Eleanor hadn’t budged. A fly circled her head and landed on her nose, then walked up the bridge. It left that prominent feature and crawled about her forehead. She still didn’t move.
I found myself gripping Dr. de Wilde’s muscular forearm. Had we arrived too late? Was Eleanor Brady gone?
CHAPTER 2
Dr. de Wilde glanced at me, consternation in his eyes. They were unusual, blue with a gold ring around the pupil. “Is she all right? Should we call for help?”
“Hold that thought. Let me take a closer look.” Heart in my throat, I approached the lounge chair, studying Eleanor’s bony chest for a hint of movement. Was that a slight flutter of lace? Encouraged, I took her wrist, noticing with a wince how fragile it was, almost like holding a baby bird.
In the shadow of the bonnet brim, Eleanor’s eyes flashed open, startling me. Quite frankly, I was reminded of the creepy scene in a movie where a doll comes to life. I jumped back with a little cry.
“I felt someone touching me,” she said, pushing to a more upright position. She waved at the fly circling her face again.
“That was me,” I said. “I … we thought…” I decided to drop that line of discussion. I was sure she wouldn’t enjoy hearing we’d been afraid she had passed. “Anyway, I’m Iris Buckley. From Ruffles and Bows.” I waved a hand toward my companion. “And this is your guest, Dr. de Wilde.”
Eleanor swung her body around and planted her feet on the tile surround. She cocked her head and gave Dr. de Wilde a coquettish smile. “How nice to meet you.” She put out a hand. Thinking that she wanted to shake, he stepped forward and grasped her fingers. But with a grunt, she leaned forward and stood. “Thank you,” she said, dropping his hand and settling her long dress into place. “You must excuse my appearance. I was cleaning out the pool.”
His amused eyes locked with mine and I had to stifle a laugh. A more unlikely pool-servicing outfit I couldn’t imagine. Eleanor Brady was quite a character.
Eleanor craned her neck, peering past the professor toward the drive. “Is the rest of your party here?”
“Not yet, Miss Brady,” he said. “They’re attending a meeting at College of the Isles.” The picturesquely named local institution was renowned for its intensive study of Maine’s natural environment. “But I would like to check us all in.”
Glancing back and forth between us, the older woman fluttered a bit, tapping one finger against her teeth. “Iris, my dear, would you mind waiting here while I take care of Dr. de Wilde? I have iced tea or cold water if you’d like a glass.”
“Iced tea would be great,” I said, choosing a chair under a table with an umbrella. “And please, take your time.” I leaned back against the thick cushions with a sigh. There were worse things than sitting beside a pool on a gorgeous summer day.
The pair went inside the house, Dr. de Wilde opening the French door for Eleanor to precede him. She rewarded him with effusive appreciation for his courtesy.
What a beautiful spot. I couldn’t see the water from here due to the bushes and trees surrounding the pool enclosure. But the sound of breakers was a little louder and accompanied by a steady onshore breeze. I started to pull out my phone to check my e-mail and my calendar, but then I reconsidered. All that could wait.
“Here we are.” Eleanor bustled back out through the French door, a small silver tray in her hands. It held one tall glass of iced tea, a sliver of lemon perched on the rim. Ice tinkled as she set the glass in front of me, along with a napkin, a tall spoon, and three sugar packets with the “Sweet on ME” design used by the Miss Blueberry Cove Diner, ME being the abbreviation for our state. Had Eleanor been reduced to stealing supplies for her guests? I sure hoped not. Maybe she’d bought a case, anticipating lots of renters.
“I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Eleanor said, patting my shoulder. “Soon as I get that nice young man settled in.”
“I’m in no hurry,” I said, ripping open a sugar packet. I used only one sugar in my iced tea, which took off the bitter edge without making it too sweet. Lounging and sipping tea, I imagined myself a summer visitor from a hundred years ago. This fantastic old cottage and the elegant lifestyle its residents had enjoyed made me long for a time machine.
