by Mary Kennedy
I recognized Abigail’s spidery handwriting and the cream-colored stationery from Beaux Reves. I was certain the letter was legitimate. “Well,” I said, sitting back in my chair, “this is certainly unexpected. I have no idea why Abigail asked us to do this, but of course Ali and I will honor her wishes.”
“You do understand the request?” Osteroff had his elbows on the desk, his fingers steepled under his chin. I think he wondered if I understood the implications of what Abigail had asked of us. Maybe he considered it a slap in the face, a lack of confidence in his abilities? Shouldn’t Osteroff be the person Abigail turned to for such an important task? Yet she had chosen us. Interesting.
“Yes, of course. It’s a little puzzling, though. She invited that young man Angus Morton to catalog the contents of Beaux Reves. Was there a problem with him?”
Osteroff cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable at the question. “I’m, uh, not at liberty to say.” He placed his hands flat on the desk. “I can tell you, though, that I have a fiduciary responsibility to make sure her wishes are carried out. I’m not sure why she chose you and your sister to take on this task”—he leaned across the desk, fixing me with his beady eyes—“but she must have had her reasons.” Never one to chat, he immediately stood up to escort me to the door.
“Two questions,” I said, stopping him in his tracks. “Does Lucy Dargos know that Mrs. Marchand instructed us to go through Beaux Reves? And will Angus Morton continue to live at the mansion?”
“The answer is yes to both questions,” he said curtly. “Angus Morton is there”—he hesitated—“for the moment.” For the moment? Not exactly a vote of confidence. “Angus Morton will not impede your progress. And I will call Lucy Dargos to make sure she understands that you have access to every room in the house. You won’t have any problem with her.” He opened a file drawer and handed me a folder. “This is an inventory from a few years ago. I’m not entirely sure it’s up-to-date, but it’s a good place for you to start.”
“What do we do with the results of our inventory?” I asked.
“You will bring your findings back to me, and we will take it from there,” he said abruptly, and elbowed me into the waiting room. He gave me a ghoul-like grimace—his version of a smile—and that was it.
* * *
“I don’t get it,” Ali said an hour later. “That’s all he had to say?” I’d texted her about my surprise meeting with Osteroff, and we’d decided to meet at Forsythe Square and walk over to Beaux Reves together.
“It was a very brief conversation. He seemed to be scowling at me the whole time. Either he doesn’t like me, or his breakfast didn’t agree with him,” I said wryly.
“I think that’s his permanent expression,” Ali said. “I bet he wasn’t thrilled that she chose us.”
“I’m sure he wasn’t,” I said, remembering those dark eyes and the tightness around his lips. “I can’t figure out why Abigail reached out to us. After all, we only met her at lunch that one time. Why entrust us with such an important job? She must have known people who are more qualified.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Ali countered. “She trusted us, and in the end that’s all that mattered.”
I paused to smile at a baby in a stroller holding one of our Oldies But Goodies helium balloons. Dana had come up with that promotional idea a few months ago, and the balloons were popular. As Dana says, the more times we get our name out there, the better.
My thoughts had been churning around Osteroff, and I’d completely forgotten about Ali’s meeting with Angus. “How did your coffee date go?” I said teasingly.
Ali flinched at the word “date.” “Please don’t call it that,” she said with a grin. “There’s something seriously weird about Angus,” she added as we strolled along. The sunshine was filtering through the trees, and I longed to sit on one of the wrought iron benches with a lemon water ice and spend the morning people-watching.
“I think he’s definitely interested in me,” she began, “but I managed to cool his jets by saying I have a boyfriend back in Atlanta.”
“Smart move. Did you get any information out of him?”
“Not much. He looked over the tea set that Gideon gave us, and he pointed out how he knew it was a fake. He was very specific, and he took his time with it.”
“Really?” I raised my eyebrows. “So maybe he’s the real deal after all. I guess I always wondered if he was an imposter and had somehow wormed his way into the estate for the summer.”
