by Sara Rosett
I ran through more posts with the same general venomous tone, but the two printouts at the bottom of the stack were different. One had a photo of Sir Harold seated in a wingback chair. He held a crystal tumbler of what looked to be brandy or whiskey loosely balanced on the arm of the chair while in the foreground of the photo, the sharp edges of a crystal decanter rested on the table in front of him. His head was tilted back, and the photograph had caught him at a moment when his eyes were half closed and his mouth was partially open, giving him a drunken look. The text under the photo read, “Sir Harold overindulges, his favorite past time—other than raising the rents.”
The last printout showed another image of Sir Harold. This time, he was on the drive in front of Parkview Hall and appeared to be embracing a young woman with red hair. The text claimed, “Sir Harold can’t contain himself even in public. He would make a laughable Lothario except that the focus of his attentions are the lowest female staff.”
I looked up from the pages. “But this makes no sense. Sir Harold?” No matter how I stretched my imagination, I could not picture Sir Harold as either a drunk or as someone who would fool around with the staff. Granted, I hadn’t been around Sir Harold as much as I had been around Beatrice, but he had always been extremely courteous with me. He had the manners and old-world gallantry that weren’t usually in evidence today. Well, when he came out of his reverie, that is.
Sir Harold always seemed to be immersed in some project. The last time I’d talked with him, when we met outside the church after services on Sunday, we’d had a nice chat about his efforts to improve the output of honey from Parkview Hall’s beehives. Most of the time he had the glassy, faraway look on his face as if his thoughts were physically surrounding him, partially blocking out what was going on around him. The idea of him even noticing the female staff in that way…well, it went completely against every indication I had about his personality and character.
Beatrice nodded. “Yes, a load of claptrap, all of it. Harold does well to notice me a few times a day.” She paused to smile. “Which I know is not saying much. I’m no beauty, but you know what Harold is like. He doesn’t notice anyone—male or female. The thought that he’s stalking the young females in our employ is…well, it would be laughable if it weren’t such a serious allegation.”
She pointed to the paper in my hand. “That last photo was taken a week ago. I was two steps behind him, speaking to Mrs. King, our housekeeper, when Harold stumbled. Ella happened to be right there, thank goodness, and managed to catch his arm before he fell. Unfortunately, photos can be cropped to make it look like they were alone. And they can be manipulated, like the one of him in the chair. No one looks healthy and alert in every photo. Apparently, if you have your film set at the right speed you can catch anyone looking terrible.”
“Yes, that is true.” I was by no means a photography expert, but I’d learned enough that I knew the person taking the photos could either make a location look fabulous or awful, simply with a few changes of settings. I’d once photographed a sitting room of a cozy little house as a potential location for an interview scene on a television crime drama. The lens made the room look huge, but my boss, who was training me, pointed out that despite how good the room looked in the photos, the producer and director would be furious if they got there and couldn’t get the cast and their equipment into the small room.
I was sure the same principle applied to photographing people. Even though I didn’t focus on taking pictures of people, I usually caught a few bystanders or fellow crew members in my shots, and often just the tilt of their head or angle of their body made the photos unflattering.
“I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with this.” I handed the file back, at a loss for what else to say. My thoughts were churning, not sure what else I could say to help with Beatrice’s “spot of bother.”
She carefully replaced the file in the drawer and locked it. “But why am I showing them to you?” She folded her hands together and leaned forward. “I think you can help me figure out who is doing this.”
“Me?” I said weakly. I was afraid I knew where this discussion was going. “Just because the…what did you call them…the poisoned pen posts had photographs, doesn’t mean I’m the person you need. My expertise is not in photography, not really. If you want me to find a room for a commercial shoot or a room that can double as a Regency ballroom, then I’m your girl, but this is way out of my league.”
“No, that’s not why I thought of you. Although, you did take some lovely photos of Parkview for the website. No, I need you for three reasons: you’re clever, you’re observant, and—most important—you are an outsider.”
I shook my head. “Shouldn’t you contact Constable Albertson? Someone official, anyway. Those statements are libelous. The police could try and track down the source of the posts. They could get that information. I can’t do that.”
Beatrice waved her hand. “Impossible. I have a friend whose son is a whiz at this computer stuff. He moved to California a few years ago to work for some important computer company…can’t remember the name. But that doesn’t matter. I had him look into it, remotely of course. Gave him access to our end of the social media accounts. He said the person camouflaged themselves.”
She frowned. “I’m not at all sure he didn’t engage in some rather iffy actions to produce that knowledge, but he assured me it would be fine. I wouldn’t have asked if I’d realized it might not all be on the right side of the law, but what’s done is done, and we might as well use the information. He said the person protected their computer through something he called redirects, I believe. The long and short of it was that the trail is cold and even if the police had a warrant they couldn’t discover who created those posts. The trail simply bounces around the globe, it seems.” Beatrice shrugged then her face changed, taking on a conspiratorial look. “But I was able to narrow it down from the whole world to the employees of Parkview Hall.”
“How did you do that?” I asked, intrigued.
