by Leslie Nagel
An enormous vehicle that could only be Millie’s hove into view. With its rusted sea foam green paint, whitewall tires, tail fins, and pitted chrome, “classic” hardly did it justice. The Lincoln Continental cruised to a stop at the corner of Magnolia and Hathaway, powerful engine rumbling. It idled at the stop sign for so long, Charley began to worry that Millie had spotted her lurking behind a tree and meant to drive on to avoid talking to her. But at last the mighty nose of the beast crept out slowly, slowly, making the turn as if a glass of champagne were balanced on the roof. Charley held her breath as Millie maneuvered the car into alignment with the driveway. As it pulled in, right tires a good eight inches onto the patchy front lawn, Frankie’s white BMW convertible zipped around the corner and parked in front of Charley’s hiding place. She ducked down as Frankie lowered the passenger window.
“You’re not going to believe this, Carpo,” Frankie began, her voice pitched low, blue eyes wide. “But I think Millie’s drunk!”
“Are you sure?” Charley glanced sharply toward the house. The engine switched off, but the driver of the land yacht made no immediate move to disembark. If they were going to get inside and talk to Millie, they had to time this perfectly. She kept one eye on the Lincoln as Frankie continued.
“She got a cart at the supermarket, but all she bought was cat food. I bet she wouldn’t have left the house on her own account. She’s wearing bedroom slippers and her hair’s a wreck, and she was none too steady on her feet. She veered into a display and knocked a bunch of dog toys and flea collars on the floor. Poor thing,” she concluded breathlessly, echoing Charley’s earlier thought. “I almost blew my cover by offering to help.”
“Blew your cover?” Charley smirked. “Do tell, Velma.”
Frankie stuck her tongue out, then bounced impatiently. “What are we waiting for, Daphne?”
“If we don’t catch her entering the house, there’s nothing to stop her driving away again—or worse, shutting the door in our faces.” Charley crouched awkwardly in the gutter, waiting. Five minutes passed before Millie began leveraging herself out of the car, her progress hampered by an enormous purse and a bulging plastic shopping bag.
“Let’s move!” Frankie opened her car door and swung her tiny feet to the pavement. “She’s getting away!”
“Keep your voice down,” Charley hissed.
Millie’s head came up as she peered across the street in alarm. Pushing the car door closed with an ample hip, she scuttled toward the front door with surprising speed. Charley rose from her hiding place, and Frankie crossed the street and sprinted for the porch steps.
“Yoo-hoo! Hi, there! Mrs. Peache?”
As Charley came around the hood of Frankie’s car, she could see they were going to be too late. Millie had managed to unlock the front door. She shoved it open a few inches, but as she squeezed inside and tried to jerk the plastic shopping bag through the narrow gap, the bag broke, sending small round metal cans bouncing and rolling across the porch and down the steps to the front walkway. Charley heard a wail of dismay.
“Let us help!” she called with a huge smile. “Block the door,” she muttered to Frankie as the two of them scrambled for cans.
Millie staggered back outside, wringing her hands and bleating helplessly. She stood there in her shapeless coat, bedroom slippers on her feet, a lost expression on her blotchy face. Without the crocheted hat, the graying roots of her unwashed orange hair were starkly visible. Her mouth looked oddly lopsided, and Charley realized that her bright red lipstick had been applied by a very unsteady hand. She was a pitiable figure, gazing around, clearly disoriented, murmuring inarticulately about Felix and Buttons and Benjy, and what was she to do? Charley felt an urgent need to get this poor woman indoors, away from curious and unkind eyes.
Frankie had retrieved most of the cans. As she cradled them in a neat stack against her tummy, she pushed the front door open a few inches. It hit some sort of obstacle with a soft thump. Leading with her shoulder, she slid inside.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Peache. We’ll just carry all these into the—Oh. My. God.” She turned to Charley, eyes wide with shock. “Holy Mary and Joseph. You’re not going to believe—uh,” she glanced at Millie. “That is, can you bring the rest of those? My hands are full. Don’t you dare leave me,” she whispered fiercely before disappearing into the house.
“But I’m not prepared for company!” Millie protested weakly, as Charley steered her firmly across the porch.
