Kev scurried up behind me. “All systems are go. I’ll tune up the Caddy for tomorrow.”
“Wear something respectable, Kev. No jeans, no Hooters T-shirts, no runners. Dress up.”
“Will do.”
“Make sure, Kev. It’s important.”
“I won’t mess up, Jordie. This is going to be fun. You coming in the Caddy with us?”
Not a chance. “I’ll ride solo.” I figured I’d be calmer that way. I decided it would be great. More than great, wonderful. I couldn’t wait.
In fact, if it hadn’t been for the two-dozen dead long-stemmed roses, I would have had only one thing on my mind.
Summerlea.
CHAPTER TWO
“DEAD ROSES?” TYLER “Smiley” Dekker said, in a slightly strangled voice when I called him. I got him just coming off duty that evening “Well, no. I didn’t send you dead roses. Why would you even think that?”
Tyler Dekker, despite being a police officer, was one of the kindest people in the world. I knew that. He also seemed to genuinely like me. You can bet that’s caused me a world of grief, but not from him. I pretty much genuinely liked him right back.
In an attempt to gain Brownie points, since he’d been so unavailable during my last brush with murder, he’d been working hard to make sure I knew he cared. We’d had romantic dinners, long walks, longer talks and a promise to always be there for me. No flowers though, except for Valentine’s Day and a shamrock on St. Paddy’s.
I said soothingly, “Obviously, they were live roses that took the scenic route. I’m letting you know, so you can get a refund.”
A silence drifted over the phone. Then Tyler said, “Is there some occasion this time of year that requires roses? The Ides of March?”
“The Ides of March? Not what I would consider a festive occasion. Anyway, that was two weeks ago.”
“No special occasion at all? Not some anniversary I might not have been aware of. Our first ice cream cone or something?”
I had to laugh at that. “I thought you were being romantic.”
“I do try to be . . .” He cleared his throat. “But, I really didn’t send them.”
“Well, no worries. Just so you know, you don’t ever need to send me roses, alive or otherwise. And I won’t spring silly and previously unmentioned anniversaries on you either.”
“But who did send them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was there a card?”
“Yes. It said Guess who?”
“Maybe they were intended for someone else.”
“Well, they had my name. So that’s weird.”
He said, “Huh. That’s expensive and usually implies, um, an intimate, um, involvement.”
“There is no intimate involvement with anyone else, Tyler, even if it was implied.”
“Well, I guess you’ll figure it out. But it wasn’t me and you can cross me off your suspect list. But I’m still sorry you got them.”
I knew he’d been blushing to the top of his cute blond head. I felt like a heel. “Thanks,” I said. “It’s some sort of screw-up. I’m not the only Jordan in the world, and possibly they got the addresses mixed up at the florist.” But that didn’t wash, as the roses had clearly been addressed to Miss Jordan Bingham at the Van Alst House address, correct down to the zip code. Nobody had sent me flowers in all the time I’d lived in Harrison Falls. I’d been given some, but delivered? Never.
“The box is from Flora’s Fanciful Flowers, but I’m not sure where they are. The label’s smudged.”
“Nobody would purposely send you dead roses, Jordon. You’re absolutely sure I didn’t miss some kind of special event?”
“Nope. You did a great job on Valentine’s Day and St. Patrick’s, and there’s been nothing since.”
“Want me to try and find out who they came from or who was supposed to get them? I can contact the florist. They’d remember a delivery to Van Alst House.”
“I don’t think there’s much point.” But I knew Smiley and I also knew he’d be on that case. I was pretty sure it would boil down to one of those weird things that happen.
I was lucky to be going out with Tyler, even if my uncles thought it was the worst idea ever for one of the family to be romantically linked to a cop. They’d much prefer that I was arrested.
“I’ll call you,” Tyler said. “When are you back from wherever you’re going?”
“We’re just there for lunch. And it’s at Summerlea, that secluded estate on the far side of Harrison Falls, near Grandville.”
“I don’t know it.”
“That’s right. I keep forgetting you’re new here. If you check a map, you follow County Road 36 and the property is not far from where the ravine cuts through that beautiful stretch of woods. The woods and ravine are all part of Summerlea. And there’s even a lake, although I haven’t seen that yet.”
“Sounds pretty fancy. No wonder you’re so excited. Not that Van Alst House isn’t fancy.”
“It’s only for lunch and it is business for Vera. And I am not ‘so excited.’” I was almost hovering in anticipation, of course, but it did sound goofy when he put it that way.
“My mistake.” I could feel his cute smile through the phone. “Be careful. You know how you seem to attract trouble.”
* * *
THERE WASN’T MUCH chance I could attract trouble, despite Tyler’s teasing. All I was trying to do was catch up on my reading of Ngaio Marsh. No need to be careful there.
My friend Lance is a genius reference librarian. He’s easy on the eyes too, as is evident by the crowd of patrons in the reference department on any given day. As usual there was an octogenarian contingent. They’re protective of their moments with Lance, and I knew I’d have to take my place in the lineup. I could have texted or called, but I wanted not only to see him, but to look him straight in the eye.
