1.
“Watch out!” A shrill shriek followed the order. I slammed the door to the cloak room or what I’d taken for the cloak room shut.
“I’m so sorry.” Dahlia Schuyler, a slight septuagenarian with white hair piled up becomingly on top of her head and a black dress that put my own blue affair from the sales at Macy’s to shame, peered at me with concern. “I should have put a warning sign. Not that Petey would ever do any harm, but the sweet boy can be a bit excitable.”
Indeed. Not to mention that parrot droppings might not exactly be the thing to greet your guests with at a party, or rather soiree as the invitation had stated, I thought.
“I hope he didn’t scare you.” My hostess gave me a probing look, as if to gauge the extent of the damage the shock might have done me.
“Not at all. I like animals.” I hovered, my coat over my arms. It would have been wiser to stay in line to hand the garment to the elderly manservant at the door, but since I planned to spend as little time as possible without being impolite I’d thought it wise to find out where the coats were kept. Or in this case, weren’t.
Dahlia raised her hand and the manservant relieved me of my burden. “If you’ll allow me.”
I graciously nodded to him and followed my hostess to the ball room where the main action took place.
As soon as I entered, a gasp escaped me. I’d never set foot in here before or even spent more than a few weeks in my ancestor’s hometown of Cobblewood Cove, but ten foot ceilings, crystal chandeliers and period furniture did not feature in the itself not too shabby Darling villa three quarters of a mile away. Everything here was in incredible taste and probably the real deal, as far as I could tell.
“You must be the niece.” Thin hands mottled with age clasped mine and a powdered cheek briefly came close enough for a fake kiss. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Primrose Schuyler, Dahlia’s sister. I’m sorry I forgot your name. It comes with the years, I’m afraid.” Apart from the golden hues of her coiffure she resembled her sister to a striking extent.
Her laughter held a nervous edge. It must be irksome for any woman to admit you’re temporarily at a loss, especially when you and your sister practically run the social register. Not to mention the local museum, which was the reason I’d sacrificed an evening with a good book and a cat on my lap. But the Schuyler sisters were too nice to poke fun at. Rich and kind was a rare combination in my experience.
I gave her my best smile, one that conveyed admiration and respect as well as a touch of familiarity. After all, they’d once plied me with lemonade and a bandage for my skinned knees after I’d overestimated my rollerblading skills. “Great-niece, and it’s Geneviève, but please call me Genie. Everybody does.” I had my mother to thank for a name hardly anyone could pronounce, an accent and vocabulary that were all over the place or rather map, just like I had to thank her for this evening.
“Genie. I’m so sorry about your great-aunt. You remind me of her.” Primrose sighed.
So did I. My great-aunt Lottie, who’d recently gone to her just rewards, had been as eccentric as they come, with a passion for quilting. She’d even created her own special funeral quilt which she was buried with. It must have taken her months, if not years, to hand-stitch satin birds and squirrels onto the tiny squares but then she’d lived to a ripe old age.
Although the house had technically come to my mother when I was little, nobody would have dreamt of turfing out my great-aunt. Or her acreage of quilting materials and tapestries (another passion of hers). It would have been cruel, apart from the fact that my parents, and I with them, changed countries every couple of years. My mother had never lived in the house since her wedding day, and moving Lottie in had been both an act of generosity and a way to have someone who loved the place taking care of it.
Still, as fond as everyone had been of Lottie, I hoped I didn’t really take after her when it came to obsession with handicraft. As much as I loved creating my intricate jewelry, I had more going on in my life.
“How is your dear mother? And you, Genie, are you going to stay in Cobblewood Cove? So nice to have some young blood around.”
The elderly manservant shuffled past with a silver tray full of stuffed mushrooms and fish balls. My mouth watered. Mine wasn’t the only one. I could see the other guests help themselves to the food as soon as it appeared. Most of them were past retirement age. Their conversation seemed to consist of golfing, stocks, and grandchildren, going by the snippets I snatched up, but they had excellent hand-to-mouth coordination when it came to my favorite appetizers.
They’d inspired the food blog I’d started during my college years. Everything I rated had to stack up against the local delicatessen. A tough call, since Pierre, the owner of Butler’s Pantry, set the bar sky-high.
I tried not to drool. “My mother sends her regards. She’s on her honeymoon.”
“Is she going to live here?” Primrose pulled me over to a sofa.
“Probably not. But I’ll stay at least long enough to sort through everything that might be right for your exhibition.”
