Unintended Detour: A Christian Suspense Novel (The Unintended Series Book 3)

by D. L. Wood

  The smaller landing on the left held two chairs and a velvet couch arranged beside the foot of the staircase that continued to the third floor. The smaller landing on the right held what Deidre referred to as “the gallery.” There was no staircase there. Instead, its original intention had been to offer a place from which to overlook whatever grand happenings were going on in the foyer, but now some kind of renovation was underway.

  Deidre explained that the space was being prepared to house a historical exhibit about the estate, including photographs, vintage pieces, and written details of the estate’s legends and history. Already a free-standing plexiglass wall separated the landing from the main area. Small post-it notes with identifying numbers indicated where framed photographs and placards would eventually be located. A table pushed against the plexiglass was covered in letters, ledgers, photos, albums, and various other papers. A rolling chair pushed under it suggested someone had been using it as a desk. Several boxes were stored beside it. Empty glass cases covered in similar materials, as well as a variety of vintage items, skirted the outer edges of the space. Four gray, faceless mannequins dressed in vintage clothing were squeezed into one corner.

  “Jack’s going to be sorry he missed this,” Chloe said, marveling at the sheer amount of history spread before her, despite its disorganized state.

  “I hope the study will work for him. It’s one of the rooms we reserve for guests needing private spaces for short business meetings and such.”

  “I don’t know how anyone could find him if they wanted to. This place is enormous. It reminds me so much of the Biltmore.”

  “Well, that’s an excellent observation because that’s exactly what Stonehall Estate was modeled after. And don’t worry about Mr. Bartholomew. He’s heard the tales before. I shared a good bit with him when he arranged your stay. He said he wanted you to get the experience firsthand, though.”

  “Please, call him Jack. And, yes, that’s what he told me. He said I’d enjoy it more if I learned it from a live person rather than a computer screen.”

  Deidre chuckled. “Well, speaking of ‘live’ persons, I suppose we ought to start with Lily.” She pointed at the portrait in front of them. “This is where the history exhibit begins. Where it all began. With the Stone Family.”

  The four people depicted included a middle-aged man and woman in formal wear, a young woman who couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen in a slinky silver gown, and a young girl, elementary-aged, in a frilly petticoat dress. Each of them sparkled with jewelry—even the child—diamonds and cufflinks, rings, necklaces and earrings, all somehow popping even in the monochrome likeness. They stood next to each other on the third step of the grand staircase, just feet from where Chloe stood now. Her eyes drifted to the spot, her mind working to reconcile the surreal nature of it.

  They stood right there. How strange to think that only time separated her from the people who had once occupied that space. Only time prevented her from walking down a few steps to touch them. Speak to them. Be in their world.

  Deidre must have noticed the shift in her attention. “It’s odd, isn’t it? To walk the same halls they did. Next time you walk down those stairs, I guarantee you’ll stop in that spot. It’s a bit otherworldly to realize you’re occupying the same space. Especially knowing what happened to them.”

  Chloe’s eyes flashed back to Deidre. “What happened to them?”

  Deidre pointed to the man in the photograph. He was tall, straight-backed, and resembled Cary Grant, if Cary Grant had a larger mustache that covered most of his upper lip. “Harold Robert Stone, born in 1888 in Liverpool, England. His parents immigrated to New York City in 1901 without a penny to their name. He was orphaned by fourteen, living on the streets of Manhattan.”

  It was hard to imagine that dashing gentleman penniless and hungry in New York, dressed in worn scrubby clothing, trying to stay alive.

  “He was exceptionally bright and managed to save money selling newspapers, delivering milk—doing whatever jobs he could find. Then he worked with the railroads for a couple of years, moving up the ladder from line worker to supervisor, to Director of East Coast Operations, all the while saving his earnings and living like a pauper. Finally, he began investing, including buying partial stakes in two railroad companies, a coal company, and a telegraph company. When these flourished, he started his own businesses, eventually amassing a fortune. By the time he married Florence in 1912”—Deidre pointed to the woman in the photograph—“he was worth over five million dollars. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but today that would be the equivalent of well over one hundred million.”