“I made notes on what he said, and I’ll run them by Gideon to be sure, but I think Angus knows his antiques.” She paused. “But as far as him being an imposter, there’s something I don’t quite trust about him. I just can’t put my finger on it.”
“Just a gut feeling?”
“Yes, a feeling that he’s up to something.” She turned her gaze to me. “Won’t this be a bit awkward at the mansion? Angus has been hired to catalog the inventory, and now we’ve been asked to sort through the same items. It sounds like we’re going to get in each other’s way.”
“It could be awkward. Especially if there’s any funny business going on.” As soon as I said the words, Abigail’s request made sense. I was positive she’d sensed something was amiss and she wanted us to prove it. I was more determined than ever to get to the bottom of what was going on at Beaux Reves.
* * *
Lucy Dargos was more welcoming than I’d expected her to be. She offered us cups of coffee, and we sat at the kitchen table for a few minutes, going over the folder that Osteroff had given me. If she felt intimidated by us, she managed to hide it.
“I didn’t know about this list,” she said. “How will you know if things have been added or sold since this list was written? Maybe there have been changes in the inventory.” A fair question, but she sounded a little defensive.
Ali gave her a level glance. “I thought Mrs. Marchand prided herself on keeping things exactly as they were when her parents were alive, Lucy. You’ve been here thirty years. Can you remember any new acquisitions or any items being sold off during your time here?”
Lucy quickly shook her head, her dark eyes flashing. I think Ali had hit a nerve. “No, nothing that I can think of.” She saw Ali glancing toward the front hall, and a shrewd look crept into her eyes. I knew Ali was getting ready to ask her about the large daisy painting we’d seen in the Beaux Reves guide book.
“There was a painting out there once,” Ali began, gesturing toward the hall. “A large painting of a field of daisies.” Ali kept her voice low, nonthreatening. “It’s not here now. Do you have any idea what happened to it?”
“A painting of daisies?” Lucy was stirring her coffee, stalling for time. The nervous twitch around her mouth was back, and I knew she was wondering how much to reveal. “I don’t recall—” she began, but Ali cut her off.
“A huge painting,” she said in a sharper tone. “You must have seen it. It was hanging right between those two watercolors of the sailboats. The field of daisies was in the foreground, and there was a town in the background.”
“Oh yes, that painting,” Lucy said, licking her lips. She widened her eyes and raised her hands, palms up, in a classic gesture of innocence. “Sí, I do remember it. We sent it out to be cleaned.” She shrugged and placed her hands back on the kitchen table. Once again, I was struck by how strong her fingers looked. She was used to doing heavy housework around the mansion. She was easily strong enough to overpower a frail old lady like Abigail Marchand.
“I didn’t know they cleaned oil paintings,” I said.
“Sometimes they do,” Lucy told me. She refused to make eye contact with me and was staring fixedly at the tiny violets on the tablecloth. The twitch around her mouth was back. Interesting. “You know, no matter how hard I try to keep this place clean, there are little dust particles in the air. They settle on the paintings. And Mrs. Marchand was thinking of havin
g it reframed,” she added.
“Really.” Ali’s tone was incredulous.
“Yes, she was,” Lucy went on, speaking so rapidly the words were tumbling over one another. “You know, those very fancy gilt frames have gone out of fashion. People like simpler frames these days. And they are easier to clean.” She tilted her chin up, as if daring Ali to disagree with her.
“And the painting is . . .” I let my voice trail off and stared at Lucy until she was forced to look up at me.
“It’s with a restorer and will soon be back in place,” she said flatly. Her tone had shifted. All traces of fear had vanished, and her tone was hostile as she stood up and started to clear the coffee cups. “And now I must get back to work,” she said abruptly. “If you need any help, just ask me. Where are you going to start?”
Ali and I exchanged a look. The last thing we wanted was Lucy Dargos trailing after us as we made our way through the mansion. The less she knew, the better. “I think we’ll just start with the front hall and make our way upstairs,” I said politely. “I understand that your private apartment is on the top floor, and naturally, we won’t go in there.”
