Teddy stared at Katie Rose’s tray with rapt attention.
“And I bet Teddy would like a treat, too.” Cecilia took a small biscuit from the jar on the counter which she kept especially for him, tossed it into his mouth, and settled again at the table.
After taking a sip of tea, Cecilia explained. “D.J. is in the pre-kindergarten program at school. A friend of mine suggested he be tested for high intelligence after watching him interact at a play date. It helps their social skills if the child mainly focuses on academics.”
“Is that what was on your mind when you used wax paper instead of parchment paper?” I bit into something hard, and removed a date pit. “We should eat these carefully. Did you use pitted dates?”
“I guess I didn’t read the package close enough. Hmm. That explains the awful sound my food processor made when I ground them.”
We burst out laughing, which made Teddy wag his tail.
“Whatever you were thinking about when you made them must have been serious.” I carefully finished my cookie and took another.
“Not really.” Cecilia smiled. “It’s more of thinking about our future, well, mine anyway. You know I miss being a journalist. Sometimes I daydream of working again. The extra money would help, too, since the kids will need it for activities as they grow older.”
I nodded. “Understood. It’s interesting you should mention working again.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You remember our historical society is having its major fundraiser ball tonight.”
“That’s right! We’re watching Teddy for you. Glad you reminded me.”
“And I do appreciate it. It might be a coincidence, or perhaps not, that we’ve asked Karla Wilson from the Clover Hills Daily to cover it.”
“Karla Wilson?” Cecilia seemed surprise. “She and I used to work together at the Half Moon Bay Review. Talk about calculating. Karla’s a great reporter, though. I still remember some of her stories.”
“Well, she’s given us good press so far. I’m looking forward to meeting her tonight, maybe I could mention you. Who knows? Maybe something will come of it.”
Cecilia’s face lit up. “Would you?”
“Sure, I’d be happy to.” I glanced at the time. “Better be going since I have a few chores to do before I get ready.” I slid out from my chair and stood. “Text me the recipe for the cookies, without the pits, of course.”
“No problem. I’ll put some in a bag for you to take. At least the afternoon wasn’t a total loss.”
I scooped up Teddy off the floor. “We need to get home and get you a nap before tonight. The kids will want you to play.”
“Would you like me to give him his dinner? I know the drill.” Hearing the word “dinner” Teddy perked up his ears and stared at Cecilia.
“He’d like that. Thanks.”
Cecilia took Katie Rose from her highchair, wiped her face and hands, and then walked me to the door. “Have fun tonight at the ball.”
~*~
A cool breeze caressed my face as I stepped outside, denoting the change from summer to fall. Teddy and I walked across the yard to my small abode, a refurbished worker’s shed I had made over into my dream cottage. As much as I loved my spacious Victorian, the smaller dwelling was much more practical. I kept as many of my beloved paintings as the walls would hold, each one a reminder of a time and place in my life.
Stop reminiscing and get ready, Jillian.
The Raven House Ball was our annual fundraiser for the care and maintenance of Raven House, a stately old mansion built in the early 1900s that sat on a large property on the outskirts of Clover Hills.
The Raven family lived in the house until five years ago, when old Mr. Raven had passed away and Mrs. Raven had been safely ensconced in a high-end assisted living facility. Alex Raven, their only son, was one of the Historical Society’s nominees for Volunteer Member of the Year.
Instead of selling the Raven family home, Alex had donated it to the City of Clover Hills with the provision the city would maintain the property. A costly arrangement, but it became profitable after Vivian Rivers, a new friend I’d made, turned the home and the grounds into a venue for weddings and social events.
After a leisurely bubble bath to help me relax for the evening, I dried off, spritzed myself with perfume, and dressed.
The Raven House Ball was a black tie event, thankfully, instead of a costume ball, which I always found to be both a challenge and a huge waste of money. I slipped on a short, glittery blue dinner dress that I adored because it made me look slimmer than I was, and rummaged through my jewelry until I found my crystal and pearl drop earrings.