  Chloe’s mouth dropped as Deidre continued her spiel. “Lily was born in 1913, and Cora”—she inclined a finger toward the younger of the daughters—“in 1924.”

  “That’s a pretty big age difference,” said Chloe.

  “Florence had pregnancy difficulties. There were at least two miscarriages in between—sons, they say.”

  Chloe’s heart pinched, an ache rising in her belly for the woman depicted before her with her upswept hair, tiara, and fitted fancy gown. Her gaze then traveled to Lily, whose satin dress hugged her frame until fanning out like a mermaid’s tail at the bottom. Whereas her father and mother both wore austere expressions, Lily’s eyes were alight, boring through the photograph straight into Chloe’s center. It was disturbing—almost haunting—Chloe thought, realizing the irony of those words in light of Deidre’s comments at breakfast.

  “And you’re saying that’s who I heard last night?” Chloe asked, pointing to Lily. “That was the tapping in the walls?”

  “Well, that’s the legend anyway. A tragic one too. This photograph was taken on New Year’s Eve, 1930, and it’s the last one ever taken of Lily Stone.” Deidre motioned for Chloe to follow her to the work table in the gallery. “I can explain better over here. Come on.”

  At the piled-on table, Deidre pulled out pertinent items as she told the rest of the story. “Through his railroad and telegraph businesses, Harold Stone developed contacts with the Vanderbilt and Rockefeller families in the early part of the twentieth century, including Cornelia Vanderbilt and her husband. They were the occupants of the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina, during the 1920s. In 1924, they invited the Stone Family to visit the Biltmore Estate. Harold was so taken with it that he decided to build his own modest version right here. Maybe it was because of his meager beginnings, or maybe it was just because he liked to show off, but Harold had a reputation for living the high life and making sure everyone knew exactly how wealthy he was. In general, he spared no expense, and Stonehall Estate was no different.”

  “Is that why he constructed this house on property so close to the Vanderbilts’ Hudson Valley estate?” Chloe asked.

  Deidre nodded. “At that time, this part of the Hudson River Valley was the place to be if you were anyone worth knowing. The Rockefellers, the Vanderbilts, the Roosevelts, not to mention a dozen or so lesser-known wealthy families, all maintained elaborate homes here—respites from the incessant hustle of New York City. So, of course, this is where Harold wanted to be.”

  “It also explains the similarities to the Biltmore.”

  “Right. He didn’t use the same architect, but he did give his architect strict instructions to use the Biltmore as inspiration. As you noticed, the architect didn’t stray far, even though this house has only ninety thousand square feet of living space, rather than the Biltmore’s one hundred seventy-five thousand.”

  Chloe snorted. “Just ninety thousand.”

  “I know. It took five years to construct, beginning in 1925, as soon as he acquired the property. He imported materials from all over the world.” Deidre shuffled through the papers, pulling out stacks of old receipts and bills of lading. “Tile, limestone, entire tree trunks from which paneling was made, an Italian marble pergola structure built then dismantled overseas, then reconstructed here—and that’s just building materials. Half the landscaping in the gar
dens came from European growers. There’s a tulip garden comprised solely of bulbs imported directly from Holland.”

  “We’ll have to come back when the gardens are in full bloom.”

  “Absolutely you should. They’re still worth the walk in the winter, though. There’s a winter garden intentionally designed to provide color during this time, and the maze made of evergreens was also intended to provide interest in the cold months.” She shook her head. “But enough about the property. You wanted to hear about Lily.”

  Chloe nodded.

  “As you might expect, the Stone family fortune suffered quite a loss when Black Friday hit in October of 1929. But they kept spending as if nothing happened, finished this place, and moved in during July 1930.”

  “How bad were their losses?”

