She opened a door at the top, and we stepped out onto a landing that overlooked the front staircase and the foyer. "There's two bedrooms up here," she said. "Used to be three, but we took one out to make the bathroom larger."
As she spoke, she opened the middle doorway and held it open so I could look. It was a dream bathroom, with an enormous clawfooted porcelain tub as the centerpiece. A modern shower with glass on two sides had been inserted into one corner. It had enough ferns and rubber plants set around to create its own ecosystem.
"Lovely," I murmured.
"Aren't you going to write anything down?" she asked, looking suspiciously at my closed notebook.
I flipped it open and scribbled something about a bathroom that combined the old and the new.
The spare bedroom was in the back of the house. It was painted pale blue and the antique iron bed was covered by a quilt in delicate shades of blue, lavender, and rose. Sheer white curtains fluttered in the breeze. A doorway led to a small balcony overlooking the backyard. "You can go out there," she said. "It's solid."
On the balcony was a white wicker table-and-chair set surrounded with more plants. I had a view of the long backyard and saw, beyond the garden, the sparkling waters of the Lickin Creek.
Reluctantly, I went back in and followed Mrs. Bonebrake across the landing to the master bedroom, which ran the whole width of the building, making it the largest room in the house. The walls were a soft cream, the bedspread a yellow-and-white quilt. The furniture was all walnut and on the marble top of the dresser sat a crystal vase holding fresh flowers. The tower I had seen from outside contained a comfortable-looking armchair, a small table, and a floor lamp. Beneath the windows were built-in bookcases.
"It's my reading area," Mrs. Bonebrake said.
I sighed at the pleasurable thought of having a "reading area" of my own.
"Yep, there's a lot of Velma Bonebrake in this house," she said. "I'm going to hate leaving it."
"You're leaving? Why?"
"The usual reason. Harry Bonebrake needed time to find himself. And what he found was a tootsie. He wanted out so bad, he let me have the whole kit and caboodle in the divorce, and I'm selling it and moving to Florida. It's going to be sun and surf for Velma Bonebrake's golden years."
"I'm so sorry" I murmured.
"Don't be. Let her deal with his hemorrhoids, bunions, and arthritis for a while. I had the good years." When she smiled her blue eyes twinkled, and I realized she was really quite attractive. "Let me show you the garden."
Five
The Zaleski House has long been a charming part of Lickin Creek's history. Built in the Queen Anne style in approximately 1890, it has been lovingly restored by Mr and Mrs. Harry Bonebrake. You may feel as if you've traveled back in time when you walk through the picket fence into the English-style cottage garden. Step onto the vine-shaded porch and please note the original spindles and brackets at its cornice and the rail carried by turned balusters. Imagine yourself sitting on the porch swing in the Victorian era.
The front door is to the right of the swing. After you admire the stained glass panel, open the door and enter the small but appealing foyer. The living room is decorated in soft pinks and roses; the beautiful fireplace is faux marble.
Throughout the entire house are delicate lace curtains, and to complete the effect an oil lamp still burns over the dining room table. The kitchen has been modernized, but still retains the charm of yesteryear. Upstairs, there are two lovely bedrooms, one of which overlooks the back garden and the Lickin Creek. The master bedroom, done in creams and yellows, has a reading nook in the tower. A recent lifechange has prompted the Bonebrakes to put their historic home on the market.
I paused and reflected what it might be like to live in a house with a reading nook, lace curtains, and two bedrooms, one of which would be perfect for my study. I could learn to garden, I was sure. It couldn't be too hard. Lots of people did it.
Mrs. Bonebrake had told me what she wanted for it. Compared to New York prices it seemed a mere pittance. I was positive that it would be sold before the house tour was over.
I clicked the laptop off. It was time to dress and report for work at the Chronicle. As I filled the bathtub, I couldn't help but think about Mrs. Bonebrake's spacious bathroom with the claw-foot tub. The running water reminded me of the sparkling stream that was the Lickin Creek, flowing past her back garden.
