“Tastes great,” she said, taking a sip.
Roger smiled with delight, as if she’d given him an extravagant compliment.
“So,” Danny said, anxious to get to the point. “The Brewsters.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Roger said as he settled down in a worn recliner. “That house is a treasure. I had a look around a few months ago, and I was overwhelmed by its aura. The sense of history.”
“I felt that way myself,” Alissa agreed.
“It’s got to be a huge project, fixing it up. Good thing you’ve got experience in that kind of thing.”
In their brief phone call, Alissa hadn’t told Roger she was a designer. He must have been checking up on her. She found the idea unsettling, but supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised.
“I’m lucky enough to have Danny,” Alissa said. “He’s been doing the brunt of the work.”
Danny shook his head, brushing off the compliment. “Your book,” he reminded Roger.
Roger leaned forward. “Listen, I’ll be honest with both of you. This book may be my masterpiece. I’m not embarrassed to tell you it’s been a struggle to figure out what I’m meant to do. I started out thinking I was going to be the next Edgar Allan Poe. But all I could write were bad imitations of Gothic novels. By then, though, I’d gotten caught up in the history of the nineteenth century, so I decided that was my calling. I got halfway through my Ph.D. when I couldn’t take it anymore.
“I devoted myself to writing full-time. You might have seen my gardening column in the Baltimore Sun? No, well, I suppose you’re too busy with the house. But my real passion is true crime. Not the trashy modern stuff—I explore older cases, sort of combining both my interests. Through the garden column, I’ve met all these marvelous old ladies who’ve lived around here forever, and they’ve been filling me in on local history. I’ve got the makings of a fantastic book.”
Danny sighed in frustration. Obviously, this windbag was drawing out his story, reveling in their attention. He wondered if Alissa was regretting this visit, though she continued to nod encouragingly. Her patience was one of the things Danny had grown to admire. Renovating a house meant confronting all sorts of unexpected challenges—from spilled paint to leaky ceilings—but each setback only made Alissa work harder. He was sometimes awed by her determination.
“The Brewsters weren’t on my radar screen originally,” Roger rambled on. “Charles Brewster’s death was an accident, not a crime. Tragic and all that, but straightforward. I only became suspicious after I came across something in the Baltimore Police Department archives. I went there originally to research another case—Henry Wallace, who was suspected of poisoning his wife. Ever heard of him? It was quite a sensation in the 1890s. He was put on trial, but acquitted, partly because it was never proven that his wife had been poisoned at all. It was only later that they discovered he’d been having an affair for years, which gave him a motive.
“I thought, using modern forensic techniques, I might be able to discover whether the wife had been poisoned. That meant finding her original autopsy report in the police archives. You should see those records—stuffed in boxes, things from different years all piled together. It’s a disgrace. So, as I was looking through them, I came across a very curious document. A memoir by a policeman named Hyram Haycroft. Apparently, he wrote it for his family—to document his glorious career—and one of his kids gave a copy to the police department so his legend would live on.”
Danny shifted his legs, openly bored by Roger’s digressions. Alissa hoped Roger would get the hint.
“Anyway,” Roger continued, “this Detective Haycroft was one of the top guys in the Baltimore Police Department when he retired. I flipped through the pages, just to see what was there, and I found something interesting at the very beginning. He started out as a policeman in Oak Hill. Ah, I’ve piqued your curiosity now, haven’t I? Here, let me read you his exact words.”
Roger reached toward the side table next to him and pulled a few photocopied pages from a red folder.
