The Secret of Goldenrod

by Jane O'Reilly

  Mr. Kinghorn recounted the story as if it were ancient history, but to Trina, given the strange goings-on, whatever happened at Goldenrod mattered as much right now as it did a hundred years ago. “No wonder the house is so sad.” Again, Trina wished she hadn’t said anything. She didn’t want Mr. Kinghorn to think she, too, had lost her sense of reality, believing a house had feelings.

  But Mr. Kinghorn didn’t even blink. “You mean, you can tell how the house feels?”

  Trina nodded, relieved to talk to someone who might understand. “Yes,” she said. “There’s a loneliness in the house. Except for the dining room. And the library.”

  Mr. Kinghorn’s eyes were bright with curiosity. “Why just those two rooms?”

  “Because Mr. Hank brought the dining room table back last night, and today somebody else dropped off a big rocking chair. It seemed like a good chair to read in, so we put it in the library. I don’t know how to explain it, but now those rooms feel . . . happier.”

  Mr. Kinghorn’s nostrils twitched. “Hank’s older brother, Jake, and a couple of his friends stole that table the summer before we all started high school. The next winter Hank’s family lost a whole herd of cattle. Never really recovered after that. When Jake sold the family farm a few years back and moved to Des Moines, he gave the table to Hank. Hank’s been wanting to return the table ever since, but I think he was just too scared to go into that house.” Mr. Kinghorn rubbed his chin. “Ever since he’s had the table, business has been rough.”

  Mr. Kinghorn fell silent, which made Trina pretty sure he had a lot more to say about Goldenrod than he was willing to tell.

  “I’ve heard a lot of people tried to sneak into the house over the years,” Trina said, hoping for at least one more story.

  Mr. Kinghorn looked up sheepishly. “You know about the Dare Club?”

  Trina nodded. “Miss Kitty didn’t say it was a club, but she told us all about it. She said the bets added up to more than $300.”

  “Ah, Katherine,” Mr. Kinghorn said with a sly smile. “Miss Kitty to you, but she’ll always be Katherine to me. She would be the one to remember the numbers, all right. Probably still has that can of money locked away somewhere—safe, sound, and counted to the penny.” He shook his head. “Poor Katherine. She lost her daughter in an accident up on the highway several years back. At the exit that brings you right past Goldenrod and into New Royal from the west. For that reason, most everybody in town keeps using the old road. They’ll drive five miles out of their way to avoid going anywhere near Goldenrod.”

  So it was a tear she saw in Miss Kitty’s eye yesterday morning in the diner. No wonder she got so mad at her dad. He said you could blame everything on the interstate and he was right. “Was the daughter who died Charlotte’s mother?” Trina asked, suddenly making the connection.

  Mr. Kinghorn nodded so somberly, Trina was afraid he’d pack up the crate of stuff and put it away without another word. “But why did people steal from the house?” she blurted.

  The somber look on Mr. Kinghorn’s face changed into one of embarrassment. “I’m afraid it was all for a reason that made sense only when we were kids. If you couldn’t spend the night at Goldenrod, you had to take something to prove you were there. Or else you’d be kicked out of the Dare Club.”

  “The Dare Club sure must have had a lot of members,” Trina said, feeling like her detective work was beginning to pay off.

  Mr. Kinghorn nodded. “If I were you, I’d expect many more deliveries. We were all told to stay away from that house, but you tell a child not to do something and that’s exactly what makes him want to do it, scared or not.” Mr. Kinghorn shook his head. “I think just about everybody’s got something—afraid to throw it away and afraid to return it. I’d say the townsfolk are beginning to see your living at Goldenrod as a chance to ease their consciences.”

  “No wonder everyone I’ve met is scared to death of Goldenrod,” Trina said. “They think the house is out to get them.”

  “I keep telling them it’s all coincidence, but they won’t hear it. The whole town blames every ounce of bad luck they ever had on that old place. Tornadoes, bad crops. Deaths. Even something as simple as a flat tire.”