With a final touch of brushing and teasing my shoulder-length blonde hair, and painting my face with just the right amount of makeup (not too much or the wrinkles would be accented), I slipped on my silver pumps and took a final look in the long mirror.
“Well, it’s the best I can do for a woman my age,” I said to no one in particular.
I turned off the lights, attached Teddy’s leash to his collar, and picked up my purse and black pashmina shawl. I stooped down to talk to my brown and blonde-streaked fur baby. “All set to play with D.J. and Katie Rose?”
Teddy wagged his tail as I stroked his fur and gave a few scratches under his chin. “Woof!” he replied.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ Let’s go, then.”
Chapter 2
I drove the short distance to the Clover Hills Museum, where the pre-event party would be held for the board members and volunteers, and thought about the three candidates for the Volunteer Member of the Year award.
Of course there was Alex Raven, III, who was running for re-election as mayor. A plump but energetic man with manicured hands, who wore the most expensive of clothes, Alex Raven’s political slogan “Clover Hills Born and Bred” resonated all over town.
While I waited at a red light, I considered another candidate, Dr. Priya Singh. It was a mystery to me how she found time to keep up a busy medical practice. When she wasn’t off to India to attend a wedding, she spent limitless hours at the museum, either directing the tour docents or constantly wanting to change the displays. The first time I met her, I thought she was the museum director.
The light turned green, and I inched forward in heavy traffic, which was commonplace no matter what time of day it was in our Bay Area bedroom community. As I drove down Main Street, the face of the third candidate, Ron Porter, came to mind.
Like Alex Raven, Ron Porter was also running for public office, but as a city councilman. Rumor had it that his successful real estate business provided campaign funds. Quiet on the outside, I wondered if Ron had a medical condition because of his constant display of nervousness. He was always drumming his fingers at meetings and rarely making eye contact. Still, Ron managed to volunteer countless hours overseeing renovation projects at Raven House.
I was a recent volunteer, commandeered by my friend Vivian Rivers, whose job it was to make new members feel a part of things. She had talked me into being in charge of refreshments for not only the pre-event, but also for the dessert bar at Raven House after we did the tour and held the silent auction.
I was nervous as a cat, even though I kept giving myself a pep talk about all the afternoon teas and numerous dinner parties I’d held, like the one I hosted for Cecilia and Walter’s engagement celebration. It seemed so long ago. Now they were married with two kids. Still, the Raven House Ball was a big deal, and the social event of the year. As I pulled into the parking lot in back of the museum, I noticed Vivian’s car already parked beside the catering van.
Was I late? I checked the time. No, I was ten minutes early. Lord, please still my heart and help me get through this night. Amen.
Vivian Rivers was last year’s Volunteer Member of the Year. It was no wonder. Everyone seemed to love her. Not only was she in charge of restoration projects for Raven House, she worked in some capacity at the museum every day it was open. In one word, I
would describe her as vivacious. Impeccably coiffed and dressed in a never ending parade of beautiful clothes, she was a local fashionista.
I took a deep breath and walked inside. Caterers scurried about the tiny kitchen placing appetizers on trays. The museum director, a non-descript little man who reminded me of an old professor I’d had, was on his phone, running his hand through what little hair he had. “Make sure the auction baskets in the foyer are placed prominently, it’s important!”
“Am I late?” I asked. He waved me on to Vivian.
“No problem. Things are well in hand.” She led me past historical displays of early Clover Hills history to the front door where she’d set up a guest table with name badges. “Our guests should arrive in a few minutes.”
“What help do you need?” I noted a bartender standing ready for orders. She smiled when I looked her way. Vivian took my hand. “You’ve done your job selecting the appetizer and dessert menus. Our caterer is first class—I’ve used them many times. Another team is setting up the desserts at Raven House for the tour and silent auction.”
We turned to the door as our first guest arrived, a person I’d not met before. The young woman was sophisticated in a semi-attractive way, with short brown hair worn to one side and a light application of makeup. When she got closer, I noticed a small tattoo of a blue and orange flower vine on the left side of her chest.
