Typed on canary yellow paper, the letter carried no salutation, no name in closing. She examined the address on the front of the matching yellow envelope. It was her post-office box, no mistaking that, but there was no return address. The envelope had been mailed in Elk Park the day before, but that was all she could tell.
“What on earth is this about, boy?” Anna slipped the letter into its envelope, laid it on her desk, and turned to her dog Jackson, who was thumping his tail on the bedroom floor, certain he was going for a ride in the car. “You have to stay this time, but I’ll be back soon,” she told him.
She gave him a quick pat on the head, grabbed her laptop, and headed for the garage and her Jimmy.
She paused on her driveway and hit the remote, waiting until the garage door closed. Leaning toward the open driver’s side window, she breathed deeply, taking in the scent of damp earth and ripening blossoms. Thunder rumbled in the distance—a train on an endless track, echoing through the Rockies. She rolled up the window and headed north, her destination, and the letter, on her mind.
2
The name Sparrow House evoked images of a frail cabin in the woods, made of logs and twigs and full of tiny nesting holes, but the house was a two-story red-brick behemoth, the size of three ordinary homes in one. Not in the least birdlike, Anna thought.
The gravel driveway itself was impressively oversized. She’d been on it, her SUV bucking in the ruts, for almost a minute, but only now was the house—the mansion—coming into view. In her eight-plus years of living in Colorado, she’d never once seen Sparrow House, though she’d heard of it. Everyone in the town of Elk Park had.
Whips of unpruned forsythia scraped the grille and passenger side of the Jimmy as she pulled to the front door and angled the car on the drive. She decided to leave her laptop on the front seat. A talk with Paxton Birch was in order. He’d dangled deliciously large financial fruit before her when they’d spoken on the phone yesterday, but he’d left the exact amount of her pay unspoken, saying he wanted her to see for herself the nature and extent of the job. Yes, he wanted her to research the Birch family tree, but it was a little more complicated than that.
As Anna slid off the driver’s seat, a young woman in a dark blue pantsuit exited the house, striding past the blackened concrete urns that flanked the front door and down the stone steps. She stopped abruptly at the passenger side of the Jimmy and greeted Anna with an upward tilt of her head. “I’m Bee Burdock, the Birches’ secretary. You must be Anna. Please follow me. It’s raining.” Just as quickly she returned to the door, wheeled back, and motioned for Anna to enter.
“Thank you,” Anna called out. She hurried for the door, wondering at the woman’s need to state the obvious. Rain trickled from the mansion’s leaky gutters, puddled in the driveway and in depressions along the front steps, and spit against her glasses, carried sideways by gusts of wind.
Bee took a step back and with a flick of her eyes examined Anna from head to toe as she crossed the threshold and stood, waiting for instructions, on a threadbare oriental rug. “You don’t have a computer or briefcase?”
“In my car,” Anna said, thrusting a hand into her hair and shaking the rain from it. “Mr. Birch wanted to explain the job to me before I accepted.”
“Oh?” Bee flashed a small but pleasant smile.
“I’m a genealogist. He hired me to research the Birch family tree.” She removed her glasses, gave them a quick wipe on her blue cotton top, and slipped them back into place.
Bee swung the large door shut then pushed on it until it gave a dull snap. “I’m sure that’s part of it.”
“Unless I misunderstood—”
“This way.” The woman made a quick pivot and marched across the entryway, her high heels clicking on the marble floor. Nearing a broad, carpeted staircase that rose ten or twelve feet to the second floor, she made a left turn into what looked like a sitting room, Anna a pace behind her.
“I’ve never been in such a large house,” Anna said, doubling her steps.
“Most of the grand houses of the era are only two stories. In the mountains, at least. Sparrow House is an exception.”
“I thought this was two stories.”
“There’s a partial third floor,” Bee said, swiveling for a moment in Anna’s direction. The raindrops that had peppered the shoulders of her blazer dripped to the floor as she moved.
