Murder at the Mansion (17 page)

“Stop! Get away!” I yelled and struck out at the bird.

My precarious perch wobbled, then toppled.

The ladder and I hurtled downward.

I
grabbed the ladder with both hands and threw my body to the right, attempting to twist it enough so the front of the ladder would fall on the stack of barrels. I was partly successful, as the front edge of the ladder hit the top two barrels, sending them cascading end over end and smashing into the back wall. The ladder bumped down to the next row of three and settled at an angle . . . tilting precariously.

My heart raced, but I froze in place, waiting to see if there would be any further shifting. After a minute that seemed like an eternity, I moved my right foot down a rung and stopped. No movement. Two more steps and the ladder slid down a few inches. I clung to the sides, waited a few seconds, and then continued down even more slowly than before. Making it to the bottom, with a few more scares, I sagged against the ladder, trembling from the adrenaline racing through my body.

That was too close for comfort. I felt like kissing the ground.

I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans and walked over to view the damage. The barrels had gouged a couple of very large holes in the wall. I peered into one, but the meager light in the room couldn't penetrate the pitch black. I searched for my flashlight and found it where I'd dropped it during the fall. I turned it on and looked through the opening of one of the broken areas.

I gasped.

I'd expected to see a retaining wall at the back of the cave. Instead, my light showed stacks of steamer trunks and wooden traveling boxes in various sizes, and—I blinked—an old-fashioned horse carriage. Redwood Heights was full of surprises.

One of the holes was almost big enough for me to squeeze through if I pulled the shattered boards off. I removed the canvas cover off of the furniture and used the material to protect my hands as I took off the loose pieces of wood. If I was careful, I'd be able to get through without snagging myself on the jagged edges.

I crawled through the opening and flashed my light around. A blanket of undisturbed dust covered everything. I examined the first trunk. It was wooden and decorated with brass stars dulled with age. I aimed my light at a large tag with bold, black writing. Unfortunately, the swirling penmanship on the yellowed tag was impossible to read.

I pulled on the metal handle and flipped the heavy lid back. My light flickered and went out, reminding me of how little light was making it into the room. Darn. The fall must've loosened something. I shook it and was relieved when it came back to life.

Ruffles, lace, and beads adorning the bodice of a midnight blue dress showed in the light. I turned the beam to the edge of the box. There was enough room for me to run my hand down the side and flip through the contents. Silk, cotton, and wool garments in the colors of the rainbow with a few plaids thrown in. A lady's wardrobe.

The next chest, smaller in size, was made of dark wood and had decorative brass-covered edges. On one side lay a stack of framed photographs, the top picture displaying a young woman in a ball gown, her dark hair piled high in an intricate hairdo. Examining a few more photos, I discovered the same woman in all of them. In one she was on the arm of Mr. Brandon. The glass had been cracked. The other side of the trunk held intricate hand-embroidered flowers flowing across the back of a pair of black gloves. Underneath them were more gloves and some delicate fans.

That completed the contents of the trunk. Turning, I moved the light around the room. The carriage loomed out of the darkness, bits of the ornate gold design adorning the door reflecting back at me. The horses on the Brandon crest conveyed pride and strength, in spite of being cracked and peeling.

Why was it here? How long had it been sealed away? The door to the carriage beckoned. I turned the light on the floor to see if there was anything in the way and saw only a dust carpet between myself and the carriage.

Walking toward it, I ran the light over the aged surface, revealing tarnished brass fixtures and the dark eyes of the empty carriage windows. I reached for the door handle and hesitated. Deciding to look inside first, I climbed on the step of the carriage, held on to the metal grip mounted beside the door, and stood on my toes, my eyes barely above the window rim. I lifted the light above my head and aimed it inside.

I screamed, jerked the flashlight's beam away from the hideous sight, and jumped back off the step. My light went out again.

Frantically, I shook it, while the last image did a macabre dance in my mind. Dark holes where eyes had once been; sparkling jewels adorning bones. I shook the light harder.

The light revived, illuminating the trunks and boxes. I moved the light slowly back around to the carriage and its occupant. I had glimpsed fine black lace and pieces of faded red satin. A hat with the remains of a sweeping feather had slipped onto the figure's shoulder.

Reminding myself whoever was inside was far, far past doing me any harm, I took a deep breath, pushed my willpower into full gear, and opted for the door this time. Who was this person? I cautiously moved the lever. The door screeched at my uninvited presence. The figure reposed on a worn leather seat. Remnants of material clung to the skeleton. An intricate necklace rested on the bodice of what had once been a dress. Earrings had fallen on the cushion.

