Hidden Treasure
Page 4
Ick, I thought. It must be miserable being Stacy.
* * *
Ty got home around seven, annoyed and exhausted. He hadn’t been able to resolve the training issues, so he would be flying to Washington in the morning.
“What went wrong?” I asked.
“Everything.”
“That’s comprehensive.”
He leaned over and kissed my forehead. “I don’t want to recount the multitude of errors. I want a beer and something to eat. Then I want to sit in the hot tub with the most beautiful woman on earth while you tell me about your day.”
I went up on tiptoe to kiss him. “Done.”
I decided on the fly to skip the chicken. I could tell, don’t ask me how, that Ty was in a burger-and-dog mood. He took a Smuttynose from the fridge and leaned against the counter as I placed everything I’d need on a tray. He held the door for me, then sat on an Adirondack rocker with his long legs stretched out in front of him. I fired up the grill.
“I changed the locks today.” I described Stacy’s unauthorized entry. “I left the new keys on your bedside table.”
While I cooked, Ty retied the tomato plants, which seemed to grow a foot a day, to the bamboo stakes that supported them, and I started to fill him in about Celia and Stacy. As twilight descended, we moved to the picnic table. The orange lanterns I’d strung around the patio area cast a warm glow, and I decided to tell Ty the rest of the Celia-Stacy saga later, opting instead to chat about our new home’s herb garden and the sound and scent of the ocean. I could see the tension ease from Ty’s neck and shoulders. When we’d finished washing up, we changed into swimsuits and slid into the bubbling hot water.
I resumed my summary by telling Ty about Mrs. Wilson’s missing trunk, and how I’d found it. “I’ll deliver it in the morning.” I turned to face him. “I’m a little worried about Tom.” I explained about Tom’s call to Celia and asked if he thought we needed him to sign the nondisclosure form.
He shrugged it off, saying that he thought it was a nonissue. “What will he be privy to? That we like peonies?”
I laughed and finished recounting my experiences with the Wilson family’s confusing and complex dynamics. “I don’t know what’s really firing up Celia and Stacy,” I said, “but whatever is going on feels creepy, as if they’re competing for supremacy over their aunt—and each other. I see this kind of bickering in families a lot, and it’s always sad.”
“And there’s never anything you can do.”
“Except stay out of it.”
“Words to live by.”
CHAPTER FIVE
I pulled into the Belle Vista parking lot at nine thirty the next morning, as scheduled. Eric, Prescott’s facilities manager, followed in a Prescott’s van. He rolled to a stop at the curb and set his flashers blinking. I walked up to tell him to hang tight while I went inside to ask whether we’d need to use the service entrance, as I suspected.
Belle Vista occupied a ten-acre plot on Francis Street, a lovely section of Rocky Point, two blocks from the village green and ten minutes from the ocean. The lawn was manicured, the hedges trimmed, the gardens weeded. The white picket fence toward the rear, separating the open grounds from the private gardens, was freshly whitewashed. I was impressed.
A young woman sat at a cherrywood reception station talking on the phone. She was probably only a year or two out of high school, and striking, with big brown eyes and long, sleek chestnut hair. Her complexion was flawless, the color of Devonshire cream. Her eyes were somewhere between topaz and caramel. She stood to retrieve a notebook from the credenza in back of her, revealing a spectacular figure. A brass tent sign read ELAINE BAGLIO, and I realized she must be the receptionist I’d spoken to the day before, Lainy. She smiled as she took her seat again and raised an index finger, signaling that she’d only be a minute. I nodded. She flipped open the notebook, and I turned away, walking toward the back of the expansive reception area.
The facility was well named—Belle Vista did, in fact, offer a beautiful view. A double-wide plate glass window overlooked a meadow enclosed by poplars, birch, and maples. Wildflowers were in full bloom, purple asters and bluebells, buttercups and snowy-white Queen Anne’s lace, a kaleidoscope of summer. In fall, the autumn leaves would add a ring of fire.