Cobblewood Cove, or Prescott Village as it had been called for its two first decades, until the namesake was found out to sympathize with the British during the War of 1812, sat halfway between Boston and New York. It had now been decided to honor its not very illustrious past (apart from the infamous Prescott) with an event at the local museum.
Since the Darlings had come here not long after the Schuylers, when the ink on the Declaration of Independence was still drying, our contributions were eagerly awaited, even if they only consisted of moth-eaten clothes, an old chamberpot or two, and faded letters. At least that’s what I supposed I would find. Our attic was crammed with trunks and boxes that themselves were covered with quilts and tapestries.
I didn’t want to accuse my mother of scheduling her honeymoon with the intention on dumping the whole affair into my lap, but after ten years of widowhood the timing did seem a little suspicious.
“And then you’re off again?” Primrose seemed genuinely disappointed as she waved over one of the two men who reduced the average age in the room to under 60.
They were a study in contrast, with one slender and blond and blue-eyes and the other one broad-shouldered, with dark hair and dark eyes.
I had to admit that they were both personable enough, with the fair one Primrose had beckoned almost too handsome.
“Jonathan, have you met Genie Darling?” She left us standing as she joined her sister and another group.
His eyes held an amused twinkle as he handed me a glass of champagne. “You’d probably be rich if you had a dime for every ‘out of the bottle’ joke.”
“I’d be rolling in it,” I said.
He chuckled. “I think our families go way back. Harewood? Ring a bell?”
“Should it? I’m not really that well-versed in the old family lore. But aren’t all the old families somehow acquainted?”
“True enough. Except for you. How did you escape Cobblewood Cove?” He steered me even further away from the food.
“My dad worked for a company that sent him to a new city and new country every few years. That’s probably why my mother married him. She wanted to go live in a Paris that wasn’t located in Oneida County.”
He laughed at my wit, a point in his favor.
I sipped my drink and tried to make my way to the nibbles before I had more champagne on an empty stomach.
Sadly, I had underestimated everyone’s interest in me, or rather in my absent mother. My path seemed littered with well-meaning, well-dressed, well-heeled people who liked nothing better than to reminisce about days I hadn’t been around for and events happening long before I was born.
My stomach growled.
“Have some of these.” Those two wonderful words were accompanied by a plate with, yes, fish balls and stuffed mushrooms among other assorted nibbles.
“You might have just saved my life,” I said before I crammed a fish ball into my mouth.
The name didn’t do them justice. They were sphere-shaped morsels of pure, melt-in-the-mouth bliss. The recipe was rumored to have come over with a French Huguenot by the moniker of Pierre Bouteillier, who’d been fleeing persecution long before Cobblewood Cove was founded.
The exact ingredients were still kept secret by the chef and the whole town worried whenever the current Pierre had so much as a sniffle, not just because he was such a likable guy, but also because so far he was the last chef in the family, and childless. That did not bode well for a catering company where recipes were passed down from generation to generation, in a town where family trees and inheritance established your position on the totem pole.
Not that newcomers weren’t welcome; they were. They just were encouraged to keep a low profile until they’d been around long enough to earn their stripes after a mere four or five decades or so. The only exception to the rule was a reclusive investor who’d purchased the most prestigious property in the area, a Palladian-style mansion on top of the cliff leading down to the cove.
His ready acceptance came thanks to his wealth, although the youth of the town probably thought otherwise.
The small sandy beach leading to the water had long been the local hotspot for romance and parties away from the parents. Said millionaire had spoiled the fun with floodlights everywhere that blinded everyone within a mile if so much as a dog ran across the sand. Now, the cove was only used during the day, by small children playing in the sand and jumping off the jetty. An ice-cream van and a lemonade stall offered refreshments until the sunset.
I had fond memories of that place, in both iterations. I had long since grown out of the fun of drinking around a campfire or a few private moments with a boy, but Cobblewood Cove had lost an attraction when it gained this particular resident.
The dark haired thirty-something man who’d supplied me with the food probably belonged to the normal category of newcomer. Where Jonathan had first been claimed by a group of elderly golf enthusiasts which now merged with gardening lovers, he could move freely.
I devoured another fish ball before I remembered my manners. “I’m not usually this greedy.”
“As long as you don’t spoil your appetite, Genie, dear.” Primrose appeared by my side. “Dinner will be served in half an hour. Not on the Wedgwood, in case you were wondering.” She’d directed the last sentence at my hero, but added for my benefit, “Matthew Blake has been kind enough to value our collections for insurance purposes. He’ll do the same with everything on loan to the museum.”
