Читать книгу Historically Dead - Greta McKennan - Страница 11

Chapter Three

I stood before the door to the library the next morning, and hesitated with my hand on the doorknob. I didn’t really believe in ghosts, but a man had recently died in that room, and I was about to go through his belongings. It seemed somehow sacrilegious, even if Professor Burbridge was not noted for his piety. Still, I needed the drawings to continue my work on the curtains. The professor was dead, but the rest of us were still alive. Life goes on, and all that. I pushed the door open and crept inside.

The cleaning crew had done good work. The room smelled fresh and piney, with overtones of bleach. The only evidence of death was a noticeably lighter spot on the faded carpet. The mess of papers on the desk had been neatly stacked into a pile. I gritted my teeth and began sifting through them.

I was surprised to see so many handwritten pages in the pile. Evidently the professor was slow to embrace modern technology. I tried not to pay attention to the content—if I read every page on his desk I’d be there for three weeks. All I needed were a set of drawings, or maybe a description of the drawings—I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for. When I’d gone through all the papers on his desk without finding anything about curtains, I turned my attention to the file boxes stacked on the floor.

The top box was titled “Summer Term.” I knew the professor was teaching a class called American Myths for Oliphant University’s summer term, so I doubted I would find anything useful in this box. Sure enough, it contained files on lecture topics and a section with names of students. Nothing about the house, furnishings, or curtains.

I replaced the lid and shifted the box to get to the next one. This one was titled “Library,” and held files corresponding to the various bookshelves in the room where Professor Burbridge died. Again, no curtains.

The last box on the bottom of the pile was titled “Major Samuel Compton.” It didn’t surprise me that Professor Burbridge was researching Laurel Springs’s hometown Revolutionary War hero and esteemed ancestor of Priscilla and Ruth. It was possible that the professor’s research on the original furnishings of the house could be in this box. I popped off the lid and scanned the bulging file folders within. Their labels read things like “Sources,” “Letters,” “Battle of Laurel Springs,” and “Treason.” I didn’t find anything having to do with the renovation project.

I replaced the stack of boxes and heaved a sigh. Where would the professor have squirreled away the important drawings I needed to produce authentic eighteenth-century curtains?

I checked the desk drawers, but they were filled with office supplies and boxes of old family photographs that looked like they belonged to the Compton sisters rather than Professor Burbridge. I would have loved to spend all afternoon going through those pictures with Priscilla, hearing her tell family stories. Unfortunately, I really didn’t have time for that. I did spare a few minutes to shuffle through a few of the boxes, just to get a glimpse of the old ladies back when they weren’t old. I found a shot from Ruth’s wedding, back in the late 1950s by the look of the style of the gown and bridesmaids’ dresses. Priscilla was maid of honor, wearing a stiff taffeta dress with an off-the-shoulder neckline and a full gathered skirt that fell just below her knees. Her youthful face was almost unrecognizable, except for her sweet smile, which had never changed.

Another photo showed Priscilla standing next to Ruth and her husband in the front yard of Compton Hall. Ruth held a baby in her arms, and a young boy snuggled up beside her. Priscilla wore a tight sweater and a tweed skirt, with her long hair curled up in a bun. She couldn’t have been more than thirty, but she already looked like the maiden aunt. I shuffled through more photos, watching the two boys grow older and their father grow stouter, while in them all Priscilla stood by their side, serene and alone.

I slipped the stack of photos back into the small box. I didn’t know a whole lot about the Compton family, but I did know that Priscilla never married. Ruth married a Philadelphia lawyer some years older than herself. I had a vague memory that he had died seven or eight years ago, while I was in college in Ohio. There was some scandal about his death, but I was in the midst of writing a thesis on the impact of French couture on American fashion throughout the twentieth century, and had no time or inclination to follow the society news from Laurel Springs. The couple evidently had two children. I’d met one of them yesterday, John Ellis. I wondered what the other son was up to.

I replaced the photo box in the desk drawer and slid the drawer shut. This little glimpse of Priscilla’s family history was all very well, but I had curtains to make. I stood up and scanned the room, looking for a place to stow historical drawings. Of course! A long credenza stood along the wall next to the door, overshadowed by deep hanging bookcases built into the wall. Another tall pile of papers on the credenza finally yielded the drawings I needed. Two photocopies of the actual drawings showed a set of dimity curtains framing a mullioned window, done from several different angles. The light curtains were looped up with a set of ruffled tiebacks with tassels at the ends. The professor’s notes in the margins read “Master Bedroom, The Hampton Estate, 1760s.”