Stop this, I scolded myself. You're going to make yourself miserable wanting something you can't have. I sprinkled some of Ethelind's English bath salts into the tub and watched the water foam. But was the house really something I couldn't have? I could visit the Lickin Creek National Bank and see if I qualified for a loan. That way I'd know for sure I couldn't afford to buy a house. After all, a chat with a banker wouldn't obligate me to buy the house. Besides, I wanted to talk to J.B. Morgan about Morgan Manor's history and judge his reaction. Someone had to have placed that body in the springhouse. Maybe he knew something about it.
A real house. My own house. I sighed and lowered my body into the water. Just think, in a month I could be lying in my own tub.... Of course, I couldn't afford to furnish it with real antiques the way the Bonebrakes had, but in time...
I came to my senses with a start to find myself lying in tepid water. The bubbles had disappeared, leaving only a slimy oil slick on the surface. Oh no, I was going to be late for work again.
P.J. Mullins, the longtime editor and publisher of the Lickin Creek Chronicle, and the only reporter until I'd come along, was tapping her teeth with her fountain pen when I ran in the door. That was usually a bad sign.
"I'm sorry," I apologized. "I had a little problem at home, and... "
"Tori. Your whole life is a problem."
That was so unkind.
"Sit down. I've got some stories to go over with you."
I plopped down on the folding chair in front of the card table I used as a desk. "Shoot," I said, whipping out my reporter's notebook.
P.J. busied herself for a moment or two digging through the papers on her rolltop desk, giving me a chance to study her. She had always reminded me of Katharine Hepburn. Today, as usual, she wore khaki men's slacks, a white cotton shirt over a turtleneck jersey, and had a blue silk scarf tied around her throat. Her short hair was steely gray, and she wore little half-moon glasses perched low on her nose. For the first time, I noticed how much thinner she was than she'd been when I met her nearly a year ago.
P.J. was one of those people who used to have two cigarettes going at one time and a filthy ashtray on her desk, but since her operation the butts in the ashtray had been replaced by a bowl of mints, which she sucked on all day long.
"Here's what I want you to work on," she said, handing me a fax. "We can feature it in next week's paper."
It was an FBI Most Wanted poster, with a blurry photograph of a man who appeared to be middle-aged, although it was hard to tell. The accompanying text said he was a prison escapee, who had been convicted of blowing up several clinics. He was considered armed and dangerous.
"Can you tell me what I'm supposed to be looking for?"
"It would be nice if you could find him. But since that's hardly likely, I'll take interviews with family and a background story instead. He's a local boy. Escaped a few days ago from a county jail in Louisville, Kentucky, where he was awaiting sentencing. There's a chance he might have headed back this way. He used to have a cabin in the woods near the Appalachian Trail."
"I'll get right on it. Anything else?"
"The landfill was closed last Thursday when it reached its monthly limit of 9,999 tons. Try to get a story about what the borough's going to do with its garbage. You can tie it in with something about Bulky Trash Pickup Week, since all that extra stuff is what put it over the top."
"But the borough hasn't even picked up all the trash from the streets," I said. "What is it going to do with all of it?"
"That's what I want you to find out, Tori. I'd also like to continue with
the series on local businesses. Why don't you choose a couple and write articles about them?"
That was an order, I knew, and not a question. "Anything else?" I asked with a frown. P.J. only paid me to work three days a week. How could I possibly get all this done in that time?
"Yes, there are some anthills on the Appalachian Trail. If you get a chance, go take some pictures."
I closed my notebook. "And maybe I can kill two birds with one stone and find the escaped convict hiding in his cabin at the same time."
"Good idea. Now scoot. You have no time to waste." Her voice was raspier than usual, and as I walked into the outer office I overheard her coughing frantically.
"I thought the operation was supposed to take care of that," I said to Cassie Kriner, the office manager, as I paused in the doorway.
Cassie's blue eyes were cloudy with tears. "I think it came too late."
