The Marsh Madness Page 2

  “When I spoke to Lisa Troy, his assistant, she mentioned that Mr. Kauffman liked Ngaio Marsh because of her New Zealand connection. Apparently, he had a thing for the place.”

  “Then the man’s a fool. Marsh is a giant of the Golden Age, but it’s not because of New Zealand, even if she did hail from there. I think she’s the best of the British writers of that era.”

  “Well,” I said, calmly. “This should all make an interesting discussion when we have our luncheon at Summerlea.”

  Vera snorted. “I’ve met him more than once. Kauffman’s no prize, if you ask me. Anyway, I’ve heard that the old coot is practically gaga. Collecting only one author is probably a symptom.”

  “Um, the old coot,” I said as tactfully as I could, “is dead.”

  “Magnus Kauffman is dead?”

  “As a doornail, apparently. That’s why the invitation came from Chadwick Kauffman. He’s the heir and the person we’ll be meeting.”

  “So old Kauffman’s dead, is he? When did this happen?”

  “Late this past year, Miss Troy, the assistant, told me. In the fall.”

  She assumed her scowliest expression. “I thought I would have heard something.”

  For sure Magnus Kauffman’s death would have made news, certainly the New York Times, but we’d been otherwise occupied.

  “If you remember, we had a lot on our mind around Thanksgiving.”

  Vera’s brow darkened. We never speak of the events of last November. I’ll say for the record that the weeks before Thanksgiving brought bad times to Van Alst House and a close call for Vera and her entire collection, as well as for my job and the life we all love. But that, as they say, is a story for another day.

  I kept going. “Mr. Kauffman left everything to his nephew, Chadwick, his only close relative.”

  “Really? You mean all those fine old families intermarrying are now reduced to one impoverished relative?”

  “Um, hardly impoverished. I checked him out. He has a number of businesses, including the Country Club and Spa, an exclusive establishment over in Grandville. I’m pretty sure I’ve even seen coverage of his charity events in the New York Times Sunday Styles.”

  “I must have missed that, Miss Bingham.” Vera glowered.

  Silly of me. As if Vera—who took the New York Times every day for the crossword—would ever read the Sunday Styles section. What was I thinking?

  I didn’t try to explain that it had been a charity event at the Country Club that had been covered, with women in gorgeous gowns and men in formal wear. “The point is that Chadwick has made a name for himself and he took an interest in the, um, elder Mr. Kauffman.”

  “I bet he did. I guess it paid off for him, then. But why is he selling off the Marshes?”

  “Not sure. His interests lie elsewhere, as I said. Maybe he wants the collection to go to a good home, say, for instance, here.”

  “Maybe there’s not much left of the estate and he’s starting to sell it off. Anyway, not sure I want to meet him at all,” she sniffed. “He sounds like a drip. What kind of man finds himself in the Styles section? I am sure he doesn’t have any interest in us.”

  Oh no. It would be just like Vera to turn her back on this wonderful opportunity and cancel the lunch. After all, she couldn’t care less about other people’s historic houses, and she’d only wear one of her hideous and bedraggled beige sweaters to the event, possibly a cardigan that had been donated to the Goodwill by a retiring goat herder. I clung to my dream of wearing my raspberry dress to Summerlea.

  “Chadwick Kauffman is interested in you, Vera—”

  I hate it when she harrumphs. It’s a sound that haunts my nightmares.

  The only selling point was getting our mitts on the books. I stuck to that. “He specifically mentioned that you were chosen to have first dibs on his uncle’s world-class collection.”

  I didn’t mention that Vera’s own collection of Marsh novels was barely adequate. She had twenty-three of the books—nice enough, mostly paperback reprints in decent but not pristine condition. If this new collection was as described—fine first editions, practically untouched—she would be over the moon when she took possession of it. Not that she’d admit that. I knew I’d be finding buyers for the books she had, and if I was patient and businesslike, we’d collect quite a bit to offset the cost of the “Kauffman Find,” as I thought of it.

