The entire office was stuffed with mementoes of a long and illustrious career in the law. Framed degrees and certificates shared wall space with photos that showed him in the company of an assortment of politicians, celebrities, and local movers and shakers. There was even one of him posing with my old high school nemesis, Veronica North. That didn’t surprise me. Ronnie is quite well-to-do, thanks to outliving three wealthy husbands, and has a finger in many civic pies.
Outside, the mid-July day was hot and humid and predicted to become more so. Inside, Mr. Featherstone had the air-conditioning turned up full blast. I have to admit I’d rather be chilly than overheated, but the temperature was a bit on the cold side even for me. I was glad I’d decided to wear slacks instead of a skirt, and that the sleeves of my cotton blouse were three-quarter length.
“Well, now, Ms. Lincoln,” Featherstone began, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to see some identification.”
I fished in my tote bag for my wallet and produced my driver’s license. The photo was unflattering but eminently recognizable. He scrutinized it carefully before returning it.
“I understand you’re a retired schoolteacher.”
“That’s correct.” I wondered what my former profession had to do with being one of Tessa’s heirs, but I assumed he’d explain in his own good time.
“And that you currently edit manuscripts on a freelance basis?”
“Also correct.”
He consulted notes made on a legal pad. “Are you settled permanently in Lenape Hollow?”
“I bought my house there three years ago,” I told him. “I have no plans to move again.”
He nodded in what appeared to be approval. “Excellent. Well, as I said in my letter, you are one of the beneficiaries named in the will of Tessa Swarthout. I assume you know who she was.”
“More or less. She was one of my mother’s oldest friends, but I never had much to do with her.”
This seemed to confuse him. “She didn’t keep in touch with you?”
“As I said, she was my mother’s friend, not mine, and even with Mom there were years during which their only contact came from an exchange of Christmas cards.”
A snippet of conversation with my mother on the day I’d driven her to visit Tessa had come back to me the previous night. Mom had complained that Tessa never bothered to scribble a note on those cards, let alone enclose a newsy annual letter. She just scrawled her name beneath a generic holiday greeting.
“To be honest,” I continued, “I didn’t realize Ms. Swarthout was still alive. My mother’s been gone since 2004.”
“Tessa Swarthout was one hundred and two when she died. She updated her will just last year.”
Since I didn’t know what to say to that, I kept my mouth shut. Patience, I told myself. He’ll get around to explaining everything eventually.
After a long, thoughtful pause, Featherstone finally got down to the nitty-gritty. “The property you’re to inherit was Ms. Swarthout’s family home just outside Swan’s Crossing.”
I nodded to signify that I’d heard of the place. At a guess, the hamlet of Swan’s Crossing was no more than a forty-minute drive from Lenape Hollow. My inheritance appeared to be the same house I’d visited with my mother all those years ago.
“I understand it was once operated as a small dairy farm,” Featherstone continued, “and that the family took in boarders during the Season.”
Having grown up in Sullivan County, I didn’t need further explanation. The Season—make that tourist season—ran from Memorial Day until Labor Day. When I was a kid, our little corner of the world was known as the Borscht Belt. Huge luxury resort hotels catered to a clientele, mostly Jewish, from the City. That’s New York City, of course. Is there any other? Supposedly the movie Dirty Dancing gets the details right. I don’t know. I’ve only seen snippets, and as a “townie” who never worked at any of the resorts, I was never part of that milieu.
I knew more about the bungalow colonies that catered to the less affluent overflow and sometimes housed the singers and comedians hired to perform at the big hotels. The heyday of those accommodations ran from the 1930s all the way to the early 1970s, when societal changes and the increased availability of air travel had prompted tourists to move on to other locales.
Prior to that era, and continuing through some of it, the countryside had also been littered with smaller hotels, some of which blatantly excluded guests on the basis of religion, color, and country of origin. In addition, there had been hundreds of farm-boardinghouses. Their owners augmented the income they earned raising dairy cows or chickens by taking in boarders during the summer months. In some ways, I suppose they were the rough equivalent of the modern-day B and B, except that they supplied lunch and dinner, too, and sometimes even offered entertainment. Farm stock ponds provided places to swim, fish, and boat. The way I understand it, just the chance to breathe fresh air was a big draw for city folk back in the day.
“The house and some outbuildings are still standing,” Featherstone continued, “but no one has lived there for some time and there are no near neighbors.”
From his failure to meet my eyes and the way he kept fiddling with an antique fountain pen, turning it over and over in his knobby-knuckled fingers, I had a feeling the lawyer was leading up to something, most likely something I wouldn’t enjoy hearing.
He cleared his throat. “There is a condition attached to the bequest.”
When he glanced up I sent a polite smile his way but said nothing. Wait for it, I thought.
“Within a month of being notified of your inheritance, in other words, by the fifteenth of August, you are required to edit any diaries you find in the farmhouse. Further, you are to arrange to have the completed transcripts posted at a number of sites on the Internet. Ms. Swarthout made a list of the ones she had in mind.”
