Sylvia’s Secret

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Sylvia’s Secret Page 10

by Mary Vee


  “No.”

  Branson pulled out his notepad. “I’ve added him to the persons of interest list. Today I want you to check the hotels in NYC. Just the ones the elite would frequent. Do whatever you need to find out if she is registered there. Text me the results.”

  “Yes, Mr. Carhill. Is there anything else?”

  “I’m going to the Duvet’s this morning to interview the staff.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you finding any leads?”

  “In this business, Mrs. Spinnaker, one answer is like a seed. Some sprout and some don’t. It isn’t a plant or a tree, but a good answer can grow into a full-grown solution if properly cared for.”

  She smiled. “Good point, sir.” She handed him his coffee. “I hope you find an Oak Tree answer.”

  “Thank you.” He buttoned his coat and tightened his scarf around his neck before tucking the hot cup deep into his hand and opening the door. Mrs. Spinnaker’s kindness deserved something nice. He considered a best choice and came up with, “Have a nice day, Mrs. Spinnaker.”

  She looked at him, seemingly gobsmacked. “Thank you, Mr. Carhill.” Then she smiled. A genuine one of appreciation.

  * * *

  Branson took the elevator down to the main floor. The glass entrance on the other side of the atrium showed no yellow taxi waiting by the curb. Really? The cabby left, even with the generous tip? He huffed.

  Outside, in the frigid temperatures, he huddled for five minutes. What was the problem? Cabs littered the streets night and day. Where were they? He gulped the hot coffee as a different cab rolled around the corner and stopped. Finally.

  “Where to?” This driver faced him. “Hey, I remember yous.” A Jersey accent carpeted his words.

  Branson recognized the man from a previous trip. Ah yes. The happy spirit was driven by a generous tip, one that paid forward great service dividends this time. Nice. No wonder the driver pulled close to the curb. He gave the Duvet address then settled back and enjoyed a quiet, speedy, and safe journey, prepared to give this driver yet another well-deserved reward.

  During the drive, he opened Mrs. Duvet’s planner to December 7-10 and ran his hand down the list looking for an appointment with Chelsea Dover. At the dinner/dance, Chelsea stated she had called on Sylvia the week before.

  Her name appeared at 2 p.m. on the 8th and the scheduled teatime lasted one hour. Interesting. Perhaps the maids heard pieces of the conversation. He penned a note in his book on the page of questions for the Duvet staff and tucked the pad of paper into his pocket as the taxi came to a stop.

  Branson handed the fare plus a generous tip to the driver. “Keep the change.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Branson stepped out of the cab and closed the door. He pressed the intercom and announced his appointment with Ms. Holloway. The gate opened, and he walked through.

  Like the other times, Tanner the butler stood in the doorway. “Good morning, Mr. Carhill.”

  “Good morning, Tanner. I believe I am expected.”

  “Yes, sir. I will take you to Ms. Holloway.” They walked through the east wing to a sunroom. Ms. Holloway sat in the natural early morning light radiating through clean windows. She stood as he entered.

  “Good morning, Mr. Carhill.” She walked toward him with an outstretched hand and a lovely smile. Gracious yet warm. Not the standard greeting from a person of class.

  On the inside, he wanted to smile. Maybe step out of his professional stance and return the handshake with no expectations. His tutor would have insisted he resist and respond in a proper, stoic manner. “This is how people of money expect to be treated, Branson,” he’d say.

  The trained response nagged him to comply. Her hand remained in midair, waiting for him to respond. No silver spoon touched this woman at birth. She had a momma who made friends first with kindness and possibly a meager sum in her wallet. Since no one else happened to be in the room, he retreated to his true station, embraced her hand in his, and returned the kind smile. “Good morning, Ms. Holloway.”

  “So, you’ve come to interview the staff?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who would you like to speak with first?”

  “Is the chauffeur here?”

  “I believe so. I’ll have Tanner fetch him.” She pressed a button and waited. A moment later, the butler appeared in the doorway. “Tanner, find Thomas and bring him here, please.”