Was that a worry line between her delicately arched brows?
“I’m sure there’s no need to be concerned about anything,” I said.
“You’re right. It’s still such a relief to have an expert at hand.”
Matt interpreted my puzzled look correctly. “I usually do appraisals when it comes to large ticket items that might tempt people. And call me Matt.”
Primrose lowered her voice. “We had to tell one donor that their Fabergé brooch was nothing but paste, but there are other objects. Matt made us update the security system.”
“You could spot it was a fake?” My interest grew.
“There are telltale signs.” He gave a modest shrug.
“I know. I’m a silversmith.” I touched my chandelier earrings. “I mostly do modern uptakes on Art Deco and Egyptian Revival pieces.”
Sadly, we did not sit together at dinner, but with Jonathan by my side, I couldn’t complain. He regaled me with stories about art fairs and stores that might be interested in my merchandise.
I started to enjoy myself, although the wine to go with five courses might have had something to do with it. But I was also tired, and I had promised myself an early start to tackle the hoarded relics in the attic. I yawned as we finally were allowed to rise from the table.
“Thank you for a splendid evening.” I air-kissed Dahlia and Primrose in the correct manner which had taken me ages to perfect.
“Are you leaving already? I’ll take you to your car.” Jonathan seemed genuinely disappointed to see me go.
I caught a glimpse of Matt as he passed us.
He gave me a little grin.
I grinned back.
“I’m walking,” I said to Jonathan. “It’ll clear my head.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded. “It’s only a few blocks.”
“But you have a car? Or we could send you home in ours.” Dahlia asked.
“Thanks, but I really enjoy a stroll.” They did not appear convinced, but let me go my merry way.
The Schuyler’s lived in a red brick mansion at one of the corners of the four streets surrounding the cobble-stoned square. All the front windows afforded them a view of the peacock fountain - with good reason. The fountain had been generously donated by one of their ancestors.
Only the Harewoods lived in a taller red brick building, on the opposite side of the square. Lesser inhabitants made do with clapboard villas or smaller brick houses. The lack of uniformity added to the visual appeal.
I lingered a little. The half moon cast its weak light through a cloud but there were a few stars visible in the night sky, and the street lamps were just bright enough to add a movie-set charm to the scenery.
The April air held a touch of frost. I put up my coat collar as I turned around the corner. One hundred yards ahead lay the Darling villa, all three ivy-covered floors of it.
The bells of the Presbyterian church struck eleven.
Something behind my back alarmed me a split second before I felt a tug at my purse strings and a heavy shove. I swung my leg backwards, kicking out with all my might, while I used my handbag to roundhouse whoever attacked me. My foot made satisfying contact with a leg, and I heard a yelp.
Unfortunately I’d underestimated my own momentum. I stumbled forward.
“Are you okay?” Strong hands helped me right myself. The patter of footsteps told me that my assailant was fleeing the scene of the crime. To make doubly sure, I cast a quick glance at my supporter’s pant legs. No signs of a kick.
To be honest, anything else would have been a miracle. The nice man who gently held my arms could easily have been my grandfather and weighed around the same as me. Still, I had to check.
He peered at me with deep concern. “It’s a good thing I left the party right after you. If only my eyes were what they used to be.”
“The party?”
“I sat at the end of the table. It’s Fred Ward and I live one street over from you.”
Now I recognized him. I wasn’t normally this slow on the uptake, but then this had been my first encounter with a mugger in the nighttime. Or any other hour.
"Did you recognize the person?" I asked, although I held out little hope in this faint illumination.
"He had a mask on, at least I think so. I was more concerned with you, I'm afraid."
"I'm glad you were." I meant it. Without him, I might have taken a nasty tumble. Also, my attacker might easily have taken down my gallant hero.
Fred offered to carry my bag for me, like the old-fashioned gentleman he seemed. “Please remember me to your mom,” he said. “She used to come around to see my sister every day, just before I left for college.”
It could have been my imagination by I thought I’d heard a slight tremble in his voice. At least I knew why he was so concerned about me. Fred Ward, like many others, had been sweet on my mother.
My hands shook as I let myself into the house. I headed straight for the living room, with only the hallway light on. I flung my coat onto the rack, sank onto the armchair and kicked off my shoes.
“Ouch!” The cry startled me. I hit the light switch and stared at the face of a young woman I’d never seen in my life, sitting bolt upright on the sofa.
2.
My mouth fell open. The logical thing was to call the police and tell them I had an intruder.
