Under Avril’s watchful eye and Grace’s direction, the Pannels finished the renovations.. When the last crew packed up to leave, Benny gave Grace a large wooden box. A wide brass plate on the lid bore an etching of Delaney House.
“So you can take it with you wherever you go,” Benny said. “Look inside.”
A small brick from the original 1708 kitchen house foundation accounted for the box’s weight. Grace rubbed her fingers over its rough edges in awe, but a neatly trimmed piece of wood that bore the inscription ‘Staircase Doorway, Circa 1975’ made her laugh out loud. Laughter turned into misty tears as she looked at a handcrafted album made from a miraculously undamaged piece of the paisley wallpaper. The best of her house photos covered its pages, cataloging the work that had gone into the renovation. Grace gave Benny a heartfelt hug, but later she added the box to the items she was putting into storage.
The house was listed for sale. She only had one task left and then she was going home — wherever home turned out to be.
Chapter Fifty-Three
The Gum Snapper ushered Grace into Mosley’s office with a cheerful flourish that seemed out of place in the empty, somber room. Someone had been keeping things tidy, but Grace felt the lawyer’s absence all the same.
“Everyone else has gone for the day,” Lily Travers said. “That’s why I asked you to come by so late. We won’t be disturbed.”
Grace nodded, took a seat and waited. She had no idea what Lily wanted and had almost refused to come. She had to be in court tomorrow and needed a good night’s rest. When tomorrow’s chore was done, she would be free of Mallard Bay and the Delaneys. A quick trip to DC to tie up a few loose ends, and she’d be somewhere warm by the end of the week. ‘Warm’ was all she’d committed to. She didn’t know where she was going, but she had time to figure it out.
“I’m happy to say I’m acting in an official capacity for this meeting,” Lily said. The Gum Snapper was gone and in her place was a polished, professional woman who handed Grace a folder. Mr. Mosley asked me to give you this.” She laughed at Grace’s expression. “He woke up two days ago. Out cold for more than a month and then sitting up and demanding a Scotch on the rocks. Do you believe it? They’re trying to keep him quiet, but he’s issuing orders right and left and guess who he wanted to see first? Me! Ha! I can tell you that frosted some people around here.”
Now Grace was laughing as she hugged Lily. “How wonderful! He’s really alright?”
“Well, that’s debatable,” Lily handed Grace a box of tissues, grabbing one for herself. “As far as being mentally competent, he sure seems like it. He’s demanded a psychological work up from an independent firm not associated with the nursing home Mr. Kastner put him in. Mr. Mosley said he wants no question left in anyone’s mind that he’s able to handle his own affairs. He even knew the doctor he wanted. I set that up for him today. He told me not to tell anyone but you. He wants you to know -” the exuberance left her voice and her eyes teared up again. “He wants you to know he’ll be back to take care of you, even if you think you don’t need it.”
They took a minute to regroup. Lily insisted on getting drinks and Grace walked around Mosley’s office looking at the photos and paintings and small pieces of art she’d never taken the time to notice before. She didn’t know anything about him, she realized as she studied a framed photo of a young Cyrus and… she squinted and looked closer. Was that Dwight Eisenhower? She could swear she’d seen Mosley in the same golf pants just last month.
“I know it’s against the office rules, but Cyrus gave me explicit instructions.”
Grace turned from the photo to see Lily standing behind her holding two cut-glass whiskey tumblers. “Johnny Walker Blue,” she said and held a glass out to Grace. “His private stash. I told him I gave you the package and the envelope. And I told him what people had been saying. About you being his daughter.”
Grace held her breath, then let it out. They touched their glasses, smiling at the crystal’s clear ring and sipped their Scotch. “Well?” she finally asked. “Is he my father?”
“He said you should have this, too.” Lily picked up a manila envelope from the middle of Mosley’s desk and gave it to Grace. “I’ll leave you alone. Take as long as you need.”
The folder held two photos and a battered greeting card. Grace swallowed the rest of the Scotch and sat down before her legs gave way. The Polaroids looked like the ones that had been hidden under the crooked bathroom door. In the first picture, Julia was still going to the prom, still laughing and vamping for the camera, but the boy who held her arm was a stranger. The mirror behind them caught the reflection of another couple. A thin woman with curly brown hair was smiling at the man who held the camera. Cyrus and Emma.
In the other photograph, Emma and Julia cuddled around a toddler with a cap of curls and a wide, gapped-tooth grin. On the white strip at the edge of the picture, a firm hand had written “My Girls 1981”.
Grace picked up the worn card, her hands shaking as she read ‘Happy Father’s Day’ and smiled at a faded scene of a golfer lining up a putt. The ink on the note inside was surprisingly clear. She had no trouble at all reading the inscription.
To the man who has always been a father to me, even though I didn’t and still don’t deserve him. You have taken better care of me than my own parents and I will always love you for it. Thank you for not asking ‘who’ or ‘why’ or ‘what next’. Thank you for trusting me to do the right thing. I will try to make you proud.
