The Charm Stone

by Donna Kauffman

  “Actually, in a manner of speaking, yes, I do.”

  “I—I beg your pardon?” Tanzy had let her gaze wander back to her list of incoming mail. “What did you say?”

  “The holidays are approaching and much of my household staff has been given leave to be with their families. As I am going to likely be out of town through the beginning of the year, I didn't see any reason not to extend their leave. My holiday gift to them for all their hard work.”

  Millicent ran her home like a colonel ran his troops, but though exacting, she was also generous to a fault with those she valued and those loyal to her.

  “That's really lovely of you, Aunt Millicent.” No one called her Millie. Or they only did once. “But won't you need at least a skeleton staff to oversee business matters?” She asked this somewhat tremulously. As Millicent's only remaining heir-Penelope long since having been written off-Tanzy knew she should probably be somewhat more aware of exactly what might be passed her way when Millicent cashed it in. Considering she'd never so much as dipped her pinky finger into her great aunt's business and had less than no idea what sort of empire Millicent had truly amassed during her tenure, this would be no small undertaking.

  But Millicent had never broached the subject with her, and, cowardly or not, Tanzy had been happy enough to leave her to it. She hoped she would luck out and her great aunt's lengthy list of philanthropic and charitable endeavors would be the benefactors when the time came.

  Tanzy had always believed it was up to her to take care of herself, and she did so, quite well thank you. Her Russian Hill condo didn't begin to compare, thankGod, to Harrington House. And that was intentional. She lived well enough, she worked hard and enjoyed the nice things her income afforded her, but she also lived within the scope of what she was willing to maintain. She didn't like people traipsing through her dwelling, so she kept it small enough so that even she could keep it marginally clean. Vacuuming and dusting not being high on her list of fun things to do with her free time.

  Millicent chuckled. It was a rather rusty, somewhat scary sound. “Actually, I do have someone staying on to handle certain matters. I've given my regrets to the round of social events. Otherwise, there isn't much to do during the holiday season. My annual endowments have already been taken care of. I'd appreciate you cleaning up after yourself when you choose to cook and, I'm sorry, but you'll have to manage on your own with laundry and other such things. I'm certain you're well used to taking care of those matters on your own.”

  “Laundry? Cooking?” Tanzy was nonplussed. “If I'm just dropping by to check the house and water plants and such, I won't be needing to cook or wash, but I—”

  “I'm sorry, I should have made myself clearer. With everyone gone but Riley, I would feel better if I knew someone was staying under the roof. Someone I could trust.”

  “But you travel all the time.”

  “For a week to ten days, yes. But this will probably be most of December and a good part, if not all of January. And what with the winter weather on the East Coast, one never can entirely depend on airline travel.”

  Tanzy opened her mouth, but she had no idea what to say.

  “I know this is asking a great deal of you. And I don't mean for you to spend every waking minute there. I realize you're a busy woman with quite the hectic schedule yourself. But you can bring whatever you need with you. I'll have your rooms and private office all spruced up for the holidays, so writing your column here won't be a problem. Riley is fairly unobtrusive, but I've directed him to do whatever is necessary to make your stay comfortable.”

  “Riley is a he?” Tanzy didn't know why this surprised her. “What happened to Margaret?” Who was her aunt's long-time personal secretary and trusted confidante.

  “You've not met him, but I trust him implicitly. As can you. I'll feel so much better knowing you're both here. Margaret's about to become a great-grandmother, so I've given her extended leave as well, to stay with her son and his family through the holidays.”

  “That's wonderful, really. So who is this—”

  “Clifford is here with the car, darling. I've left a list of things, nothing major mind you, for you to go over every night before going to bed. A brief routine, I assure you.”

  “Aunt Millicent, I—”

  “I can't tell you how much this means to me, Tanzy dear. I'll contact you once I arrive in Philadelphia and see to my lodgings. I've no idea if Frances intends to put me up, but like as not I'll be staying at the Belleview as usual. If anything comes up, you can simply contact me there and leave a message. In the meantime, Riley can handle any other questions you might have. He's expecting you by dinnertime tonight. If that's not convenient, please let him know as soon as you can. Ta ta, darling.”

  Tanzy was left staring at the dead receiver. “Ta ta my ass,” she muttered as she hung up. She'd been hornswoggled by a master. “Nothing about this is convenient. Which you knew when you called me. Oh so cleverly on your way out the door.” Tanzy had half a mind to call this Riley person and tell him he was on his own, and not just for dinner tonight.