“‘The first victim of violent death I ever saw was Charles Brewster,’” Roger read in a deep, dramatic voice, clearly loving the intrigue. “‘As a young man of barely twenty-one, it made a strong impression on me. The Brewsters were the grandest family in town, and the death of their son and heir was a terrible blow. I have seen other deaths from falls since then, and the effect of the broken body is always chilling. My superior, Officer Petry, emphasized the importance of discretion when investigating such a death. Officer Petry performed an initial examination of the body, while I attended to Mr. Brewster’s young wife. She was more self-contained than I would have expected, but I would often see such a reaction in the years to follow. The reality is so horrifying that the loved one is struck dumb by shock, showing no emotion for hours or even days afterward. I was spared the ordeal of breaking the news to the rest of the Brewster family, as Officer Petry took on that sad duty. I was left to stand watch over Mr. Brewster’s body, and I was curious to discover a gun not ten feet from where he lay.
“‘However, when I brought my findings to Officer Petry, he cautioned me against drawing conclusions too readily. The gun was soon identified by his wife as Mr. Brewster’s, not that of an intruder, and in any case, it was unrelated to the cause of death. In deference to the family, the gun could be disregarded. Nothing could be gained by the suggestion that Charles Brewster took his own life.’”
Roger flashed Alissa a triumphant look. “Well?”
Alissa could imagine the scene. Charles’s battered body, a gun not far away. Evelyn strangely composed. There was no mention of where the body was found. Was it in the foyer?
“It seems pretty clear to me,” Danny said. “Charles committed suicide.”
Roger shrugged. “Well, Detective Haycroft thought it was a possibility. Which would certainly make a good story. Why would Charles Brewster, with his great house and beautiful wife, be miserable enough to kill himself? But don’t you think there’s something off about the whole scenario? It’s not as if there was an autopsy. I’ll bet you anything Charles Brewster’s body was carted off to the mansion and cleaned up by some poor servant. That’s how they did it in those days. Do you think anyone checked for bullet holes?”
Alissa gulped down a mouthful of tea, hoping the cold sting would distract her from the image of Charles’s ruined body. She glanced at Danny, who was now listening intently.
“And how about that description of Mrs. Brewster? ‘More self-contained than I would have expected.’ Granted, she was in shock, but this policeman thought there was something strange about her. You’d think she’d be crying or fainting. Instead, she’s calmly identifying her husband’s gun, but not offering any explanation for why it would be there. It’s all very strange.”
“That hardly means she murdered her husband,” Alissa insisted, oddly offended on Evelyn’s behalf.
“Look at the evidence,” Roger said. “A young woman with no money marries into this rich family. Who knows—maybe Charles isn’t quite what she imagined. Maybe she’s got some other guy on the side. But what’s really suspicious is her behavior after her husband’s death. She’s got this great house and the Brewster name, which means she’s set for life, and what does she do? She disappears. Doesn’t that strike you as weird?”
“You never know how someone will respond to a loss like that,” Danny argued. Something in his voice made Alissa wonder if he was speaking from personal experience.
“Maybe Evelyn couldn’t stand living in the house where Charles died,” Alissa suggested.
“Sure, but why leave town? She would’ve had it made, as the widow of Charles Brewster. Remember, this was a girl who came from nothing. She’d lived her whole life in Oak Hill. Where would she go?”
For that, Alissa had no answer.
“FORGET THE GARDENING columns, that guy needs to write a murder mystery,” Danny said as they began the ride home. “Talk about an active imagination.”
“You don’t think he might be on to something?” Alissa asked. She kept flashing back to an image of a bloody body lying in the foyer. Could Evelyn have come up behind Charles, held a gun to his head, pulled the trigger and watched his body tumble over the edge? Or even just threatened him with the gun and forced him to jump? She had a hard time picturing the shy girl in that wedding photo as a scheming killer.
“Roger Blake is a classic small-town busybody,” Danny said dismissively. “He doesn’t have a life of his own, so he comes up with these stories to make himself feel important. He got your attention, didn’t he? That’s all he was after.”
“Is that what people in small towns want?” Alissa asked wryly. “Attention from us sophisticated city folk?”
“I hate to break it to you, but you live in Oak Hill,” Danny said. “You’re a small-town girl now, whether you like it or not.”
