk

  Sift flour with salt into a mixing bowl.

  Add eggs and milk.

  Moisten ingredients by mixing all together – do not over mix; batter should have some lumps.

  Pour batter into buttered muffin tins, two thirds full.

  Place in cold oven. Then turn over to 400.

  Bake 30 to 40 minutes, until slightly browned and puffed.

  To let out steam, puncture centers with toothpick.

  When browned, remove from pan immediately.

  Return soon to...

  Milford-Haven!

  Begin the Compelling Saga with

  Mara Purl’s

  What the Heart Knows

  Book One

  in the exciting Milford-Haven saga

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  Enjoy the following Preview from the book...

  Prologue

  Broadcast journalist Christine Christian stepped down from her black car into an even blacker night. She extended her leg past the running board of the Ford Explorer, waiting till her shoe found the hardened dirt of the rutted road. Actually, I’m inside the gates, so this’ll be the driveway, she thought, barely able to see the ground since dousing her headlights.

  Cool sea wind tumbled through the air, carrying with it the fresh tang of kelp. Her hair ruffling, she glanced overhead to look for the moon. I know it’s nearly full, and it rose early tonight. But the sky appeared moonless, and such stars as normally sparkled in the clear, windswept autumn air were obscured by dense cloud cover.

  A hundred feet below the bluff, the sea pounded. An October storm had been traveling the South Pacific, and even this far north, the Central Coast reverberated with the effects. “Generating winds of up to fifty miles per hour . . . ” she remembered her KOST-SATV colleague saying on this evening’s broadcast.

  On her left, the terrain fell away to the ocean—now nothing more than an inky, undulating mass. To the northwest, the flash of the Piedras Blancas lighthouse winked in the darkness, sweeping across the landscape to reveal a ghostly skeleton of the unfinished mansion.

  Even by its outline, she could tell this Clarke House held something special in its design. Having studied the architectural drawings, she found the reality of the physical structure intriguing. Though she’d read that some of the locals objected to its massive size being ostentatious and out of place, she could see it also fit the site as though it belonged. The way skyscrapers fit Manhattan.

  The image of a cityscape seemed incongruous, and she stood still a moment longer, waiting for it to make sense. Funny, when I was a kid growing up in this little town, all I wanted to do was get away—get to a big city. And I did. But now I find myself drawn back here. Yes, that was it . . . processing the fact that, after her many travels, she should find herself once again in Milford-Haven.

  For one thing, there was the job with KOST in Santa Maria. After several years on-camera for the broadcast networks —mostly NBC —she’d made the switch to satellite. Just this month the FCC’s deregulation of the market had become official, and 1996 would probably make the history books as a turning point for the TV business. She’d taken the title of Special Correspondent, which meant decent pay and great freedom to develop her own content. Her three-part piece on adoption had just been shown in the Central Coast region. Part three aired Sunday—two days ago.

  She was already gathering material for her next threeparter on earthquakes, a story that would be taking her to San Francisco, then to Japan and to Turkey. My bags are all packed. I’m spending three days in San Fran researching the ‘89 Loma Prieta quake. Then I leave for Tokyo from there.

  Now, there was this story that had brought her to MilfordHaven. What a strange homecoming. I should come back in the daylight, visit the newspaper where I had my first job . . . see what’s the best little spot for breakfast these days . . . walk on Touchstone Beach. If my wandering soul has a home, it’s probably here.

  Chris took a step away from the bluff, aware once again of the dark that surrounded her. What am I doing here now? Pursuing a lead, as usual. She sighed. Better get this over with. Wish I’d worn sturdier shoes than these flats. Chilled in the wind, she pulled her jacket closer and drew on the pair of leather gloves she’d tucked in her pocket.

  Adjusting the long diagonal strap of the compact purse she wore slung across her body, she hefted her flashlight and clicked it on. She picked her way over construction debris and uneven terrain toward the front of the house, where eventually stairs would lead up to the entrance. Stepping onto a narrow plank that trembled under her feet, she dashed upward, then leapt off to stand just inside the foyer. Ack! I thought it was dark outside—but inside it’s pitch black.

  Chris stood still, trying to focus. Minutes passed, yet her pulse wouldn’t settle. Shifting her feet, she tried to find a piece of floor unlittered with . . . what? Nails, concrete clumps, snips of wire? Still she waited, hoping her eyes would make a further adjustment to the unrelieved darkness.

  The house seemed to sway with the wind and crashing surf, unsteady on its underpinnings. That’s an illusion, I’m sure. It’s my own legs that’re unsteady. Dammit it, Chris! You know what they say about Curiosity.

  She stood in what would undoubtedly be the living room —an expanse framed by a crosswork of beams, exposed for now, with a space left open on one whole side for a future wall of glass. I was right. The lines are good, and the view will be spectacular.

  On the opposite wall, flagstone had already been fashioned into an oversized fireplace. It seemed curiously complete in this incomplete room—except for the rectangular hole with the ends of a ladder just visible.

  The plans showed a hearthstone goes there—imported marble. She’d noticed this detail had shown up on both sets of plans. Remember, one detail can make the story. Reed had always told her that, and he was the best reporter in the business. He did get in trouble once, though, covering that story in Ohio. Safe home after reporting in Vietnam, and then he’s almost killed in that deserted house. He told me later he had the feeling he shouldn’t go there.

  A chill swept over her now, and the fine hairs on the back of her neck tingled. What’s my intuition saying? I should leave this place. This swaying, unhallowed structure menaced with its protruding metal splinters and ragged concrete edges.

  But what was this so-called intuition that she shouldn’t have come here? Wasn’t that just fear? After all, she’d been led to this location—vectored here by one clue after another. I can either be a wimp, or a good reporter. Logic says there’s something to be discovered. I have to find out what.

  The first clue had been little more than an inkling . . . or more like a rankling, she recalled. Learning a mansion was being built in Milford-Haven—a first for the cozy artist-town —she’d called Sawyer Construction for an interview. Foremost among her list of questions was whether or not the likelihood of a new earthquake code would present fresh challenges either to design or to construction.

  Geography, geology, seismology . . . these were th
ree of Chris’s pet subjects. Ever since the 1994 Northridge earthquake, she’d been tracking not only press coverage, but also published scientific papers about the possibility of new building codes. That quake had included what the seismologists called “unexpected moment frame damages.” FEMA was now looking carefully at steel strength and possible detrimental effects on connection design.

  Before conducting any interview, Chris always did careful research to be better prepared with good questions. But, she admitted, I also do it to butter-up my subject. The odd thing was that Jack Sawyer—rather than being flattered by the attention of a reporter who could speak at least some of his own language —had seemed by turns diffident and defensive and, ultimately, disingenuous. A man with something to hide?

  A sound—a snap of fabric?—yanked her from her thoughts and sent her heartrate skyrocketing. She held her breath and heard the sound again. Like an exhalation, plastic wrapped over vacant window openings was sucked and pulled against the tape holding it to the framework. Just the wind. Perhaps the house itself was breathing, trying to expel its bad humors.

  Chris took a step onto something that rolled under her foot, throwing her off balance. She caught herself by bracing against a low cinderblock wall, tearing a piece of skin from her palm. She yelped in the dark, but at least the jab of pain had served to sharpen her attention.