  And who was he anyway? Millicent had never really said. Tanzy didn't remember her talking about him before. But to be honest, when her aunt started off on a tangent involving business matters, Tanzy's eyes tended to glaze over and her mind wandered. For all she knew Riley had been in Millicent's employ for twenty years.

  She sighed and stared unseeing at her computer screen. Her aunt rarely asked anything of her. Actually, other than coming for Thanksgiving dinner, she never did. Which made this whole thing even weirder. She certainly didn't seem to be losing any of her faculties, mental or otherwise. But the fact was, she had asked. And despite her annoyance at being so expertly maneuvered, Tanzy owed her too much not to do this for her.

  So she picked up the phone again and called Riley.

  ***

  “Helloo? Anybody home?” Tanzy's voice echoed down the central hallway and up the massive winding staircase as she let herself into the Harrington estate, a High Victorian Queen Anne with all the appropriate turrets, towers, and excessive ornamentation that was popular in the late 1800s, when the house was built.

  A school pal who had visited once had told their friends about the “big hairy house” that Tanzy's aunt lived in. She'd called it Big Hairy ever since. Just not in front of Millicent.

  She quickly punched in the security code so the alarm wouldn't go off. Millicent treasured her heritage, but was also quite the techno-geek, enjoying all the latest gadgets. Tanzy sighed as she searched for the new pressure-sensitive light pad Millicent had raved about in her most recent email. “Hello?”

  Her own voice echoed back. So where was this Riley person anyway? No one had answered her call earlier, so she'd simply planned on arriving around six and hope for the best where dinner was concerned. Of course, it was closer to seven now, but her Morning with Santa radio show had turned into a Late Afternooner with Santa. Single at Christmas she might be, but that didn't mean she had to jingle her own bells.

  She sniffed the air, but no heavenly scents were wafting down the hall. Apparently she'd missed dinner. She tugged her cell phone out of her purse as she nudged her overnight bag with a toe, scooting it to the base of the stairs. She stroked her hand over the highly polished newel post. How many times had she slid down that banister, she wondered, still tempted every time she stepped foot in the place. It would be a little rough at the moment, what with the fresh pine garland woven with berries and other assorted stuff Tanzy had never learned the names of. It was only the first week in December, but Millicent always had a crew in decorating the entire place the day after Thanksgiving, which had been the last time Tanzy had been here, bailing out early that morning as the trucks had pulled up.

  They'd done a masterful job as always, she noted, as she finally found the pressure pad. Faux gas lamps sprang to life, softly illuminating the front parlor. She'd take her bags up later, first she wanted to see this year's pageant of excess. Humming
“Jingle Bells” under her breath, she wandered the length of the room. Every year she assumed Millicent couldn't outdo herself. Why, she had no idea, as her aunt always accomplished what she set out to do.

  Tanzy punched the speed dial code on her phone for Hunan Palace, then leaned down to inspect the intricate white iris ikebana arrangement on the sideboard. Every room, including the powder rooms, would have its own holiday theme complete with coordinated color scheme and tastefully accessorized tree. Martha Stewart had nothing on great aunt Millicent.

  Apparently the front parlor had been tagged Doves by the Dozen or something, given the countless delicate little birds flitting amongst the bows of the slender, but amazingly tall Douglas fir. The color scheme for the room was a blinding, yet ever-so-tasteful Winter White. Even the rug and furniture had been replaced or recovered. Well, Millicent was nothing if not a slave to detail.

  “Hunan Palace-May I take your order?”

  Tanzy fingered one softly feathered dove-real feathers, natch-and spoke without even having to think. “Kung Pao chicken, as hot as you can make it, two spring rolls, extra rice. Delivered please.” She gave directions, then tucked the phone away as she continued to wander the length of the front room, stopping and staring straight up when she realized the chandelier had been transformed with hundreds of cut crystal snowflakes replacing the regular crystal drops. “You da man, Aunt Milly,” she murmured, shaking her head.

  “I thought no one dared call her anything but Millicent,” came a startlingly deep voice from the doorway. “That is when they aren't addressing her as Ms. Harrington.”

  The Charm Stone

  A Bantam Book/August 2002

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2002 by Donna Jean.

  Cover art copyright © 2002 by Alan Ayers.

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  eISBN: 978-0-307-48273-0

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