“Beautiful lady—” Lance always talks like someone out of an old-fashioned romantic melodrama, but today I was having none of that.
“Before you say another word, did you by any chance think it would be très amusant to send me a bouquet of dead roses?”
He actually flinched. “What? Ew. Dead roses! That’s horrible. Why?”
Well, that was an honest reaction.
“I’m ruling out suspects.”
“Suspects? I can’t believe you would even say that.” Lance feigned injury and put his hand to his heart. He’d missed his calling.
“I didn’t really think you were a suspect. I thought there might be something going on that I wasn’t aware of. Something really hip or . . .”
“Nobody says ‘hip’ anymore, Jordan. And I have never heard of this trend.”
Somehow the smell of his Burberry cologne made the fact I was no longer hip—or even allowed to say “hip”—a bit less painful.
“So, did someone actually send you dead roses?”
I nodded.
“Anonymously, I take it.”
“Well, Guess who?”
“What do you think that means?”
I shrugged. I really had no idea.
“Maybe someone didn’t realize they’d be dead when you got them. A secret admirer?”
“We promised not to keep secrets anymore.” I winked.
Lance looked embarrassed. We’re still getting over a certain secret from Thanksgiving, but this wasn’t the occasion to revisit that.
“Can’t imagine who,” I said. “Or why. But if there’s one thing I hate, it’s an incompetent secret admirer.”
“I get that.”
It’s always good to ask a librarian, and Lance was pleased to check out the Kauffman family background and a history of Summerlea too, before our trip. Vera had asked questions, and I wanted to know that everything about Chadwick was on the level. Although I’d been madly researching,
Lance always uncovers so much more detail than I can online, and usually it’s all vastly more interesting too. As an extra I got a couple of flirty cheek kisses and a serious hug from him.
As I sashayed out the door, feeling the dirty looks from his reference room posse, I had a big, silly grin on my face.
On my way back to Van Alst House, I couldn’t resist driving to the farthest reaches of Harrison Falls and sailing along the tree-lined road and the ravine to pass the entrance to Summerlea. I was smiling all the way, cruising slowly. I gave a cheerful smile and wave to three gray-haired ladies who were ambling along the side of the road, before heading home.
They looked to be in their late seventies. The little one reminded me of my Grandmother Kelly. That meant you’d probably never want to get on her bad side.
* * *
AS I PULLED into the driveway at Van Alst House, my pocket sprang to life with a text from Tiff. In typical Tiff fashion, she had offered to fill in for a colleague as a nurse on a cruise. This was what I loved about Tiff. You could count on her to save the day if you, say, broke your ankle in an ill-advised attempt at roller derby and needed someone to cover your eleven-day shift. On the phone before she’d left for Miami she was excited. Tiff collects adventures the way Vera collects books, only with more passion and far less caution. She’d never been on a cruise or to the Panama Canal. And the pay was going to be decent, considering all her accommodations and food were covered. Although the sun was starting to get stronger here in New York State, our late-coming spring was a far cry from the balmy tropical breezes Tiff would have tousling her hair. I felt a twinge of envy. My pale Irish skin had reached an almost translucent level of white over the long winter.
Hey J!
Getting on board now. Tiny room, but at least I don’t have to share! ;) I guess once we get out to sea, texting gets pricey, so I will check in when we get to Aruba in two days. Be thinking of you as I work on my tan. LOL
xo T
I replied in faux jealous rage.
T,
You are a horrible person. I hope a dolphin steals your wallet.
;) Have fun!
* * *
I WAS BACK barely in time to accompany Vera and Uncle Kev to the bank to pick up the money for the exchange of the Marsh collection. We’d arranged to have the cash on hand. Vera must have had a stash of cash somewhere in Van Alst House, because she was able to keep the withdrawal amount under ten thousand, which is the point where transactions attract all sorts of unwelcome attention from the IRS and other government bodies. I did wonder about the need for cash. I was beginning to think that Vera was right and maybe the Kauffman estate was shrinking. However, we were the buyers, not the sellers, and it was up to Chadwick to report any income. Once again, no need to worry. I might have been going straight, but it wasn’t like I worked for the government.
From the moment we got out of the bank, scanned articles and links kept appearing from Lance on my iPhone. Bing! Bing! Bing!
Lance had found lots of new stuff. I loved that boy. Soon I’d be immersed in more than I could ever absorb about the Kauffmans and Summerlea.
A last text from Lance:
Found a lot of info about art, but nothing about books. Chat later.
* * *
AS SOON AS we got home, Vera zoomed to the study to take care of some hospital board work. Kev muttered something about cleanup around the property. That reminded me about those puffs of smoke. I’d been too distracted to follow up. “Whatever you’re doing, Kev, make sure it’s inside. Stay away from the woods and forget whatever project you have going there.”
“Sure thing, Jordie. You know you can trust me.”
Trust him? Not so much. I had to keep an eye on him.
My attic space is one of the best things about living in Van Alst House. I had an hour to spare before dinner, so I curled up on my bed to do a thorough reading of the material from Lance. The ornate iron bedstead might not have looked comfortable, but the feather bed sure was. I snuggled under the well-worn comforter with its pretty green sprigged pattern that matched my curtains. Good thing the pattern was small and delicate, because the faded cabbage roses on the ancient wallpaper could still flatten any competition. I loved them too.
