by Jac Simensen
“It’s lovely,” Ms. Morticum repeated. “So open and bright—you must spend a lot of time in the conservatory.”
Carrie shrugged. “I have a business in the High Street. I’m not really home that often.”
“I understand. Between my job and all of the social commitments that come with it, I’m seldom at home. My husband says we should move to a hotel.”
Carrie placed the two steaming mugs on paper napkins she’d laid on the wooden table and sat. “Sorry—did you need milk or sugar?”
“No, thank you.”
Ms. Morticum took a small sip of coffee and then opened her notepad. “As I said, Ms. Trumble, I’m here at the behest of your former husband, Hubert Rawlings. To come directly to the point, Mr. Rawlings would like to meet with you here in London. His mother, Juba Rawlings, recently passed on and there are some matters regarding her estate that he needs to discuss with you. You knew Juba Rawlings?”
Carrie was startled. It had taken her years to push the memories of her former mother-in-law into the far recesses of her mind, walling them off as a spider might do with an insect in a silken cocoon. And now, with a few words from a total stranger, those memories were released—Juba’s face, her large mouth, startlingly white teeth, and enormous brown eyes once again loomed in Carrie’s consciousness.
“Ms. Trumble—you did know Juba, Mr. Rawling’s mother?”
“What? Yes,” Carrie nearly whispered. “When we lived in Ghana, years ago. She’s dead, you say?”
Helen Morticum flipped through her notes. “Last month—she died last month, Mr. Rawlings said. I’m sorry to have surprised you with the sad news. He didn’t tell me the cause of death.”
Carrie stared through the glass wall of the conservatory into the small, well-tended garden. “Doesn’t matter,” she said, more to herself than to Helen Morticum. “Makes no difference to me how or when Juba Rawlings died. We never got on, you see. No, actually it was more than that—we detested each other. Do you understand?”
Carrie turned, placed her elbows on the table, and looked Helen square in the face. “You do understand?”
The atmosphere in the kitchen was suddenly tense and unfriendly, and Helen Morticum became uncomfortable. She was anxious to conclude her assignment and be on her way. Helen stared at her notes. “Ms. Trumble, Mr. Rawlings is here in London, and asks if you could meet with him tomorrow or the next day. He’s suggested that the meeting take place in Belgrave Square, in the offices of the High Commission. Will that be possible for you?”
Carrie slowly shook her head. “I can’t imagine why Juba’s estate could have anything to do with me,” she said. “There’s no possibility she’d leave anything to me.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Trumble. I wasn’t clear. The issues around Mr. Rawling’s mother’s estate are in regard to your eldest daughter, Naki Rawlings, not yourself.”
“Nila,” Carrie forcefully replied. “Her name is Nila, not Naki. Nila is her baptized, Christian name.”
“I’m sorry—I wasn’t aware. Mr. Rawlings referred to her as Naki.”
“Well, it’s Nila, not Naki.”
“I understand: it’s Nila. Then, in your daughter Nila’s interest, could you meet with Hubert Rawlings tomorrow afternoon at the High Commission? I’ll send a car for you, if you wish.”
Carrie stood. “I don’t know, Ms. Morticum. Please tell Hubert that I’m not sure I want to see him. I’ll need to have a think and call you later this afternoon. I’m afraid this meeting has been quite upsetting to me. I don’t wish to offend you, but I’d like you to leave, now.”
“I’m so sorry to have caused you discomfort, Ms. Trumble. I’ll show myself out. My cell number is on the card; I’ll await your call.”
Carrie heard the front door close and mechanically resumed her seat. She placed her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands. Carrie didn’t cry—she was far too angry for that.
21
“She specifically said that she wanted the girls to come and that Hattie, her housekeeper, would help look after them. You’ve met Hattie?”
“Yes and no,” Gordon replied. “When the EMTs were getting ready to take you to the hospital, Myra Silk and her nurse came to the house. I was too frazzled to notice much, but I think they stayed with the twins ’til the female cop arrived. Hattie was very pale and tall—that’s all I remember.”
“You don’t remember Hattie from your childhood? Wasn’t she with Myra Silk back then?”