  “A flat tire? Really?” Now Trina wondered if Goldenrod had something to do with a rusty nail puncturing a hole in her dad’s tire, but she wasn’t sure what it meant. Was a flat tire meant to trap them at Goldenrod or scare them away? And then the answer was obvious: Goldenrod wanted her to have more time at the library.

  “That’s how legends get handed down,” Mr. Kinghorn continued. “One scary story leads to another.” He looked around at the big stacks of books as if they contained all the legends and secrets of New Royal. “Some people say we’re the town time forgot. I think we’re the town happiness forgot.”

  Trina had been listening so intently to every word, with her elbows propped on the table and her chin resting on her hands, that her right arm had fallen asleep. She shook her tingling arm and stood up to see over the edge of the crate. “What else do you have in the box?”

  “Books from Goldenrod. What else would a librarian have but books?”

  A surge of excitement rippled through Trina. “Did you steal them?” But as soon as she asked the question she flushed with embarrassment. She was just like her dad, saying something without even thinking.

  Mr. Kinghorn raised his eyebrows, shocked at first, but then he allowed a little smile. “I’m sure it would make a more interesting story if I had, but the boring truth is, I was the first and only one to be kicked out of the Dare Club. I’d made it into the house as far as the library, and I’ll never forget its magnificence as long as I live. I was scared, but my conscience scared me even more. I couldn’t bring myself to take anything.” He looked down at the books in the crate. “My grandfather borrowed these books. Unfortunately, they were never given back.”

  Mr. Kinghorn laid the books on the table, reading their titles one by one: “Great Expectations, The Jungle Book, The Thousand and One Nights, and Aesop’s Fables.” He stroked the cover of Aesop’s Fables and its raised picture of a little red fox. “My grandfather read these to me when I was very young.”

  “Is that everything?” Trina asked, still a little disappointed.

  “Everything except the blueprints.” Mr. Kinghorn pulled two rolls of crisp, yellowed papers from the crate. “The main house and the carriage house, drawn by my great-grandfather himself.”

  Trina leaned in as Mr. Kinghorn carefully unrolled the blueprints for the carriage house. The carriage house had two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a balcony upstairs, and a parlor, dining room, kitchen, and stable downstairs. It was exactly like the dollhouse! Trina was giddy with excitement—and maybe a little fear, as she geared up to ask a question that might have a scary answer. “Do you know what happened to the carriage house? It’s not there anymore.”

  “Yes. It’s all right here.” Mr. Kinghorn rolled up the blueprints and reached for the scrapbook again. Another newspaper clipping was folded up and tucked inside the back cover. He unfolded it and turned it toward Trina. This one was dated Wednesday, February 22, 1928.

  Trina read the headline in a hushed voice. “New Royal Founder, Mr. Harlan M. Roy, Dies in Fire. Carriage House a Total Loss. Goldenrod Survives.”

  “After Annie died,” Mr. Kinghorn explained, “the Roys never set foot in the main house again. Mr. Roy had it boarded up and they moved into the carriage house. Left everything just as it was. After Mrs. Roy was sent away, he lived alone in the carriage house for fifteen more years until it burned down.” Mr. Kinghorn tightened his lips and shook his head. “Fell asleep reading by the fire. They think he was smoking his pipe.”

  Annie had died of diphtheria, Mrs. Roy had lost her mind, and Mr. Roy had died in a fire. “Goldenrod sure has a sad history,” Trina finally said. “And now the house is empty.”

  “Except all these things can go back home where they belong,” Mr. Kinghorn said. With great reverence, he put t
he books back into the crate. “Might as well take this too,” he said, setting the scrapbook on top of the books. “I have no use for it.” He put the blueprints in last, stood up, and handed the crate to Trina. “Maybe luck will pick up again for New Royal, now that you’re here.”

  Trina considered his words carefully. “But I thought you said all the bad luck was just coincidence.”

  “That I did, child. But sometimes the truth and what you believe are two different things.”

  Chapter Nine

  On the way home, Trina told her dad all about Annie Roy and how she died in the diphtheria epidemic. “That’s why they boarded up the house, Poppo. The Roys were too sad to go on living there.”