One of the woman's hands rested in her lap, the bony fingers holding a yellowed envelope. The other rested on a small wooden box and a tattered tassel lying across its top. An aged leather portfolio rested at her feet, the Brandon crest faintly visible.

The entombed carriage and its occupant needed to be reported. I eyed the case, the box, and the brittle-looking paper. Deputy Sheriff Stanton had told me not to investigate on my own. But this was different. It had probably been more than a century since this woman had last enjoyed fresh air. The hatpin had gone missing, and I didn't want to take a chance on anything else disappearing.

A rain of dust softly fell on my hair and shoulders as I leaned into the cab. Shreds of a voluminous red skirt had small, tattered cloth-covered triangles poking out from under the hem. Shoes she no longer needed. A fixed yellow-toothed grin greeted the first visitor in decades. I pulled the portfolio out and put it on the floor.

I put my knees on the carriage floor, grabbed the cushion across from the skeleton, and crawled in. I crouched down in the small foot space within inches of the gruesome occupant.

Get the envelope. Get the box. Get out of there.

Putting my thumb and forefinger on the aged envelope, I tugged gently. It moved slightly. I pulled again. Stuck. The dust was beginning to work its way up my nose; drops of perspiration trickled down my face.

The empty sockets seem to be turned toward me. How dare I intrude? What was I doing in her carriage?

I yanked and the skeletal hand parted from the rest of the body and clattered to the carriage floor in a rain of small bones. Falling back, I fought a wave of nausea. I looked over my shoulder at the opening in the wall, streaming with light, leading back into the carriage house, and willed myself to be calm. Placing the envelope in my fleece pocket, I turned back to get the box.

Gingerly, I reached out and began to work it away from the other hand. An object fell off of one of the bony fingers. A cameo ring with an ivory silhouette of a woman's face slowly rolled to a stop next to my foot.

I had the box; the hand rested on the seat. I quickly backed out of the carriage.

“No offense, I just don't want to overstay my visit,” I muttered to the silent hostess.

My right hand fit through the handle of the case, and I pushed it up onto my arm. Holding the box under my arm with my left hand, my flashlight in my right, I struggled forward with my awkward load. I was determined to make only one trip if at all possible.

When I reached the opening, I put down the case, leaned through, and placed the box on the floor on the other side. Doing the same with the case, I then crawled through and into the main room of the carriage house.

The openness of the large room was welcome after the close quarters with the skeleton. I took a deep breath and slipped my flashlight into my pocket. I pulled out the envelope. The back had a cracked, purple wax seal with the Brandon emblem. I carefully removed a piece of brittle parchment paper, discolored with age. Placing the envelope on top of the leather case, I unfolded the single stiff sheet.

The missing Mrs. Brandon. It wasn't a myth. I'd always believed the docents of old mansions often embellished the family history with a few additional skeletons in the closet and thought maybe Redwood Heights had been no different. This time the story was true. I was faced with another murder, though, one belonging in the annals of history, not the front page of the daily paper.

I put the letter back in the envelope and sat on the floor next to the leather case and the box, which I suspected was a writing slope. My family had one of these at the ranch. My great-grandfather used it to keep meticulous records. The angled surface formed a comfortable writing area for long periods of work. Using the cloth cover that had helped me remove the boards, I dusted the top of it and found a detailed pattern of mother-of-pearl inlay. The front was smashed where a lock would've been.

I opened it, reached inside, and pulled out a stack of folded papers held together by a faded blue ribbon. I untied the bow, opened the packet, and began reading the top letter.

It quickly became clear to me Mrs. Brandon had a lover. My face heated as I read the passionate words he'd written. I didn't want to intrude on their long-ago intimacy and skimmed through the rest of the letter. I stopped at the last paragraph.

The flowing hand had written, “We must think of a way to get rid of him so we can be together always, Violet. Think, as I will, and together we'll devise a plan.”

I scanned the rest of the letters, then turned to the leather case, unbuckling the tarnished metal clasp, bending back the cracked brown leather, and found several more packets of letters. I went through them, traveling back in time. They revealed that the couple planned on killing Brandon and living together at the estate. Then she got pregnant. She hadn't slept with her husband for months—he'd know the baby wasn't his. They put their plans on hold while she traveled back east to have the child, leaving before Brandon could detect she was pregnant. After the birth, she'd planned to leave the child with relatives and return so they could finish their business with Brandon.

I knew enough of the history to know she had indeed returned after an extended visit to New York. That part of their plan had come to pass. Obviously, from the body in the carriage, the rest of it didn't. It also meant there was a good likelihood she'd had a baby—if so, it meant there'd been someone who thought they had the right to inherit the mansion.