Outside, I leaned my back against the bricks of the narrow Chronicle building and used my sleeve to rub grape juice off the brass plaque, which said BUILT IN 1846, while I pondered my next move. I had options. Too many, as a matter of fact. I had to find out about an escaped convict, write stories about local businesses, Appalachian ants, and the landfill, and I also needed to write up two more houses for the house tour booklet before Friday. Several explosions from the direction of the town square reminded me that I could also do an article about crows and the disease they spread. West Nile Virus, I thought it was called.
Procrastination is my middle name. Actually, it's Livingston, but the P word would be more appropriate. With everything I needed to do, I made the decision to visit the Lickin Creek National Bank instead and do a little investigating about the body in the springhouse.
"Toby Merkle, good to see you. Have a seat." J.B. Morgan, the bank president, welcomed me heartily, getting both my first and last names wrong as usual.
"It's Tori Miracle," I gently reminded him.
"Of course. Please forgive me. Now, what brings you to my humble little office?"
The humble little office he referred to was about as large as Ethelind's enormous living room, with antique chestnut paneling, alabaster light fixtures, and an Oriental carpet the size of Libya.
He smoothed his silver hair and smiled, revealing perfect teeth that probably looked even whiter than they really were because of his tan. When I sat across from him, I noticed his eyes were bluegreen and rimmed with thick black lashes. I wondered if he were married, then I wondered why I wondered. Sure, he was handsome, but he was also years older than me. How many? I mentally calculated he must be about fifty, maybe fifty-five. Much older than my thirty-plus years. Stop this immediately, I told myself. Just because you have no man in your life, doesn't mean you have to start looking at every man you meet as a potential beau.
"Is there something wrong, Toby?" J.B. asked. "You seem... distracted."
"No. Nothing. I was only thinking about something unimportant. Actually, I came here to ask you a few questions about Morgan Manor."
His eyes narrowed, making him look a little like the older, sophisticated Cary Grant. "What kind of questions? And why?"
"I'm writing up a description of the house for the house tour booklet, and wondered if you could give me any background information that could make it more interesting."
"For goodness sake, I'd nearly forgotten the house tour was coming up. I'll be glad to help you out. But to be honest, I don't know a whole lot about the history of the house."
"Didn't you grow up there?"
"Nope. I grew up in a nice split-level in the South Hills development. That's south of the borough," he added unnecessarily, since I knew South Hills was Lickin Creek's most exclusive and expensive suburb. "Aunt Maribell is my father's sister, and since she didn't have kids I never had much reason to visit her, except when she held her annual summer picnics and Christmas dinners." He gave a little shudder, but grinned to show he was being funny. "Not exactly my idea of fun. `Don't touch this. Don't sit there. Be careful on the stairs. No running. No jumping. Stay away from the stream. No fun allowed.' You know the drill."
I certainly did. It was quite similar to growing up in an ambassador's home.
I felt a little embarrassed at continuing, but still I did. "I am trying to link Morgan Manor and the Bride's House together. Thought it might generate some local interest."
His eyebrows raised as if he hadn't thought of that. "How so?"
"The runaway groom.. .what was his name...?"
"Rodney Mellott?"
"That's it. He lived with your aunt, didn't he?"
"He rented a room from her. That's not quite the same as living with her."
"I wasn't suggesting they were linked romantically," I apologized. "I simply wondered if you had ever met him?"
"Of course I met him. He was the high school music teacher. I had him for band."
I'd forgotten that. "What was he like?"
"You know something, Miss Merkle, I was just a kid. It was forty years ago. How do I know what he was like? All I remember was, he was kind of a pudgy guy with pink cheeks. Ooops. Nearly forgot. He had a tendency to spit when he talked rapidly. Does that help?"
"That's not exactly a description of a romantic character," I said. "I think I'll leave his looks to people's imaginations. I couldn't help noticing the springhouse. It's quite charming. Anything you can tell me about it?"
"Yes indeed. It's made of limestone, it sits over a spring, and Aunt Maribell used to worry about it being full of snakes. Anything else I can tell you?"
"Snakes! If I'd known that I never would have gone in. AliceAnn mentioned something about the water having gone bad once. Is it all right now?"