  He listened to the whole story. She caught him rolling his eyes when she got to the part about Goldenrod causing all the bad luck, but when she pulled the blueprints out of the crate, he hit the brakes. “Blueprints?”

  “Yup! For Goldenrod and the carriage house.”

  He pulled to the side of the road, shifted into park, and unrolled the blueprints for Goldenrod across the steering wheel. “Miss Detective, I think you hit the jackpot!” He peeled back the first page. “Looks like once upon a time there was some kind of garden room off the dining room. And see? There’s the elevation of the front porch.” Whistling, he rerolled the blueprints, handed them back to Trina, and shifted gears. The truck lurched forward.

  “And guess what, Poppo? The dollhouse is an exact replica of the carriage house.”

  “That tells me Goldenrod was yellow. Just like you suggested.” He tapped on the bill of her cap. “Must feel pretty good solving the mystery.”

  “I don’t know, Poppo. I don’t feel like I have the whole story.” She couldn’t tell him how the dining room and the library felt happy, but Goldenrod still felt sad.

  Her stomach grumbled with hunger. She looked over her shoulder for a bag of groceries. “Did you get milk?”

  “Dang it all,” he said, pounding the steering wheel with his fist. “I got to talking with Hank and forgot all about it.”

  Typical Poppo. She sighed to herself. “Anything from Mom?”

  He slapped his shirt pocket. “Nope. Nothing today. Didn’t you just get one?”

  Trina nodded. “Yeah, but she’s been sending them more often, so I just wondered.”

  Silence followed as usual, which made Trina want to talk about something other than her mom. She glanced at the blueprints in the crate and said the first thing that came to her mind. “Wouldn’t it be great if they hired you to build the carriage house too? Then Goldenrod would be perfect.”

  Her dad shrugged. “Don’t go getting your hopes up.” Then he turned to her with a look of surprise on his face. “Don’t tell me you’re starting to like it here.”

  “I’m not,” she said quickly, but then she felt that poke in her hip again. She cupped her hand over the small lump of doll. She liked Augustine. If her mother ever did come for her, it would be hard to leave Augustine behind.

  As the truck pulled through the gate, Trina could see something tall leaning against the cargo trailer. Mr. Kinghorn was right. Another delivery. This time it was all the pieces to a beautiful four-poster bed. It was just like Augustine’s except that it was painted white. She beat her dad out of the truck to touch the elegant headboard. “Someone must have had an awful lot of bad luck to get rid of something so pretty.”

  “Now, Trina—I mean, Citrine—I’m sure people see our living here as a chance to clean out their basements and garages, and that’s all.” Then he scratched his stubbly beard. “On the other hand, their bad luck is our good luck. I say we put this princess bed in your room. Your mattress should work just fine.”

  Piece by piece they carried the bed upstairs. When her dad finished assembling it, they set Trina’s mattress on the old frame. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it would do.

  “Back to the porch,” he sighed. Within seconds, his saw was whirring away.

  Trina made a trip to the truck for the crate of books and papers and carried it to the kitchen counter. First, she pulled out the blueprints and put them on the buffet in the dining room. Then she stacked up the books and the scrapbook and carried that whole pile of stuff into the library. She placed the books side by side on a shelf and stepped back admiringly. With four books standing upright on the shelf and a chair that was big enough to curl up in and read, the library felt like a library.

  But Trina felt something else, too. She felt as if she were a giant balloon filling with air. She felt herself stand up straighter and taller—pleased with herself. She felt proud, but the funny thing was, she knew it wasn’t her pride she was feeling. It was Goldenrod’s. Goldenrod was proud to have a library.

  She sat down in the big rocking chair, but when she felt Augustine poke her in the hip she popped right up again. Now Trina felt terrible. She freed Augustine from her pocket and set her on the bookshelf next to Aesop’s Fables. “I’m so sorry, Augustine. I forgot again. Why didn’t you say something?”

  Augustine opened her eyes and shook her head. “Speak? In front of your father? And risk being thrown into the Land of TV? Forever? I think not. But now it is quiet.” Augustine smoothed her messy hair with her hands. “Now I feel safe.”

