by Josh Lanyon
Frankly, that amount of money was a little frightening. A million dollars was not out of reach with luck and the right investments and a hearty economic wind to fill the sails of his retirement strategy. He had fully planned on having a million dollars in his retirement fund by the time he quit teaching. Nine million dollars was beyond his imagination. People had committed murder for less.
But once he got over the shock, once he understood what this inheritance could mean—not just a comfortable retirement in the far distant future, but the ability to pursue his old, abandoned dream of becoming a painter—a real painter—
Okay, it was Canadian dollars. But still. No inheritance tax. For the love of God. No death duties. Nothing like that.
Oh, and that nine million was just the house! According to M. Thibault, the contents of the mansion had not yet been appraised. If the inside of 13 Place Braeside looked anything like it had when Miles and his mother used to visit Capucine, it would be stuffed to the rooftop with old furniture and objets d’art.
That was different, though. He was uncomfortable with the idea of taking possession of Capucine’s belongings. He had to consider the feelings of Oliver and Linley. Losing the house was enough of a blow. He wouldn’t want to deny them anything of sentimental or personal value. What could have happened that Capucine had made such a decision? She had always doted on both boys. Especially Lin.
Miles frowned. He did not want to remember Linley. He could imagine what Linley would think of his plans.
Anyway, that was one of the things to be sorted out. And sorting out was why he had dropped everything to rush to Canada. To Quebec, Montreal…and finally to this old and exclusive enclave of Westmount.
He tipped his head back, studying the carved stone frieze above the massive double carved wood entrance doors. In between the symmetrical triglyphs were metopes featuring a raven, a thorny rose, and an upraised sword. As a kid he’d loved trying to figure out the significance of those emblems.
“Just decor, darling,” Capucine had told him.
In her own way, Capucine had been a realist.
Or maybe not. Seven bedrooms. Five-point-five bathrooms. A four-car garage. A swimming pool. A wine cellar that wasn’t a repurposed coat closet. It was crazy that all this was now his.
“You’ll want everything put on the market as soon as possible, no doubt,” M. Thibault had said during their single phone conversation. Capucine’s lawyer had been kind but had quickly tired of Miles’s babbling amazement—and anxious concern that there had perhaps been a mistake.
“There is no mistake, Mr. Tuesday. It was the clearly expressed wish of Madame Martel that the house and all its contents go to you, her godson.”
Who was he to argue with Capucine’s wishes?
“Hold off on listing the house,” Miles had said. “Hold off on appraising the furnishings. I haven’t made up my mind yet. I might want to live there.”
He had surprised himself popping out with those words, and he had certainly surprised M. Thibault, but the lawyer had assured him nothing would be done until Miles had a chance to survey the property for himself.
Which…was going to have to wait until Monday.
Miles reluctantly turned from the grand entrance and went down the steps and the slate walkway. As he headed to the gated entrance, he caught motion in one of the windows on the second floor. He glanced upward at the rectangular window behind the narrow, wrought-iron balcony, and for an instance he thought he saw the pale blur of a face looking down at him.
He stopped in surprise.
The face disappeared—if it had ever even been there—the window now filled only with the blank of colorless draperies… Were those drapes moving?
He stared, unable to be sure. It was nearly dark by then. The drizzling twilight had skipped over dusk and gone straight to indigo-edged night. The first faint stars, like moth holes in blue velvet, were dotted over the black silhouette of the roof and chimneys. He sucked in a breath at the outline of a figure sitting on the highest rooftop, then relaxed, recognizing the bronze statue—or more correctly, grotesque—of a satyr playing a pan flute.
He expelled a shaky laugh. His nerves were getting the better of him.
He looked back at the window where he’d imagined he saw the face, but it was too dark to see anything now, even if there had been anything to see.
If someone were home, they would have answered the door. If someone were home, it would be a caretaker, and if they weren’t answering the door, they were probably on the phone right now summoning the police to deal with a trespasser.