  “Yes, Ms. Holloway.” He nodded and left.

  “Well then.” Jeanie gathered her papers and tapped them into a pile before scooping them into her arms. “I thought you might like this room for your interviews.”

  “This will do fine. Thank you.”

  “I’ll have tea and a morning snack delivered.”

  He nodded. “You are very kind.”

  “All right then. I’ll leave you to your work. Let me know if you need anything.” Her two-inch black stilettos clicked on the floor, and her sea green skirt swirled as she turned to walk out the door. Leaving him alone…with the warm sun spraying through the glass.

  He tapped his pen a few times on the desk and focused on the job.

  A knock on the doorframe drew him from his thoughts. Tanner stood next to a young man dressed in a pressed chauffeur’s uniform. “Thomas, sir, as you requested.”

  “Thank you, Tanner.” Branson set down the pen.

  The butler closed the door and left.

  Thomas the chauffeur didn’t approach the table even after having been announced. Yes, how could he forget? House rules dictated Thomas had to be invited into the room. He indicated a chair across from him and nodded. “Please, have a seat. As we’ve already met on the drive to the hospital fundraiser, I trust you will be comfortable to answer a few questions.”

  The driver removed his hat then tentatively walked to the table. He paused then sat without saying a word. Poor guy looked like he’d been accused of strangling the Duvet family’s favorite cat.

  Branson glanced at his notes. “You are Mrs. Duvet’s primary chauffeur, correct?” Simple questions were designed to ease a subject’s apprehension.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve been asked here to assist with locating Mrs. Duvet.” Providing the reason for questions tended to quiet the nervous ones. “I assume you’re concerned about her safety like the rest of the staff?”

  “I want nothing more than to have Mrs. Duvet safe and happy.”

  So, he added and happy. Branson noted that comment. “Can you tell me about your service to Mrs. Duvet these last two weeks?”

  He cleared his throat. “May I have some water?”

  “There now, Thomas, you aren’t in trouble. Just answer the question. Refreshments should arrive shortly.”

  His facial color remained pasty white. “As far as I know, I drove her to every scheduled appointment outside the home.”

  “All right. Tell me the locations you took her to the past two weeks.”

  “You have her planner there before you.” He pointed. “Surely you can tell by that. As I said, it were my job to deliver her to appointments on time, and I did. I didn’t ask why.”

  “Do you recall her mentioning a trip?”

  His glance down toward the hat on his lap revealed words he didn’t say.

  “Thomas, did she mention wanting to take a trip?”

  The chauffeur looked up. “Mrs. Duvet is a gracious lady. Since her husband died, the house has been dull. Beastly dull. She only wanted to visit the city. Do some shopping. Liven up the house with something new. Walk the vibrant, skyscraper streets and feel the city. Spend time with friends.”

  “My. Thomas, you seem quite perceptive after spending such little time with her in the car en route to here and there.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Carhill. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.” His face lowered again.

  “I meant the comment only in the most positive way. Do go on.”

  Thomas raised his head. He squinte
d, scrutinizing Branson before saying, “Her biggest smiles are when she speaks of her friends. I believe she calls them Cinq Amis.”

  A servant opened the door just then. He delivered service including hot tea and scones in various flavors then poured the beverage. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Carhill?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Thomas dropped several cubes of sugar into his tea. He stirred then gulped most of the tea. Quite unrefined. Had Mrs. Duvet sat at the table, Thomas wouldn’t have done that. Branson at least hoped. Nerves or hiding a deep secret kidnapped this man’s manners. He set down his cup. “I think most people say a chauffeur wouldn’t understand their employer. But working for a kind lady like Mrs. Duvet, I can’t help noticing when she just wants to get out and do something fun.”

  “That is why your answers to my questions are so important. Did you take her to New York City, to an airport, or a train or bus station?”