  While I was at college, I’d discovered the Marsh books one rainy weekend at my best friend Tiff’s family cottage. I read quite a few during the summers. Now I wanted to get back on top of the series, as part of the whole Summerlea adventure. I would never dare try to read Vera’s collection. I’d been hunting for cheaper secondhand copies for myself. Even with my nose for a bargain, I’d found that a challenge as many of the Marsh paperbacks were out of print.

  Vera wasn’t letting go of her reluctance. She’s not the type to be enthusiastic about anything, except maybe bursting my bubble. “Why me?”

  We’d been through this already, but I took a deep breath and recapped. “Miss Troy said—if you remember—that as you are a preeminent collector, Mr. Kauffman believes the books would be in good hands and this would honor his uncle’s interests and memories.” I may have put some words into the mouth of Chadwick Kauffman. I had never spoken to him directly. But it was all in the service of a greater good, and there was an excellent chance that this would turn out to be true. Plus I wanted to enjoy my bit of anticipation and, most likely, Vera wouldn’t remember the details of what I’d claimed he’d said.

  Even so, she shot me a suspicious glance.

  I returned her glance with my most innocent expression, smoothing my hair to the side, a horrible tell, my uncle Mick would say. “I really love those books. I haven’t read her in a few years. But I’ve found myself a few paperbacks.” I tried to pretend that my interest was purely professional, but then that Roderick Alleyn was really delicious.

  I have a weakness for fictional males, and Inspector Alleyn was as aristocratic and intelligent as Lord Peter Wimsey and as entertaining as Archie Goodwin, my two all-time heartthrobs. He was better looking than Wimsey, and I was sure Roderick Alleyn had never looked even slightly foolish. He was more elegant than Archie, although maybe not quite as good in a fight. But what I liked best was that he had a foot in two worlds: his upper-crust origins and the much grubbier world of policing. Welcome to my life, living large at Van Alst House. I totally understood that. I was the first person in my entire family to go straight. And hadn’t the inspector and I both stumbled into more than our share of murders?

  I thought he’d get me.

  Vera made another face that didn’t do her any favors. “You really should stop mooning around, Miss Bingham. It’s all such a waste of energy. I don’t see why we can’t do the transaction by phone or e-mail.”

  I felt Summerlea and my great adventure slipping away. Without chirping, I said, “We’ve already accepted and they’ve welcomed us. We’ve already arranged with the bank to get the cash. You know that, Vera. We can’t back out now. Think of your status in the community.” Okay, that was a stretch. It would be hard to imagine anyone who cared less about the community than Vera. Or anyone whose status was more compromised.

  “Miss Bingham! Please stop squandering my time. Weren’t you supposed to be finding a new supply of acid-free boxes today?”

  “It’s done, Vera.”

  “What about reordering our white cotton gloves for handling my books?”

  “Twelve dozen should arrive by Friday. But back to Summerlea. Would you like to come with me in the Saab? It could be fun.” I love my vintage blue Saab. It runs like a dream even though long before it was mine, it belonged to my mother. No wonder I’m so attached to the nineteen sixties.

  Fun is to Vera as a big box of snakes is to others. She barely suppressed a shudder as she turned into the study. “Fine, we
will go, but not in that silly blue vehicle. We will all go in the Cadillac. Mr. Kelly will drive.”

  What was so silly about my car . . . Wait, what? Uncle Kev? Coming to Summerlea?

  “Mr. Whoozit’s assistant called and asked that we bring him to assist.”

  I’m afraid that I wailed. “But I’m the assistant. I will assist!”

  “Miss Bingham. I do not comprehend why you are behaving like a petulant child. Mr. Kelly will do the heavy lifting.”

  I couldn’t imagine that there’d be that much lifting. Uncle Kev was our official groundskeeper, maintenance guy, bouncer and court jester. He was also the relative most likely to make Guinness World Records as the planet’s most adorable walking disaster. Maybe Kauffman’s assistant had spotted him while checking out Vera Van Alst on Google and had been drawn to the man in the “WHERE’S THE BEEF?” T-shirt.

  Wouldn’t be the first time.

  “But, I can lift a box or two. I schlep heavy items every day. I’m very—” Sometimes that heavy item is Kevin.

