by Mary Vee
Sylvia’s Secret, A Christmas Story
A Detective Carhill Mystery, Book 1
Mary Vee
Also by Mary Vee
Suspense/Mystery
Daring To Live, A Patriotic Novel
Christmas
Christmas With the Enemy, A Christmas Blizzard Novel
Anders’ Redemption, A Christmas Novella
Fantasy
Fire and Thorn, The Cede Deo Chronicles
Travel
Andiamo, Let’s Go to Italy
Juvenile Mystery Fiction
William Worthington Watkins III
and the Cookie Snitchers
Sylvia’s Secret, A Detective Carhill Mystery is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Mary Vee
Printed in the United States of America.
Published: Never Give Up Stories, Grand Rapids, MI
First Printing, 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means - for example, electronic, photocopy, recording, for personal or commercial purposes - without the written permission of the author. The only exception is for brief quotations in printed or electronic reviews.
ISBN-13: 97-81692160074
Edited by Kathy McKinsey
Cover background photo by: Purepng.com
NEVER GIVE UP STORIES edition: 2019
For Those Who Love Secrets and Christmas
For mystery solvers
and those who can’t wait to read the answer
For the One Whose Birthday We Celebrate
And for William’s almost Christmas Birthday
When The Character’s Speak…
“The gossipers need information excusing why and who or they’ll contrive stories then splash our family name all over the papers. We’ll be ruined.” She looked down at her purse then back up at him. “They’d do that, you know.”
…Sylvia’s Daughter
“In this business one answer is like a seed. Some sprout and some don’t. Like a plant or a tree, a good answer can grow into a full-grown solution if properly cared for.”
…Branson Carhill
Chapter One
The name Branson Carhill branded a walnut door leading to a fourth-floor office located in the upscale side of Boston. The finest quality sofas, chairs, desks, and lamps sat on polished hardwood floors. This and the rented masterpieces hanging on the walls invited rich clientele to put their trust in Carhill, a man who could solve their cases speedily without involving the newspapers.
The bill pile on his desk had grown. His secretary, Mrs. Spinnaker, a beautiful forty-something woman mentioned she wanted to buy her family Christmas presents. Apparently, she needed more than a promissory note to do so. “Cash instead of a check,” were her precise words.
Three requests for his services sat on his desk. He only needed one to pay his debts and keep the business in the black through the holidays. The leather sofa groaned as he stood. Branson randomly picked up the file labeled Duvet. He pressed the intercom. “Call the Duvets and set up an appointment for one o’clock.”
“Yes, Mr. Carhill.”
He straightened the pillows on the sofa and cleared the top of the rented mahogany desk leaving only his favorite rollerball pen, paper, and the Duvet file. Mrs. Spinnaker would handle the outer office ambiance.
The truly wealthy never noticed the time he put into these details. This type of client expected these preparations. They walked in the natural pathways to the provided chairs and focused strictly on business.
To see anything less would give them license to walk out and find someone else who truly wanted their case. To date, he hadn’t lost one client.
The fakes looked around the room, up at the ceiling, at the paintings on the wall then ran their hand along his desk surface and posh leather chair. The distractions kept them gaping and unable to share their concern for a good ten minutes. The wealthy didn’t have that kind of time to waste and neither did he.
A button conveniently positioned under his desk signaled Mrs. Spinnaker to interrupt with an emergency that called him out of the office, at which time he took an early lunch. If the lower-class client physically returned, he reconsidered listening to their case. Fortunately, not many did.
At precisely 1 PM, the intercom buzzed. “Mr. Carhill, the Duvet family representative is here.”
Punctual. A good sign the client would pay. “Show them in.”
Before the door opened, he sat square-shouldered, opened the file folder, and concentrated on the Duvet information page. The clients he specialized in did not like to be greeted by a used car salesmen type who leaped to his feet, plastered a fake smile on a well-groomed face, and reached out a hand to welcome them. Worse yet was the accompanying slight laugh with a “Good Morning”, and a rush to show them to a chair. He scoffed. So unrefined. He’d studied the upper class with infinite detail and learned these clients wanted to speak with professionals who spent their time wisely. They expected the same behavior of their family. Only legitimate excuses like work qualified when missing a social event.
The door opened. He did not look up but used his peripheral vision to observe. Mrs. Spinnaker escorted a woman wearing a light gray pencil dress with a short black blazer jacket to a chair across from his desk. “May I get you tea? Coffee?” his secretary asked.
Well done, he thought. One must never ask such a question starting the sentence with the word can.
“Tea. One lump of sugar,” the client responded with a smile often reserved for servants. “And do remember to put the cream in the cup first.” Her tone had a perfect blend of concern and disdain.
The moment the door shut, Branson closed the file and looked at his client. “How may I help you, Miss?” He paused after the word Miss and let her absorb the intended compliment on her age.