That’d be one way to get out of rock climbing tomorrow morning. But since a time machine wasn’t handy, I flipped mentally through the various excuses I could use. Like a forgotten dentist appointment (total lie, but seriously I preferred tooth drilling to rock climbing) or a sudden upset stomach (hopefully not from the Taste O’ the Sea menu). Then, feeling guilty, I stopped myself. Ian really wanted me to go, and bailing on him at the last minute would be cowardly. He was too special—we were too special—for games or dishonesty. No, I had to pull up my big girl panties and deal.
Mindlessly pleating the sugar packet into tiny folds, I allowed myself to drift into a daydream. It might have featured Ian kissing me for my bravery in climbing a cliff with only a nylon rope to save me from death.
“Iris?” Eleanor appeared at my elbow, making me jump. I hadn’t heard her approaching. “Thanks for waiting so patiently. Would you like to see the linens?” She had taken off the bonnet, revealing a head of finger-waved white hair that made her look like an elderly flapper.
Oh yeah. Pretending to be very cool and casual, I took a slow swallow of iced tea, set my glass on the tray, and stood. I’d learned that it wasn’t good business to let the customer know how eager you were.
We entered the house through the French doors, arriving in a comfortable sitting room furnished with a mix of wicker and upholstered chintz furniture. A marble-and-walnut wet bar stood along the wall straight ahead, while to my left, I glimpsed a formal living room through open pocket doors. The woodwork and wainscoting were carved, the plaster ceilings and moldings ornate. All of it was magnificent if a little shabby, like the threadbare Persian carpet under my feet.
Eleanor led me past the bar and into a huge entrance hall dominated by a curving staircase. “Everything is upstairs,” she said, taking hold of the bronze nymph topping the newel post. With the other hand, she picked up her long skirt so it wouldn’t drag. Just like many a lady before her, I couldn’t help but think.
In the upper hall, we wandered past stained glass windows casting vibrant colors onto the ivory-and-gold wallpaper and carpet. Closed doors lined the corridor, and near the end, we reached what looked like a built-in cabinet. Bronze curlicue sconces with white globes cast light on the scene as Eleanor opened double doors with a flourish. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were packed with folded sheets and pillowcases, most of them white, some in tasteful pastels. A faint aroma of lavender and starch tickled my nose.
“I can see why you might want to downsize a little,” I said with a laugh. Seriously, there had to be ten dozen sheets stacked in there, enough to stock a small hotel.
Eleanor chuckled in agreement as she tugged at a folded sheet. “Now that I’ve started renting rooms, I plan to keep a bunch. But even with three sets for each bed, I have far too many.” She finally managed to extract the sheet and plopped it into my waiting arms.
The fabric was thick cotton, densely woven, and silky. Premium, in other words. “I like it. How many can I have?” I could sell pairs of this quality and vintage for close to a hundred dollars.
In the end, I took a dozen sets of white sheets and pillowcases—in plain white, with blue piping, and edged with lace. This purchase barely made a dent in the closet’s contents, so I hoped to buy more if these sold well. Unless the other dealer snatched them up, of course. But I was stretching my budget already, buying this much.
“Do you have anything else for me?” I asked, hinting. Nice as the sheets were, they weren’t the European linens Eleanor had mentioned on the phone. But maybe she’d changed her mind about selling. I wasn’t the type to pressure a customer, unlike some of my competitors.
Eleanor put a finger to her lips, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “You mean the top-secret stash?” She gestured. “Come with me.”
Leavi
ng my sheets stacked on a window seat, I followed Eleanor down the hall and through a door to what must have been the servants’ quarters. Here the wallpaper was faded and blotched with brown, the floorboards bare and worn. The small rooms were furnished with brass twin beds and not much else.
We ascended a narrow flight of stairs to the third floor. Eleanor pointed to a door on the right. “That’s the nursery. My mother started out here as a nursemaid. Then she married my father and became mistress of the house.”
I realized my mouth was hanging open and quickly closed it. I’d never heard this story, and my mind began to whir, thinking what a scandal an upstairs-downstairs romance must have been in the 1930s. Perhaps class distinctions weren’t as rigid as, say, in England with its nobility, but they were there. Still were.
“Where was your mother from?” I asked, more to fill the silence than to pry.
