Sylvia’s Secret

by Mary Vee

  Whether eating at home or dining with a client at a restaurant, he maintained proper discipline as one who might have been born into wealth. One mistake at a formal dinner could lose him a client. Every evening he dressed for the meal, turned on Italian jazz dinner music, placed a white cloth napkin across his lap then, starting with the fork on the outside, ate the salad with a piece of ciabatta. Delicious garlic butter oozed on the surface. Alone in his one-bedroom middle-class apartment, he dabbed his mouth with the napkin.

  Mrs. Duvet’s planner sat on the table near the sofa. For three seconds it snatched his attention. A highly unacceptable activity when dining with the upper-class. He considered appropriate conversations, ever training, practicing perfecting the process to make small talk second nature while eating at a venue far above his financial reach.

  At the end of his meal, he left the table for the “waiter” to clean and sat in the parlor otherwise known as his living room. Tonight’s topic of conversation would be Sylvia’s planner, after a brief conversation with Mrs. Colinfield. He called her number and waited.

  The phone rang three times. “Good evening. Colinfield residence.” A woman answered whose voice rose higher in pitch than the mistress of the house. She must have had her cell calls transferred to the home phone.

  “May I speak with Mrs. Colinfield?”

  “Who is asking?”

  “Mr. Carhill.”

  “One moment please.” A tap followed, indicating the woman set the receiver on a surface. He listened for her to walk away. Either the person walked on carpet or had soft soled shoes.

  “This is Mrs. Colinfield. Thank you for calling. Have you any word about my mother?”

  “No, but I know a few places she isn’t. The hospital. Jail. My job would be easier if the Duvet staff allowed me the freedom to walk about the house. Is there anything you can do?”

  “I apologize, Mr. Carhill. My mother is a private individual and has strict rules for her staff to maintain that privacy. I’ll speak with them. This should be all straightened out by morning.”

  “Thank you. Do you have a moment for a question?”

  She paused. “What could you possibly need to ask me?”

  “I understand your mother corresponded with a few friends.”

  “Oh.” She laughed. “Yes. Mother and three, or maybe it is four friends have kept their friendship alive since high school. They apparently liked to communicate the old-fashioned way with stationery and envelopes.” A slight gasp broke the moment. “Could the answer be that easy? You don’t suppose she went to visit one of them? Why I never considered.” She paused. “No. She would have recorded the plans in her appointment book. That I am sure.”

  “How do you know?” The question might come across as accusing, but previously she didn’t have a clue.

  “From the day I could walk, Mother pressed home the importance of a schedule. A Duvet never does anything unplanned and double-booking oneself was considered unforgivable.”

  Remembering Sylvia’s ultra-organized desk, this didn’t surprise him. “At this point, there isn’t much to go by. I’m checking every possibility, hoping one clue leads to another. Do you know the friends’ names she corresponded with?”

  “I recall a Constance Weise. She visited Mother one day when I was there. She dressed in the latest fashion from Europe and had the look of Mother’s other snobby friends, but she wasn’t that way. Think of the one person who could make a Buckingham Palace soldier smile. That would be Constance Weise.”

  “Any other names?”

  “No. None come to mind. I guess the good news is Mother isn’t in the hospital or jail. That would have caused a terrible media blitz.”

  “I wouldn’t discount your earlier thought of her roaming the streets. It’s sad to think about it. Mrs. Shepherd and,” he paused to check his notes, “Anneliese, stated your mother’s bed clothes were not in her room. According to them, she usually leaves the garments on the bed for the maid to fold and store.”

  Mrs. Colinfield’s breath barely sounded in the silence. “There is a chance my mother could be roaming around the streets like a vagabond?” Her breathing became ragged, and her tone darkened. “Or a homeless person? That can’t be. What would the papers say if a photographer found her? They’d disgrace her and the family name. It’s just what those awful reporters live for. Mr. Carhill, I implore you to find my mother right away.”

  “I will do my best. You can count on that.”

  She cleared her throat. “Do whatever is necessary.” Her voice had softened. “I mean with utmost discretion.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Carhill.” She disconnected the call.

  Branson set his phone on the coffee table and picked up Sylvia’s appointment book. He opened to the first pages.

  January’s freezing days didn’t keep Mrs. Duvet snug in her warm home. She attended ladies’ luncheons, planning meetings for the Children's Hospital fundraiser, a winter festival, weekly book club gatherings, committee meetings for the school board and environment, directed fundraisers for the library, hair appointments, clothes shopping, medical appointments, and other ordinary events he’d expect from a respectable woman in her station.

  He noticed two different scribes had recorded in the book. One had a flowery style with swirls and curls on extended letters and ends of words. The other wrote with perfect, crisp penmanship. The sort that always garnered an A+ in elementary school.

  He studied the different types of appointments recorded by each and noted the observations in his book. The flowery writer wrote all but two types of appointments. The perfect penmanship scribe wrote in book club meetings and shopping. Strange. One happened weekly, the other might be considered an impulse activity. So why wouldn’t the flowery writer record the book club meeting? Who attended this meeting?