“Sorry about that,” Lainy called as she hung up. “How can I help?”
I crossed the reception area to her desk, introduced myself, and explained why I was there. She had me sign an old-style guest book, then directed me to the loading dock.
“Mrs. Wilson just got back from shopping,” she said. “I’ll let her know you’re here.”
* * *
I clanked a polished brass colonial-style knocker, and the door opened wide. A woman my mother would have described as handsome stood with one hand on the door.
She smiled. “Ms. Prescott, this is so kind of you! Please, come in. I’m Maudie Wilson. You can call me Maudie.”
Maudie towered over me. She was probably five-ten or taller with a solid frame, big bones, and strong features. Her silvery-white hair was stylishly close cropped. She wore a loose-fitting baby-blue tunic over white slacks with sensible tie-up navy-blue shoes. A shiny silver key dangled from a lime-green plastic-covered wrist coil.
Bright sunlight streamed in through two floor-to-ceiling windows, both open about two feet. Warm air wafted in on a rose-scented breeze.
“And I’m Josie.”
I’d expected a small, institutional cell. Instead, the apartment was spacious and homey. On the left was a Pullman kitchen, with modern white cabinets above and below a tan-and-beige-mottled granite countertop. To my right was a sleeping area, separated from the rest of the space by a five-foot-high wall that ran parallel to the kitchen. After a three-foot gap, which provided an entry into the bedroom area, another five-foot wall, this one running side to side, completed the separation and delineated the living room. Through the gap I could see into the bathroom. I took it all in with one sweeping glance, then brought my gaze back to the small kitchen.
What people leave out on their counter tells a lot about them, and Maudie was no exception. A small utilitarian toaster oven and a high-end European coffeemaker took up most of the left side of the counter. A pair of marigold glass candlesticks, maybe carnival glass, stood between the appliances, adding a punch of color. A plain white coffee mug, an old-fashioned wooden rolling pin, and a small white plate were perched on a mini drying rack, which sat on a plastic mat to the right of the sink. All in all, I gathered Maudie’s style was half-elegant and half-practical. I walked farther into the apartment.
“Oh!” I said, pausing midstep. Julie was dragging a jumbo clear plastic tub past a folded-up wheeled grocery cart, which was leaning against a Chippendale-style bistro table near the front windows. “Julie! Hello.”
Julie looked up. “Hey.”
“You know one another?” Maudie asked. “Of course you do. I forgot. Tom told me he’s helping you maintain the grounds.”
Julie stopped by the front window, positioning the tub against the wall. She straightened up, arching her back as if she were stiff or achy. “What do you think, Maudie? Is this room enough?”
“It should be. Thank you, dear.” Maudie turned toward me. “I asked Julie to move the tub to make room for the trunk.”
“You’re certain you want the trunk in here?” I asked her. “I know we discussed it on the phone, but … well…” I lifted my arm toward the tall windows. “This place is so open.”
“You’re nice to think about it. After I go through things, I’ll move it to my storage locker in the basement. It will be fine.”
I nodded at Eric, who wheeled the trunk in and deposited it at the end of the kitchen counter. He removed the protective blanket. Maudie thanked him, and he left.
Maudie walked over and patted the lid. “I’m glad to have it back.” She smiled at me. “Will you join me for coffee? The on-site café isn’t bad at all. I’d love to hear how you found it.”
Julie grabbed her tote bag. “I’ll wait for Tom outside.”
“You come, too,” Maudie said.
“Are you sure? I’m fine waiting outside.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re more than welcome.”
“Thanks,” she said with a quick smile. “I’ll text Tom. Let me just get the trash.”
“Thanks, Julie,” Maudie said. “There’s a new box of bags under the sink.”
Julie used her thumbnail to penetrate the perforated opening and extracted a green industrial-strength trash bag. I held it open while she tossed in smaller bags and other debris—rags and ripped-up packing materials.
