‘‘Oh, it’s a Chevy, all right. It’s just twenty-five days old, instead of twenty-five years.”
She saw Harlan look at her, his expression a mix of love and anticipation of what the years ahead had in store for them. “But your car...”
“Retired.” Beth smiled.
Eleanor Rockwood was the first to throw the rice. The chickens pounced, and Harlan and Beth, laughing, quickly escaped the ensuing melee.
Excerpt: Finders Keepers
Holly Wingate Paynter leaned her crowbar against the paint-chipped doorjamb and warily eyed the floor of the cold, dark master bedroom. A leaky ceiling and years of abandonment and neglect had left their mark. It didn’t look good. Holly considered skipping the bedroom, but she’d prowled through every other room in the woefully dilapidated Danvers House, soaking up its creepy atmosphere.
She scanned the room with her powerful flashlight and frowned as she considered possible routes. She wasn’t particularly worried, just didn’t want to accidentally leave her footprints in the rotten wood. Being a Wingate, she wasn’t exactly at the Danvers House by invitation. Best to avoid any careless mistakes.
Since crossing the town line into Millbrook, Vermont, an hour ago, she had been uncharacteristically cautious. She simply didn’t know what to expect. Still, lightning hadn’t struck at the arrival of a Wingate in town. Her van tires hadn’t started smoking. Her stomach hadn’t rebelled on her. And neither Grandpa Zachariah Wingate nor Great-grandpa Zachariah Wingate had come back to life to choke her for not heeding their advice that Vermont was no place for a Wingate.
In fact, nothing had happened. As Holly had driven out to the defunct Millbrook Preparatory Academy for Boys, the winter afternoon had remained startlingly bright and clear, the rolling hills of the Green Mountains outlined against as blue a sky as she’d ever seen. No question, it was beautiful country. Nevertheless, she’d be shed of it just as soon as she was finished with the business that had brought her there.
The Wingate goblets. Crafted by Paul Revere and presented by him, in gratitude, to the first Zachariah Wingate two hundred years ago. They’d been in the family until Great-grandpa Wingate’s foolish pride had gotten in the way—and elitist Jonathan Stiles and Edward Danvers had assumed the worst about an impoverished Wingate.
Holly meant to restore the goblets to their intended place as a Wingate family heirloom. Since she was the last of Zachariah’s direct descendants, the duty fell to her. There was no one else to do the job.
She shivered and slowly stepped onto the precarious floorboards, then carefully made her way into the drafty, unheated room. It was forty degrees in southern Vermont. That seemed to delight the folks on the local radio station Holly had listened to in her van, but she was used to a balmier climate. She had been in central Florida when she’d read the article on the discovery of the goblets in the Danvers House cellar. She’d memorized every word. Had cursed Julian Danvers Stiles on her mad three-day trip north. A Wingate hasn’t stepped foot in this part of Vermont in a century. As if one wouldn’t dare.
‘‘Well, here I am, buster.”
But her words sounded hollow and not particularly convincing in the big, empty wreck of a house. It had done her soul good to find the once elegant Danvers House so hopelessly deteriorated. She wondered what kind of incorrigible optimist Julian Danvers Stiles was to think he could convert such a dump into a decent restaurant—or anything.
She stopped suddenly, certain she’d heard something. A growl almost. A guard dog? No, she’d been sneaking around for a good forty minutes; a guard dog would have tracked her down by now. But she was sure she’d heard something.
Feeling uneasy in the strange building, she glanced back longingly at her crowbar; all she had for immediate protection was her flashlight. And her mouth, she supposed. Grandpa Wingate would have told her to trust her powers of persuasion. ‘There isn’t any trouble,” he used to tell everyone, “my granddaughter can’t talk herself out of.”
Or get herself into, he’d add privately, to her alone.
But first she had to have someone to persuade, and Holly had no idea what was downstairs.
“Hell, look at this mess,” a distinctly solid male voice snarled in disgust. “Beth? Are you in here?”