“Let’s go take care of Felix, shall we?” she soothed. She juggled the remaining cans as she slipped inside close on Millie’s heels to avoid getting the door slammed in her face. “I’m sure Buttons and Benjy will be so glad to see—”
Charley stopped dead just inside the doorway, unprepared for the incredible sight that greeted her. Holy Mary and Joseph, indeed.
Millicent Peache was a hoarder. Virtually every cubic inch of space inside this room was filled, including much of the vertical space. As Charley’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she could make out four-foot-high heaps of newspapers and magazines. Cardboard boxes were stacked one on top of another against every wall, up to the ceiling, blocking the windows. The stacks stood two and sometimes three deep, creating a solid perimeter several feet thick. Frames holding pictures, mirrors, or nothing at all had been shoved into the cracks between piles.
Furniture was just visible in a cramped grouping to her right, but every horizontal surface had been piled high with more boxes, more papers, books, plastic shopping bags, junk mail, even a fringed silk lamp shade. The stairs themselves were nearly impassable, stacked with unsteady- looking mounds of moldering ledger books, three-ring binders, and dingy needle-pointed throw pillows. A small round cushion stitched with the message bless this mess topped a stack near the turning of the stairs. Charley didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry.
She recalled Pamela Tate’s description of Millie as an “obsessive estater.” What an understatement. Charley made her living by reselling vintage clothing. She attended her fair share of estate sales and knew the sorts of people who frequented the circuit. Most shoppers weren’t after anything in particular. They browsed for bargains, memorabilia, unique gifts, or any shiny object that struck their fancy. A few true collectors sought specific items. And of course, dealers like herself kept an eagle eye out for quality pieces that could be purchased cheaply and resold at a profit.
But this—this was obsessive acquisition of the worst kind. Charley’s trained eye discerned at a glance that 90 percent of this appalling collection belonged in a landfill. Any potential resale value fell somewhere between wishful thinking and downright delusion. The stack of unopened mail spilling from a small side chair was more proof that Millie’s hoarding had reached the proportions of a mental disorder.
As with the stairs, a narrow path had been preserved, leading from the front door toward the back of the house. While she stood gaping, Millie had disappeared into the maze. Charley moved to follow, and now the smell struck her, a miasma of mildew, spoiled food, unwashed bodies, and cat urine. She stepped carefully to avoid brushing against the canyon walls that partially blocked her view. She could imagine one of these stacks tipping over and burying her alive. An ironic end, she thought grimly, for a vintage dealer.
She passed through a narrow doorway into a short hall. On her left, three steps led down to a side door that would open onto the driveway. “Would” being the operative word, since no human could approach that door, much less open it, without a grappling hook, climbing gear, and plastic explosives. More stairs, equally packed with debris, disappeared into shadow. Charley refused to contemplate what the basement of this house might contain.
She continued along the hall and, once again, stopped short in surprise. She found herself in a modest kitchen, brightly lit and painted sunshine yellow. The shocker here was the total lack of clutter. Unlike the nightmare out front, Millie kept this room neat as a pin.
Pale gold laminate countertops sported a few str
ess cracks, but aside from a small microwave, a coffeemaker, and nine cans of cat food, they were clear of debris. The faded linoleum floor looked immaculate. A small round table, flanked by two wooden chairs painted yellow and covered with a clean yellow-and-white checked cloth, nestled beneath a window decorated with a blue-and-yellow striped valance. A small armchair sat in one corner, a yellow wicker ottoman placed invitingly before it. Beside the chair stood a small table holding an art deco lamp with a frosted glass shade, the latest edition of the Oakwood Register, and a brand-new, fifteen-inch flat-screen TV. As she gazed around the room, it struck Charley that this little oasis of order must be where Millie lived most of her life.
Frankie stood at the sink clutching three coffee mugs. One of the front burners on the gas stove spouted blue flame, and a teakettle emitted the first wisps of steam.
“I’m making tea,” Frankie murmured, her face tinged pale green. “We’re going to have tea and a nice visit. Won’t that be fun?”