Love always,
Julia
The historic Talbot County Courthouse with its storied past seemed a fitting site to pay her family’s debt and set the record straight. As Grace waited to testify, she hoped her grandparents’ letters would be enough to answer the grand jury’s questions. Fifty-seven years after her death, Audrey Oxley was about to have her day in court.
“Ready?” Lee McNamara asked as the courtroom doors swung open and a young, red-faced bailiff called her name.
“Yes, I am,” Grace said.
And she was.
June 28, 1961
My Emma,
I have loved you more than my life, something you will doubt after reading this letter. Please try not to think of how I left you, but only how I first loved you. We’ve changed so much in the decade since that wild day in North Carolina when you gave yourself to me. You have become a mother - a parent. I have become the man my father always said I would be. For that and so much more, I apologize.
I can hear you admonishing me, but I am not being maudlin. I am being truthful. For once, I am going to tell you the truth. Not all of it, but the parts you need to know. The parts that will matter to you. You are always asking me to talk to you. This letter is the best I can do.
So, first, I loved you. Why past tense? I know I loved you fiercely in the beginning, but I must have lost it somewhere along the way. How else could I have done all these things to you? I am numb now, no love and surprisingly, no fear either. I’ve found one doesn’t exist without the other. Perhaps that’s the trade-off.
Second, I’m the reason you lost Audrey. I think you knew, somehow, that it was my fault. I swear to you, no one else knows. Well, except for Cyrus. He has been a true friend all along. You’ll tell him I said so, won’t you? He’s always been sweet on you, but we’ve been friends our whole lives, so of course, he’ll never say so. Let him help you out of this hell I’ve put you in.
Third. Also Audrey. If you didn’t hate me before, you will now and I hope it gets you through the days to come. I want to tell you that she didn’t mean anything to me, but I am telling the truth here and the truth is she meant enough that I risked everything for her. She was what you weren’t. She was like me: selfish and calculating and deceitful, and I couldn’t keep away from her. I thought she knew how things stood with us, but she convinced herself if we told you, you’d take the children and leave me. When I told her that wouldn’t happen, she latched onto poor Cy. But, even then, she didn’t leave me
alone and, God help me, I didn’t try to stop her until the night Julia was born.
I gave our baby my mother’s name because those huge eyes of hers seemed so familiar, but she’s just another love I can’t measure up to. The boys will be fine - they are boys and will be men. But Julia gives me pause. I’m still leaving, but there is a little something left where my heart should be and I believe it belongs to her.
But Audrey’s story isn’t finished. It was an accident. We were fighting - about you, as it happens. I hit her. She said things, and I lost control. I always lost control when I was with her. I carried her to the back woods and buried her right on top of Clancy. Everyone knew there was a grave there, so in the end the old boy took care of me, too. I wish I’d been kinder to him. I wish I’d had the nerve to tell you. I am so sorry. Or I would be if I could feel anything.
Now you know why I am leaving. I’m not glossing over the act of suicide. I really look at it this way. I am finally leaving you so you can live. I should have done it ten years ago. I’m putting this letter in my desk because I know you won’t let anyone else go through it after I’m gone.
I’ve taught you that, right? Keep family private.
Try to have a happy life with the children. Give Delaney House to Tony when the right time comes. You’ll know when to tell him everything and he’ll take over. He can keep the house - and our secret - safe. You all deserve better than I’ve given you. You deserve happiness and I pray you find it.
Ford
Before You Go…
Thank you for reading Squatter's Rights! I hope you enjoyed your mini-vacation on the Eastern Shore, and that you'll come back to Mallard Bay soon. The Eastern Shore Mysteries continue in A Commission on Murder and Bad Intent.
Your time is valuable, and I am humbled that you chose to spend it with me. If you have another few minutes to spare and would like to leave a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or anywhere else, I'd be very grateful.
I hope you'll stay in touch with me for the latest updates on the Eastern Shore Mysteries. My website has all the book news, plus a little taste of Maryland's beautiful Eastern Shore. I'm also on Facebook and Twitter. Drop me an email — I'd love to hear from you!
Website: www.CherilThomas.com
Email: [email protected]
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UP NEXT IN MALLARD BAY…
A COMMISSION ON MURDER
One waterfront property for auction and three buyers - then someone narrows the odds.
Until the morning Garrett Bishop is murdered, Grace Reagan only has to worry about the house she can’t sell and a business sliding into bankruptcy. She has four months left on her agreement to manage Cyrus Mosley’s law firm, a plan that sounded easy enough in September when the weather was warm and she was optimistic. But Grace barely has time to regret the decision she’s made before the man who can guarantee her success is killed.
Was the flamboyant, loud-mouthed Bishop shot by a hunter with bad aim or by one of the many people who want him gone from Kingston County and don’t care how he leaves? Grace knows that in some parts of the Eastern Shore strangers are guilty until proven otherwise. A near stranger herself, she must prove not one, but two of her clients are innocent of murder.
A Commission on Murder is available today in eBook, paperback and large print editions. For a sample - read on!
A Commission on Murder
Friday Morning
November 10
The rifle was heavy.