Lucy swallowed and her eyes widened for a second. She obviously hadn’t thought of that possibility. “Thank you,” she said, getting herself under control. “I can assure you there is nothing that belongs to the estate in there.”
“No, of course not,” I said soothingly. Ali and I turned toward the hall, and I could see Lucy had picked up a dishcloth and turned back to the sink. Her shoulders had slumped, probably in relief. “Just one more thing,” I called out. “Where was Desiree’s room?”
Lucy turned in surprise, wiping her hands on her apron. “It’s the fourth room on the left on the second floor. Miss Desiree’s room is bright yellow; it was her favorite color. We have kept it exactly as it was when she was alive. Mrs. Marchand insisted that nothing be disturbed.”
“Then that’s where we’ll start,” I told her. She began to protest, but I waved my hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, we’re just looking. We won’t disturb anything.”
* * *
“I don’t think she’s thrilled to have us here,” Ali whispered as we made our way up the stairs. We stopped briefly on the landing, and I heard the front door open and close. Heavy footsteps headed toward the kitchen, followed by a husky voice greeting Lucy.
Angus Morton! I looked at Ali and put my finger to my lips. Had Angus already gotten the word from Norman Osteroff that we were free to inspect the mansion? Or would Lucy tell him? I leaned over the banister on the upper landing to listen, but someone had closed the door between the kitchen and the hall.
“I can’t hear much,” I said in a low voice to Ali, “but they’re definitely talking down there.” I turned around, but Ali had vanished. “Ali?” I whispered.
She stuck her head out of a bedroom down the hall and motioned for me to come quickly.
“It’s Desiree’s bedroom,” she said, pulling me inside a bright yellow room. “And you can hear perfectly through the heating grate.” She grinned and hunkered down on the floor. I squatted next to her, just in time to hear Angus give a gasp of surprise.
“They’re here now?” he asked. He tone was gruff, annoyed. It was surprising how unpopular we were. “What do they want?”
Lucy said something I couldn’t quite catch, but I heard the name “Osteroff.” “No, he didn’t tell me a thing,” Angus went on. “Why would they be doing an inventory? Something’s up, I know it.” Again, soft murmuring from Lucy and harsh words from Angus. “I don’t want any tea,” he said irritably. “I’d better track them down and see what they’re up to. And keep your idiot son quiet. If he says anything, there’ll be hell to pay.”
Ali stood up slowly, her face pale. “I can’t believe that Angus could be involved,” she said slowly. “I just had coffee with him. He seemed like a nerd, but a nice guy.” She shook her head in dismay. “How could I have been so wrong about him? He might be Abigail’s killer!”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I said, pulling her out the door into the hallway. I didn’t want Angus to see us poking around Desiree’s room. “And pull yourself together. Don’t let him think we overheard anything.”
We were pretending to inspect a small oil painting in the hall, a rather sentimental scene of lilacs and roses, when Angus bounded up the stairs. I was struck by how tall and powerful he was.
“We meet again,” he said cheerfully to Ali.
I could feel her shrinking back from him, so I was overly friendly to compensate. “This is so exciting,” I said, babbling on girlishly. “Ali and I have always been curious about the mansion, and I never thought we’d have a chance to see it firsthand. We’re taking our own private tour.”
His expression hardened, and he shot a curious look at Ali. “It seems that Mrs. Marchand’s lawyer asked you to do your own inventory.” He raised his eyebrows as if he couldn’t understand why anyone would make such a ridiculous request.
“Yes, he did. Well, it was actually Abigail herself who made the request. Mr. Osteroff just passed along the letter from her.”
“I see.” There was a long silence, and I thought I saw his gaze shift to the landing. Exactly the place where Abigail had been pushed down the stairs. For one crazy moment, I wondered if he was planning on doing away with one of us and then realized that would be too hard to pull off. There were two of us to contend with, and no one would believe our deaths were accidental. That would simply be too much of a coincidence.
“Could you tell us something about this painting?” Ali asked. Her voice was a little shaky, but she no longer looked like a frightened rabbit, and I was relieved.