That thought spurred Miles to action. He jogged to the gate, clambered over it, and headed to the main drive. He turned his collar up against the wet October breeze and began the walk back to his hotel.
***
Montreal in autumn was quite a bit different from Montreal in summer—or even Chatsworth in autumn. Miles had not planned on wind and rain and temperatures in the low fifties. He had not packed properly. In fact, he had barely packed at all.
By the time he reached his hotel he was drenched, chilled through. He was staying at Chateau Versailles on Sherbrooke Street. M. Thibault had suggested Hotel Gault in Old Montreal, but not only did the price per night make Miles feel queasy, it was too far to easily walk to Braeside Place.
A hot shower and a pot of tea delivered by room service sped up the defrosting process, and by nine thirty he was sitting in his comfortably appointed hotel room, thumbing through the tattered address book that had once been his mother’s. Sure enough, there was a listing for Capucine.
He thumbed the number into his cell and waited as the phone—someone’s phone at least—rang on the other end. He had no idea whether Capucine’s phone would already have been disconnected and the number recycled, but it was worth a try. He’d had time on his trek to the hotel to realize that if there was a caretaker at the house on Braeside, he or she might be more likely to pick up the phone than answer the door to a stranger who had jumped the fence.
He listened hopefully as the phone rang a second time.
If he was right, he might get inside the house as early as tomorrow.
“Come on, pick up,” he muttered.
To his surprise, someone did. The phone came alive in his hand, and a male voice cautiously inquired, “Hello?”
“Hi,” Miles said. “Who am I speaking to?”
“This is Miles Tuesday,” the voice clipped. “May I ask who’s calling?”
Chapter Two
“Wait. What?” Miles said. “Who did you say?”
In reply, the phone slammed down.
Miles stared in disbelief at the black screen of his cell phone.
Loud and buzzy dial tone filled his ears.
Had he misunderstood? Had— Hell, no. He had misunderstood nothing. The guy on the other end of the call had identified himself as him.
Miles Tuesday, he had said, and the craziest thing of all was he had kind of sounded like Miles. Or at least about the right age and with a similar low, slightly husky voice. No discernable accent, although in fairness, how much accent would he show in two sentences? He hadn’t said eh? And he hadn’t said allô? So…
“What the…” Miles murmured and hit Redial.
The phone rang again—and continued to ring.
This time no one answered.
After ten rings, Miles gave up. He stared at the ghostly reflection of himself in the dark flat screen of the TV on the dresser across from the bed. He wasn’t dreaming, right? He was awake? He was really here, sitting in a hotel room in Montreal and not sleeping on the plane? This was either the weirdest manifestation of jet lag he’d ever heard of or…
He rose and took a turn around his hotel room, eyeing his still unopened suitcases uneasily.
He should do something. Call someone.
He should call the police.
He tried to imagine explaining what had just happened.
I called my dead godmother’s house, and a man ans
wered and identified himself as me.
They would assume he had somehow gotten mixed up—that the guy in Capucine’s house had simply repeated what Miles said or something like that. They would think he had reached a wrong number or that someone was pranking him. Or he was pranking them.
Or they would think he was crazy.
Even if they took him seriously, it was going to get awkward quickly if he admitted he did not actually, officially have possession of the house, and he did not want to confess he had climbed over the fence and wandered around the property. Not that he had done anything illegal—he hoped—but he also hadn’t done things properly.
The proper way would have been to wait until Monday when he’d have met with the lawyer, and the keys and whatnot had been handed over.
Wait. He could phone M. Thibault.
Except…same problem. In their brief conversation, M. Thibault had not sounded like the kind of lawyer who liked clients who did not follow protocol. Besides which, it was now after ten o’clock. M. Thibault would surely have left his office, and Miles did not have his home number.
It was just the weirdest damn thing.
He returned to the bed and stared at his suitcases.
He could go back to the house.