  “I’ll always keep you safe,” Trina said gently. “And look, Augustine. Books have come back to Goldenrod.”

  Augustine’s little head swiveled, but after one glimpse of the cover of Aesop’s Fables she screamed, “A fox! A fox!” and ran to hide behind Great Expectations.

  “It’s only a picture, Augustine. It can’t hurt you.” Trina rescued Augustine from the fox and set her on an empty shelf.

  Augustine was quick to assess her surroundings, and then she stomped her foot and put her hands on her hips. “Citrine, I have not enjoyed our adventure today in the least.”

  Trina leaned against the shelf, eye to eye with the angry doll, disappointed in herself for letting her down. “I know.” Trina held out her hand, pretending it was a carriage for a princess. “What if we look for your prince some more?”

  Augustine shook her head as she stepped into Trina’s cupped hand. “I believe it is too soon to search for him. If I go looking for him and he comes looking for me, we might never find each other. Perhaps you should take me to my home.”

  Augustine talked the whole way through the parlor and up the stairs. “I will try not to grow anxious, Citrine. Clearly he is traveling a great distance. Perhaps his steed needs rest.”

  “Perhaps it does,” Trina said, not really knowing how to explain the difficulties of waiting for a fairy-tale prince.

  Sitting on the floor, just outside her bedroom door, was a small bucket containing a bottle of glue, toothpicks, a handful of small rags, and a little jar of lemon oil. A gift from Poppo. “Look, Augustine, now I can fix up your house.” She set Augustine down in her dining room and got right to work rubbing lemon oil on the dollhouse banister until it shined.

  Augustine gave a sigh of relief to be home, but then she became very thoughtful. She walked into her parlor and fluffed a little pillow in one of the chairs by the hearth. “Shall we instead venture out to find my mother and father? My house is quite different without them sitting in their chairs.”

  “But Augustine,” Trina began, holding out her hands helplessly, knowing she was going to disappoint the doll with bad news. “I am sorry to tell you this, but Goldenrod is empty. You and your house and this book,” she said, pulling Grimm’s Fairy Tales closer to the dollhouse, “are the only things that were left behind. Everything else was . . . stolen.”

  Augustine’s little face crinkled. “But you said yourself books have come home to Goldenrod. And did we not sit in a chair and dine at a grand table? Perhaps my mother and father will—”

  Trina shook her head.

  Augustine put her arm to her forehead. “Are you saying my mother and father are lost to me forever? Please, Citrine, spare me the tragic news unless you are certain. Have you any proof?”

&
nbsp; “Proof?” What in the world would a doll know about proof?

  “Yes, proof,” Augustine insisted. “The wicked queen demanded that the huntsman bring her Snow White’s heart as proof. How can we be certain they are lost forever without proof?”

  Trina was horrified by the idea of finding parts of Augustine’s mother and father and showing them to her, even if they were just dolls. “No, I don’t have any proof.”

  “Then my dear Citrine, we cannot be certain my mother and father are lost to me forever. And I cannot bear the uncertainty any longer. We shall leave no stone unturned. If you help me, then I shall help you.”

  “Help me do what?”

  “I can only imagine how much you must miss your mother, so I will help you find her.”

  “But my mother isn’t really lost to me. Not like that.” Trina closed the jar of lemon oil and opened the bottle of glue while she came up with an explanation about her mother that the doll might understand. “Like your prince, my mother is traveling a great distance. My father says she is trying to find herself.” Trina dipped a toothpick in the glue, dabbed it behind the curling wallpaper in Augustine’s parlor, and pressed the paper to the wall.

  “Your world is very confusing to me, Citrine. If your mother is not lost, how is it she does not know where she is?”

  Trina took a deep breath. “My father means that someday, when my mother is ready, she’ll figure out what she wants and where she wants to be. And then she’ll come home.” Trina smoothed the wallpaper to make sure it would stick, and then she got up and pulled the hot-air balloon postcard from the top of the pile of postcards on the mantel. “Right now she’s in New Zealand.” Trina crouched again to Augustine’s level. “See? She just sent me this postcard. It’s like a letter.”