Vivian made introductions. “Jillian, I’d like you to meet our wonderful reporter for the evening, Karla Wilson. Karla, meet Jillian Bradley, garden columnist for the San Francisco Enterprise.”
“A pleasure,” Karla said. We shook hands, and I noticed that her grip was unusually firm. “I think I’ve seen your column. Isn’t it next to the obituaries?” The term Cecilia had used, “calculating,” certainly resonated. Later in the evening, when Karla and I were better acquainted, it might be more appropriate to mention Cecilia’s desire to reenter the world of journalism. .
Vivian handed us our plastic name badges and pinned hers on to her dress. “Let the evening begin.” We smiled at each other as guests poured in and headed for the bar. “Jillian please let the caterers know it’s time to start serving.” With a nod, I was dismissed.
Befitting the Spanish influence in California, a trio of roaming classic guitarists strummed music to add an atmosphere of festivity to the event. When a server offered a tray of appetizers, I selected a giant shrimp nestled in a tiny cup of cocktail sauce, and then I wandered to the bar and ordered a glass of cranberry juice.
Karla Wilson was circulating among the guests, chatting and taking photos of the board members in particular. During one of the shoots, I saw a man I didn’t know walk up to her and place his arm around her waist. She turned and smiled. “David! I wondered when you’d get here.”
Since I was within earshot, Karla caught my eye. “Jillian, meet the love of my life, Dr. David Thorndike.” The man blushed, probably because he appeared years older than Karla and seemed to me a bit conservative.
I offered my hand. “A pleasure. I’m Jillian Bradley.”
Karla went on. “David is a research chemist. A genius, as far as I’m concerned.”
David blushed again. “Well, it’s nice to meet you Jillian, but I must excuse myself. I need to get in line to order a drink.” As he left us, I noticed a pronounced limp.
Karla watched him. Without turning her head, she spoke. “David was born with a deformed leg, but there’s nothing deformed about his mind, I can assure you.”
“Obviously. He appears to be quite successful.” I decided to take advantage of our being together. “We have a mutual friend, I believe.”
Karla raised her brow. “Who would that be?”
“Cecilia Montoya. Her maiden name was Cecilia Chastain. She’s my neighbor and a dear friend. When I mentioned you and some of the other guests who would be here tonight, she told me you worked together at the Half Moon Bay Review.”
“Small world.” Karla scanned the room. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to the Porters.”
There I was, left dangling. A timid-looking woman who reminded me of a doe seeking shelter from the hunters clung to the side of Ron Porter. Mrs. Porter, I presumed. Karla snapped their picture, grinned, and hurried to her next subjects. I’d met Ron, but not his missus, and the opportunity soon presented itself.
“Nice party.” Ron’s hands shook as he introduced me. “Jillian, this is my wife, Susan.”
The slender woman smiled. “Hello.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Nice to meet you, Susan.” She held no drink. “If you want to try the delicious appetizers I was responsible for selecting, you might also want something to drink. I can guide you to the bar.”
A smile spread across her face. “That’s kind of you. Ron, you go ahead and talk to people. I’ll go with Jillian, if you don’t mind.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Ron left the two of us standing there.
“Right this way.” I gestured toward the bar.
“Ron’s running for city councilman. He needs to circulate.” Susan’s smile fell away. While we waited in line, sharp laughter rose from a nearby group. I recognized the voice of Karla Wilson.
“Have you met Karla?” I asked.
Susan nodded. “Once. She did an interview with Ron for his campaign last week while I was in his office stuffing envelopes. Formidable young woman, I’d have to say. The questions she asked were penetrating.”
Ron approached. “Susan, dear, I think I can take over for Jillian now. Mustn’t hoard her time.”
“Thank you, Jillian.” Susan took Ron’s arm and turned away, leaving me feeling dismissed once again.