“The posts that are only words,” she shrugged again, “impossible to discern much from them. They came from various dummy accounts, which were obviously set up to enable the anonymous person to post those horrible things. The accounts were generic and had hardly any information on them. When the first posts popped up, I discounted them, as I said. In fact, I didn’t even think to check the accounts that the posts came from. By the time I caught on, some of the accounts had already been deleted or suspended. Once I realized it wasn’t just upset tourists, I researched the accounts, gathering all the information I could. Unfortunately, deleting the posts from our feeds on our end was all we could do. I contacted the social media sites, but they weren’t helpful. They banned the accounts, but two days later, another scurrilous post would appear under another account name. A hopeless situation, really, except for the photos. As much as I didn’t want to look at them, I studied them and discovered something. Both photos were taken during a time when Parkview was closed to visitors, so that means the photographer has to be someone on staff.”
She grimaced as if she’d eaten something that tasted bad. “As much as it pains me to think it, we’re not the happy family I thought we were. The photo outdoors was taken last week during one of the days we were closed to visitors. The one with Harold in the chair with a drink was taken later that same day. It’s ironic. Harold doesn’t drink that much, but because I had a drink, he joined me. So you see, it has to be someone who was here when the house wasn’t open to visitors, which naturally means a staff member.”
“Have you considered the possibility that the images are from two different people?”
“No,” Beatrice said quickly. “I checked. They were posted from the same account, Chris Robert’s account, by the way.”
“Hmm…not very helpful, but at least it wasn’t Smith.”
Beatrice let out a snort. “No, that would be too obviously fake, wouldn’t it?”
My smile faded as I said, “So you want me
to…spy on your employees? Try to catch someone in the act of taking more photographs?”
“No, I simply want you to keep your eyes and ears open. Observe the staff. You have the opportunity to be here uninterrupted for the whole weekend. You were able to ferret out several tiny details that made all the difference in those other cases. See if you notice anything here at Parkview.”
“On the surface that doesn’t sound that hard, but what if I don’t see anything? I’d hate to let you down.”
“Well, then I suppose you’ll have had a nice weekend—I hope you enjoy it—and I’ll have to resort to calling in a private detective.” She sighed. “We can’t let these rumors go unchecked. Besides the damage it does on the publicity front, it also seems to be escalating.”
She had a point. The first posts only insinuated that the inhabitants of Parkview were greedy, but the last attacks had been more specific—focused solely at Sir Harold and accusing him of being an alcoholic and a womanizer, accusations that you wouldn’t want directed at you personally, but there was another aspect to the situation. As the head of the Stone family, Sir Harold also headed the business organization that was Parkview Hall. Although, it seemed from what I’d seen that Sir Harold pursued his own interests while Beatrice handled the day-to-day running of Parkview. But he was still the top figure at Parkview, and I could see why Beatrice would want to put a stop to the posts.
“Does anyone else here at Parkview know what you’ve found out?”
“Only Harold.” She looked at the drifts of paper covering her desk. “Quite shook him up. There’s not much that will draw him out of his own interior world, but this certainly has. Of course, Holly deals with our social media, so she knows about the posts. She’s the one who first pointed them out to me, but she doesn’t know that I’ve narrowed it—”
A quick tap sounded on the door, then it swung open. A slender young woman stepped across the threshold, but stopped short when she saw me. “Oh, excuse me.” She wore the uniform of Parkview Hall employees, a navy blazer and matching skirt, the same uniform that the guides wore as they escorted tourists through the building, but the business attire didn’t sit on her easily. The formal lines of it were at odds with the casual cut of her white-blond hair, which was short in the back, but a long swath of bangs fell forward over one side of her face. She quickly swept her bangs to the side and tucked them behind an ear, revealing a heart-shaped face with dark arched brows, blue eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles. She didn’t have on much makeup, only pink lipstick and a bit of mascara. “I heard your voice, but I thought you were on the phone,” she said to Beatrice.
“It’s fine,” Beatrice said. “Come in, Holly. This is Kate Sharp, one of our guests for the weekend.”
Holly tucked a computer tablet into the crook of her arm and stepped into the room. “Nice to meet you. Holly Riley.”
“Holly is our publicity director,” Beatrice said. “She’s a genius at all this new media, thank goodness, which means I don’t have to deal with it.”
I said hello to Holly and shook her hand, thinking that Beatrice was being modest. She was obviously up to speed enough on social media to delete the posts and research the accounts behind them.
“I’m so glad I ran into you.” Holly handed me a folder that had been tucked under her tablet. “Your introductory packet. Maps of the house, schedules of when the kitchen is open for room service, and phone numbers for all our services. If you’d like to ride or book a spa appointment, all the contact information is in there as well as the personal profiles the guests provided for this weekend. Oh, and a schedule of activities, of course. Everything is optional, but most people have participated in at least a few of the activities. The garden and house tours are always the most popular. I’m sorry I didn’t have time to update the packet with your information,” Holly said.
“Don’t worry about it. Nothing much interesting about me.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Holly said with a grin that could only be described as impish. “Word among the staff is that you are quite the investigator.”
I didn’t look toward Beatrice, but out of the corner of my eye I saw her stiffen.