"Over my aunt's objections, I had a UV water purifier installed. She didn't want to spend the money, but I thought, better safe than sorry. Lots of dairy farms around here causing pollution. Now I have the water tested every year, and it is always clean. Anything else?"
"Thank you very much for your time, J.B. I'm sure I have enough information. By the way, how can I find out if I qualify for a home loan?"
He whipped out a ballpoint pen, produced papers as if by magic, and within half an hour, I had applied for a loan.
"I see no reason why you shouldn't qualify, Miss Merkle. After all, the Zaleski House is small and not very expensive. I can safely say you are preapproved for a mortgage. Go make your offer." He winked, a co-conspirator, my buddy. "Offer five grand less than the asking price. I happen to know Mrs. Bonebrake is very anxious to get far away from Harry and his tootsie. The sooner the better."
We shook hands, and I left his office in a daze. What had I done? I stumbled down the street, worried, until I came to the realization that just because I had applied for a loan didn't mean I was committed to anything.
Six
The Wyndham-Cratchitt Gristmill lies on the southwestern border of the borough of Lickin Creek at the confluence of the Lickin Creek and the Green Spring. Built in 1820, it was once the business center of Caven County, but the mill became less important to the community as farms shrank in number. Finally, the mill stopped operating full-time in 1979. Bill Wyndham and Elmer Cratchitt are cousins who inherited the mill from their grandmother in the late 1980s. Bill had the idea of bringing the mill back to life, and the two men have handcrafted many of the parts in order to restore the mill to working order. They open one day a year to grind cornmeal, and they sell it once a week in the old mill office, where the pot-bellied stove sits as a reminder of the olden days when farmers gathered around it to visit, chew tobacco, and talk politics.
Above the working mill, the second and third floors of the enormous building have been turned into a spacious home, occupied by Bill Wyndham's family. The huge living room, which runs the width of the building, is on the second floor. The wide plank floors are original, as are the limestone walls. The windows, overlooking the falls that run the mill, have been enlarged to take advantage of the breathtaking view. When you sit at the dining table, you feel as if you a
re floating in an aerie high above the treetops. The kitchen, with its beamed ceiling, is dominated by a walk-in fireplace.
The sound of the waterfall is constant and soothing at night to people sleeping in the six third floor bedrooms, and even reaches the children's playroom in the attic. An outbuilding has been turned into a sun-drenched studio where Annette Wyndham, Bill's wife, produces her acclaimed paintings. The studio will be open throughout the tour and paintings will be available for purchase.
After my visit to the bank, I had used my lunch hour to visit what was commonly called the Mill House. Looking at it had taken only a little more than an hour, and I hand-wrote my report while sitting in the truck, then stopped at the library to show it to Alice-Ann, who worked there part time as the children's librarian.
She and Maggie Roy invited me into the back room for a cup of coffee. While I doctored mine liberally with imitation cream and sugar, Alice-Ann made room for us at the table by moving aside piles of books and plastic book covers, then looked over what I'd written. She laughed when she reached the end. "Good old Annette, never lets an opportunity go by to sell her dreadful paintings. And when I visited the mill last year on cornmeal-selling day, the waterfall noise reminded me of Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater. It's enough to drive you crazy. Night and day; splash, splash, splash. It never stops. And the smell of mildew is overwhelming."
"It is pretty, though," I said. "And I didn't smell any mildew"
"Maybe I'm exaggerating," Alice-Ann said. "Are there any doughnuts left?" She got up and crossed to the refrigerator where she found a Dunkin' Donuts box. "Aaah, good," she sighed. "Jelly doughnuts."
"I think it's a beautiful place," said Maggie, bringing the subject back to the mill. "I wouldn't mind living there. It would be so much fun to furnish with antiques from the Civil War period." Maggie's fiance was an avid Civil War reenactor, so it was only natural she would think of that period first. But I knew the mill actually was built forty years before the war. Historical accuracy was beginning to become important to me. If I should buy the Zaleski House from the Bonebrakes, I'd be sure to decorate authentically.
5 Death, Bones, and Stately Homes Page 5