Gordon shrugged. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask Mary. She was older and her memory’s better than mine.”
“Doesn’t really matter,” Nila replied. “I met Hattie only once, just before Myra died. I was taking a walk along the driveway. Not the sort of woman one could easily forget. As you said, she’s tall and unusually pale—likely an albino—with pinkish eyes. She seemed to be in her mid-fifties. But when I bumped into her at the post office yesterday, she seemed ten, perhaps fifteen years younger. And her eyes were pale green, not pink—obviously contacts. She could have been her own younger sister.”
“But it wasn’t her younger sister?”
“No, it was the same Hattie. She came right up to me. No doubt my confusion about her age showed on my face, even though I tried to cover it up. ‘I thought you’d gone back to Louisiana with Myra Silk,’ I told her.
“She was quite chatty, and told me that the reason she and Myra had rushed off so quickly was to meet with Myra’s lawyers in New Orleans. Hattie said that something had happened with Myra’s money—something Hattie didn’t understand—and that Myra had been wiped out. Myra was now broke and in debt. The only asset Myra still owned was the big house.”
“Those things do happen—crooks taking advantage of an old woman. But what’s that got to do with this person, Devon, moving into the big house?”
Nila held up her hand. “Let me finish Hattie’s story. Hattie said that Devon Sinclair’s parents were Myra and Hattie’s longtime neighbors in New Orleans. Devon’s mother was an alcoholic and she and Devon didn’t get on. Devon’s father was always away on trips. So, during Devon’s adolescence, Myra became her closest adult friend—maybe even her surrogate parent. Last year, Devon’s mother and father were killed in a car accident and Devon inherited lots of money. Hattie said that Devon’s mum was driving drunk.”
“This was in New Orleans?”
“Yes. And when Devon found out that Myra was dead broke, she offered to buy the big house from Myra and pay off Myra’s remaining debts. Just after they had completed the purchase, Myra had a stroke and died. Hattie said it was from the stress of her bankruptcy. When Devon found out that Myra was gone, and Hattie was going to be both penniless and homeless, she offered Hattie a job as her companion.”
“So, Devon and Hattie are both gonna live in the big house?”
“Hattie said that Devon wanted to get away from New Orleans—that’s what the trucks and the workmen were all about. Devon’s had the big house all tidied up so that they can live there—new bathrooms and kitchen, and new furniture, too. Her party is at three o’clock—a housewarming, she called it. Devon apologized profusely about the last-minute invitation and said that she didn’t know anyone was living at the beach house until Hattie told her about meeting me at the post office. It was a bit embarrassing—Hattie had told her that I was the nanny, so when she called, she only extended her invitation to you. I had to explain that our relationship had ‘evolved’ and that I was no longer your paid employee. Right away, of course, she invited all of us—the girls, too.”
“Devon’s not married, I take it?”
“Actually, Devon didn’t say, but I suspect not. She kept using ‘I’ instead of ‘we.’”
“You said we’d come?”
Nila frowned. “I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to take the time away from your studies, so I said I’d have to discuss it with you and call her back.”
“You wanna go?”
“If you can spare the time away from your comp
uter. I’m curious to suss out Devon and see the inside of the big house.”
“It’s not a formal thing? I don’t have to wear a suit?”
“She didn’t say, but since neither of us have any adult, dressup clothing, it’ll have to be casual—at least for the two of us.”
Gordon shrugged. “Okay. It will be a relief to get away from this computer for a while.”
~*~
Although Gordon vaguely remembered Hattie from the time that she and Myra came to the beach house after Maggie’s death, even Nila’s recent description of Hattie hadn’t prepared him for Hattie’s appearance. Her exceptionally pale skin confirmed that she was an albino, but her light-red, natural-appearing hair, pale green eyes and a young, hard body that was trying to escape from her black, spandex jumpsuit seemed to belong to a different woman.
“Hello again, Nila from London,” Hattie said as she embraced Nila and twice touched cheek to cheek, in the French manner, then settled on one knee in front of the twins’ double stroller. Both girls were asleep. She stroked Janna’s curls. “They’re even more beautiful than when I first met them with your sister Mary,” she whispered. “And my, have they grown!”