I checked my watch and put the papers away. I needed to get back to the inn and change for the whale event . . . and call the police. Standing, I noticed the door had closed at some point. I'd been so engrossed I hadn't been aware of it. The wedge must have come undone.

Then I smelled it.

Smoke.

I
looked around. Wisps of smoke were coming from under the door. I ran over and tried to open it, yanking the door back and forth.

It didn't budge. Something had to be holding it in place.

Getting down on my knees, I looked under the bottom. I could see an object there. Had the wedge accidentally gotten turned around and was holding the door shut? And what was burning? Had the rags spontaneously combusted?

The smoke was getting thicker. I called 911, my fingers shaking as I dialed, but Redwood Cove only had a volunteer fire department—it would take them a while to get there. They answered, and I told them the situation and where I was. I pulled the alarm on the wall but didn't know how far the sound would carry. The windows were high and small. I could get up there with the ladder, but I wasn't sure I'd be able to get through them.

There was a fire extinguisher next to the alarm. Grabbing it, I sprayed under the door. The smoke continued to pour in. I needed to get out of there, which meant unjamming the door.

I knelt down again and tried to reach the item with my fingers, scraping the skin on the back of my hands. The distance between the bottom of the door and floor was almost enough for me to reach the object, but not quite. I needed something to push back whatever was holding the door in place. Smoke was filling the room. I coughed and coughed again. Then I remembered the old photographs I'd seen earlier—like cardboard, thin and stiff. They might work.

I raced to the box and grabbed a handful of them. Putting two of them together, I pushed them under the door and felt the object move. There was room for a third photo, so I added it, making my tool stronger. The resistance suddenly gave way as the pictures slid through under the door. I'd done it! Whatever had been jammed under the door was dislodged.

I jumped up, turned the handle, and stumbled outside, tripping on smoldering rags. I managed to keep my balance and rushed back inside for the fire extinguisher. I coated the rags with foam, put the fire extinguisher down, and sank to my knees. Shifting to a sitting position, I closed my eyes.

They flew open as I felt myself showered in dog kisses. Two ecstatic beagles beamed at me. Stevie and Deputy Sheriff Stanton ran toward me.

Stanton knelt beside me. “Ms. Jackson, are you okay?”

“I think so,” I croaked, my throat raw from the smoke. I hadn't had time to evaluate my condition yet.

The rags had begun to smoke again. “There's a fire extinguisher beside the door,” I wheezed.

He stood, got it, and smothered the pieces of cloth completely. Sirens approached.

Stevie sat down next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. “I'm glad you're okay.” He sat there, caring and supportive.

“What made you come here?” I asked.

“Deputy Sheriff Stanton and I were talking when Jack and Jill went ballistic, howling and lunging against their leashes. They were clearly trying to tell us something. We looked in the direction they were pulling and saw the smoke. We ran toward it and heard the alarm as we approached. The dogs probably heard it when we couldn't and smelled the smoke as well.”

I gave the dogs a hug. Their fast-moving tails would have fanned the fire, so I was glad it was out.

A team of firemen arrived.

“I think we have it under control,” Deputy Stanton told them. “I'd like you to check the rags and inside the carriage house to make sure.”

As my calm returned, I realized the rags weren't where I'd seen them earlier. They'd been at the side of the building before, not in front of the door. I got up and looked around where I'd dislodged what had jammed the door. I found the triangular piece of wood I'd used earlier. It had indeed been turned around to hold the door closed.

I was standing near Deputy Stanton. One of the firemen came up to him with some of the rags in his hand.

“Deputy Stanton, there's a smell of gasoline and a match. This was deliberately set. We're lucky the material was damp from the fog this morning.”

The wedge secured the door, locking me in.

The rags had been moved and lit on fire.

Someone had tried to kill me.

A flash of fear followed.

Deputy Sheriff Stanton walked over to me. “I'm guessing you heard.”

I nodded. “I'd wedged the door open when I got here. I thought somehow it had gotten loose and turned around. It appears it had some help.”

“Tell me what's been going on.”

There was a lot to tell. I handed him the diamond ring and explained about the raven, the fall, and the walled-off room.

I gave him the details of what I'd found. “I think you have two mysteries solved, Deputy Sheriff . . . what happened to the missing Mrs. Brandon and the identity of the jewel thief.”

“You've had a busy morning, Ms. Jackson.”

“Let me show you the items I removed from the carriage.”

We went inside. The firemen had opened the large carriage house doors, but a haze of smoke still filled the air. It would take a while for it to clear.

Handing him the letter, I pointed to the leather case and the box. “These will have the information I shared with you.”