Sweat poured down Holly’s back, despite the cold. She wondered if she wouldn’t rather deal with a guard dog than whatever none-too-pleased individual was downstairs.
“Abby, David?” he hollered. “You in here? Who made this mess?”
Oh, sure, Holly thought. I’ll just yell down, “Hey, it was me, a nice lady from Texas who couldn’t resist using her trusty crowbar to peel a couple of boards off that window there and crawling in for a look around.”
Breaking and entering, it was called. All in a good cause, but this was Millbrook, she was a Wingate and whoever was downstairs was in no mood. Holly kept her mouth shut and didn’t move.
“Kids?”
Nope. Holly was thirty-three. Even as a kid she hadn’t been much of a kid.
She heard a creak and took hope, thinking he might just leave. All she had to do was hang in there another few minutes, not move, not scratch, not make a sound. But her hope faded when the creak was followed by the sound of a hammer expertly tackling one nail and then another.
“All right.” he said, obviously pleased with himself. “Whoever you are, you’d better come out now. I’ve nailed you in. Only way out is through the front door, with me.”
Ha! She’d jump out the window first! All she had to do was lunge for her crowbar, smash through a window and jump. The snow would cushion her fall. Even if she broke an ankle, she could threaten to sue the bastard for provoking such an act of desperation. But she wouldn’t break anything. She’d scramble to her feet, beat a path to her van and screech out of town. No one would be the wiser.
She could almost hear Grandpa Wingate saying, “I told you so.”
Maybe she should have ignored the item about the goblets and continued her winter wanderings in Florida.
Not sure what the intruder downstairs was up to now, Holly gritted her teeth and switched off her flashlight. A thin shaft of light angled into the dark room through a crack in two boards over one tall window.
“You wouldn’t by any chance be driving a dark green van,” the voice said under her feet. “Texas license plate?”
Startled, Holly had trouble keeping her precarious footing on the pine-board floor, which was in horrendous shape from years of neglect, leaks and vandalism. If she moved, the man downstairs would hear her. Who was he? Her only consolation was that he couldn’t be the owner. Men like Julian Danvers Stiles stayed out of crumbling old houses, even if they owned them.
But that bit in the newspaper indicated he’d found the goblets himself. If he’d dig around down in a dirt cellar, why wouldn’t he check out a trespasser?
It wasn’t the sort of question she wanted to answer, so she didn’t.
Inexpert snoop that she was, she’d made a halfhearted attempt to hide her van, parking alongside a snowbank and a stand of pines. Obviously she could have saved herself the trek across the blustery football field. While trying to keep herself from freezing in that “balmy” forty-degree air, she’d entertained herself imagining generations of preppy boys out there mucking it up. She’d wondered if the sparkling white in their blue-and-white football uniforms had ever gotten dirty.
“Vermont’s a long way from Texas.”
Don’t you know it, Holly thought. She concentrated on keeping still—and her mouth shut, which was against her nature. Imagining comebacks wasn’t nearly as satisfying as saying them out loud. She always preferred to say her piece.
“Okay, have it your way. I know every inch of this house. Wherever you’re hiding, I’ll find you.”
Who was hiding?
Read all three books in the delightful
Mill Brook Trilogy!
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Finders Keepers (Book 1)
Within Reason, (Book 2)
/> That Stubborn Yankee (Book 3)
Books by Carla Neggers
For a complete, printable list of Carla’s books and to sign up for her newsletter, visit her website www.carlaneggers.com
About the Author
Carla Neggers is the New York Times bestselling author of more than 75 novels, including her popular Sharpe & Donovan and Swift River Valley series. Her books have been translated into dozens of languages and sold in over 35 countries. Whether creating stories of friendship, family and love or razor-sharp suspense, Carla always takes readers on a captivating journey.
* * *
Learn more at https://www.carlaneggers.com/
That Stubborn Yankee Page 16