I hugged the pages to my chest, happy to have them at last. As I turned to leave I saw Randall, once more blocking my way. He lounged on the doorjamb as if he’d been there awhile. “Checking out the professor’s personal papers, are we?”

I felt my face get hot. “Professor Burbridge didn’t get the chance to give me the drawings he had located for me. I needed them to finish the curtains for the living room.”

Randall slowly straightened up from the doorjamb and advanced into the room. “So you found them? Anything else of interest?”

I shrugged, trying to look unconcerned by his insinuation that I was snooping. “All I needed were the drawings.” I slipped past him, and headed upstairs for the sewing room.

I spent the next hour measuring and cutting the filmy curtain fabric, all the while kicking myself for feeling like I had to explain myself to Randall. I resolved to avoid him as much as possible. Good thing I liked Fiona so much, or I might be tempted to sabotage her wedding gown or charge her double to try to get back a little of what Randall stole from me. I pushed aside thoughts of revenge, and considered whether I needed to warn Fiona about Randall’s questionable character. I’d hate to see him take advantage of her like he did to me. Of course, Fiona was a bright law student who could probably deal with Randall in court if she had to. I hoped, for her sake, that she never would.

I was just about to start hemming the curtains, resigned to the prospect of setting in each hem by hand, when Louise Pritchard appeared in my doorway.

“You’re wanted in the living room,” she proclaimed, clearly put out by the indignity of having to come upstairs to fetch the seamstress.

I followed her down to find the entire household gathered in the living room. The two elderly sisters sat in the wingback chairs by the hearth, leaving the rest of the assembled people to stand. Randall leaned an elbow on the mantel, looking like he owned the place. Jamison Royce stood on the other side of the hearth, his jeans grimy from the soil in the garden, his work hat pulled low over his eyes. Carl Harper, the contractor, stood near the door, a nail gun dangling from his hand. Louise walked across the room to stand behind Priscilla’s chair. Two imposing figures faced this group: the producers of the TV show, My House in History.

A petite woman in her early thirties with brown hair cropped close to her head, dressed in multicolored pastel leggings and a clingy tunic blouse, Cherry Stamford radiated nervous energy. Next to her stood Stillman Dertz, a giant of a man who gnawed on the stub of a cigar and avoided eye contact with anyone. I had met the two of them a week and a half ago, when they had invaded my sewing room and taken footage of me cutting out Priscilla’s gown. They had caught me kneeling down with the fabric spread out on the floor—not the most flattering pose. I hoped they would minimize that segment in the final broadcast.

Cherry held a clipboard in her hand and addressed the group. “We’ve fallen behind schedule, folks. We lost an entire day due to paramedics, coroners, and whatnot tramping through the house. We did take footage of the disturbances, and I don’t know if we’ll use them or not, but the fact remains that we’re woefully behind at this point. The renovations are slated to be finished by next Wednesday so we can wrap up filming on the finished product.”

Stillman shifted his weight beside her and removed the cigar stub from his mouth. “Tell them about the new arrangements.”

Cherry barely paused for breath. “We’ve decided to take hour-by-hour footage of the run to the finish. Everyone will need to accelerate their work accordingly.” She clapped her hands. “It’s settled. We’ll be following each of you with cameras from now on. Back to work, folks!”

I stood up with the rest, intrigued by this new development. It would be interesting, and maybe a bit daunting, to have cameras following my every move.

Randall sidled up to me on his way out of the living room. “Do you have a minute, Daria? I have some things I’d like to talk over with you.” He ran his fingertips lightly up my arm in a caressing gesture that I used to love.

I flinched away from his touch, my mind racing. Who did he think he was? He was engaged to be married, for goodness’ sake!

He didn’t notice anything amiss. “Can you join me in the library?”

I shoved my hands in my pockets and drew myself up. My five feet three inches were hardly impressive, but the gesture helped me calm my frazzled nerves. “I’m sorry, I have to get back to my sewing. Maybe some other time?”

As soon as I said it I knew it was a mistake. The gleam in Randall’s eye as he turned away with a polite “Fine, some other time” told me I was in for a prolonged tussle with the master of manipulation.

* * * *

I spent the rest of the afternoon handstitching the hems in the living room curtains. The filmy fabric frayed terribly. Normally I would have finished the edge with my serger and then set in the hem, but such modern methods would be glaringly obvious in this attempt for historical accuracy. I reminded myself of the romance involved in recreating a lost era, and soldiered on with the hems.

Hemming doesn’t take any kind of mental attention, which left my mind free to wander. I tried to focus on the seamstresses who might have made such curtains in the olden days, wondering what they would have thought about their work. But my mind kept returning to the image of Professor Burbridge sprawled on the faded library carpet.