Millie stood in the center of the kitchen, her expression truculent. Charley could see she was moments away from kicking them out. Stepping past her, she deposited her cans next to Frankie’s.
“I’d love some, Millie, thank you. You remember me, right? Charley Carpenter from Old Hat? You’ve been in my shop loads of times.” She kept her voice light, careful to betray none of the horrified pity she felt at the way Millie was living. “Now, let’s take care of those precious kitties. Sit down and relax; I can manage just fine. Pets are like little boys, aren’t they? An absolute menace if they don’t get their dinner on time.”
Chatting away, Charley found an oval plastic mat on the floor near the stove. It held a water dish and a ceramic plate with some dried remnants of cat food. Trying to ignore the stench permeating the otherwise clean kitchen from the toxic dump just beyond the doorway, she rinsed the plate in the sink, popped the pull tab on one of the cans, and poured out the contents.
In the blink of an eye, two furry shapes shot into the room from Lord knew where, one gray, one black and white, both enormously fat and healthy looking. They began yowling and twisting around her ankles, gazing up at the plate with large golden eyes. At the sight of her cats, Millie seemed to relax. She shuffled to the corner and, still wearing her coat and clutching her huge purse, dropped into the armchair with a sigh.
“My babies,” she cooed in a scratchy falsetto. “My hungry lambs.”
“Where’s the other one?” Charley placed the plate on the floor and watched the cats dig in. “Don’t you have three? Felix, Buttons, and Benjy?”
Millie stared at her with unconcealed hostility. “Benjy’s my nephew.”
“Of course,” Charley said quickly, giving herself a swift mental kick as Frankie sent her an exaggerated grimace from her station near the sink, out of Millie’s line of sight. “I knew Benjy at school, a little.”
“He was in my brother Nicky’s class,” Frankie put in a bit desperately. “Does your nephew live here with you?”
“Benjy lives here,” Millie said shortly. “When he bothers to come home.”
“Ah.”
The teakettle began to whistle. Charley discovered an unopened package of chocolate chip cookies. She pulled a clean plate from another cabinet, arranged the cookies, and placed them on the little table. Frankie poured boiling water into the mugs and set out spoons and a sugar bowl. After she handed Millie her tea, the girls sat. Cradling her mug and looking more than a little nauseous, Frankie shot Charley a Now what? face.
Charley glanced around the kitchen, sipping her tea, inhaling the relatively wholesome- smelling steam with gratitude. The shocking state of Millie’s home had thrown her, but now she refocused on what she’d come here to learn.
Those SOAP members hadn’t targeted the books at the Mulbridge House auction for no reason. The most likely explanation was that Augusta Mulbridge had indeed hidden a second will somewhere in her library, and then, before her death, had dropped a hint to someone in SOAP as to its existence and location. Based on Holland’s deprecating remark about “delusional ramblings,” that someone was Millie.
The library had contained literally hundreds of books and other objects, all of them now scattered to the four winds. If they were to have any hope of pinpointing Augusta’s hiding place, Charley needed Millie to tell her exactly what her friend Gussie had said.
As she cast about for a natural way to broach the subject, her eye caught on a pair of framed photographs hanging on the wall above the TV. She stood to examine them more closely.
The first showed a younger, thinner version of Millie standing on a sunlit lawn with a dark-haired teenage boy who was wearing a cap and gown. Charley recognized Benjy, although she hadn’t seen him in nearly a decade. His hunched posture in the ceremonial costume did nothing to disguise his hulking size. Benjy Wycoff had been a classic bully, bold and cruel, with few friends aside from a small gang of thuggish hangers-on. Benjy towered over his aunt in the graduation photo, his sullen expression a stark contrast to her glowing smile of pride and affection.
The second photo had been taken years earlier. An even younger Millie stood with another woman. Five boys about ten years old, wearing royal blue shirts with blue-and-gold neckerchiefs, sat cross-legged in a row, all of them holding aloft small American flags, all with wide grins on their faces. All, that is, except for Benjy. He scowled at the camera, his flag on the grass beside him, making it clear he was there under protest. He was already big, at least twenty pounds heavier and several inches taller than any of the other boys.