“I didn’t see it when I drove up.”
They passed through the spacious sitting room, Bee moving at an unlikely speed, given her high heels and small gait. There were two old armchairs beside a small fireplace, Anna noticed, and a collection of wooden mallets—carpenter tools of some kind—lining its mantel.
“There are two rooms at the southeast corner of the house, in the attic,” Bee said. “You can’t see their windows from the front.” She slowed her steps and craned her neck as they neared an open door at the far end of the sitting room. She stuck out her left arm, signaling Anna to stop, then poked her head through the doorway. “Paxton, Anna Denning. The genealogist.” Stepping back as she had at the front door, she nodded at Anna, granting her permission to enter.
“Mrs. Denning.” Paxton Birch pushed out of his chair at the end of a long, narrow table and extended his hand in greeting as he crossed the room. He glanced at her ringless left hand. “Or is it Ms.?”
“Anna, please.”
“Call me Paxton.” He smiled, revealing a neat row of short teeth, and gave her hand a quick pump. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes scanning the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on both sides of the room, Anna took the nearest chair at the table.
“I’m glad you could come.”
“I’m intrigued by the job, and I’ve always wanted to see the inside of Sparrow House.”
Paxton grinned and shoved a tangle of dark hair from his forehead. He was in his late thirties, Anna guessed, wearing the unruly bangs of a teenage boy, his blue eyes alight with nervous intent.
“So.” He spread his hands. “This is the library, obviously.” He returned to the far end of the table but remained standing, glancing around him as if he were looking at the overburdened shelves and their contents for the first time. “It’s where most of the family records are kept. Though I can’t tell you exactly where they are in the library. That’s part of the problem.”
Anna looked about the room, her eyes darting from the shelves to a cantaloupe-bellied Buddha, two feet high and apple red, on a low chest in front of the only window in the room, a many-paneled, mock-Tudor monstrosity behind Paxton Birch. The weak morning light, filtered through a sackcloth of clouds, entered the library through the window, but most of the light was absorbed by the room’s dark-wood panels. Supplemental light—yellowed bulbs in sconces on the walls—had already been turned on.
“If the records are here, I’ll find them,” Anna said. “It shouldn’t be too difficult.” She relished the thought of digging through the Birches’ old papers, hunting for clues, for pieces of a genealogical puzzle. On the other hand, if she was going to spend hours searching for needle documents in this haystack of a library, she wanted to make sure she was compensated for her time as well as her results. “You said you wanted me to research at least six generations.”
“Yes, but just the Birch family, not my wife’s.” Paxton tugged at the hem of his t-shirt. “There are family diaries and papers going back to the early nineteenth century here. But if you can go back further, great.”
Anna nodded. “What I can’t find in the library, I can probably find in various databases. You said most of the Birch family records are kept here. Do you have others?”
“Some are in the basement. We can bring those to the library later, but I think all the important Birch documents are here. Two hundred years’ worth, and until now no one’s bothered to fully research the Birch family tree. I’m not even sure what’s in here.”
Anna smiled at that. A leap into two centuries’ worth of nearly untouched documen
ts. A genealogist’s dream. She pointed at the books and folders jammed, with great determination, it appeared, between the shelves on her left. “Is there any order to the papers? Chronological, alphabetical?”
“Roughly chronological. You’ve got the older stuff on your right”—Paxton swept his hand to the left—“moving to the newer stuff here.” He patted the last shelf to Anna’s left. “But roughly. Nothing here has been filed in any real way for decades.”
A crack of thunder sounded and Paxton turned to the window. “Crap. We don’t need more rain. How was the driveway?”
“Long.” Anna smiled. “It was fine. Getting a little rutted, that’s all.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and turned back to Anna. “They say we’re on track for one of the rainiest Mays in Colorado history. Our groundskeeper is flipping out because he can’t run the riding mower. Ground’s too soft.”