Hey, that was a great…
He remembered the dark and listening silence of the garden. The steady drip, drip, drip of rain on sodden leaves, the wavery lamplight on wet bricks. The damp and chilly breeze whispering down his neck.
Yeeeah… Maybe not. In fact, definitely not.
A wave of tiredness swamped him at the idea of that uphill slog to Braeside and all those quiet, tree-lined, and not well-lit streets.
He had been traveling since nine o’clock that morning, and it was ten o’clock now. Somewhere in the middle of that was a time change that should be working to his advantage, but didn’t seem to. He hadn’t eaten since leaving LAX, and he would not be getting any dinner now since the hotel did not have a restaurant.
Whatever the hell was going on, he was too tired to figure it out tonight. He’d get a good night’s sleep and tackle this problem in the morning when he wasn’t fogged with exhaustion and low blood sugar.
He flipped shut the address book, set his phone on the nightstand, and went to bed.
***
He woke starving.
Timid sunshine peeked through the filmy sheers and tiptoed across the yellow and blue squares of the pseudo-Matisse over the fireplace. It took him a moment to remember where he was—and confusion was followed by a jolt of excitement. Montreal! A hasty glance at his phone informed him that it was after ten, and he sat upright.
Ten o’clock? He never slept late—proof of how beat he’d been last night.
He remembered exploring the grounds of the Braeside house the evening before and the bizarre phone call to Capucine’s old number, but it all seemed distant and dreamlike.
Could he have made a mistake about what the man who answered had actually said?
No. He distinctly remembered asking who he was speaking to. The man on the other end had answered Miles Tuesday. There had not been any hesitation either.
What the hell could it mean?
There was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation, but he couldn’t think of one off the top of his head.
Anyway, first things first. Breakfast and then maybe he’d return to the house and have another look around. Someone had certainly been there the night before. Maybe in the daylight that someone would be more comfortable opening the door.
If that failed, he could do a little sightseeing. Since he was planning on moving to this city, he should probably start familiarizing himself with it.
He listened to a gust of wind rattle the tall bay windows and shuddered at the memory of rain down the back of his neck. It wouldn’t hurt to buy a heavier jacket.
Throwing off the striped sheets and cashmere-soft blankets, he started for the bathroom, but the hotel phone rang. He picked it up.
“Miles Tuesday.” He was reminded once again of the phone call the previous night.
A cheerful, vaguely familiar male voice said, “It is you.”
“Um, yes. Who am I speaking to?”
“Miles, this is Oliver. Capucine’s son. I don’t know if you remember me. It’s been ten years.”
Miles was surprised—not least at how glad he was to hear a friendly and familiar voice. “Of course I remember you.”
Oliver had been a tall, serious, dark-haired young man with long-lashed hazel eyes and glasses. He had been the “nice” brother. Not that Linley hadn’t been nice, but eight years made a big difference when you were in your teens and early twenties. Though Oliver had been the elder brother—or maybe because he had been the elder—he had found time for things like showing Miles a litter of kittens, sharing his Hardy Boys mystery books collection, and taking Miles for a “test drive” in his new Mazda MX-5.
“Mother’s lawyer told me you were here—although he thought you were staying at the Gault. It took me a few phone calls to find you.”
“Right. This was closer.” Miles abruptly recalled what it was closer to—and that Oliver, despite his cheery tone, might have serious problems with his mother’s will. “I’m so sorry about everything.” He added, “Your mother, I mean.”
Well, that was awkward.
But Oliver said gravely, “Thank you. It was a shock. If she hadn’t fallen, she’d have been good for another twenty years, I think.” His tone grew brisk. “Anyway, you should have let me know you were coming. What are you doing this morning? Can I take you to brunch?”
“I…well, yes. That would be great.”
“See you in thirty minutes.”