Something about the scene struck a chord in Charley’s memory. The group posed before a graceful stone archway flanked by tall leaded windows. The archway framed ornately carved wooden double doors hung with two unique objects Charley recognized, a pair of bronze knockers shaped like laurel wreaths.
This photo had been taken at Mulbridge House. And that meant the other woman must be Augusta Mulbridge. Charley peered closer, but it was hard to tell much about her beyond her military posture, conservative hairstyle, and classic taste in clothing. Her hand rested on the blond head of one of the boys seated before her—Holland’s younger brother, Jamie, Charley decided, detecting a resemblance between the photos she’d seen online and this skinny boy with the lopsided smile. He was sitting next to Benjy, who had taken a spot at the end of the row several inches away, as if unwilling to submit to physical contact with anyone else.
Charley didn’t immediately recognize the other three boys, but something about their smiles felt vaguely familiar. And why not? Those five boys had been in fifth grade at Smith Elementary while she’d been a third grader. She’d probably known them all at least by sight. Of course, three years after this photo was taken, Jamie Mulbridge had left the district to attend St. John’s Academy.
Her lucky break, she thought with relief, the photo a perfect opening to ask questions about Mulbridge House and its late owner.
“Millie,” she began. She heard a clink of glass and glanced back just in time to see Millie pouring something into her tea. She quickly turned away, allowing Millie to slip a small bottle back into her purse. Frankie had nailed it—their hostess was drinking in the middle of the day. Thank God she hadn’t hit anyone while she’d been behind the wheel.
Charley cleared her throat and started again. “This picture was taken at Mulbridge House, wasn’t it?” she asked gently. “I recognize those handsome doors. Craftsmanship worth preserving, don’t you think?”
Millie said nothing at first, just drank deeply as she watched her cats clean their plate. Then she muttered, “Arrow of Light ceremony. Candlelight procession in the main hall. Cake and punch on the lawn. Gussie was always so generous.” She glanced at the photograph. “All my boys…” Her voice trailed off, heavy with memories, an old woman to whom life had not always been kind.
“How wonderful!” Frankie chirped. “All my brothers were Cub Scouts, too, but they had their meetings and stuff in our church basement.” She rose and joined Charley near t
he photos. “Fifth graders are so cute. That’s Benjy, right?” She rolled her eyes at Charley in mute apology, no doubt for uttering “cute” and “Benjy” in the same sentence.
“You must have so many happy memories of Mulbridge House,” Charley probed. “You and Augusta Mulbridge remained friends until her death, I understand.”
“Her best friend,” Millie corrected. “Nobody knew Gussie like I did. Certainly not that bitch of a daughter.”
Charley couldn’t argue with that descriptor. “What about Jamie? He and Benjy were friends, I see. Did he and his mother get along?”
“Oh, that poor lamb,” Millie said sadly, and something in her voice made Charley take another careful look at Jamie. Something niggled—a false note, a vague impression that there was something not quite right about him—and she recalled Holland’s evident anxiety about her brother. Before she could pursue it, Millie repeated, “I was Gussie’s best friend on this earth. Friends to the bitter end.”
Charley nodded agreement. “It’s only fitting that she chose you to preserve her legacy.” Millie said nothing, but she sat a bit straighter at that. “We want to help you, Millie. Won’t you let us help you save Mulbridge House?”
“Why would you help?” Millie asked bluntly. Her rheumy eyes fixed on Charley with suspicion. “Benjy’s friend was right. You’re one of the vultures.”
“Benjy’s friend?” Charley asked, startled. “You mean Pamela Tate?” How on earth would Benjy and Pamela know each other?
Millie ignored her, becoming more shrill and agitated. “You tore it apart, all of you, grasping and stealing like a pack of hyenas. You had no right!” Her voice cracked with emotion, and she tried to rise from her chair. “No right! Mulbridge House belongs to the people!”
“That’s true.” Charley sat on the footstool and grasped Millie’s free hand, keeping her in her chair, feeling that perhaps she deserved at least some of the abuse Millie was heaping on her. “I had no right. I didn’t understand, but now I do. You told Calvin that Augusta made a new will, one that leaves Mulbridge House to the people. If that’s true, we want to help you find it.”