“Mrs. Mrs. Colinfield.” Her eyes drifted toward the certifications on his wall, the only feature a wealthy person would bother to note. Once his qualifications met her inspection, she opened her purse, pulled out a yellow envelope, and pushed it across the desk. “My mother is missing.”
“Your mother is Mrs. Duvet?”
“Sylvia Duvet.”
“Have you contacted the police?”
“They won’t file a report until she’s been missing for twenty-four hours.”
“When did you notice she wasn’t at her appointed place?”
“A few hours ago.”
Mrs. Spinnaker must really want her Christmas pay quickly to have processed the file and placed it on his desk before the ink dried.
Branson opened the envelope and pulled out a five by seven matt portrait of an elegant woman sitting in a stately home library, facing a bay window that overlooked a summer garden in full bloom. He turned the portrait over. No markings of any kind on the back. Typically, an anxious client would have offered great detail while he examined the picture, disturbing the necessary initial analysis. Mrs. Colinfield did not. “Do you live at the same residence?”
“No. I live with my husband farther down the coast.”
He set the photo down on top of the file. “What brings you to say she is missing?”
Her genteel eye-roll, slightly less exaggerated than the teen version, expressed the answer. “My mother has a schedule. There are events to plan, functions to attend, and luncheons, not to mention hair appointments and—” She dug into her purse and pulled out an appointment book. “See?” She had given him the courtesy of spelling out the obvious. Very nice.
“Of course.” He would not offer an apology at this time. Those words would diminish all his efforts and lower his rank to a mere servant. He reached out to take the evidence. “May I?”
She set the book on his desk. About the time Branson opened the cover, Mrs. Spinnaker tapped on the door then walked in without an invitation. She set a silver platter with full service on the desk in front of his client. One cup of tea prepared perfectly. Without another word, his secretary left.
Mrs. Colinfield gingerly touched the handle before looping her fingers through the hole. She paused then cradled the china with her other hand. Many clients had tested the quality of his tea service. He thought nothing of the scrutiny. She drew the cup to her lips and sipped the tea. The second sip confirmed her approval.
The pages inside the appointment book had every line penciled in with various commitments. Meetings with friends, and set times for phone calls, walks, dinners, and more. He turned to the present day and found nothing written on the lines. “This indicates she didn’t have anything scheduled for today.”
From the exasperated look on Mrs. Colinfield’s face, he clearly hadn’t listened well in the tutorial on scheduling days for persons of her status.
“That is the precise point.” Her voice continued at the higher pitch. “This week and next week are the only time periods in the entire year with nothing written in the pages. No one in our station would have an empty hour, much less day or week. There is so much to do.”
“Did you have a meeting you were both to attend? A planned breakfast? I’m trying to figure out how you knew she was missing.”
“The head housemaid called me away from a very important breakfast meeting with the president of the Ladies’ Society.” She huffed. “Mother should fire that assistant of hers. Obviously, something is wrong if there were no appointments scheduled and no note indicating Mother canceled them for illness or, I don’t know, Christmas shopping. I should have been told.” She gently shook her head. “I should have been the first told.
Excuses have to be made to all the people she should have met with. Phone calls. The gossipers need information to prevent them from contriving stories.” She looked down at her purse then back up at him. “They’d do that you know.”
Two full weeks had no recordings. All days before Christmas. The pages after the holiday made up for the current lack of appointments. Some lines had more than one obligation. The only way she could meet that schedule would be to have a cloning machine hidden in the lower levels of her home. “She didn’t mention vacation plans? Dreams or thoughts of travel?”
“My dear man, vacations, as you call them, have a purpose. We must socialize with the proper people and visit places our family is expected to be. If we wanted to spend time alone, we would stay at home.” She scoffed. “Even then we can’t always be alone.”
“Do you think she might be attending a function without your knowledge? A secret one. Perhaps an impulsive trip?”
She didn’t gasp, but her eyes widened, and she set her tea on the saucer with a clunk. “Mother? She’d never. What would the papers say?” The woman stood and walked to the window almost in a daze. More than a moment slipped by as she stared outside. “You don’t think she has dementia or Alzheimer’s, do you?”
“I’m not a doctor.”
The woman raised her chin and continued gazing outside. Early snowflakes tumbled to the earth. A few stuck to the window before melting.
He closed the book. “Let’s suppose she is of sound mind and wanted to attend a secret meeting.”
Mrs. Colinfield whipped around. Her stilettos clacked across the polished wooden floor to the chair. “If that is so, my mother’s situation is far more serious than I thought. The social circles would love to get their hands-on juicy gossip about Sylvia Duvet sneaking away for some secret rendezvous—” She pressed her hand against her mouth. “Do you understand the ramifications?”