  He assumed Sylvia was the perfect penmanship scribe and wondered why she didn’t mention the two activities to the flowery writer to record. Hadn’t the planner been kept at her assistant’s desk? After all, such a woman as Sylvia would not be expected to keep an eye on her calendar. It simply wasn’t her job.

  On the other hand, perhaps Mrs. Duvet requested the planner to view the next day’s events before going to bed. Her closet demonstrated strong organizational skills. She could have recorded the events at that time. So why were these two weeks left blank? Like her daughter said, these women lived 365-day schedules unless ill. He closed the book.

  To successfully muse, one must walk away and busy himself with other jobs. He stood and fulfilled the menial task of a waiter, busboy, and dishwasher by cleaning up the dinner mess.

  * * *

  Branson walked into the office at 7:30 a.m. with a vault full of unanswered questions.

  “Good morning, Mr. Carhill.” Mrs. Spinnaker broke his focus.

  He’d nearly walked past her. “Yes. Good morning. I’d like you to continue calling taxi companies. With so many available, Sylvia could have called any of them—oh and private transportation vendors as well. It’ll take a while, I understand. Text me if you find anything.”

  “She doesn’t have a chauffeur?”

  “Really, Mrs. Spinnaker?” What a ridiculous question. “Of course, she has a chauffeur. I haven’t had a chance to interview him yet. But if he did take her somewhere, don’t you think he would have told someone with all the hubbub about her disappearance?”

  “I suppose. I have your coffee ready, assuming you’ll be out of the office today.” She pressed the plastic lid onto the paper cup

  “Yes. I’m going back to the Duvet home. Text me if you find anything noteworthy. I assume you’ve deposited Mrs. Colinfield’s check and paid the bills?”

  “Everything is up-to-date, including the gracious bonus you gave me.”

  “I did, huh. Did I give myself a bonus?”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Carhill. Keeping the bottom line in the black is very important to you. The extra is set aside for future expenses.” She
seemed to think the whimsical smile on her face bought his approval. If she weren’t such an efficient secretary, it wouldn’t.

  Branson went into his office and grabbed the umbrella he’d left the other day. The advantage to snowy and rainy-day investigations was residents tended to invite those standing outside into their home quicker. If the conversation became lengthy, a chair by a crackling fireplace would be offered. Hot tea. Freshly baked scones. He could live with that. He grinned.

  Mrs. Spinnaker held his coffee out to him.

  He took it but quickly set the steaming hot paper cup on her desk. “Thanks. I’d like you to make one more call. Set up an appointment for me to visit Dr. Allen Sommersowski. I’ve never been to his office. Text me the moment you have the time and address.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Branson left the office with the coffee in his hand and hailed a taxi. He gave the driver Mrs. Duvet’s address. Along the way he watched pedestrians rushing across streets before the light changed, hailing cabs, and pouring into office buildings. Many balanced coffee cups like him. One would think a pedestrian would steer a woman dressed in sleeping clothes and roaming the city streets to the police or a hospital. Then again, some of the modern fashions worn by the women caused him to wonder if sleep clothes would stand out in the city.

  Most of the pedestrians walked with such purpose, holding their phones to their ear or scrolling through screens, they’d never notice. Few walkers spoke to the individual on either side much less took notice of a lost lady wearing sleep ware. Poor woman. Mrs. Duvet could walk aimlessly through a crowd and never once meet a soul.

  The taxi stopped. Branson looked at the gated entrance surprised at how his thoughts sped the time. He pulled money out of his wallet and handed it to the driver. The man nodded. “Thanks. Don’t worry about the coffee cup back there.”

  The graying skies made him thankful he brought his umbrella. For now, he used it as a walking stick and detoured his path to the neighbor’s home on the right.

  The house blended in with the neighborhood in terms of class. The structure, though, was nearly half the size of the Duvet’s. The brick exterior presented a historical flavor. Snowy rose bushes bare of their blooms meticulously outlined the front. Branson walked the inlaid brick circular drive to the door and up the five steps to the porch. A white swing hung from the ceiling to the right. Outdoor furniture circled a low table.

  He pressed the doorbell and listened for the sound. A few moments later the door opened. A woman greeted him. “May I help you?”

  Branson pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to her. “The neighborhood watch contacted me.” He took a chance, hoping such a concern seeped into the household’s conversations. It also seemed the safest way to receive an interview with the owners without divulging the personal matter of the Duvet’s case. “Apparently there is concern about certain vehicles seen driving by the homes.”

  The woman looked at the card then his face. Her invitation to enter the foyer demonstrated her interest. “Please remain here.”

  A gentleman left waiting to be summoned kept his shoulders pressed back and stood straight. His suit draped without a wrinkle. He had the posture and confidence the expensive high-quality suit fabric hadn’t wrinkled on the drive.

  She wasn’t gone very long before a woman about fortyish came around the corner. Her knee-length blue suit, matching shoes, and a string of pearls at her neck suggested her need to leave for an appointment. She looked at the card then at him. “Mr. Carhill? I’m Eleanor St. James. You have an issue you wish to discuss?” She stood poised. Her hands clasped low in front.

