by CeeCee James
“You didn’t like high school?” I asked. With her bubbly and sweet personality, I couldn’t imagine she’d be uncomfortable in any social situation.
“I was essentially invisible with braces and glasses, and spent my lunches in the library.” She reached to stack some cans. “It was hard. Painful.”
“Aw. I’m so sorry.”
“How about you?”
I shrugged. “I wasn’t popular, but band class saved me. We sort of became our own clique.”
“I might have tried out for band except I have no rhythm. Like zero.” Here she gave me a dance demonstration, all elbows and knees, making me giggle.
“Well, I’m glad to know you. And if we’d met in school, we probably would have been great friends.”
“Aw!” She gave me a quick hug. “I’m glad to know you as well. And embroiled in a mystery! Maybe we have a new career ahead!”
“The secret book club detectives!” I cheered, before realizing the key word there was secret. I clapped a hand over my mouth while Mary laughed and shushed me.
All this talk of mysteries reminded me of the map. “Hey, have you ever heard of Louise Driscoll?”
She shook her head. “No. Where did you hear of her?”
I hemmed a bit. “I read her name somewhere. I was wondering if she was someone famous.”
“Oh. Sounds like an author. Or maybe an artist? I’m not sure.”
From there we separated with plans to meet in the laundry in half an hour. I found a broom—an old-fashioned thing with bristles worn to nubs—and swept the pantry. After filling the dust bin, I carried it to dump outside.
Wow. I smiled with real joy after my first step into the sunshine—the glorious heat and moving stars of tiny flies threading together with the hum of crickets.
Thirty minutes, huh? I had enough time to check around a bit for the curious little garden.
Feeling free, I hastened down the steps and followed the cobbled path to the rear of the house. The first thing I saw were the ancient regal rose bushes, emperor lilies, and the lilacs, all twining together in resemblance to Mrs. Fitzwater’s hair. Deeper in, a waterfall of ivy partially hid a brick wall. The structure had been here for years, the bricks faded and pitted. I smiled. Where there was a wall, there was often a gate. That was my first clue on the map. I walked along its length and attempted to peek through the dark foliage here and there.
My heart leapt.
There it was. The gate.
Heaven help me, the map was real. I wondered if, crossing through, I’d find the swing and an apple tree on the other side.
I found the handle to be a simple latch in the wood, and started to jiggle it. The door opened with a groan. I slipped through the gap after a quick search for any hanging spiders that wanted to be friends.
The other side revealed a patch of yard. There was no swing nor an apple tree. Instead, a little house, with its front steps crumbling and a moss covered roof stood in front of a large photinia bush. The air was quiet except for the buzz of insects.
I walked closer, my curiosity hooked. The house had a real door bell, and captivated me with its cuteness.
Then I heard a deep voice humming, with a certain raspiness that conjured to mind an old codger happily pruning his roses. The humming lilted low and repeated the last three or four bars.
So it was a great surprise to me when I peeked over the photinia hedge to see a young man with a pair of hedge clippers pruning on the other side. My sudden appearance scared him, and he stared back, mouth hanging open.
“Hello,” he finally said.
Startled I released the branch. Then, smiling at my goofy reaction, I announced, “Hello.”
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I heard humming and wanted to see who it was.”
“Ah. Well, I’m Stephen, the gardener here.”
I felt more foolish by the second, speaking through the shrubbery like this. “I’m Laura Lee, the new—”
“Oh yes, the new housekeeper. I’ve heard of you.”
My surprise shot higher to learn that he knew of me. What had people been saying?
“Well, I wish I could say the same.” I pushed apart the bushes and squeezed through. He wore sunglasses, my least favorite way to meet someone.
I held out my hand. Stephen took off his glasses and stepped forward to give mine a firm shake.
“Nice to meet you,” he said. “Go ahead and wipe that hand off. I’ve been digging and my hands aren’t that great.” He held out a dirty palm to demonstrate.