“Belgium. She was an immigrant without family or connections. That’s why she became a servant.” Eleanor opened a door on the opposite wall. “This is the attic,” she said, flicking on a light switch. Bare bulbs illuminated a long, slant-ceilinged space crammed with household goods and assorted junk.
“I’ve been slowly going through everything,” she said, sidling past pieces of furniture and stacks of boxes. A wheeled rack holding garment bags squealed away when she pushed, coming to rest against a huge armoire. Who had carried that up here? “It wouldn’t be fair to Craig if I leave a huge mess.”
“Craig?” I picked my way across the room, jumping when I came face-to-face with a snarling raccoon. Stuffed, I realized after a few heart-pounding seconds. I’d never seen the appeal of taxidermy.
“My nephew.” Eleanor was out of sight now and her voice was muffled.
Oh, the nephew. The one without the taste and brains to appreciate Shorehaven. Umbrellas in a stand knocked together when I bumped them with my rear. What was that among the handles? Seriously, a wooden leg?
“He’s my only relative, so all this will be going to him,” she went on. “I had two sisters and a brother—Craig’s father—but they’re gone. All of them, gone.” She sounded forlorn, and I thought how lonely it must be to be the last one left of your family. “So anyway,” she said, her tone brisk, “I was poking around up here and I found the linens I told you about. And some other things I need your professional opinion about.”
Hinges squeaked, so I picked up the pace, eager to see the goods. Finally, a bit disheveled and definitely dusty, I reached Eleanor’s side. She was sitting on the floor in front of a black metal trunk with tarnished brass trim. Heedless of my dress, I sat beside her.
A layer of tissue paper lay on top of the trunk’s contents, and Eleanor carefully folded it back. “I remember looking in this trunk once, years ago. When I was a child. But Mama didn’t like us playing around in the attic, so I forgot about it until now.”
Under the tissue was a snowy sheet made from fil de lin, the finest of linen. Even before I pulled the piece from the trunk, I could imagine its hand—what we textile nerds called “fabric feel.” The sheet was silky, light yet dense, nothing less than sumptuous. Details included handmade lace trim and an embroidered monogram with a V and an S.
“Who did this trunk belong to?” I asked, expecting her to mention a Brady ancestor, perhaps a bride who bought her trousseau in Paris.
Confusion shadowed Eleanor’s eyes. “My mother.” She picked up a handkerchief from an upper tray and showed it to me. This monogram was C, d, and W. “Claudia de Witte was her name. But I have wondered … how did an impoverished immigrant buy goods of this quality?”
Her question hung in the dusty air. How indeed? “Maybe they were gifts,” I said. That would explain the other monogram.
“Maybe.” Eleanor replaced the handkerchief. “But there’s more.” She scooted over to an identical trunk and opened the lid. Again, there was tissue paper that she folded back. “Look at this,” she said, holding up a black-and-white plaid jacket trimmed with soft fur at collar, cuffs, and hem, and a matching skirt. She handed them to me. “Do you think they’re valuable?”
The garments carried an aroma of cedar, which had protected the fabric from moths. I opened the jacket, gasping when I saw the label. Chanel. In addition to the iconic suit she was probably best known for, Coco Chanel had designed glamorous clothing like this outfit.
And there was more; a black-and-white satin evening dress, day frocks, a velvet wrap and mink stole, four pairs of dainty shoes, gloves, sets of gossamer undergarments. All designer-made.
“Oh yes, they’re valuable,” I said. “Not only designer, they’re in excellent condition. I’ve seen similar garments go for tens of thousands of dollars.”
“As I suspected,” Eleanor said. “I never understood it,” she added. “How did she go from this”—she waved a hand—“to this?” She opened a much more humble trunk and pulled out a bibbed apron trimmed with Battenberg lace at the shoulders and hem.
I want. Despite the beauty and value of the couture clothing, aprons and linens were my focus. “Can I look?”
She moved aside so I could pore over the contents of the trunk. A dozen aprons were inside, all styles worn by domestic help in the early twentieth century. They’d been immaculately taken care of, washed and starched, rips and tears mended with small, neat stitches. I didn’t know which I loved more, the floral full apron from the 1920s or the V-bib trimmed with lace inserts. How about all of the above?