A cat pounced on the bed. Luckily it was Good Cat. Bad Cat seemed to have declared a truce of sorts, but that could end with no notice. Maybe he was under the bed waiting until I put my ankles within reach.
I turned my attention to the background information Lance had sent and did my homework on the Kauffman family, skimming the articles and clicking the many links. I stroked the cat as I read.
Even though Summerlea was not that far away, the Kauffmans had never really participated in the life of Harrison Falls. Magnus Kauffman had done his best to avoid attention. But despite this, the family had made it to the national news from time to time: weddings and funerals, mostly. It was fun reading up on the Kauffman family, even though I found no juicy scandals or investigations. The Kauffmans hadn’t lent their name to a world-class university or concert halls. But there had been society weddings a few generations back, linking the Kauffmans with some of the really great American families. There had been grand European tours and expeditions to exotic locations. And there continued to be charitable activities and stylish fund-raisers. Magnus Kauffman had held the annual Summerlea Night’s Dream as well as a fall jazz festival and a winter cotillion. He had apparently enjoyed having his name and image appear in the society pages. In recent years, Magnus grew more reclusive, and the society fund-raisers appeared to be managed by Chadwick Kauffman on the grounds of his Country Club and Spa. Chadwick wasn’t one to seek the limelight, and while the big patrons and donors appeared grinning for the cameras, he rarely stuck his mug into the group shots.
Refreshing.
It didn’t take long before I felt I knew all about the Kauffmans. Chadwick was indeed the end of a scandal-free line. That was good, because I wanted to like him. And I wanted our visit to Summerlea to be perfect.
* * *
“JORDAN?”
I was glad to hear Tyler’s voice again. “I thought you were on duty.”
“I was checking out Flora’s Fanciful Flowers to find out who sent your dead roses.”
“And?”
“And there doesn’t seem to be a Flora’s Fanciful Flowers in Harrison Falls or anywhere else in the world.”
“Oh. But the label . . .”
“Trust me. There isn’t one.”
“A practical joke, then.”
“Yeah. And a creepy one.”
“Who would have done that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Do you still have the box?”
“It’s on its way to the compost. I could dig it out.”
“Do that and hang on to it. I’ll see if I can get any information from it.”
“It was a joke. Thanks, but does it really merit a police investigation?”
“Humor me. You know I want to be a detective when I grow up.”
“Never grow up, Tyler. I like you the way you are. Tell you what, I’ll drop the box off the next chance I get.”
“And I’ll see what I turn up.”
* * *
I FOUND THE box of dead flowers, fished it out and put it in a large plastic bag. The signora had been happy to provide the bag. The signora, small, black-clad and round, followed me. She kept clucking over the flowers, muttering in Italian and shaking her head.
“Sfortunata.”
Unlucky? No kidding.
“Thanks,” I said, “I hate them too.”
* * *
I REFUSED TO dwell on those flowers. Instead I focused on Craigslist for our area. I’d been watching all my online sources hunting Ngaio Marsh books for myself and also trying to locate suitable titles for Vera’s collection. I checked often. In my line of work, you snooze,
you lose.
Today, I was a winner.
A couple who were downsizing and moving to one of the new riverside condos in the neighboring town of Grandville had given up their walls of bookcases in their sprawling suburban home. They were prepared to liberate boxes of mass-market reprints from the seventies. “Pristine,” they said, except for small labels on the inside front first page of each book. They posted photos of the covers and spines of hundreds of mysteries including many of the Ngaio Marsh titles I wanted.
Best of all, the ad hadn’t been up long.
I happily drove to Grandville, glad to get there before any book scouts descended. Not that I had anything against other scouts; after all, I was one myself in a limited way. And I counted on my contacts to keep Vera’s collection improving. Aside from that, I also made a bit on the books I found in the church bazaars, secondhand stores, Goodwill, garage sales and other rich sources. Several of the scouts were also my customers.
Labeled boxes were stacked by the front door when I arrived. Although the packing looked orderly, the place had that forlorn feeling that houses get in a move. I was greeted by a tall woman with shoulder-length wavy auburn hair and a full, almost voluptuous figure. There was something familiar about her. “I’m Larraine Gorman,” she said, “and the noises you hear from upstairs would be Doug. Ignore them and him.”
Larraine looked like she would have been more at home on a Titian canvas than in this jumbled, box-laden foyer. My uncles would have been captivated by her.
She’d put aside the books I wanted, neatly packaged up in two boxes and labeled “NGAIO MARSH.” I could tell that the owner was parting with them reluctantly. “No changing your mind,” her husband had boomed from upstairs as she greeted me. “And see if she’ll take some clothes while you’re at it.”
She rolled her eyes and called back, “How about some golf clubs? I could slip in a few of those.”
I grinned. “It’s not easy cutting back, is it?”
“It certainly isn’t. This downsizing effort is killing me,” she said. “I don’t mind ditching the knickknacks, but it’s hard to get rid of my books. I’ve read them all more than once and treasured each one.”
The Marsh Madness Page 3