He handed over a printout that named several prominent social media outlets and specified that there was also to be an e-book, although I had an additional two weeks to put that into production. I don’t know which surprised me more, the condition itself or the fact that a hundred-and-two-year-old woman was sufficiently computer savvy to know where her legacy would best be preserved.
“How many diaries?” I asked.
“She never said.”
“Do you know who wrote them?”
“I know nothing about them.”
Somehow I didn’t think we were talking about the kind of diary I received as a Christmas present when I was eleven, a fat little volume with a bright pink cover and a lock so flimsy a two-year-old could have broken it. It contained one page for each day of the year—not enough space for much reflection; too much if all you were going to do was record the weather. I’d ended up filling the pages with clippings from TV Guide. I have no idea what happened to that record of my pre-teen viewing preferences. I expect it was tossed out when my parents moved away from Lenape Hollow.
“Can you make a guess at how old these diaries are?” I asked.
If the pained expression on Mr. Featherstone’s face was anything to go by, my question put him in an uncomfortable position. Some men just hate having to admit that they don’t have all the answers.
“I’ve never seen them,” was his tight-lipped reply. After a brief hesitation, he reluctantly added, “It’s likely they were written more than sixty years ago.”
That meant I’d undoubtedly have to decipher someone’s handwriting. Once upon a time, every schoolchild was taught to write in cursive. Youngsters were forced to produce perfectly formed letters that were easy to read. Unfortunately, as individuals age, their handwriting evolves and becomes more distinctive. In far too many cases it ends up as scrawls and squiggles that not even the writer can interpret after a few weeks have passed. It was probably too much to hope that these diaries were written in a clearly legible hand, let alone in a lovely, flowing script that would be a delight to read.
“I’ve never edited a diary before,” I said. Memoirs, yes. Diaries, no
.
“How hard can it be?” Featherstone’s forehead creased with worry in direct contrast to his jovial tone of voice.
“Have you ever looked at nineteenth-century census records?” I’d seen a few at a meeting of the local historical society. “Not only are they difficult to interpret, they’re also extremely . . . creative when it comes to spelling.”
“I don’t believe these diaries are that old. Perhaps from the late nineteen fifties?”
I had a sneaking suspicion there was still something he wasn’t telling me. I bestowed what I call my “sweet but dithery little old lady smile” on him, the one I usually save for security officers at the airport and policemen who think I’m meddling where I shouldn’t.
“In that case,” I said, “there could be some legal issues surrounding their publication.”
His bushy white eyebrows, a perfect match for his hair, shot up a good inch.
“Suppose the author made an unsubstantiated claim about a neighbor. Even if that person is long dead, his descendants might not like having their family’s dirty linen aired online.”
His smile was ever-so-slightly condescending. “I see what you mean, but let’s take it on a case-by-case basis, shall we? Do you feel you are you equal to the task? If not, there’s no point in proceeding further.”
“What happens to the farm if I fail to meet Tessa’s condition?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
He didn’t look happy about that, either, and I decided not to press the issue. I didn’t have to think about my answer for more than a few seconds. I love a good challenge.
“I’m good at my job,” I said. “I imagine that’s why Tessa chose to leave her property to me. When can I see my inheritance?”
He consulted his watch, thought for a moment, and seemed to come to a decision. “Are you free this afternoon?”
“One of the advantages of working for myself is that I make my own hours. I’m at your disposal, Mr. Featherstone.”
“Excellent. If you’ll allow me to treat you to an early lunch first, we can visit the farm immediately afterward.”
I had no objection to this plan. In fact, I hoped to be able to worm further details out of him in the more relaxed atmosphere of a shared meal. In that, I was disappointed. Professing a great interest in what I do for a living, he kept me too busy answering his questions to ask any of my own.
We took separate vehicles for the drive to Swan’s Crossing. It made sense for me to follow him there. Otherwise, when I was ready to go home, I’d have to return to Monticello first—some twenty miles out of my way—to pick up my car.
I spent the trip wondering what I’d find at the end of the journey. I was more certain than ever that there was more to this unexpected inheritance than the lawyer was telling me.
Chapter Four
We hadn’t seen any signs of habitation for at least a mile when Mr. Featherstone signaled a turn and pulled off the two-lane country road into an overgrown driveway. I’d never have noticed it if I’d been driving past on my own. The house was well hidden by a screen of trees. Maples and birches predominated, but there were enough evergreens to assure year-round privacy.
In the early afternoon sunshine, Tessa’s former home appeared to be in good repair, but it had the unmistakable aura of an abandoned building. When I got out of my car, I took a moment to study the house.
It sat on a low rise facing the road. From the driveway, I was looking up at one side and the front of the structure. Large and plain, two stories high with an attic, the whole thing was sided with white clapboards and roofed with green shingles. A deep porch with a waist-high railing wrapped itself across the front and disappeared around the far side. The main entrance was there, but another was closer to where we’d parked our cars. A flagstone path led from the driveway to a section of the building that looked as if it had been built as an afterthought. Unlike the rest of the farmhouse, it was only one story high and had a flat roof. A flight of steps ended at a landing and a side door.
“Ready for a tour of your inheritance?” Mr. Featherstone asked.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied.