Their easy rapport gave Alissa the confidence to steer the conversation in a more personal direction. “Why do you live out here?” she asked him. “You said you went to Georgetown, got an MBA…”
“In other words, why don’t I run a multinational corporation and rake in the big bucks?” he asked.
“Something like that.” Alissa had felt drawn to him from the minute he’d arrived at her door, but she was still unsettled by how little she really knew about him. If she could get him to open up to her now, maybe she’d be able to tell if they had a shot at something more.
“Well, I grew up in Oak Hill,” Danny began. “I was considered the smart kid in the family, so my parents always expected me to go off and make something of myself. I thought my dad would understand when I majored in art history—he and I spent hours carving wood scraps in the garage when I was a kid—but he wasn’t exactly thrilled. I got a scholarship to study abroad, and I went all over Europe, seeing everything I could. It’s like I knew it was the only chance I’d get.”
Danny smoothly shifted the truck’s gears as they merged onto the highway. “When I came home, I applied to a bunch of business schools. Not because I particularly wanted to go, but I couldn’t think what else to do. My mom just about fainted with excitement when I got into Georgetown, so that decided it. The day after graduation, I started at an investment bank on Wall Street. I was the only person they hired out of a hundred interviews. I’m still not sure why they chose me—I guess they saw I was willing to give up everything for the job. Which I did, for a while. But it didn’t work out.”
He said it so casually, as if that prestigious career was no more than a hobby he’d tried halfheartedly before dropping. Alissa trusted Danny completely when it came to the house—he’d proved himself a dedicated worker. But there was something not quite settled about him, a part that remained detached and out of reach. If he disappeared without a trace one day, she wouldn’t be entirely surprised.
“What happened?” Alissa asked.
“Hang on,” Danny interrupted. “There’s something I want to show you.” The truck began to slow, although Alissa couldn’t see an exit ramp. When Danny pulled off onto the shoulder, there was nothing but open land on either side of the road.
“Roll down your window,” Danny urged. He leaned across her, pointing outside.
Alissa looked out across the overgrown grass. They were stopped on a hill, and Alissa could see a collection of dollhouse-sized buildings in the distance below. She recognized the steeple of a church and realized she was staring at Oak Hill.
“Oh!” Alissa exclaimed. “I didn’t know we were so close.”
“See that row of pine trees to the left?” Danny asked. “That’s the end of your property.” The house itself was obscured by vegetation at this distance, but Alissa recognized the line of neatly spaced evergreens.
“Believe it or not,” Danny said, “this is the site of the original Brewster mansion.”
“Really?” Alissa tried to picture the house Elaine Price and Julia Larkin had described, with imposing stone walls and turrets that loomed over the countryside. Grass and asphalt had covered any trace of it.
“They could look out over the town and their land from up here,” Danny said.
“How did you know where it was?” Alissa asked.
“Your curiosity must’ve rubbed off on me,” Danny said. “I’ve been looking over some old county maps stashed away in my parents’ garage. Trying to get a sense of what it was like around here years ago.”
“Just make sure you don’t get obsessed,” Alissa teased.
She expected Danny to toss back a flippant reply, but he said nothing as he stared out the window. If he’d been a different kind of person, Alissa would have guessed he was daydreaming, as she so often did. But Danny wasn’t the type to lose himself in fantasies. The trip to Roger’s and this stop along the highway were his peace offerings to her. An apology for making fun of her fascination with the Brewsters.
They sat side by side in the front of the truck, their silence interrupted only by the intermittent hum of passing cars. All day, Alissa realized, she’d related to Danny as a friend rather than an employee. His insistence on treating her as the boss seemed to have softened. Was he starting to see her as something more?
“We’d better get back,” Danny said, shifting the car into Drive. “I want to get back on the clock by noon.”
“I’ll pay you for the whole day, don’t worry,” Alissa said.
Danny stiffened, and he hit the accelerator. “I offered to come to Roger’s with you,” he said. “Pay me for the hours I work, okay?”
