“Not scared of an itty-bitty mouse, are we?” The light from his phone revealed two or three more roaming through the pile.
I tried to play off a shudder. “Who, me?” I shifted a few more branches to uncover a passable specimen. “Gimme a hand with this one.”
Between the two of us we were able to extricate the tree from the pile and load it into the back of Pete’s truck. I would have stopped there, but the vision of twin Japanese maples arching over my front stoop led me back to the pile, despite the ever-present threat of mice. I circled around the pile, scanning for a matching tree. I kept shining the light at the ground by my feet, in case another mouse wanted to get too close. All I saw was an old red brick lying on top of a tangle of maple branches.
I found a second Japanese maple that I thought would work, although it was a good two feet taller than the first. It wouldn’t make a completely balanced pair, but the distinctive red leaves would definitely brighten up my front yard. I got Pete to help me load it into the truck, and called it good. I still had a marathon hem to finish.
* * * *
It took me until two thirty in the morning to get through the entire hem. Then I slept fitfully, dreaming of a needle flashing through flowered silk all night long. Morning came much too soon.
The sun was shining as I waited for the bus up to the Highlands. I hoped the good weather would hold, so I could get my new Japanese maples planted when I got back home.
Priscilla’s house sparkled in the morning sunshine. The staff was already hard at work. Jamison Royce was working on the side of the house, loading the rest of the Japanese maples into the back of a pickup truck. I knew I had no room for any more, but the thought of those prize-winning trees headed for the dump just about broke my heart. I averted my eyes and hurried up the walkway to the house.
I heard a commotion when I entered the hall. I peeked into the kitchen, now the domain of Carl Harper, the contractor who had been tasked with the removal of all the modern appliances from the kitchen. He was perched atop a ladder, his head and shoulders hidden inside the stainless steel hood over the stovetop. A big, powerful man, clad in dirty brown work pants and heavy army boots, Harper was a force to be reckoned with. A steady stream of swearing emanated from inside the oven hood, amplified by the gleaming metal. As I watched, he smacked the inside of the hood with a heavy hand, cursing all the while. An industrial-sized wrench slammed to the floor, and I backed away from the door, leaving him to struggle with his work.
I sought out Priscilla in her sitting room at the back of the house. She sat at a tiny writing table by the window, a pile of papers spread out in front of her. Her long white hair was caught up in a chignon at the base of her neck. She greeted me with a sweet smile.
“Good morning, my dear. Such a lovely day, isn’t it? Did you see the fairy footprints in the garden on your way in?” She winked at me. “I think it was a night of magic last night.”
I stood rooted in the doorway, not sure what to say. But I didn’t get a chance to reply. Ruth Ellis entered the room, a massive frown distorting her features. “Don’t encourage her,” she growled at me. “Priscilla, the seamstress is here with your new dress.” She glared at me. “Show her.”
I pulled out the flowered gown with a flourish. “It’s all finished and ready for you to wear.”
Priscilla gazed at the dress in delight. “How lovely! I’ll put it on right away.” She stood up and gathered the soft garment into her arms. “Please ask Louise to meet me in my bedroom.”
“Of course.” I hurried out of the room, pursued by Ruth’s baleful glare.
I searched throughout the house, finally locating Priscilla’s caregiver, Louise Pritchard, on the back patio enjoying a cigarette. Late middle age had fallen heavy on her, exacerbated by a two-pack-a-day habit. Her thinning black hair was overtaken by gray, and her leathery skin was seamed by fine wrinkles. Bent on resisting the changes in the household, she wore an oversized cotton T-shirt and elastic waist pants with dark blue tennis shoes. I’d offered to make her a period dress and apron, but she’d refused me flat out. “I won’t wear no maid’s mobcap, and that’s final.”
I put as much cheeriness as I could into my voice. “Hi, Louise. Miss Priscilla asked if you could help her dress in her bedroom.”
“She already got dressed once.” She took a last drag on her cigarette and threw the butt into the flower bed. “Next time, bring the new clothes first thing, so I don’t have to dress her twice.” She turned without another word and disappeared inside.
I bent to locate the still smoldering cigarette butt among the goldenrod and ground it out with my foot. I found a large leaf to shield my fingers so I could pick it up without touching it. I ducked into the kitchen to drop the nasty butt in the trash.
Carl Harper had succeeded in dismantling the shiny oven hood, which now lay in a heap of metal on the kitchen floor. He leaned his elbow on the counter, deep in conversation on his cell phone. I heard him say, “The job’s done, dammit! It’s too late to change that now,” before I nipped back out the door. I figured I could take a few minutes while Priscilla dressed to check in with Professor Burbridge about the curtains.
Priscilla had set the professor up in the private library on the second floor. This small room was distinguished from the main library on the first floor in that it held the personal volumes of the Compton family. Diaries, business ledgers, family Bibles, and the like filled the shelves of the private library. Priscilla told me there was a portfolio of drawings of butterflies made by her great-great-grandmother, and a series of books of limericks collected by her great-great-great-uncle, who had penciled in an explicit set of definitions for each one. I envied the professor his access to such quirky documents.
The library door was closed, with a small wooden sign hung over the door handle that read “Interruption-free zone.” I lingered outside, wondering how serious he was about his desire to be undisturbed. I fingered the sign, which read “Enter at your own risk” on the flip side. I laid my ear to the door, but didn’t hear any sounds at all coming from within. Finally I decided to risk the professor’s wrath, and knocked softly on the door. No answer.
I knocked a bit louder, but no one answered. After a few more tries, I jiggled the door handle. It turned stiffly, and the door creaked open. I slipped inside.
“Excuse me, Professor Bur...” My words died on my lips. No worries about interrupting Professor Burbridge. He lay sprawled facedown on the floor, clutching a pile of papers in one hand. A patch of blood stained his cheek.
Chapter Two
I stood in the doorway staring for what seemed like hours, although it was probably no more than seconds. The ticking of the clock on the wall over the bookcase snapped me out of my stupor. I advanced into the room, circling around the professor without getting too close. With both hands pressed to my mouth, I leaned closer, hoping to find signs of breathing. There were none. I backed away, pulling my phone out of my back pocket. With shaking fingers, I dialed 911. In a few quick words, I told the dispatcher I was in the presence of a dead person. I couldn’t remember the exact address of the house. I thought “Compton Hall” would give sufficient information, but the dispatcher didn’t seem familiar with the historic landmark. “Hold on, hold on,” I shouted as I ran through the hall and burst out the front door to look at the numbers above the lintel. I saw Jamison Royce puttering about with the uprooted maple trees. He watched me openly as I concluded my 911 call.
He leaned on his hoe. “What’s all the fuss there?”
I ran over to him, and barely resisted clutching his arm with both hands. “I just found Professor Burbridge on the floor in the library. He’s dead.”
Royce