“I’m still unpacking and sorting things, if you can believe it,” Maudie said. “Having Julie’s help makes the process much less painful.”
When we reached the small in-house café, Maudie selected a table for four near the front window and ordered a pot of coffee and a basket of breakfast pastries from the server.
“I still can’t believe I left the trunk behind,” Maudie said. “I’m no more forgetful than I’ve ever been, I’m just preoccupied.” She laughed and raised her left arm to show off her key. “Or at least I’m not much more forgetful. Losing keys is so common around here, they keep a supply of wrist coils at the reception desk. I didn’t actually lose my key, by the way—I merely misplaced it. I found it in my refrigerator the next day, next to the mustard.”
I smiled but felt a twinge of concern. Finding misplaced objects in unexpected places might indicate nothing more ominous than the preoccupation Maudie referred to, but I’d heard on the news that it was also a symptom of dementia.
After Maudie poured us cups of coffee, she added, “I used to store things in that old dumbwaiter all the time, Christmas and birthday presents, that sort of thing, so you’d think I would have remembered to check.”
“How did you get the trunk inside the dumbwaiter? It’s not exactly a small Christmas present.”
“The day the junk dealer was scheduled to come, I got worried they might scoop it up in the fray. Everything I wanted to keep had already been moved except for the trunk, which I didn’t want the movers touching. I planned on asking Tom to help me with it after the junk dealer left. That morning, before they arrived, my real estate agent came over to have me sign something, and he helped me lift it up. As it turns out, I was right to get it out of sight—that junk dealer went through the place like a vacuum cleaner.” Maudie smiled. “In case you’re wondering how I could manage, well, you might not think it to look at me, but I can bench-press fifty pounds.”
I laughed. “Well done! How did you discover the dumbwaiter in the first place?”
“I found it by accident while I was cleaning the pantry a year or so after Eli and I got married. I never told anyone except him. The dumbwaiter had been used when he was a boy, but then it broke and was never fixed. Eli said he hadn’t thought about it since he was a kid. He used to leave me love notes inside.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Never mind. Tell me … how did you find it?”
“The same way you did, it sounds like. Not that I was cleaning, but I noticed the patched holes and investigated further. I bet I know how you opened it.” I paused to extract the crochet hook I’d found in the butler’s pantry from my tote bag. “You used a crochet hook.” I handed it over.
Maudie’s eyes widened with surprise, and she laughed as she took it, rubbing the shaft tenderly. “A little twist, a little lift, the deed was done.”
“Very clever.”
“Do you think so? Industrious, perhaps. Obviously I planned on retrieving the trunk—that’s why I left the crochet hook there. I was so busy those last days … forget it … it’s over … and I have my trunk back, thanks to you. So you bought the Gingerbread House. What are your plans for it?”
“We’re going to update it, keeping as many of the original components as possible, like the moldings and that gorgeous chandelier. I was so glad you were open to including it in the sale.”
“It was purchased for that room. It should stay there.”
“I’m guessing it’s French.”
Maudie’s eyes widened. “You’re right—but why would you think so?”
“After Napoleon’s 1798 Egyptian campaign, the French brought home boatloads of looted artifacts, including palmettes … you know, those crystal elements in the center of the chandelier that look like palm fronds. Since Egyptians didn’t make crystal chandeliers”—I opened my palms—“and the French did … voilà!” I smiled. “It was possible it was Flemish or Italian, but my gut told me it was French.”
“You’re a wonder, Josie. Eli told me his father found it in an antiques shop outside of Paris during the war—the First World War, I mean—and had it shipped home.”
“I don’t suppose you remember the name of the shop? Or the place where he bought it?”
Her brow creased. “I don’t know whether I ever heard the name of the shop … but the town … yes, I’ve got it! He bought it in Saint-Quentin, a small city in the north. I remember because it reminded me of that prison in California.” She shook her head. “The shop name, though … if I ever heard it … it’s gone. I must be getting old, which is terrible until you consider the alternative.”