I was already brushing my hands together. “How long have you worked here?”
“Here? Oh, all my life.” He laughed at my astonished expression. “No, seriously. My father was the gardener before me, and my mom worked in the house. I grew up here.” His eyes softened. “When my dad passed, it just seemed logical that I stay on.”
“And your mom?”
“Barbara. That’s another story.”
“I see. Well, this place is full of mysteries.” I said it before I realized how insensitive it would sound.
“It really is.” He calmly chopped a few leaves before pausing again.
I continued, “It makes me curious how life was before I came here. There have been some strange happenings….”
“Strange happenings? Now I’m intrigued.”
“And it seems the rule is to keep things hushed up. No one wants to share with me.”
“Close knit houses like these like to keep their secrets.” Then he surprised me. “You want to know about my mother, don’t you?”
“If you feel like sharing. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“Well, you have to trade me.”
“Trade you?” I crossed my arms.
“Yeah, for the information. Tit for tat. I don’t give info unless I get something back.”
“Really? What do you want?”
He looked at me and smiled, and I felt heat crawl into my cheeks. But he continued simply, “A story. Your story. Tell me why you’re here. There’s got to be a good reason.”
“What do you mean?”
“No offense, but a woman like yourself, sequestering out here in the country… it’s not normal. I want to know why.”
I held back a grin. A boring story for some useful answers? Sounded like a great deal to me.
“Deal?”
I nodded.
“So, Mom was the head housekeeper for years, truly Miss Janice’s right-hand woman. Dad died long ago when I was a teenager and we kept pottering along.”
A frown crossed his forehead, and it seemed the memories swelled up a bit more than he was expecting. He paused for a second and swallowed, and then he continued. “Mr. Thornberry started leaving the estate more and more often. He visited auction houses around the world, always in search of some treasure or another. Usually he brought back books. He told me I could read them whenever I pleased.”
His grin flashed again, and he added quickly. “He was quite the character, but he took me under his wing, what with Dad gone. Mark too.”
I tried to line the story up with Mr. Thornberry’s stern picture I’d seen in the study.
“And then the lawyer moved in down the street. Mr. Eland. He visited Mr. Thornberry all the time, and they talked business. They shot skeet together, drank brandy. Smoked good cigars. Pretty soon the neighbor was at the house every night. Mom had to stay late to help with the clean up.”
“And then about two years ago, rumors flew around that Mom and Mr. Thornberry were a little too chummy, if you know what I mean. The neighbor quit coming, and Mom took off. I assume you’ve heard about Mr. Thornberry’s prized crown?”
I nodded, stunned at the turn the story took.
“That disappeared as well. I haven’t seen her since. Mr. Thornberry wouldn’t entertain any claims that Mom took the crown, and he wouldn’t involve the police. Nobody has heard a word from her since.”
“Oh, Stephen. I
’m so sorry.” I regretted making the deal. “Is she okay?”
“Okay?” He glared in an unexpected show of emotion, and I took a step back. “I’m sure she’s okay and living her best life. It’s what we do, right? We all have to move on.”
He turned on his heel with no word of goodbye and stormed off, the clippers swinging dangerously in his fist.
He never even tried to get his end of the bargain.
Chapter Fifteen
My stomach sank, and I trailed back inside the manor. I couldn’t believe the stormy conversation had just happened.
The sun slipped behind the trees, and just that fast, the warmth lifted as the shadows played a game of chase over the floor. The house returned to its dingy colors, and I burned myself with the iron while fighting with the fitted sheets. I still couldn’t find Hank, and Marguerite looked fit to be tied—including yelling at Cook to quit being Miss Bossy Boots—all apparently stemming from her earlier run-in with Miss Janice regarding the purse.
Dinner became an even more subdued affair when Butler entered the room with bad news. Apparently, the plumbing went out in the back quarter of the house. Poor Miss Janice dropped her face into her hands for just a moment, and then her resolve recovered. “We will persevere. Somehow.”