Anna rose from her chair and walked to the far shelf on her left, toward two stacks of books, fat pancakes one atop the other, their old bindings facing outward. They looked at least a century old, some far older. “You said the newer documents are at this end, but aren’t these quite old?”
“I should explain that,” Paxton said. He took a single step toward her and tugged again at his t-shirt. “I hired a history professor from the University of Denver to gather any worthwhile historical papers so we can store the rest. He’s here now, working on what the folks at DU are pompously calling the Birch Papers.”
Anna laughed. “I read about him.”
Paxton raised his eyebrows. “You did?”
“A friend of mine runs the ElkNews.com website, and she—”
“Oh, yeah, yeah.” Paxton waved a hand. “That’s right. She called us about him last week and wrote an article about the Birch Papers—and that we wanted to hire a genealogist for the family tree. She recommended you.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Anyway, the professor, Lawrence Karlson, put those books aside and doesn’t want them mixed in with the rest. So if you can just leave them on that shelf. He’s working in the basement, though, so the library’s yours.”
“I hope I’m not putting him out.”
“He’s got plenty to keep him busy down there. Your work has priority.”
Her approach muted by the rugs on the sitting-room floor, Bee entered the library, her arm outstretched, a pair of white gloves in her hand. She dropped the gloves to the center of the table then disappeared back into the sitting room.
“Are those for me?” Anna asked.
“I think so.” Paxton rubbed his right temple then pushed his hair from his face. “Cotton gloves. Sorry, Bee is very protective of the future Birch Papers.”
Anna shook her head. “No, it’s a good idea. Skin oils can damage old papers.” She picked up the gloves and took her seat.
“Just use them with the oldest records, then. Otherwise forget them.”
Rain began pelting the window. It grew loud, drumming on the sill, and Paxton winced. He stared down at the discolored wooden planks of the library floor.
“Mr. Birch, on the phone you said the job was complicated.”
“Complicated by circumstances. And it’s Paxton.” He sank into his chair and crossed his legs. He seemed relieved Anna had broached the subject. “My wife and I are selling the house. It’s become too much for us. The upkeep, property taxes—and endless lawn care, as I’m sure you saw on the drive up.” He swung momentarily to the window, then back to Anna. “For the first time since it was built, there won’t be a Birch living in it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Paxton lifted one shoulder. “It’s just me and Nilla here, no kids. We like a lot of space, but we don’t need eight bedrooms and twelve acres.”
“I see.”
“The trouble is, you can’t sell a house like this to another family. No one can take on something this size. But we’ve had interest from a developer.”
A developer. The word made Anna cringe. In her mind’s eye she saw several acres of condos and a miniature golf course.
Paxton stood once more and shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “Do you know the history of Sparrow House?”
“I’ve heard the same stories everyone else has.” Anna let out a small laugh. “I know kids like to trick-or-treat here on Halloween.”
Paxton grinned. “We pay Bee extra to give out the candy. Nilla and I hide in our bedroom.”
“Very wise.”
Anna heard a rustle and turned her head in time to see a flurry of purple pass the doorway.
“Nilla,” Paxton called.
Anna swiveled in her seat. A woman clutching a large vase brimming with buds of purple irises, her brows arched in eager expectation, entered the library.
“This is Anna Denning,” he said, motioning with a nod of his head. “She’s the genealogist I told you about. Anna, this is my wife, Nilla.”
“Anna, yes. Nice to meet you.” Nilla ran her hand under the vase, wiping away moisture, then set it on the table.
“Should you be doing that? Isn’t it Devin’s job?” Paxton asked.
“It would be if he were here,” Nilla said.
Paxton let out an exasperated sigh. “Again?”
“Maybe he went home. He wasn’t feeling well.” Nilla turned to Anna. “And Nilla is short for Pernilla. I don’t want anyone to think my parents named me after a cookie.”
Paxton chuckled, though it couldn’t have been the first time he’d heard the remark.
“I have two Norwegian ancestors named Pernilla,” Anna said.