  Vera raised her eyebrow, usually a declaration of war. “Mr. Kelly will come along. He certainly merits a special occasion.”

  What? And I didn’t? This bit of Kev news gave me a shock. I couldn’t imagine that there’d be anything for Kev to do. And when had Vera been talking to Lisa Troy?

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. Like most women, Vera had a weakness for Uncle Kev. Maybe it’s the chiseled cheekbones, the brilliant blue eyes, the uninhibited smile and the fine head of red hair that my Kelly uncles owe to Olaf the Viking, who was a hot commodity around Dublin in the ninth century.

  My mother had been a redheaded Kelly too. I have the dark hair of the Binghams. Good thing, I wouldn’t want to clash with my dream dress. But I digress. My original point was that Vera and our cook, Signora Panetone, think the sun shines out of Kev’s—

  Vera reached her desk and whirled. “Why are you still hanging around, Miss Bingham? I have work to do. I believe that you do too, as I pay you enough for it.”

  “But don’t you need Kev here to—?” I paused, trying to think of something that would be improved by Kev’s presence on the home front. It was a short list.

  But what if something needed lighting on fire?

  “Miss Bingham.” Vera snapped open a file. I knew I was taking a chance, but I predicted a world of trouble if Kev came with us. Why couldn’t Vera see that too? Of course, I’d always kept Kev’s biggest disasters secret from her in order that he could stay on as live-in staff at Van Alst House. I couldn’t fault her not understanding the degree of risk involved. At that point, I decided I wouldn’t ride in the Caddy with them. I’d follow them in the Saab. I’d deal with any arguments if and when they arose at the time of departure.

  Uncle Kev chose that moment to stop whatever crisis he’d been creating elsewhere and pop into our conversation. That’s when the entire thing first took on its surreal appearance.

  There he was: lovable, handsome and enthusiastic. You could cut fabric with those cheekbones. His blue eyes were mesmerizing. And he was kind. It wasn’t his fault that so much went wrong so soon after he walked onto a scene. To my great surprise, he’d fit in quite well at Van Alst House. “Hey, Jordie. Did you hear? I’m going to . . . wherever it is that you’re so excited about.”

  “Summerlea.” I smiled tightly before my attention was caught by movement through the tall study window.

  “Kev! What’s that?” I pointed through the window to a wisp of mist, or was it smoke?

  He whirled. His ginger eyebrows lifted. His chiseled cheekbones pointed. His blue eyes gleamed and his freckles added emphasis to his entire face. “What? Nothing! Nothing at all.”

  I turned back to confront him and stared at Kev’s denim backside as he vanished through the door and presumably down the endless corridor toward the back door of Van Alst House.

  “Miss Bingham,” Vera said with a sniff. “You really should get a grip. You are entirely too high-strung today.”

  Actually, I was entirely too high-strung about the miniature mushroom cloud of smoke that I had spotted through that window. The puff had emanated from the wooded grove at the edge of the property. The evergreens, mostly spruce and cedar, provided a much needed pop of green where our majestic maple trees stood, still bare. I wanted them to remain standing.

  “You’re absolutely right,” I said. “I’ll go and calm down now.”

  In my family, we have an expression: “Where there’s smoke, there’s Kev.”

  I hurried along the corridor, stuck my feet in my glossy red Hunter rain boots and shot out the back door. I headed straight for that wooded grove. Kev, of course, had beaten me to it. He was emerging, radiating innocence, when I reached the edge of the grove.

  “Beautiful evening, isn’t it, Jordie?”

  “No, it is not. It’s a miserable end-of-winter day. And if it had been a beautiful evening, the sight of that trail of smoke would have been the end of it.”

  Kev took my arm and propelled me back toward Van Alst House. “Jordie, Jordie, Jordie. Don’t let your imagination get away from you.”

  “First of all, that doesn’t make sense, Kev, and second, I saw smoke and I want to know what that smoke was all about.”

  “It’s a long story. Shall we have a snack in the conservatory and talk about what you thought you saw?”