Branson did. He’d helped other clients surface from such situations. “You have my assurances the newspapers will never hear from me. My business has a solid reputation for keeping client information completely confidential.”
Her shoulders relaxed slightly. That was it. Not a word of appreciation, a smile, or a reach for her tea.
“Have you checked your mother’s cell phone?”
Mrs. Colinfield gently shook her head and reclined as a woman of class would, sitting on the edge of the chair then sliding back to keep her dress wrinkle free. “I’ve tried to get her to use one, but she refuses. Her reasoning makes perfect sense. After all, we employ assistants and secretaries to care for such needs. Why be bothered with a phone ringing at an inopportune time? Such nonsense is for servants.” She sighed. “But if she kept one, I wouldn’t have to worry at times like this. The tracker alone would allow us to find her. She could call for medical assistance.”
She was right. He could also understand Sylvia’s reasons for not wanting one. “May I keep the photo and appointment book?”
“Yes. Of course. When can you begin the search?”
“Today.”
She gathered her purse. “I’ll leave a check to cover expenses with your secretary. You’ll keep me posted?”
“Of course.”
“Here is my private cell phone number.” She handed him a card. “If there’re any additional expenses, let me know. I’ll pay whatever it takes.” She stood and walked to the door.
He expected her to leave without another word, but she turned and said, “Thank you.” If he wasn’t mistaken, she had a slight tear in the corner of her eye. An impropriety she would fix in the hall.
* * *
The door closed. Sylvia Duvet’s daily planner and photo didn’t seem like much to go on, but it was a start.
“Mrs. Spinnaker?”
“Yes, Mr. Carhill.”
“I need a large coffee.”
“Right away.”
Rather than remove his suit coat as he typically did after a client left, he sat at his desk and opened the planner, puzzled by the few blank pages before December 25th. She’d had a busy year. Branson flipped back to January.
The daughter didn’t convey a reason behind presenting Sylvia’s schedule for a clue. It may not be important at all. Then again, it could contain a plan carefully formulated to this point.
The door opened, and Mrs. Spinnaker walked in with a large coffee. “I assumed you’d need a to-go cup.”
“Yes. Thank you. I’m going to Sylvia Duvet’s home. While I’m gone, I’d like you to contact hospitals and ambulance companies. We can probably assume she isn’t in the care of the police since her daughter attempted to report her missing and was turned away. Next, contact taxi companies. See if any cab stopped at her address or nearby.”
He pulled out the portrait of Mrs. Duvet. “Make a copy of this. I’ll hold onto this original.”
“Right away.”
Branson put his thin overcoat and hat on. The outerwear designed to blend in with Mrs. Duvet’s circles did not provide adequate warmth for a sub-zero east coast winter. He slipped on his gloves and clasped the hot coffee cup in his hands.
Mrs. Spinnaker handed him the photo as he walked past her desk. “Should I call with the results?”
“No. Text me. I don’t want to upset any of her staff who may overhear a conversation. Go home when you’re finished. We’ll have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”
“Yes, Mr. Carhill. Thank you.” Her broad smile spread. “You have a nice day.”
“You too.” He walked out the door. There weren’t many times he outwardly appreciated the perceptive skills of his secretary. She did her job the same as he. They both earned a paycheck. It wasn’t that she
didn’t deserve appreciation, he just didn’t think about it like the important details of a case…until stepping into a brisk wind with a warm cup of coffee in his hands after leaving the office. Had the Christmas season not been emphasized with the Duvet case, he would have forgotten to leave her a gift.
A taxi turned the corner onto his street. He hailed the driver, climbed inside when it stopped, and announced the address in Manchester-by-the-Sea. The driver nodded and pulled into traffic. During the ride, Branson noted questions rising in his mind. Why did Mrs. Duvet go missing two weeks before Christmas, a time of gathering and events? Did someone kidnap her?
Chapter Two
What a ridiculous question. Branson scratched the thought from his list. No one planned to be kidnapped unless in cahoots with the kidnapper. The blank pages revealed a schedule as much as the filled-in ones. It appeared she planned something she didn’t want anyone else to know.
Then again, he had to consider dementia or Alzheimer’s since Mrs. Colinfield addressed them. Perhaps Sylvia had an onset and at this moment aimlessly walked the streets. To the side, he noted, interview his friend Dr. Allen Sommersowski regarding the possibility for a similar hypothetical case. Branson assumed neither of these diseases attacked suddenly, and progressive debilitation could be observed by her friends, family, or staff. He added this question to the list for people who knew her.
The taxi stopped. “Classy place, man. You work here?”
Branson didn’t bother to answer, holding to a strict policy never to reveal his social class as anything lower than the social elite. He handed the fare to the driver, including a generous gratuity for leaving the empty paper coffee cup on the back seat.