Butler nodded but didn’t answer. I heard the whole conversation from the door frame and caught Mary’s eye before she filled Miss Janice’s water glass. This wasn’t good. We both knew it. She came over and whispered in my ear, “Where will she find the money to fix this? Will we lose our jobs? That’s what Jessie says.”
I had no answer for that, but a shrug. Still her words scared me to the core.
After the meal I brought in an apple custard. It was a beautiful dish, topped with a golden almond streusel and a hint of vanilla. Miss Janice refused the plate, brushing it away instead. She sighed. “I’ll be retiring to my room, now. Marguerite, please bring me my evening tonic.”
With that, Miss Janice wearily headed for the stairs. She gripped the handrail like her legs bothered her. I watched as she slowly ascended with Marguerite’s hand hovering at her elbow.
Mary and I returned to the kitchen where Cook removed her apron with a dejectedness only stress could cause. A short while later Marguerite returned.
“You’ll make the tea?” Cook asked while assembling a plate of freshly baked peanut butter cookies.
“Of course.” Marguerite put the kettle on and brought out two tea pots. She collected the items on a tray and then filled the pots. I helped to carry one and Marguerite the other. With goodies in hand, we all tiptoed up the stairs. We entered the housekeeper’s room where the other women could be heard giggling inside. I felt a stab of guilt for sneaking in earlier.
Soon, the secret door was released and refreshments were plied. Somberness colored the mood as we found seats, with me choosing the same red ottoman in the corner.
Marguerite stood before us, her face drawn with seriousness. “I’ve gathered a special meeting today because the Thornberry estate has been dealt a blow.” Her eyebrows raised. “The purse has been found.”
Chaos broke out as everyone began talking at once. Marguerite’s gaze swept over the room. Her eyes narrowed. “Janet? Do you have anything to add?”
I glanced over at the woman, and I could see right away what had called Marguerite’s attention. Janet had been the only one not talking. In fact, she sat with her head ducked and her body wilted as if to remain unnoticed.
A guilty conscience needs no pressing. “I found it,” she confessed.
“Where?” Marguerite asked.
“Mrs. Jenson handed it to me that night. It was strange, she said she discovered the purse on the porch. Of course, with her being on her way out, and Mrs. Fitzwater already gone, I was afraid to be caught with it. So I brought it here to the secret room.”
Marguerite rolled her eyes. “Who knew the entrance to my bedroom door would practically become a carousel?”
Of course, nobody answered her. She sighed, lifting her teacup. “And who do we think brought the purse outside in the first place?”
Lucy timidly raised her hand. “Maybe the ghost?”
Marguerite choked on a sip of tea while Cook giggled.
“What?” Lucy exclaimed. “I’ve seen weird things. Even footprints outside in the snow.”
“Any other ideas?” Marguerite asked, ignoring her.
It was my turn to raise a hand. “Maybe the guest lied and the purse never left the house. After all, didn’t Mrs. Fitzwater say she noticed something missing?”
“This is true.” Marguerite nodded and then added a new detail. “A pair of gold hoop earrings.”
“I bet the ghost took them,” Mary whispered. And then louder. “We all know this house has secrets.”
We perked up, and it wasn’t just from the sugar in the cookies.
Jessie spoke then. “Remember how Mr. Thornberry used to disappear for hours on end? No one could find him. Used to make me so nervous.”
Mary nodded earnestly. “That’s true. And earlier Cook joked with me about how he played chess with the ghost. I’ve been freaked out all day.”
“What do you mean, disappeared?” I asked, leaning forward.
Jessie’s eyes widened, the gray iris fringed with heavy eyelashes. “I swear he knew some weird kind of magic. The man would literally disappear. The first time was for two hours. Once it was for days. Is it so odd to think of a purse vanishing and reappearing when the same thing used to happen to a man?”
“Wow! Miss Janice must have been a nervous wreck,” I said.