Alissa searched for words to put things right, but she could tell by the way Danny kept his eyes on the road, his mouth pressed in a tight line, that she had stumbled into dangerous territory. She’d intended to be kind by paying for his time this morning. There was no reason he should suffer because of her obsession. She realized now, too late, that her offer had cheapened the whole outing, turning a friendly trip into a commercial transaction. She wished she could apologize but anything she said would only make matters worse.
They drove the rest of the way home without speaking. As they pulled into the driveway, Alissa saw a tall rectangular package leaning against the front door.
“Did you order something?” Alissa asked.
Danny shook his head, apparently as confused as she was.
He helped her carry the box inside and pulled out a pocketknife to slit it open. Alissa pushed back the cardboard and layers of bubble wrap, and suddenly she was eye-to-eye with Charles Brewster, who was staring at her as if from the dead. Next to him stood Evelyn, curls framing her face, her features as delicate as the flowers that decorated her dress.
It was the party photograph she’d scanned at the library. Reproduced and enlarged, ready to be hung on the wall to commemorate the Brewsters’ love. But now, thanks to Roger, Alissa couldn’t look at them without a sense of dread. Had Charles been as pleased with himself as he appeared, or was he putting a brave face over some secret anguish? And if Roger was right, Evelyn hadn’t been the loving wife she appeared. She looked off to the side, away from her husband, as if she couldn’t face what she was about to do to him.
Or maybe they’d been exactly what they seemed to be: a young couple who thought their lives were just beginning. Two people with no idea of the tragedy looming ahead.
“You okay?” Danny asked. His voice dragged her back to the present.
“Yeah,” Alissa said, but she knew her voice betrayed her.
“Is this the picture you’re going to hang in the living room?” Danny asked.
“I was,” Alissa said. “Now I’m not sure.”
Danny shrugged. “This is your place now. There’s no reason it should be a shrine to the Brewsters.”
“That wasn’t my goal,” Alissa said, but in a way, it had been. She thought by recreating the Brewsters’ house, she might recapture some of their glamour, and maybe some of their happiness would rub off on her. After talking to Roger, their lives didn’t appear so enviable.
Danny sensed her disappoint
ment, and he wanted to tell her he understood. He’d gotten caught up in her curiosity about the house’s history. But the way she was talking now, her voice a monotone, made it clear she wanted to be left alone. She didn’t trust him enough to share what she was really thinking.
“I’m going to rip out the last of those kitchen cabinets,” Danny said. “You can take a look at the new drawer pulls when you get a chance.”
Alissa half expected him to call her ma’am. The comfortable give-and-take of their earlier conversation had been replaced by this impersonal exchange. Danny presented himself as such an uncomplicated, regular guy—the hunky handyman, as Constance kept calling him—that Alissa was intrigued when he revealed something deeper. She’d glimpsed another side of him today, a willingness to help and support her despite his own misgivings. She couldn’t let that connection slip away.
“You know, I was thinking,” she burst out. “Would you like to have dinner sometime?”
The invitation was so impulsive that the words surprised her even as she said them. “I just thought,” she went on, “it would be nice to talk when we’re relaxed and showered and not stressed-out about work. Not like a date or anything!” she added with a nervous laugh.
Why had she said that? Because when she thought about having dinner with Danny, she imagined it as a date. Glasses of wine, flirting over dessert, a walk to her front door ending in…what?
Danny smiled. “Is tomorrow good?”
“Sure.” Alissa glanced away to hide her giddy excitement and found herself looking once again at Evelyn Brewster’s wistful face. She was a woman who had everything. So why didn’t she look happier?
CHAPTER TEN
“THEY WILL DESTROY YOU.”
Katherine O’Keefe held her daughter’s hands as they sat in her small front parlor. This space, which had seemed so large to Evelyn as a child, now felt cramped. She noticed the worn patches on the chairs’ upholstery and the scrapes on the wood cabinet. Already, it seemed, she regarded the world with a Brewster perspective. She could look at this room, once her haven, and see only its shabbiness.
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