After accepting another shrimp cocktail from a server, and still feeling I was the new kid on the block, I roamed the room looking for someone to talk to. Most people were happily engaged in conversation, especially, I noted, Dr. Singh and Alex Raven. Interesting since both were rivals for the Volunteer of the Year Award later in the evening.
Vivian tapped on a glass. “Attention, everyone. We’ll now be moving to Raven House for a tour, dancing, dessert, and most importantly, the silent auction. See you over there. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”
As guests made their way to the exits, I noted Karla Wilson standing next to David Thorndike, as if they were waiting until everyone had left. David appeared content just to be with her. Karla, on the other hand, seemed troubled.
Chapter 3
During daylight hours, Raven House looks like a schooner in full white sail. Tonight, rising above the third story, only its watchtower was dark. The magnificent Italianate home was situated in the center of the property. Originally owned by Charles Alexander Raven the First, the mansion was surrounded by gardens planted by his daughter.
Mature trees and shrubs, lit up at night, lined the path to the wide-open doors of the main entrance. Music from the late 19th century emanated throughout the house, electronic for now, because the band would play after the silent auction. Vivian wanted to keep the atmosphere original to the house.
The foyer was the Historical Society’s first renovation and seeing it for the first time took my breath away. It was spectacular. What I noticed immediately were the oddly shaped windows that lined the room.
Vivian approached. “Wondering about the windows, Jillian?”
I nodded. “I’ve never seen any like them.”
“They’re coffin windows, long verticals designed as an architectural passage way reserved for the dead. The goal was to protect the everyday portals from the stigma of death.”
“I see. The Victorians had a number of superstitions, as I recall. My grandmother kept my father’s blond curls long and made him wear girl’s dresses until he was two. They believed it would protect their sons from evil spirits that preyed on toddlers.”
Vivian raised her brow. “I had no idea. Jillian, you are a wonder.” She nodded to the floor. “The floors are marvelous, too. Note the faux carpet strips which embellish the wood. Oh my, I
’ll wait to give the rest of the tour in a minute. Excuse me. I see someone who just came in and who promised a large donation for the auction.”
Large crowds filled the mansion. People were engaged in lively conversation, and they feasted on individual desserts I’d selected for the occasion. With only appetizers in my tummy, I needed a few myself. I made my way into the dining room where the auction and award presentation would be held.
Standing by the white marble fireplace, flanked on either side by cherubs, Alex Raven was engaged, rather seriously, with Karla Wilson. I couldn’t make out what they were saying but I didn’t think they were discussing dessert.
Being the curious person I am, I moved closer. As I did, I saw David Thorndike hiding behind a palm, watching them as well. Strange.
I could barely make out what Alex was saying to Karla as he cast his eye to where David hid. “What’s he doing here?”
Karla replied, “He’s my leverage.” Then she walked over to where David stood, and together they left the room.
With Alex staring moodily at the fireplace, I joined him. “The architectural features in the fireplace are exquisite,” I said. “Your parents lived here, didn’t they?”
Snapping out of his reverie, he answered, “Up until my father passed away. The estate was too much for my mother to manage. She’s in assisted living now, and not too unhappy. Her mind is still sharp. I am terribly fond of this place, though. Hopefully the auction will raise enough funds tonight to renovate the second floor bedrooms.”
He eyed my miniature parfait. “That looks good. Think I’ll go and find one. If you’ll excuse me.”
I was left alone again.
It was time for the tour. Vivian called out the announcement. “Everyone please gather in the main foyer to begin our tour. We’ll end in the ballroom for the silent auction, followed by dancing. First, I call your attention to the decorative plaster ceilings.”
Karla took photos as Vivian shared the history of the mansion. She led us to the recently renovated 1940s kitchen, painted a soft green, and pointed out post-war additions of a refrigerator and a gas cooker with hotplates. Then she asked us to step back carefully. “Behind this door, stairs lead to the cistern where rainwater was gathered to provide drinking water and water for the grounds.”
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 14