  “I didn’t think I saw anything, Kev. I did see something and—”

  “Oh, look. I think Vera wants you.”

  “She doesn’t want me, and you are trying to deflect my attention away from—”

  But Vera was there at the back door of Van Alst House gesticulating. A gesticulating Vera is never a good thing, just as a puff of smoke in the vicinity of Kev isn’t.

  “We’ll sort this out later,” I grumbled, stomping my way to the back door.

  Vera, it turned out after all, had decided she was ready to plan our trip. She needed Kev in on the action, as he would be taking her in the Caddy. I wasn’t sure what was worse: Kev in Summerlea or Kev left behind with whatever he had going on in the grove at the edge of the property. I really didn’t want to return to find Van Alst House a charred and reeking ruin.

  Never mind, we were heading off on an adventure. But Kev was a Grade A blabbermouth and, knowing him, he’d already been on the phone to his brothers with the news. As his brothers were also my uncles, I’d been expecting to hear from them.

  My phone gave the unique ring assigned to Uncle Mick, probably my favorite person in the world. I answered and found a barrage of suggestions.

  “When you’re there at that Kauffman place, make sure you scope out the silver. The grandfather had a collection of Georgian sterling. Not what everyone keeps at their so-called summer home, but the rich are not like us, as they say.”

  “Sorry, Uncle Mick, I—”

  “And watch the walls. I hear there’s some good stuff by Ansel Adams, Georgia O’Keeffe and—”

  My uncles all had an appreciation for the finer things. Helping them scope out potential plunder is not part of my plan to get away from the family “business.” It doesn’t matter how many times I mention that I am going straight; it never seems to sink in. I’ve learned to save my breath.

  I said, “Sorry, Uncle Mick. You’re breaking up.”

  “Ansel Adams and Georgia O’Keeffe. And I heard there might be a Colville,” he bellowed.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with the signal. I’ll call you later.” I rang off. I imagined poor Uncle Mick standing there, baffled, lusting after that silver and those artworks. He’d be as appealing as ever with the gold chain glinting in his curly chest hair, the match to his eyebrows and full head of ginger hair. I loved him to bits, but I did not intend to facilitate any pillaging of the Kauffman holdings.

  I hustled after Vera and Kev. I wanted to be part of the planning. That was pure self-pre
servation.

  Vera turned back to me as she rolled down the hall toward the study, “By the way, a package came for you, Miss Bingham. I signed for it. It’s at the front door.”

  “A package?”

  “Yes, flowers. A delivery of flowers.”

  “Flowers?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t parrot, Miss Bingham. It’s most annoying. It’s even worse than chirping.”

  “What kind of flowers?”

  “How would I know? It’s a long white box. Go find out for yourself.” Vera radiated irritation.

  “Who would be sending me flowers?” I mused out loud. Flowers were a good thing, but I wasn’t used to having them delivered.

  “Go look at the card,” she muttered. “Mr. Kelly and I can plan without you.”

  I hesitated about leaving them together alone. “I’ll be right back,” I said, hurrying toward the front door.

  It was indeed a long white box, with a lovely red satin ribbon and a note.

  Especially for you, Jordan.

  Guess who?

  They must have been from Tyler Dekker, the object of my affections, even if he was a police officer and that wasn’t a such good fit with my family, given their “business.” Who else would send flowers? Lance, my longtime friend and favorite librarian? Maybe. He likes flowers and loves a romantic gesture. But Lance would never miss the opportunity to observe their impact. So Tyler, for sure.

  I was almost dizzy with anticipation as I removed the ribbon and flipped the top off the box. Roses. Deep-red roses with long stems. They were once beautiful, but now they were very dead. The cloying scent of must and old roses wafted up.

  I stared at the desiccated blooms and then at the box. Someone had taken the trouble to arrange to deliver a dozen long-stemmed roses to me.

  I turned the box over. No indication of who they’d come from. The box said Flora’s Fanciful Flowers. Never heard of them.

  Oh well. I headed toward the utility room to stash them in the box that would make its way to our compost when Kev got around to it. I figured the paper box would break down too.