***
Brunch was at Olive & Gourmando, a cute and cozy place near Old Montreal, famed for its pastries, which were indeed mouthwatering. The interior was rustic, crimson and wood, with colorful chalk messages scrawled on huge blackboards behind displays of cinnamon buns, turtle bars, Bretons sanded with lemon, and fruit tarts on crowded counters. Jaunty Quebecois music played overhead, and every seat in the house was taken. Conversations ebbed and flowed about them, people changing effortlessly from English to French mid-sentence. Miles gazed about the packed restaurant and thought, This. This is why I want to live here. I want every day to be an adventure.
“Old Thibault said you’re thinking of moving here,” Oliver said around a bite of Cuban panini.
Oliver had changed quite a bit. But then in ten years, he would have. He had been twenty-nine the last time Miles had seen him. He had filled out, and the glasses had given way to contacts. His dark hair was thinning, but attractively so. He now wore a precisely trimmed Vandyke beard that gave him a sharper, more sophisticated look.
Miles hastily chewed his Oeuf Coquette—poached eggs, tomato, chickpeas, fennel, potatoes, homemade Toulouse sausage, avocado, feta, and yogurt all piled onto garlic-rubbed flatbread—swallowed, and said, “I’ve loved Montreal since the first time Mom and I visited. It was like…Paris-lite. Beautiful and historical and cultured, but…accessible.”
Oliver grinned. “You mean people speak English.”
“Yes.” Miles grinned too. “That helps.”
Oliver’s smile faded. He said seriously, “I’m sorry you weren’t invited to the funeral. It was…overlooked in the shock of things.”
“That’s all right,” Miles said quickly. He knew what Oliver did not want to say. He and Linley probably had not given him a thought in years. It wasn’t as though Miles had been in close contact with Capucine. In fairness, he had barely given her a thought in years.
“And I was sorry to hear about your mother. I liked her very much.”
“Thanks.” Five years had passed since his mother had died. Miles still missed her. He did not have much extended family, and his father had lost interest in him after his divorce and remarriage.
Oliver looked sympathetic, but said briskly, “You should be able to get a very good price for the house.”
/> That was kind of a relief, because Miles had no idea how to approach the subject which he couldn’t help feeling loomed in the background all the time.
“True. Yes. But…I might not sell.”
Oliver’s brows rose. “No?”
“No. I love Braeside. I always have. It seemed so magical when I was a kid. The stone lions and the lamps in the courtyard. The Japanese mural next to the library. The suits of armor and grotesques. The marble fireplaces and doors with inlaid paintings…” He stopped gabbling at Oliver’s wry smile, and sucked in a sharp breath. “But I wanted to tell you that you and Linley can have anything you want. Of course. From the house, I mean. If there’s anything—furniture, art, Capucine’s personal things—of course you can have them.”
Oliver looked taken aback. “That’s…very generous.”
“No. I mean, I’m not sure why the house was left to me. It means more than I can ever— But that doesn’t change the fact that I wasn’t—am not—family, and I’m not sure why…”
He was not putting it at all well, but his confusion was genuine. He wanted the house, was abjectly grateful for the opportunity it presented, but he was guilty about it too. How could he not be? Maybe it was childish, but he did not want Oliver or Linley to hate him.
Not that Oliver showed any sign of resentment, let alone hatred.
After a moment, Oliver admitted, “Mother said she planned on leaving the house to you. I guess Lin and I both thought she was kidding. But there was no reason she shouldn’t have done so. It’s not as though the house had been in our family forever. My father bought it for her after they were married.”
“It was your home. I know—” Well, he didn’t know. Couldn’t imagine being cut out of his mother’s will, not that his mom had had much to leave in the way of worldly goods.
Oliver shrugged. “It was. But we don’t live there now. Haven’t lived there for years. Mother was generous with us. Plus, Lin inherited a pile from his father. I don’t think we can either of us complain.” His tone turned wry again. “But since you’ve offered, I do still have some things there from when I was a kid. School stuff mostly. Books and sports equipment. That kind of thing. Nothing valuable except from a sentimental standpoint. There was never any rush on clearing things out. We all thought she’d live forever.”