  “Mr. Carhill. Really? A bus or train station? A lady like Mrs. Duvet? Hardly. And no, I didn’t drive her to the city or the airport.”

  “You have no idea how she left the house or where she went on the evening of December 10th?”

  “I have no idea how she left the house unnoticed.”

  “Or where she went?”

  He looked down. The man had something to say. Clear as the sun shined in that room. He shook his head refusing to answer.

  The information would have to come from somewhere else. “Very well. Thank you for your time. Would you ask Tanner to send in Anneliese?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When you’re ready to talk, call me. I have no desire to report anyone, only ensure Mrs. Duvet’s safety.” He handed the chauffeur his card. “Good day.”

  Thomas stood, leaving his tea and a half-eaten scone. “Good day.” He walked toward the door.

  Branson didn’t have to wait long before Anneliese arrived at the door and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Carhill. You wanted to speak to me?”

  “Yes, come, have a seat.” He nodded to the other available chairs.

  She didn’t sit right away but tidied the cup and crumbs left by Thomas. “Would you like some more tea, sir?” She picked up the teapot and waited.

  “Yes, thank you.” He slid his cup closer to her.

  She poured tea for him and one for herself then sat at the seat across from Branson. “Did you want a pastry, Mr. Carhill?” She helped herself to a strawberry scone.

  “No thank you. I do have a few questions I’d like to ask, though.”

  Anneliese set the scone down and brushed her hands over her plate.

  “Tea service was taken to Mrs. Duvet on the night she disappeared,” said Branson. “It is my understanding the kitchen staff requires all dishes returned before midnight, correct?”

  “I’ve heard the kitchen staff say that. Although once Mrs. Duvet retires for the evening, I am free to go home. In those cases, I wouldn’t have been here to know for sure.”

  He noted her answer then said, “All right let’s move on. In the last few months, have you noticed Mrs. Duvet showing signs of deep sadness?”

  “Oh no, Mr. Carhill. Quite the opposite. Mrs. Duvet has grown happier as the months neared December. I’m not sure what it was, but something made her—” Her broad smile released a gentle laugh. “She looked and acted, I don’t know, younger.”

  “So, what has been different?”

  “She didn’t tell me. I really didn’t have the right to ask, sir.”

  “You don’t have a clue? Perhaps you noticed something special that happened this year or at the moments she seemed especially happy? A phone call? A letter?”

  She shook her head. “Well, maybe. I guess there is something. At times, I have to carry laundry or dishes through the main floor. One time I watched her standing before a painting. She seemed to stare at it for the longest time. At least longer than I would look at a painting. I shouldn’t have noticed, but she smiled brighter than I had seen since her husband died.”

  “Did you think she longed to be there?”

  “I don’t know if it were that. But the setting pleased her very much.”

  “Please take me to the painting.”

  “Of course.” She set her tea on the saucer and stood.

  He followed her out of the sunroom, through a few corridors and rooms. If Branson had to guess, the painter of this coveted artwork was Leblanc, and the subject was the village where the Cinq Amis visited.

  She stopped in a rather large room where a unique arrangement of chairs allowed guests the freedom to glide through pockets of conversations, stand with a few friends, or sit in small groups and discuss issues.

  “This is the drawing room. Mrs. Duvet uses it to entertain guests. Although she rarely has many visitors anymore. Not since Mr. Duvet passed.”

  He walked the twenty-five by fifteen-foot spacious room with exquisite Victorian decor. Large paintings hung on the walls. One covered the area between the fireplace mantel and the ceiling. The subject, a woman in a white gown, rested her head near leaves of red and gold draping from a low hanging tree branch. Red flowers laced through her off-the-neck hairstyle that draped curls like a waterfall from the crown of her head. The plate next to the canvas credited Thomas Benjamin Kennington for the piece titled, Autumn.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Carhill, this is the one. Over here,” Anneliese said.