“A small oil, circa eighteen nineties. Not particularly valuable. The artist was a local one and he was making a stab at Impressionism, but as you can see, he wasn’t too successful.” His voice was curiously flat, devoid of any enthusiasm. It was hard to believe he was really an art aficionado, but from the amount of detail he offered, he seemed to know his stuff. And Ali had mentioned that he had appeared knowledgeable when she’d shown him the antique tea set.
“He wasn’t successful at his attempt at Impressionism? Why’s that?” I asked, pretending to be interested.
“The light’s all wrong,” Angus said impatiently. “See the way it slants across the lilacs, but then it seems to stop dead at the roses? There should be diffused light throughout the whole painting. Impressionism is a lot more complicated than it looks. A lot of artists in that time period simply slapped some blurry flowers on a canvas, added some sunlight dappling through the scenes, and thought they’d nailed it.”
“Oh, I see,” Ali said, examining the painting. “You know so much about paintings,” she said in a slightly gushing tone.
Angus relaxed, falling for the bait. He adjusted the lapels on his linen blazer, preening. “Well, I’ve studied art for a long time,” he said modestly, “and I was bound to pick up a few things here and there.”
“All that knowledge,” I said wonderingly. “It almost seems wasted at Beaux Reves.” I wasn’t sure how hard to push. “But I suppose this was never the endgame for you.”
“Certainly not. I wanted to beef up my résumé and my advisor suggested spending the summer here. My real goal is to be an appraiser at Sotheby’s. A good recommendation from Mrs. Marchand would have meant everything.”
A recommendation? I hadn’t thought of that angle. And he had said would have meant, so it clearly had fallen through because of Abigail’s death.
“Of course, that’s impossible now,” he said churlishly, as if he were reading my mind. “No Mrs. Marchand, no recommendation. I should have asked her for a letter when I first arrived here.” Talk about a narcissist! His employer was murdered, and all he cares about is his own career plan.
Ali and I exchanged a look. I think our brains were whirring along on the same track. If Angus n
eeded a recommendation from Mrs. Marchand for a job with Sotheby’s, why would he murder her? Wouldn’t that be killing the goose that laid the golden egg? So maybe the conversation with Lucy in the kitchen had nothing to do with murder. This cast a whole new light on things.
“Maybe Mr. Osteroff could give you a recommendation,” I said tentatively.
“That old gas bag?” Angus sneered. “He wouldn’t know a Monet from a money market account. I’m afraid I’m screwed.”
“Lucy Dargos?” I suggested, wondering what he would say about the longtime housekeeper.
“A scullery maid?” he scoffed. “Pots and pans are all she knows. And that son of hers? Don’t get me started.”
I was wondering how to get Angus out of the picture so we could continue our sleuthing when his cell phone rang. He checked the readout and frowned. “I’ve got an appointment in town,” he said, “so I’ve got to leave for a while.” He gave us a piercing look, and I could feel Ali tense. “But I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He paused. “In case you need anything.”
Hah! As if. “That’s so kind of you. Thank you so much,” I said, pouring on the charm.
17
“What will we do?” Ali asked the moment Angus tromped down the stairs. “We’re supposed to meet Noah and Sara for lunch.”
“We’ll just have to work fast,” I told her. “And we don’t have to do everything today. It’s up to us to decide how long we need to spend on the inventory. Text Sara and tell her that we’ll be at Marcelo’s by two. We’ll take a quick look at Desiree’s bedroom and maybe do one other room before we leave.”
“It seems overwhelming,” Ali said, looking down the hall, which seemed to stretch on forever, with endless wings and corridors hinting at endless treasures.
“One thing at a time, Ali,” I told her. Sometimes my MBA training comes in handy. I leave the intuitive, subjective elements to Ali, and it works well. My sister is classic “right-brained,” and I’m very “left-brained.” What does that mean in practical terms? It means I’m logical, analytical, and objective. I approach everything as a task. I don’t get emotionally involved and I try to devise the most effective way to do a job. Ali is the opposite. She runs on sheer emotion and instinct. That’s why we make a good pair.