“But it stopped once Georgia, the nutritionist, showed up. She sorted him out with her special tea. He was practically normal after that.” Cook added.
“However, that was when Mark got weird,” Lucy said. “not that he ever was really normal.”
I started to respond but Cook continued, “Speaking of Mark, have you heard more from your cousin?”
Lucy shook her head.
“Mark’s murder may never get solved if we don’t all put our heads together.”
“Lucy, did your cousin ever say what was inside the teacup?” Mary asked.
“Why would that matter?”
“Wouldn’t we want to know what was in it? Maybe it was alcohol? I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Maybe!” Jessie chimed in, excited. “ Is there any news about the mark on his neck? Maybe he got bit by something.”
“A snake flies through the window and bites him?” scoffed Janet. “Besides, I saw him with that cup as well. Although, I swear from the way he was holding it, I thought for sure it was empty.”
“Psh. Why would he be bringing an empty teacup with him to the car? And a snake? Ladies, we need to be careful not to see things that aren’t really there,” Marguerite said.
“I have another question,” I pushed ahead.
“Go on.”
“As long as we are discussing estate secrets, can anyone share anything about Barbara?”
Cook actually gasped, and I wondered if I’d crossed the line. But everything had to be uncovered if we were really going to get some answers, right?
I took a deep breath. “Well, I’ve been puzzling through this. It seems to me that Barbara has to be a key somehow. She disappeared right around the time the crown did, and I heard there were some pretty nasty rumors going on about an affair. That seems important.”
“I’ve never heard such hogwash.” Marguerite sniffed.
The words caught in my throat. “Well, what do you think happened?”
“People leave, that’s what. No one stays here forever.”
I thought about my talk with Stephen, but backed down. She’d frozen me out, and I didn’t think bringing him up would help to thaw things.
Luckily the awkward silence only lasted a moment before Janet saved me. “I have some news. I asked Serenity—she’s the housekeeper at the Eland estate— and she told me that Mr. Eland did indeed leave earlier that morning. He was back i
n less than twenty minutes. She considered it very unusual behavior for him.”
“Did she mention where he went?” I asked.
“He said he went for the mail.”
“That’s what he said at dinner as well.” Mary nodded.
“He’s lying. I just have a feeling he’s hiding something,” Marguerite murmured.
Cook leaned closer to me and whispered. “Barbara never left on her own accord. I’m telling you, she was run off.”
“Run off by who?” I asked.
She winked her eye and placed a finger against her nose. “We’ll talk later when I think it’s safe.”
Chapter Sixteen
The next day I had my first afternoon off. Marguerite shooed me out the door while Cook hurriedly handed over a napkin of cookies.
I brought my sketch book with me and wandered a bit until I found a spot in the grass under a plum tree. The tree was as ancient as everything else, with gnarled branches and knobby bark. Still, it provided a peaceful spot to watch the wind chase the clouds across the powder blue sky.
I settled against the trunk and slowly turned the pages of my book. The third portrait stopped me cold, and not in a good way.
It was something I’d drawn recently from the memory of the painting in Mr. Thornberry’s study. However, it definitely needed some help. Eyebrows like cat whiskers, gray, long and askew. Even with the softening I’d done, his eyes still appeared calculating. No matter how hard I tried, he did not look friendly. Still, he owned Hank. There had to be good in him.
Frowning, I flipped to a fresh page. Today, Marguerite popped into mind. With simple strokes, I outlined the face and the bridge of the nose. I drew in the eyes. Slight shading brought in the hint of hair.
When I held my picture back to examine it, it gave me a fright. The expression in the eyes conveyed a tinge of suspicion. Was that how she really looked? I’d never noticed before.
All at once, the air seemed very still. I looked about, trying to discern what had changed. The hair on my neck prickled, and I suddenly became convinced someone was watching me.
I tried to scold myself for my appeal for drama. The property around me remained quiet, with a few flower petals fluttering in the air from the plum tree like pink confetti.