  He turned from the magnificent work and walked to her. On the wall hung an ornate dark gold-framed painting of a sitting room. An empty, high-backed chair faced opened French doors overlooking a garden terrace. Outside, red roses cascaded through a trellis covering the walkway leading to a golden field.

  “I understand now why she hung it here. It is inviting. Who wouldn’t want to visit this place?”

  Anneliese looked back at the work and smiled. “I never had time to notice before.”

  Branson walked to the doorway and noted she chose this location allowing every guest entering the room would see it first. He returned to the work and didn’t find a nameplate crediting the artist. In the bottom right corner were the letters LEB. Odd. The last letter was not L.

  “Do you know the artist’s name?”

  “No, sir. She never told me.”

  He took out his cell phone and snapped a photo of the painting then recorded in his notepad, LEB painter. “Thank you, Anneliese. Please guide me back to the sunroom.”

  “Yes, Mr. Carhill.”

  On that walk, his phone buzzed with a text. He put in his password and read the message.

  Mrs. Spinnaker: No reservations for Mrs. Duvet in any of the hotels so far. Have a few more to contact.

  Branson pressed the button to make the screen go black.

  When they returned to the previous room, Anneliese gathered the used dishes. She waited, holding them in her hands. Branson assumed she needed to be dismissed. “Please send for the cook.”

  “She won’t like it, sir. Not at all. She’ll throw the pots and refuse to leave the kitchen.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Branson noted the cook on his suspect list.

  The servant leaned forward, her eyes on his notebook, although he hid his words. “She’s really a nice person and would never intentionally harm no one. Um. Would you like to speak to her assistant?”

  So, the cook was nice with an explosive temper. Definitely suspect material. “Thank you. Her assistant will be fine for now.”

  Anneliese left the room with the dishes she and Thomas had used.

  While waiting, Branson called Mrs. Colinfield’s residence.

  “This is Mrs. Colinfield, how may I assist you?” The tone deeply conveyed an annoyance.

  “Branson Carhill here. I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “Have you found my mother?” The urgent tension in her voice hadn’t diminished. He appreciated her sincerity.

  “My question is brief. Do you know a painter with the initials LEB? Perhaps French? An artist your mother might know?”

  “I see y
ou’ve found that painting in the drawing room. I don’t know why she wallows away hours looking at it. One would think it held a significant memory.”

  How strange that she hadn’t connected her mother’s fondness with France and the French countryside to the painting. “Do you know the artist’s name?”

  “No. She never told me. Or if she had, I didn’t listen. Her interests in France and those Cinq Amis friends brings about such a change in her behavior. I can tell when her thoughts go to them. She acts giddy and sways to some tune floating in her head, humming occasionally. She gazes right through me as though I wasn’t there. It has gradually become worse since Daddy died. Her indulgence in frivolous teenage-like behavior is so unbecoming of our station,” she scoffed. “She has obligations and must keep up appearances. She knows that.” Mrs. Colinfield inhaled deeply.

  A long minute passed before she spoke again. “I apologize, Mr. Carhill.” Her voice had tempered. Such a shame. Women in her class kept so much bottled inside.

  Sylvia may have figured out a way to disappear for Christmas and her social obligations. “No need for apology. If you happen to think of the artist’s name, please phone me.”

  “No other news, then?”

  “Not definitively.” He never presented the status of a case to a client. The answer never appeared to be good news to them, even if he drew close to solving the case.

  “Good day, Mr. Carhill.”

  “Good day.”

  A young man wearing a kitchen uniform stood at the door. “You asked for me, Mr. Carhill?”

  “Yes.” He indicated the chair across from him. “As you’ve probably heard, I’ve been retained by Mrs. Colinfield to find Mrs. Duvet. Keep in mind you are in no trouble and can only help the efforts to find her.”

  The young man sat, and although Branson had attempted to remove any reason for worry, the young man fidgeted with his hands.

  “The evening of December 10th—”

  “The night Mrs. Duvet went missing?”

  “That’s correct. She asked for tea, which was delivered shortly after retiring for the evening.”

 

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