He nodded and then shined his light into the newly discovered room, the tomb of Mrs. Brandon, and gave a low whistle. “This could be quite a find for our local history buffs, depending on what Mr. Corrigan wants to do with the stuff.”

“I'll ask him what he plans to do with it.”

“Thanks.” Deputy Sheriff Stanton closed the notepad he'd been writing in and looked at me. “Don't say anything about the skeleton and the fire for now. I want to question people first.”

“Okay. What about the raven and the jewelry? Can I tell Stevie?”

“That's fine. It'll take some of the tension away, and that's a good thing.” He smiled. “And now Gertie'll get off my back for questioning Stevie. That'll be a
very
good thing.”

I went back outside. Stevie and the beagles were seated where they'd found me. “Stevie, I know who, or rather what, stole the jewelry.”

Excitement lit his face. “Who did it?”

I told him what I'd found. “The police can't charge you or anyone else now. They have to go after a bird!”

He gave me a hug. “Thank you so much. What an incredible relief!”

I returned to Deputy Sheriff Stanton. “I'd like to go and get ready for the event this afternoon.”

“Ms. Jackson,”—he looked at me—“it appears someone made an attempt on your life. You need to be very careful.”

“I understand.”

“If you think of anything new, even if it seems trivial, call me.”

“I will,” I promised.

“Okay. You can go.”

I bid Stevie good-bye, got in the truck, and drove back to Redwood Cove B & B. The jewelry thefts were solved. A murder was solved, albeit an old one. And an attack had been made on my life. Quite a morning indeed.

The inn had a second door in back, which we rarely used. Knowing I reeked of smoke, I decided to go in that way to avoid awkward questions. I unlocked it and entered the hallway. A washer and dryer were on my right, followed by the linen closet, and then the conference room. I walked farther down the hall and to my room.

I showered, put on clean jeans and a T-shirt, and then took my smoke- and dust-tainted clothes to the washer and got them started. Walking back, I checked the conference room. There were no Sentinels, but there was a picture with a sign underneath it and large red letters stating, “Robert James!!!” with Oceanside Lodge and Suites underneath it.

I studied the picture, thinking it looked like the billionaire Sylvia showed me named Robert Johnson. I couldn't be sure, as I'd only seen the photograph once. Maybe it was his doppelgänger. Or maybe he was using an alias to avoid people like Sylvia. It didn't matter if it was him or not. They'd found the man the police wanted to question. It was a long shot he had anything to do with Sylvia's murder, especially since he wasn't staying there that day, but it was one more step in the investigation.

I went to the office and took a stack of brochures out of the desk drawer and studied them. Corrigan had involved me in the renovation, and I'd suggested creating names and themes for the rooms. It had been a fun project, and seeing the pictures and descriptions showed it had come to fruition. I was excited about working with the public for the first time as manager of Redwood Cove B & B and wanted to put the events of the morning to the back of my mind so I could enjoy the experience.

Going through the multipurpose room on my way out, I saw the kids hard at work on their projects at the table. Fred seemed to be in the same position I'd seen him in earlier—touching both Tommy and Allie. This time he deigned to acknowledge me by lifting his head and wagging his tail. I think I was moving up on his “like” list.

“How's the work going?” I asked.

“We're making presentation boards.” Tommy jumped up. He grabbed a large piece of folded cardboard, opened it, and put it on the table, revealing a trifold with a wonderful, elaborate display. He did the same with a second one. The kids had glued pictures of whales and placed ocean-themed stickers on the boards.

Allie picked up a miniature blue-and-white lighthouse, peeled the backing off, and placed it in the upper right-hand corner of one. “I'm learning a lot of new things. I never knew things like this existed,” she said as she picked up some pearlescent seashells stickers.

Tommy chose a glittering starfish from the pile in front of him. “Mom got them for us. They're really neat.” He held up a replica of a piling from a wharf, real twine wrapped around it, with a seagull perched on top.

Helen came over and stood beside me. “Our local crafts store has a large scrapbooking section. I thought the kids would have fun with them.”

“We are!” exclaimed Allie. “Thank you so much.”

Helen turned to me. “Did you hear the good news? The Sentinels found Robert James.”

“I didn't hear it, but I saw it in big letters with lots of exclamation marks.”

“They're an amazing group. When they put their minds to something, it gets done.”

As I drove to the mansion, thoughts of the morning's attack pushed their way into my mind, in spite of my efforts to deny them access. Who had tried to kill me? What had I done? What did they think I knew?

I was asking myself the same questions I'd asked to find Sylvia's murderer . . . only this time the questions were about me.