“They’re fifteen months and walking everywhere now,” Nila replied.
“Which means that we’re constantly running,” Gordon added.
Nila nodded. “They’ve just had lunch, and this is their normal nap time—so if we find a quiet corner, they’re likely to stay asleep in the stroller for the next hour or so.”
“Don’t you worry none ’bout your two beauties. I’ll park them just inside the dining room where I can keep an eye on them and where we can hear if they fuss.”
Hattie stood and extended her hand to Gordon. “I’m happy to formally meet up with you, Mr. Hale. Last time at your place was real confusin’.”
“Please, it’s Gordon,” he replied. “We didn’t meet when I was a child, did we, when my mother, sister, and I came here to visit Mrs. Silk?”
Hattie frowned and shook her head. “I don’t think that’s likely.” She withdrew her hand, slipped around Gordon, and opened the sliding doors to the dining room. “Now I’ll just put this stroller right here inside and leave the door partly open. Miss Devon’s in the kitchen with the caterer. She’ll be along in jus’ a minute.”
Hattie grasped the handle of the stroller with one hand, while with her other, she gestured toward the sunroom. “Go right on in. I’m sure you’ll recognize most of the guests.”
Besides Nila and Gordon, only ten other people had been invited to Devon’s housewarming, and all but one were from Castle Key. Gordon was pleased to find people he knew, such as Dr. Axel Quigley and his wife Susan, who were standing at the ornate bar in the sunroom, talking with Dale Connor, the local architect Gordon had commissioned to plan the renovation of the beach house. Since Karen’s death, Gordon had seen Axel only once, when he and Nila had taken the twins to Axel’s clinic for their one-year check-up. Susan assisted Axel’s regular nurse at the clinic during the winter high season. She had been born and educated just outside London, so she and Nila had much in common, and after their first meeting, the women were quickly becoming friends.
Devon exited through the dining-room pocket doors while looking back at Hattie, who was hunched over the twins in their stroller. She soundlessly closed the sliding doors behind her, put on a full, beaming smile, and stepped into the sunroom.
Nila was the first to notice Devon’s entry. Their gazes met as Devon walked directly toward Nila and Susan with her hand outstretched. “I’m sure you must be Nila from London. We spoke on the phone yesterday. Hattie’s told me all about you—you and your babies.” She turned to Susan. “Sorry to interrupt, Susan. I was anxious to meet my new neighbor.”
Nila took Devon’s hand and returned her smile. “Well, they’re not exactly my babies—in the biological sense, that is.”
“Yes, I understand,” Devon replied. “They’re absolutely gorgeous—I had a quick peek on my way through the dining room; they’re sleeping. And this must be Gordon Hale.”
Gordon turned from his conversation with Axel. “Ms. Sinclair, what a pleasure to meet you.”
“Please—it’s Devon,” she said with a smile.
Gordon looked into Devon’s astonishingly blue eyes and was momentarily hypnotized. He mechanically took the hand she offered and continued to stare without speaking.
Devon withdrew her hand. “Myra told me all about your family—how they once owned this house and all the surrounding property.”
Gordon was thoroughly confused. It was as if he were meeting an old friend—someone he knew well, someone he knew he should remember but couldn’t. Speechless, he continued to stare into Devon’s brilliant blue eyes.
“Mr. Hale?” Devon asked. “Are you all right?”
Gordon was embarrassed. “I’m sorry to stare. You seem very familiar—I was just trying to place you. We haven’t met before, have we?”
“I doubt it—have you ever been to New Orleans?”
“Only once. It’s just that you remind me of someone I’ve known—someone I can’t quite remember.”
“I graduated from Louisiana State University. Maybe we met there?”
Gordon shrugged. “I’ve never been to LSU. I’ve only visited New Orleans at Mardi Gras, when I was in college. To be honest, that whole weekend is a blur in my memory.” Gordon recovered his composure and looked around the sunroom. “You’ve made some big changes to this place—very positive changes. As a kid, I always dreaded coming into this room when my mother and sister and I visited Mrs. Silk for tea. The room was packed with dusty old furniture and smelled like a damp basement. It’s much nicer now—light and open.”