I laughed. I hoped I was as cheerful and accepting as Maudie if, when I got to be her age, which I pegged at sixty-seven or sixty-eight, I found myself losing capabilities I now took for granted.
Julie smiled mechanically.
“Are you all right, dear?” Maudie asked.
Julie colored and looked down for a moment, then looked up. “I’m fine … just a little tired.”
“No surprise with your workload.”
“It’s not forever. If I don’t work hard now, I’ll never get anywhere. What is it you told me? The only thing under my total control is self-discipline.”
Maudie laughed, embarrassed. “I’m not used to being quoted to myself. At least I gave good advice.” She took a mini-Danish and turned to me. “I’m afraid I don’t remember anything else about the chandelier, and the receipt, if there ever was one, is long gone.”
“Knowing it was purchased in Saint-Quentin is a big help.”
“Good. So Tom is going to take care of your garden for you.”
“During the renovation, yes. Like moving those gorgeous irises. You must have cultivated them for years.”
“They were Eli’s pride and joy. He called them his problem children—temperamental and demanding. What are you going to do with them?”
“Tom’s going to transplant them into raised beds so they’ll be safe during construction.”
“You’re very fortunate. Tom’s a treasure.” She glanced at Julie, who lowered her eyes. “Julie is a treasure, too, always pitching in around the house, even though I scolded her for it.” She patted Julie’s hand but spoke to me. “Now she helps me with this and that, and I’m very grateful.”
“I like helping you, Maudie. Nana always said the people that help the most get the best lives.”
“I think there’s truth in that. I once read—”
Maudie broke off as Lainy hurried across the café to our table. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she told Maudie. “It’s your niece Celia.” She lowered her voice, communicating seriousness. “She’s on the phone. She says it’s really important.”
“Thank you, Lainy. I’ll be right there.”
I pushed back my chair. “I need to get going anyway.”
“No, please, don’t go,” Maudie said. “Celia always says things are important, and trust me, they never are. I’ll only be a minute.”
I hoped for Maudie’s sake that she was right, but I was unconvinced. Maybe I was just spooked from witnessing Celia’s meltdown in my parking lot, but from where I sat, Celia seemed to be an emotional wreck. I knew from my years as an antiques appraiser working with angry h
eirs and disenfranchised family members that people can only stomach dismay and disappointment for so long before they react like a volcano and erupt.
CHAPTER SIX
Half my brain continued to speculate about Celia’s emotional stability. I focused the other half on Julie.
“You’re studying nursing,” I said. “I admire that. Do you have a special interest?”
She smiled, but not like she thought something was funny. “Getting a job. Just joking. My dream is to become a school nurse.”
“Time off in the summer.”
“And holiday breaks during the year. I’ve always wanted to travel.” Her shoulders shot up an inch, then sank. “The way the bills keep piling up, it’s just a dream.”
“Short-term misery for long-term gain.”
“At least I like the coursework.”
“What are you studying now?”
“Injections.” She smiled, a real one, and her face was transformed; for a few seconds, she didn’t look the least bit tired. “We practice with oranges and hot dogs.”
“Hot dogs?” I laughed. “That’s funny.”
“And injection pads. Today we’ll practice some more, then tomorrow we go to a clinic to give children vaccinations.”
“The children are fortunate to have you.”
“Thanks. I work hard, that’s for sure, and I never give up.”
“There’s an old saying: ‘The harder I work, the luckier I get.’ Hard work and persistence—put those two together and you have a recipe for success.”
“I wish Tom could hear you. Maybe that would convince him to go back to school. He could get licensed as a plumber or an electrician or whatever and the GI Bill would cover the costs.”
“But he doesn’t want to.”
“So he says.” Julie smiled. “I’m working on him.”
Maudie rejoined us. “Sorry about that. All Celia wanted was to confirm that you delivered the trunk as scheduled. She’s a worrywart.”
“She cares about you,” Julie said.