“You know what they say about rumors, that there’s hardly ever any truth in them. No, I’m looking forward to relaxing. I’m a big Jane Austen fan and want to discover what a Regency house party was like.”
“Wonderful,” Holly said then turned to Beatrice. “The Funderburgs are on their way up from the gate. I thought you’d want to meet them.”
“Yes, of course.” Beatrice stood and smoothed her dress, which I noticed for the first time since we’d begun talking. Beatrice usually didn’t have much interest in fashion. Mostly I’d seen her in her boxy raincoat, which had gotten a lot of use this spring. On Sundays, I’d seen her at the village church in loose cardigans and wide skirts that she wore with espadrille sandals. Today she looked more fashionable than I’d ever seen her. She wore a short-sleeved sheath dress in a nubby pale blue fabric. It was decorated with a double row of gold buttons, that gave it a slightly military air. The severe cut suited her square body type. As she stepped out from the desk, she said, “Would you like to walk with us? We can take you back to the entry hall.”
“Yes, that would be good. I won’t get lost,” I said as I followed Beatrice through the outer office and into the hall. I fell into step beside her, her black pumps striking the tile floor, each step ringing out like a gunshot. With her monochromatic dress and dark pumps she reminded me a bit of the queen.
“I sent Thomas to bring Sir Harold,” Holly said.
“Good.”
Chapter 3
WE ARRIVED IN THE ENTRY just as Waverly appeared and crossed the hall toward the enormous double doors. Sir Harold drifted down the grand staircase, his bald head bent over a book held in his liver-spotted hands. Beatrice aligned herself with the door, and Holly faded backward until she was almost inside the huge fireplace that filled one wall. If she’d ducked her head an inch or so she would have been able to step inside it easily.
“Showtime, Waverly,” Beatrice murmured under her breath.
“Indeed,” Waverly said in his dignified tones.
Sir Harold walked unerringly to Beatrice’s side, closed the book, which I saw was a field guide to butterflies, then slipped it into his pocket. Every time I’d seen him, he’d been wearing a shirt, tie, and dress pants. Today he’d added a suit jacket. “Hello, my dear,” he said to Beatrice as he blinked and glanced around the entry as if he’d just stepped off an elevator onto an unfamiliar floor and didn’t quite know which way to turn.
Beatrice smoothed his lapel. “Guests, dear. For the house party.”
“Right. Of course. House party.” Sir Harold caught sight of me as I slipped through the hall on my way to the grand staircase. “Hello, Kate,” he said. “I understand you are staying for the weekend as well.”
“Yes. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Excellent. Delighted to have you.”
“Thank you,” I said, struck again by Sir Harold’s vague, but courtly manners. He might spend most of his time in his own mental world, but he was courteous and kind. In fact, the first time I’d met him, he’d made me tea when I was shaken up because there had been an accident. Of course, no one was perfect, but I couldn’t imagine Sir Harold doing any of the things described in the poisoned pen posts.
Just thinking about the accusations as I looked over Sir Harold’s vague, yet welcoming face next to Beatrice’s strained face, irritated me. Who would do such a thing to such nice people?
They were giving it their all to keep Parkview Hall open, partly because of the familial connection to the place, but also because it was the largest employer in the village. Who would want to trash their reputation? And who would post nasty things about such a benign, gentle person?
I turned to climb the grand staircase, determined to keep my eyes open. I wasn’t sure I’d be much help to them, but I could try. Beatrice called out,
“Kate, why don’t you stay and meet our guests?”
“Yes, I suppose I should.” I came back down the stairs, but didn’t move off to the side of the entry like Holly did. She was busily tapping away on her phone in the shadows.
The entry hall became lighter as Waverly heaved open one of the doors and intoned, “Mr. and Mrs. Jay Funderburg.”
Beatrice stepped forward. “Welcome to Parkview,” she said to an Indian woman with beautiful brown skin and black hair. Its glossy waves brushed a scarf of turquoise, pink, and cream that rested on her shoulders. She wore a cream-colored linen pantsuit and matching three-inch heels. I could tell from the cut of the suit that it was expensive. Her look—polished and exclusive—reminded me of some of the Hollywood executives I’d crossed paths with occasionally in my early location scouting days when my boss brought me along to meetings as I learned the ropes. But when Beatrice introduced us, Mrs. Funderburg wasn’t distracted or disinterested. Her gaze was expressive and warm as she shook my hand.
“Please, call me Jo,” she said as she gripped my hand in a handshake so firm I had to hide a wince.
“Oh, you’re American,” I said. “It’s so nice to hear a familiar accent.”
“Yes, everyone expects me to have a British accent here,” she said with a smile, “but I’m American, born and bred. I grew up in Florida. Where are you from?”
“California.”
“Well, excellent,” Sir Harold murmured, and I think we were both waiting for him to ask if we might have some common acquaintances, but thankfully he didn’t fall into that cliché.
“And Mr. Funderburg,” Beatrice added, neatly moving Jo’s husband from Sir Harold to me.
“Yes, of course,” I said quickly, shifting to include him in the conversation. Jo was such a presence with her exotic beauty and friendly smile that she eclipsed her husband. I’d completely forgotten he was in the room, but he was there, hovering a little behind Jo.