“Clarisse planned the remodeling of the house, selected all the furniture, and supervised the decoration—not one of my interests. I only saw what she’d done when I moved in. Clarisse is my decorator, my financial manager, my secretary, my best friend, and she’s a talented artist. You haven’t met Clarisse yet—she’s the petite blonde.” Devon nodded toward an elfin woman with sharp features who was animatedly reacting to Charlie Kopel, the owner of the mini-market, and his continuous stream of jokes.
Gordon pointed toward the window. “There used to be a black grand piano over there. My sister tortured us by playing it.”
“Clarisse donated the piano to a nursing home somewhere off the island.”
“And that wall next to the big doors was covered from top to bottom with pictures of women and girls.”
Devon nodded. “Clarisse decided to keep Myra’s art collection, and she’s rehung it on the wall above the staircase outside the great room. I’m not sure if I’ll keep Myra’s pictures or not; they’re sort of creepy.”
“All I remember is that there were dozens of portraits—all female.”
“Come see what you think—they’re just through this door.” Devon turned to Nila and Susan. “Excuse me for a minute. I’m just gonna show Gordon what Clarisse has done with Myra’s pictures.”
Devon opened the door to the long hallway that led off the main entrance. A grand staircase rose before them. She motioned for Gordon to enter the hall.
“Good God! This looks like a museum. Do you know how many pictures?”
“I do,” Devon said with a laugh. “Forty-two, counting Myra.”
“Myra?”
Devon walked to the staircase and climbed to the fourth stair. “This black-and-white photo with the glamour-girl treatment—that’s Myra. It says so on the back. It’s not dated, but I’d guess she was in her twenties when it was taken.”
Gordon joined Devon on the staircase and stared at the photograph of an attractive young woman. He shook his head. “There’s no resemblance with the Myra Silk I knew. Hard to believe it’s her—she must have been pretty hot in her day.”
“Clarisse found Myra’s photo in the sunroom on the old piano, with a picture hanger next to it. It looks like Myra was about to hang this up with the other portraits. Y
ou think I should keep ’em on the wall, or not?”
Gordon shrugged. “I don’t know much about art. Some look like oil paintings, and could be old—maybe valuable. Perhaps you should get them appraised? It’s curious—all of the women in the paintings have brilliant blue eyes, just like Myra’s. Of course, you can’t tell about the eyes in the drawings and old photos.”
“Hmm,” Devon said as she stepped to the bottom of the staircase and looked up at the wall of portraits. “You’re absolutely right; I hadn’t noticed. The eyes seem to be the one thing they have in common. But they don’t really look like they’re related, do they?”
Gordon shook his head. “No, they don’t. Did you ask Hattie if she knew when Myra collected the portraits?”
“I did. She said the pictures were on the wall in the sunroom for as long as she could remember.”
Gordon descended the stairs and stood in front of Devon. “Yours, too,” he said. “Your eyes are brilliant blue, just like all the women in the pictures.”
Devon turned away from the portraits. “This is getting way too creepy. I think I’ll take your advice, get them appraised and out of here. I don’t think I can handle all those blue eyes staring at me every time I go up to my bedroom.”
Gordon grinned. “Yeah, I can see how those faces might start appearing in your dreams. When you’re ready, Charlie Kopel can probably help you find an art appraiser. He’s part owner of an art gallery in Naples.”
Devon walked toward the door that led back to the sunroom. “He’s the large man who owns the mini-market?”
“And a half-dozen other businesses around this county and the next. Speaking of Kopel’s, make sure you never tell Beverly, the clerk there, anything private, unless you want the entire island to know about it.”
“I see,” Devon said over her shoulder as she stepped back into the sunroom. “That self-same Beverly told me that you’re going to be setting up a law practice here in the near future. You’re a lawyer?”
“Guilty,” Gordon said with a smile.
“Perhaps you could refer me to someone local—a lawyer who handles questions about property documents? My purchase of this house from Myra happened so quickly—and then with her stroke, I never really got to review all the papers and closing documents. So my knowledge of the property lines between this house and your beach house, and the rights-of-way we share, are particularly vague.”