  Deidre shrugged. “It’s hard to say exactly because Harold worked very hard to keep it quiet. But the estimates are that he lost eighty percent of his net worth.”

  “Wow.”

  “And by then, most of what was left was tied up in this property. He had very few liquid assets left.”

  “And he couldn’t sell, because at that point, who was there to sell to?” Chloe guessed.

  “Exactly, and even if he could have sold, I doubt he would have. That would have been admitting failure, and that was not in Harold’s nature. He had enough to keep the place going, so publicly they just went along, pretending nothing was wrong. Look at this.”

  As Deidre shuffled through some papers, it occurred to Chloe that this was clearly going to be an impressive, almost museum-like exhibit when it was finished. But that seemed a long way off. Though many black-and-white photos lay in rows marked with notes regarding framing and display locations, the work of organizing everything clearly hadn’t progressed as far as it should have with the grand opening so close. The job looked half-done with only days to go.

  “I know it looks like a disaster.” Deidre said, apparently picking up on Chloe’s concerns. “But Tara has her system.” Deidre patted a short pile of leather-bound books on her left. “If you read Florence’s diaries—and I hope you’ll get a chance to—she writes about selling off pieces of jewelry, furs, and even some of their private art collection to overseas buyers so it wouldn’t be noticed by their friends in the States. Their cash flow was in danger of drying up, and they needed the money to stay afloat. Even so, like many wealthy families in the Depression, to keep up appearances, sometimes they lived even more extravagantly than they had before. They spent like nothing was happening while the rest of the world suffered, trying to figure out how to keep their children from going hungry.”

  “That’s some serious living in denial.”

  “And in addition to making their own money problems worse, that behavior drummed up some pretty serious ill will in the surrounding communities—even back in Manhattan, where they maintained a residence on the Upper East Side. People were starving, and they were still eating Lobster Thermidor and wearing diamonds to the opera.”

  “It does sound pretty callous.”

  “The Stones, like others in their sphere, were afraid. Overnight, many lost almost everything. Pretending they hadn’t was the only way they kept going. Which brings us to December 31, 1930, the night that portrait was taken. The Stones threw a grand New Year’s Eve party for forty or so of their closest and most influential friends, including Governor Franklin Delano Roosevelt.”

  “Seriously?”

  Deidre laid out a dozen photographs, each depicting the elaborate splendor of an evening filled with culinary delights, trays of flutes and goblets, a four-member band, and dancing. She pointed to one of Governor Roosevelt, who was laughing with another man. More photos showed guests wearing their very best, decked head to toe in sparkling jewels and finery.

  Deidre next tapped a finger on the clear vellum protecting one such photo, which included the image of a footman extending a tray of desserts to a guest. “This uniform is almost exactly what we have the footmen wearing now. Our female employees also wear the housemaid uniforms of that day. It’s all part of the aesthetic. Although, they’re just uniforms. We’ve got women serving and men cleaning rooms.”

  “It’s smart,” Chloe said. “It makes you feel like you’ve traveled back in time and escaped your modern-day headaches. At least that’s how it feels to me.”

  “Good. That’s what we want. So, as you can see from the photos, the Stones pulled out all the stops. Having the governor here was a real bonus. It was to be the party of all parties, ushering in 1931, and hopefully, better things.” Deidre sighed. “But it wasn’t meant to be. Shortly after the clock struck midnight, an armed intruder burst into the banquet hall—I don’t think you’ve seen it yet, but we’ll get you there on the tour today—and demanded everyone turn over their valuables. He swore not to hurt a soul as long as everyone complied.”

  “But they didn’t?”

  “Actually, they did. Every last person.” She recounted the whole tale as recorded in interviews from that night, including the shooting of the front window. “That bag was full of valuables, including a gold pocket watch given to Governor Roosevelt by his cousin Teddy. But when the robber went to leave with his loot, one of Roosevelt’s bodyguards—he had two with him that night—pulled a gun he’d been hiding in his waistband. Of course the room erupted into chaos. Unfortunately, the bodyguard was standing right next to the Stones’ daughters. He fired a shot at the robber as he was slipping through the doorway. In the bedlam, the bullet struck Lily in the chest.”