I clasped the lacy apron to my chest. “Can I buy everything in the trunk? And the linen sheets too.” These purchases would take quite a bit of my reserve cash, but such rare items were worth it. Collectors on my list would be very interested.
Eleanor pursed her lips, a crafty expression in her eyes. “I’ll let you. On one condition.”
My eagerness deflated a tiny bit. Perhaps this purchase wasn’t going to be the home run I’d hoped for. “What’s that?” I kept my tone neutral and made sure to smile. Never let them see you sweat.
Eleanor turned back to the trunk of Chanel garments, reaching out a hand to stroke the suit’s fur trim. “Can you sell these for me?”
The unexpected question surprised a laugh out of me. “I’m sorry, but clothes really aren’t my area of expertise.” Pricing the garments would require research into previous sales plus digging to find out which pieces were most collectible at the moment. And we’d need to find a partner to sell them, mostly likely an auction house that had the right connections and could command the highest prices.
She kept her eyes on the apparel as she said, “I want you to try and sell them for me. Everything in the trunk.” Biting her lip, she darted a glance at me.
Reading mingled hope and fear in her eyes, I thought of this mansion, which was practically falling down around our ears. She needed the money, and despite my lack of experience in this department, I found myself saying yes.
“I won’t give you any prices now,” I said. “Let me do some research first. We’ll need to find an auction house or a specialist in vintage clothing.” Such a situation wasn’t as clear-cut as me directly selling something and taking my share. But it didn’t matter, since I was going to make this a pro-bono project. I didn’t care if I made a dime from those designer clothes as long as Eleanor profited.
Eleanor hoisted herself to her feet by leaning on a nearby Victrola cabinet. “I appreciate your help, Iris.” Her smile was warm. “But I didn’t expect anything less from Anne’s granddaughter. How is she?”
“She’s doing well,” I said. “I’m not sure if you knew, but Grammie is co-owner of my shop. It’s wonderful working with her.”
“I’m sure it is.” Eleanor’s face sagged with sorrow. “I was so sorry to hear about Joe.” My grandfather, who died last winter. “He was a good man.”
“He was.” I paused briefly, thinking of Papa, then said, “I’ll be back later with help to move these trunks.” I wanted to keep the sheets and the clothing in their trunks until I had a chance to poke through. There mi
ght be labels or sales slips or other items that would add to an item’s value. The aprons could go into a box.
“Maybe Lukas can help.” She cocked her arm. “He has a nice set of muscles.” She whistled, mischief gleaming in her eyes. Despite her advanced years, Eleanor had obviously retained a youthful and lively attitude toward life. Her fine features still held traces of beauty, and I could easily imagine her decades younger.
I giggled. “Only if he wants to. He is a guest, after all.” The visiting professor might not take kindly to being drafted into service.
“Wait here, my dear,” Eleanor said. “I’ll be right back.”
I spent the time drooling over the linen sheets and other textiles in the trunk. In this neck of the woods, such high-value items were fairly rare. Maybe I could even get a feature about vintage linens into our local paper, the Herald. Lars Lavely, their main reporter, owed me big time.
Footsteps echoed on the third-floor stairs—two sets. By the time they reached the top, I had both trunks shut and latched, ready to go. I had flattened cardboard boxes in my car and I’d bring one up for the aprons.
“My mother came from Belgium,” Eleanor was saying as they entered the attic. “She immigrated in 1932.”
“Really? What part?” Dr. de Wilde asked. He spotted where I was standing and began picking his way through. Then he stopped to move objects aside, clearing a path. “We’re going to need room to get those trunks out.”
“Antwerp,” Eleanor said, helping him slide a stack of chairs over. “Are you familiar with it?”
As I joined them, he said, “Familiar with it? I was born and raised there.”
“I’ve never been,” Eleanor said. “Which is a shame.”
As we moved furniture and boxes aside, Dr. de Wilde described the city, which now had a population of half a million. Antwerp had been an important port since the Middle Ages and was known for its diamond trade. “If you can visit,” he concluded, “you should. It’s a beautiful, cultured city. I go home as often as I can. Thankfully Brussels isn’t far.”
Thread and Dead--The Apron Shop Series Page 2