“I’ll ring up the police.” The woman glared daggers at me, not a mean feat considering she looked like a vintage glamour girl with her huge baby-blue eyes, silver flapper dress and wavy blonde hair to complete the look.
Her reaction seemed genuine. Maybe my dear departed great-aunt had given her a key? But then wouldn’t she have known that said Lottie had moved on to the great craft store in the sky or whatever lay ahead for her?
Also, Blondie would have heard about my arrival. I didn’t flatter myself, but you don’t have roots dating back a gazillion generations in a place like Cobblewood Cove without people talking about your return.
Her eyes narrowed. “Hey, why are you wearing my sister’s earrings? Planning to go on the lam with them?” She drew herself up to her full height, which was about the same as mine.
I’d always thought the expression ‘shudders ran down my spine’ as a cliche, but that’s exactly how I felt. Here I was, confronted with an obviously deranged stranger, in my mother’s house, after I’d just escaped a mugging attempt. And they said small town life was dull.
I slowly reached for my purse with my phone inside. “I made those earrings myself. There’s my card on the table. Geneviève Darling, jewelry designer and silversmith.”
Those earrings were among my finest creations, inspired by old family pictures. My full name was Geneviève Darling Hepner, but my mother’s maiden name sounded better for my business.
“Cut the baloney. Your fella given you the bum’s rush? That’s why you’re hiding out here?” The blonde beauty chuckled, obviously enjoying every moment of this crazy exchange.
“Very funny,” I said. “I, or rather my family, happen to own this house, so whatever your game is, it’s over. I won’t press charges, but I really want you to leave.”
“Hold it, lady, I’m not a sucker. I was born in this house, so you scram.” She looked around more closely, at the faded wallpaper dating back to pre-war days (the Darlings liked to stock up on things they loved in case they were discontinued, which meant that despite repapering every couple of decades, the pattern stayed unchanged) and the slightly younger pictures on the wall.
In one corner hung a framed, hand-drawn family tree that had suffered from hanging next to an open fireplace. Nobody would have dreamt of getting rid of it just because half of it was soot-blackened. Likewise, nobody would have thought of having it professionally restored. It would have destroyed the authenticity. Or maybe my ancestors simply forgot because who looked at family trees, except for snobs?
She pointed at my great-aunt’s latest tapestry, a bucolic scene with sheep and herd dogs in garish colors, thanks to the artist’s cataracts. “What on earth is that?”
“You get used to it. Or rather, you won’t, because you’re going.”
“There should be a mirror in the same place. What have you done with it? Pawned it?”
“There used to be one,” I said, with rising confusion. “How do you know that?”
Cleo, my mother's tabby cat whose care was the one responsibility I enjoyed, selected this moment to stroll into the room. She’d probably finished her nap on my bed, which came after her beauty sleep on my work chair. She gave a loud purr as she saw the stranger who had now decided to recline elegantly on the sofa.
Only, where said piece of furniture sagged a little when I did the same, nothing moved. Weird.
Cleo and the woman gazed at each other.
“Hello, kitty-cat,” the intruder said and patted the sofa next to her.
Cleo jumped up and snuggled into the woman’s lap.
My mouth went dry. I probed my head. Had I bumped it during my earlier tussles? Because a concussion was the only thing that made sense now.
Otherwise, I’d just seen a cat sink onto a sofa, right through a human body, before it became solid again. It had only been a fleeting impression, but one that made me doubt my sanity.
“You’re looking awfully pale,” my uninvited guest said. “Too much hooch? Do you need a doctor?”
“Maybe. Do you have a number?” I reached for my phone.
She stared at it. “What’s that?”
I put it aside. “Maybe aspirin will be enough.”
She sat up with a curious expression and took my phone. Or rather, she didn’t. Try as she might, she couldn’t pick it up. Her fingers became translucent whenever she tried.
A gulp escaped me.
“What’s your name?” I asked her. “We haven’t introduced ourselves.”
She sighed. “You’re not from around here, are you? I’m Adriana Darling and everybody has heard of me.”
Oh so casually, I strolled over to the framed family tree. There, in one corner, I could make out a faint Adr, before the soot covered the rest. With a bit of imagination, three numbers underneath were decipherable too. I grabbed onto the mantelpiece for support.
“What date is it?”
She rolled her eyes.
“I mean, what year do we have?” Please, I prayed silently, let me be wrong.
Another eye-roll. “1929. What did you expect?”
I had my answer, and I didn’t like it one bit. How do you tell someone she’s your great-great-aunt and she’s also dead? Because if my eyes and her words were right, I was dealing with a ghost.