  “Oh, that’s horrible.”

  “She died nearly instantly, in her mother’s arms.”

  “And the robber? Did he get away?”

  Deidre shook her head. “The men gave him enough time to get clear so he wouldn’t be able to shoot anyone or take a hostage, then went after him. But the house is huge, and it was dark and snowy outside. There were just so many places to hide. It took a half hour, but they finally caught up to him in the woods on the southern edge of the property. He was running, but they’d gotten a couple of horses from the stable by then, and he was no match.”

  “Who was he?”

  “His name was Will Rader. He was a delivery boy for the grocery in Manhattan that the Stones used. It’s how he knew of the family and why they think he targeted them.” Deidre flipped through some papers, finally pulling out a set of sepia-toned mug shots. The name under the photographs read “William Henry Rader, Jr.” He had dark wavy hair, a thin face, and a vacant expression. Though handsome, he was clearly just a teenaged kid.

  “A delivery boy?” Chloe asked, her stomach turning at the thought of a young person being responsible for this tragedy.

  Deidre’s mouth turned down. “He was only nineteen.”

  “That’s so sad. Responsible for another’s death at just nineteen.”

  “It doesn’t appear he planned to be. When they told Rader he was being charged with robbery and murder—causing a death in the course of a felony—he seemed truly devastated.” Deidre tugged on another file in the stack. “We have the police records. The report of his interview indicates he was full of remorse. He swore he never intended for anyone to get hurt. And, by all accounts, if that bodyguard had just let him slip away, it seems like no one would have been.”

  “And the sack of jewels?” Chloe asked.

  “He didn’t have it on him when they caught him. And he wouldn’t tell them what he’d done with it. It’s never been found.”

  “That’s crazy. And what happened to him?”

  “Rader pled guilty and was sent to prison for life,” Deidre explained. “He only avoided the death penalty because he didn’t actually fire the shot that killed Lily Stone. The ironic thing is that he only lasted about a year. There was a brawl when several inmates cornered a guard. Rader was stabbed trying to help the guard and died of his wounds.”

  “This just gets more and more tragic.”

  “Lily’s story is even more so. Everyone remembered her as a kind girl,
generous to a fault, sneaking out to work in the food kitchens and delivering supplies to the orphanage near her home in Manhattan without her parents knowing. The stories of the ghostly sightings—and sounds—of her in the mansion started almost immediately after her death. People seeing her in her silver gown in the house, or wandering the grounds. The tapping and scraping sounds are a common report. They say it’s Lily searching for the stolen jewelry so she can give it to the poor.”

  “What would it be worth now?” Chloe asked.

  “Conservative estimates put the current value at ten million dollars.”

  “Whoa. Where do they think it ended up?”

  “Clearly, Will Rader managed to hide it somewhere before he was caught. But where—that’s anybody’s guess. He eluded capture for nearly thirty minutes, so there are a million places he could’ve put it, especially if he had planned stashing it ahead of time. Like I said, he knew of the family, and it’s possible he had wormed his way onto the property before the robbery. So the ‘Stonehall Treasure,’ as it's come to be called, could be anywhere—inside the house, out in the grounds, even in the woods.”

  “But why are the sounds in the walls part of the legend? Surely he couldn’t have hidden it there.”

  “That’s one of Stonehall’s secrets,” Deidre said. “It was important to Harold Stone that the servants not be seen coming and going. He wanted them to appear as needed and then disappear just as quickly. He learned of other large estates incorporating staff-only hallways behind secret panels. Those allowed staff to access all areas of the house without encountering guests and residents. Harold took that a step further and actually created narrow walkways between the walls of many of the rooms, truly allowing the staff to move through the house unseen. It’s possible Rader used one of these passageways to stash the jewels, bury it inside a wall for safekeeping, until he could retrieve it later.”