Nilla stood straight, beaming. “It’s a Norwegian name in my family too. I’m named after my great-great grandmother. But it’s so old-fashioned. Makes me sound a hundred.”
“Older names are coming back in style,” Anna said. “Emma, Olivia.” Like Paxton, Nilla looked to be in her late thirties—no more than a year or two older than Anna herself—though her cheeks, full and generously sprinkled with freckles, gave her the air of a younger woman. Her blonde hair fell in waves, brushing her face and ending in gentle flips just above her shoulders.
“Something to hope for, I guess.” Nilla squinted at Paxton. “Professor Karlson isn’t here either?”
“He’s going through the basement files. Anna’s research takes priority.”
Nilla seemed startled by this bit of news. “Is there enough work for him down there? We’ve only got him for a few weeks.”
“We could work in here together if . . .” Anna began half-heartedly. She let her words trail off. The library’s ceiling was high, giving it an airy feel, but the room wasn’t much bigger than a master bedroom, and the truth was it would have grated on her nerves to work in such close quarters with a stranger.
“No, no,” Nilla said, stealing a glance at Paxton. “You’ve got a deadline and you don’t need someone in your way.”
Anna knew nothing about a deadline. She hadn’t even agreed to take the job.
“I’ll let you two get back to business. Nice to meet you, Anna.” Nilla moved quickly for the door, her hair swinging from one side to the other, and left the room.
“She left the vase,” Paxton said, dropping to his seat. He reminded Anna of a fidgety toddler. The man needed to get something off his mind and out his mouth.
“Anyway,” he continued, “Sparrow House was built in 1911, you probably know. Politicians, industrialists, university presidents—they all spent time here. Especially politicians. President Harding stayed here once.”
“I didn’t realize the house was that well known.”
“Of course, it was called the Birch mansion then. When politicians wanted to be seen, they stayed in Denver. When they wanted to get work done, they stayed here.”
“Away from prying eyes.”
“I hired you because Ryant Properties—that’s the developer—wants a display showing the house’s history on the walls of the main sitting room, including a Birch family tree. This old drawing of
the grounds will be part of it.” He pointed to a framed pencil drawing, a bird’s-eye view of Sparrow House and the surrounding grounds, on a shelf to his left.
“So they’ll keep the house?”
“The house, the grounds, the carriage house—they’ll all stay. They’ll tear down the old greenhouse, but that’s all. They want to turn Sparrow House into a bed-and-breakfast.”
“What a good idea.” Goodbye, condos.
“But negotiations hit a snag. Ryant is talking about pulling out. They were interested in the house based on reputation.” He laughed nervously. “The Halloween thing. They want a spook-themed B&B.”
“Because of the murder,” Anna said.
Paxton exhaled, relieved that Anna had said the M-word. “That’s right. And the exorcism a few years later.”
“Oh?”
“You didn’t know about that?”
“No.”
“The failed exorcism, they want to call it.” He rolled his eyes sufficiently to demonstrate a healthy disdain, that he thought most of this, though maybe not all, was ludicrous. But his carefree mannerisms were calculated. This was a worried man. He probably needed the developer’s money as much as she needed his.
“Who did they exorcise?”
“The house.” He leaned back in his chair, pleased he’d said the words quickly and without fuss.
Anna waited for more information, but he said nothing. He let his words settle in the air like mist falling to the valleys and watched for her reaction. It made no difference to her. She didn’t believe brick and stone, or anything inanimate, could be possessed. “Do they exorcise houses?” she asked.
He exhaled audibly, his cheeks ballooning. “My dad allowed a priest to do it to make my mom feel better. They’re both gone now. Nilla and I have been living here since 2003 and I’ve never had a problem. I’ve had Tibetan Buddhists here, psychics, feng shui experts. Very spiritual, in-tune people—and none of them have sensed any evil.”
Anna Denning Mystery Series Box Set: Books 1–3 Page 26