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. St. James turned to the maid. “Bring tea to the sitting room.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. St. James directed Branson through a large room arranged for entertaining several people and on to a smaller room. Lace curtains decorated tall windows, enhancing the light. An oblong table covered with a buttercream colored cloth rested by a marble fireplace. The heat took away his chill. He pulled out one of the four stately chairs with thick cushions and sat as she did.

  “What is the concern, Mr. Carhill?”

  “I have been sent to investigate a report by the neighborhood watch committee. Have you observed any unexpected vehicles on the street recently?”

  The maid entered the room with a tea set and pastries. Her eyebrows rose. She set the tray on the table.

  Mrs. St. James raised her chin. “I rarely notice the vehicles passing by.” The tone communicated a blend of annoyance with a desire to hurry the conversation.

  The maid, however, gently shook her head. The woman had something to say, but propriety prevented it. Breaking the social rules to discover the truth risked so much. Certainly, a guest would never address the employee other than to request something like a beverage.

  “Mrs. St. James.” He sipped his tea. “I don’t wish to interfere with your busy schedule.”

  “I appreciate that.” She stirred sugar into her cup.

  “Your staff, though, may have noticed an unexpected vehicle moving up the street in the course of their duties. Perhaps while washing a window or maintaining the grounds? With your permission, I’d like to speak with them.”

  She gently blew then sipped her tea. “I wouldn’t want any harm to come to our neighborhood. I also don’t see a reason for concern. After all, every landowner has their own security system. Social gatherings keep us in contact with each other.” She replaced her cup on the saucer. “I suppose you can interview the staff. Far be it from me to cause trouble around here.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. St. James.”

  “Do let me know what you discover, will you? I’d like to be kept abreast of possible issues.”

  “I will do that.”

  Mrs. St. James stood and smoothed her dress. “If you will excuse me, I have an urgent appointment.”

  Branson stood and slightly nodded as was expected. “Of course.”

  She walked to the doorway and called to the maid. “Mr. Branson has my permission to interview the staff. When he is finished escort him to the door.” She turned back to Branson. “If you will excuse me. I hope my staff can be of assistance.” With that, she left the room, stately in her walk, yet rushed. A style of walk mastered by the social elite.

  The same maid who served the tea approached the table. She didn’t sit.

  Branson indicated the chair. “Please. Have a seat.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You seem to know about an unexpected vehicle that has passed on the street.”

  She looked down at her hands. Perhaps she was reserved. Perhaps she felt her information might get her in trouble.

  “Feel free to speak. I’m only trying to help the neighborhood. What may I call you?”

  “Kelsey, sir.”

  “Have you seen a car that seemed suspicious, Kelsey?”

  “Yes. It weren’t a junky car that didn’t belong on these streets. The residents in the neighborhood might not have noticed it because it conformed to their standard of living. One of those classy car types. It was dark red. I think a BMW.”

  “When did you see it?”

  “December 10th. I remember the date because Mrs. St. James prepared for a certain dinner guest due to visit that night a whole week ahead of time. The staff never learned why this guest held such importance for her. I wouldn’t typically have noticed the car, what with the fuss about the dinner visitor, except there was an awful stench in the kitchen. Cook had a fit, bustling around tossing pots and bowls into the sink. She panicked when the time came for the meal to be served. You understand the importance of presenting a fine dish, fresh and warm from the kitchen, I suppose?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “The stench wormed it’s way upstairs. Mrs. St. James called me to the parlor and inquired. I knew we were done for. Can’t go making a bad impression on a guest, especially a highly favored one. I hurried downstairs, saw the offending odor
, tossed the foul food in a garbage bag, and carried it outside to the trash. After I lowered the lid, I turned back to the house.” She paused at this point.

  Branson didn’t lean forward with curiosity. Movements showing extreme interest tended to frighten a witness. Branson kept his eyes toward her while sipping his tea. He found this action calmed suspicions especially with the females he interviewed. He set the cup down. She apparently needed permission to continue. “What did you see next, Kelsey?”

  “The BMW. I saw it right through the fence to the street. It crept along. Not at all like it were headed somewhere. More like the driver looked for an address.”

  Branson’s GPS once brought him close to a home he wanted to investigate, leaving him unsure which house was the final destination. Perhaps this BMW belonged to a guest of a nearby home. “Did anyone come to the door?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you notice if anyone stopped at the Duvet’s?”

  “No, sir. That is why the vehicle seemed suspicious, as you said. I walked to the fence and watched through the planks. The vehicle rolled slowly past, then left.”

  “What time would you say this happened?”

  “Well, dinner was to be served at seven that night. Due to the slight delay of the smell, I’d say right around seven fifteen.”

  “Kelsey, you have been very helpful. Did you happen to see the license plates?”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t, what with winter being here and the dark coating the sky awful early.”

  “Yes, I see. I only have one other question. Did any of the other staff see the vehicle or notice anything else suspicious?”

  “Well, we do tend to share our news with each other. You might want to speak with Mr. Parker. He’s the butler.”

  “Is he here?”

  “Oh yes. I’ll get him straight away. Can I warm your tea?”