He steered me across the overgrown lawn to the front entrance. He was spry for such an elderly man, but he walked slowly. By the time he’d mounted the one step to the porch, resting his hand on the railing for support, his face was flushed and he was noticeably short of breath. He removed the silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He waved aside my concern and produced a key. When he’d unlocked the door, he stepped back and let me enter first.
The interior of Tessa’s farmhouse looked like a time capsule.
In fact, that’s exactly what it was.
“Everything has been left just as it was on the day Tessa went away,” Mr. Featherstone said. “That was in the late nineteen fifties. If you’ll follow me, I’ll give you the ten-cent tour.”
“It’s awfully clean for so many decades of neglect.” I trailed after him into a small living room full of large furniture, decor that struck me as vaguely familiar. “I take it someone’s been in to dust and vacuum?”
“Tessa hired a service to take care of that, handle any necessary upkeep on the building, and clear away the worst of the underbrush in the yard. She also employed a security company to keep an eye on the place and make sure it wasn’t burglarized or invaded by squatters.”
As most people do, I looked to my right first. My gaze fell on an ornately framed fashion print hanging on the wall between the two windows that faced the road. An old-fashioned radiator—the same kind I have in my first-decade-of-the-twentieth-century house—stood beneath it, flanked in the corners of the room by an enormous radio of 1940s vintage on one side and an early television set on the other.
An oversize sofa sat at a right angle to the radio. I stared at it while my mind conjured up a surprisingly vivid recollection of myself seated next to my mother on that very piece of furniture. Tessa had occupied the matching armchair.
I reached out to touch the sofa cushion. Oh, yes. I could still remember how that prickly fabric had abraded the backs of my legs. As was proper for little girls in those days, I’d worn a dress to go visiting. I had a strong suspicion that there had been crinolines under the skirt. What I was certain of was that it had taken a great deal of willpower not to squirm. I’d been told I had to behave like a “proper little lady” and sit still while the grown-ups talked.
Frowning, I struggled to bring back that day in more detail, but my memory of Tessa’s appearance had blurred with time. It was probably fanciful to imagine that her posture had been unnaturally upright and her expression grim. Had the atmosphere been fraught with tension? I just didn’t know. I couldn’t remember anything specific that had been said that day. Shaking off a frisson of unease, I decided that in all likelihood we’d had a pleasant visit during which nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
Two large head-and-shoulders portraits hung above the sofa. On closer inspection, they proved to be enlarged photographs tinted to resemble paintings. I couldn’t begin to guess when they’d been taken. The clothing the couple wore was typical of what country people wore from the late 1930s right through the early 1950s. Neither subject was smiling. Prune-faced was the description that came to mind. The only other detail of note was that the woman looked much younger than the man.
“Who were they?” I asked.
“Tessa’s father and stepmother, I presume,” Mr. Featherstone said.
“Did you know them?”
“I did not. I barely knew Tessa. Her father died a number of years before his wife and she left the area after her stepmother’s death. As far as I know, Tessa never set foot inside her family home again.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Who can say?”
Even for a lawyer, that answer seemed evasive.
“Surely you can make a guess.”
Featherstone s
hrugged. “I imagine she and her sister were simply ready to move on. It can’t have been much of a life for two young women, stuck out here in the country.”
“So there was a sister. I thought I remembered one.”
“Estelle,” he said.
“Younger or older?”
“Younger.”
“And where did she end up? I know Tessa eventually moved to Connecticut.”
“I’ve no idea. Tessa never said much about her, other than that she died some years ago.”
He gestured for me to follow him back into the front hall. “As is often the case in nineteenth-century houses, many of the rooms are connected. We’ll circle around and I’ll show you the kitchen on our way out.”
As we stood in the hallway, the porch was to my left. I opened the door directly opposite it, to my right, to reveal a narrow stairwell and steps leading steeply upward. Since the door at the top was closed, they were in darkness. I looked for a light switch, but before I could find one, the lawyer took my arm to steer me away.
“There are bedrooms and a bath on the second floor,” Featherstone said. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Those are the rooms the Swarthouts rented out every summer.”
He opened another door, this one facing the entrance to the living room. The corner room was furnished with a double bed and a dresser. There wasn’t room for more furniture. In fact, there was barely enough space for those two pieces.
I circled the bed, thinking as I did so that changing the bedding must have been a real challenge. Although I’m not tiny, neither am I huge, and I could barely squeeze into the few inches of space between the bed and the wall. In order to look out the side window, I had to sit down. The mattress gave under my weight, making the springs beneath it squeak. At least I hoped it was the springs. If the cleaners had done their job properly, there shouldn’t be any mice in residence.
My view across the side section of the wraparound porch consisted of an overgrown field and a sprinkling of apple trees interspersed with large boulders, rocks of the type left behind by ancient glaciers. At the edge of this more-or-less open area what looked like a mini-forest had sprung up, forming a barrier much like the one between the front of the house and the road. If there were neighboring houses in that direction, I couldn’t catch so much as a glimpse of them.
Murder, She Edited Page 2