Slippery, wet leaves and tree roots made slow going and weak sunshine did nothing to dispel the cold. It was a perfect day for correcting mistakes, clearing accounts. A perfect day for hunting. Too bad the hunter hadn’t planned better, but some things couldn’t be helped. When life hands you the perfect opportunity, you take your shot. So to speak.
Overhead, south-bound Canadian geese called to each other in a crashing chorus, but the hunter wasn’t tempted. Five minutes later, the desired target came into view, still far away but well within range.
Turn around. Let me see your face.
So. Not the perfect opportunity, after all. The bastard wouldn’t turn around.
The hunter took the shot anyway.
Perfect.
CHAPTER ONE
“He can’t be dead,” Grace Reagan said.
“Looks dead to me.” The police officer standing beside her sounded pleased. Corporal Aidan Banks hated being bored and a murder guaranteed excitement. Much better than writing parking tickets and wrangling drunk tourists.
“Maybe I didn’t do CPR long enough. I should try again.”
“He’s gone.” Banks kept a wary eye on the tall woman who stood next to him, shivering in the brisk autumn breeze. He’d put his uniform jacket over her shoulders when he’d found her pumping the dead man’s chest in a frenzy. “You did what you could,” he added, but only because he didn’t want her to freak out until someone who outranked him arrived to take over.
“He was fine when I talked to him a couple of hours ago,” Grace insisted.
“Not fine now.”
There was no denying it. The man lying on the scraggly grass behind a decrepit house in the middle of nowhere was dead.
“Look, Aidan, I know I need to stay here, but could you check his pockets? He should have a contract with him and I need it.”
Banks didn’t bother telling her ‘no.’
She knew better, but she had to try. “Sorry. I know you can’t. I’m just going back in the house and wash my hands.”
“No.”
They heard sirens, still far off but getting closer.
“I’ve got blood everywhere. I’m a mess. Look at me!”
Ordinarily, Grace with her curly dark hair and wide blue eyes wasn’t hard to look at, but today wasn’t ordinary. Unable to produce a response that wouldn’t cause trouble, Banks remained stoically silent. He’d sacrificed his almost new jacket to a blood-covered woman and that was as far as he’d go. Tact was beyond him.
“Fine,” she said when he didn’t answer her. “I’ll wait in my car.”
“Stay where you are, just like the Chief said. He’ll be here soon with the State Police.”
Grace gave up and tried not to fidget as she waited for Banks’ boss to arrive and tell her what she already knew – her ticket out of Mallard Bay, Maryland was officially canceled. She wanted to feel horrified, or at the very least bad for the dead man, but Garrett Bishop had been difficult from the first moment she’d met him. In the last week he had more than lived up to his notorious reputation and now he’d gone and gotten himself killed, probably without signing the bid he’d offered her. If only she could get her hands on the papers he’d taunted her with this morning, she’d know if she still had a deal.
She took a step back and then another. And then heard tires crunching over oyster shells as vehicles pulled into the driveway at the front of the property. Banks was right. She wasn’t going anywhere.
Want more?
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A COMMISSION ON MURDER
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THANK YOU FOR READING!
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Years ago, my husband and I spent a happy summer looking at old houses around Talbot County, Maryland with the intent to open a bed and breakfast. Fortunately, we came to our senses and remembered we didn’t like cleaning our own rooms, let alone someone else’s, but for a while we looked at huge old houses in various stages of decay and imagined them transformed. I fell in love with one that became Delaney House. I tried to capture the most amazing features of that house in these pages. The wallpapered ceiling, doorway off the cantilevered staircase and basement with servant’s quarters exist, or did twenty years ago. We didn’t buy the huge, brick money pit, but I’ve never been able to let ‘my’ house go, so what to do? Concoct a few new details, put a grave in the backyard an
d make it the setting for a mystery, of course.
The errors within these pages are my own; the rest is the happy result of my imagination boosted by large amounts of caffeine and the assistance of many kind and talented people. My wonderful story editor, the legendary Helen Chappell, was amazing. She was unfailingly kind every time she sent me back to the laptop to cut, cut, cut. Her edits and suggestions made me a better writer. Miss Helen, I hope I made you proud. Olivia Martin (www.OliviaJuneMartin.com) provided line editing services for Squatter’s Rights. This sharp-eyed, fact-checking, uber-talented writer/editor is amazing for many reasons, not the least of which is she knows exactly which museums had collections of Monet’s work in 1952. Charlene Marcum provided proofreading for the final manuscript. I can’t thank her enough for her excellent work and enthusiastic support.
My sister, Clara Ellingson, shared her considerable talent helping me shape this book. Beta readers Kate Thomas, Olivia Martin, Clara Ellingson, Cindy Haddaway and Tara Kleinert – you are the best! I thank you and the characters thank you for your readings, rereadings and copious notes on our behalf.
Finally, it always comes back to family. Mine is flat out wonderful. Patrick, Kate, James and Jack - each of you is a blessing. My sweet husband and very attentive four-legged child, Gracie Mae, make it easy for me to write, to live, to love. Thank you all.
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