I clipped the end of one thread and threaded another long length onto my needle. It took me another forty-five minutes to finish the last hem on one set of curtains. I stood up and stretched, shaking out both hands to alleviate the cramps from the repetitive work of hand stitching. I still had one more set to go. Feeling the need for company, I gathered up fabric, needle, and thread, and zipped downstairs in the hopes of finding Priscilla at leisure to engage in a good gossip.

I dodged past the open door to the library. I had no desire to “talk things over” with Randall, either now or at any other time. Luckily he was intent on his work at the desk and didn’t notice my passing.

Priscilla sat on the front porch, rocking slowly in her maple rocker just as she did when I was a child. She wasn’t knitting—her knotted hands lay still in her lap. She just sat, watching a trio of little girls across the street setting out leaves and sticks for their dolls to have tea. I sat down beside her.

“Mind if I join you? Hems get tedious after a while with no one to take my mind off them.”

She smiled, looking genuinely pleased to see me. “Of course, my dear. Are those the curtains? They look lovely. You asked the professor for his drawings, then?”

“Well, I didn’t get the chance before he died. I found the drawings in the library.” I looked over at Priscilla, gently rocking in her porch chair.

Priscilla’s rocking never slackened. “Poor, dear man. Such a sad day it was. It’s always a tragedy when the young go before their time.” She picked up a small photo album that had been lying on the doily-covered side table next to her. Her bony fingers caressed the cracked spine, and then she laid the album open flat on her lap. One gnarled finger pointed to the studio portraits within. I saw two black-and-white pictures of young men, so similar in appearance that at first I thought they were two pictures of the same person. Both had crew cuts and wore suit and tie to pose for what looked like their high school graduation pictures.

Priscilla tapped the photo on the right. “Robby was gone too young. This is the last picture I have of him.”

I leaned over her shoulder to gaze at the clean-shaven young man. “Robby?”

“Johnny’s big brother.” She shook her head sadly. “I gave him some homemade fudge for Christmas that year. I told him to save some for his father, but he ate the whole batch that very night.” She closed the book and replaced it on the table. “You never could tell Robby anything.”

I thought of the family pictures I’d seen in the library. “What happened to him?”

Ruth came out onto the porch as I spoke. She frowned at me. “So you’re the one detaining my sister.” She held out a lightweight shawl to Priscilla. “John is taking us out for dinner. We obviously can’t eat in that construction zone of a kitchen.”

Priscilla pulled herself to her feet. “Have a good evening, my dear.” As she exited with Ruth, I could hear her saying, “Did you borrow my silver candlesticks, by any chance? They weren’t on my mantel this morning. You know I light them every morning to welcome the daylight. It would be a shame to lose Great-Aunt Millie’s candlesticks, after all these years.”

I never did find out what happened to Robby.

* * * *

I finished the last hem and shook out the filmy curtain. Next came the embroidery along the bottom hem, as well as the tailored valances that would top the window treatment. But first I needed to wash the sateen fabric for the valances. I bundled up the curtain and headed up to my sewing room to get the sateen.

The door to my sewing room was closed, even though I always left it open to dispel the mustiness of the ancient carpeting. I paused in front of the door, frowning. Maybe Louise had closed it in a fit of tidiness, although she truly didn’t seem like a tidy person to me. I reached for the door handle, hoping that Randall wasn’t waiting inside to “talk things over” with me.

I threw open the door and scanned the room from the doorway. Nothing seemed to be amiss. Maybe I had closed the door, and just forgotten. I gathered up the sateen and headed down the three floors to the basement.

I ran into Cherry on the way down.

She thrust a microphone in my face and signed the silent man following her to begin filming. “What are you doing now”—she consulted a paper on her clipboard that had a series of head shots on it—“Daria?”

I held up my fabric. “I’m headed to the basement to wash this fabric. It’s always important to launder any machine-washable fabric before sewing. If you neglect this step, the seams could pucker if the fabric shrinks when the finished garment is washed.” I smiled at the camera, sure that no one could possibly care about my laundry endeavors.

Cherry must have come to the same conclusion, for she flashed a hand sign to her cameraman that could only mean “cut.” “Very good,” she said to me, and hurried on her way.

I marveled all the way down to the basement. I’d never been involved in filming a TV show before, so this was all eye opening to me. Cherry and her crew were taking hours and hours of footage, which would then be distilled down to one hour-long episode. It seemed like a monumental task.

I located the washer and dryer in the basement, along with a slimy bottle of liquid detergent. Either Carl Harper hadn’t gotten to these modern appliances yet, or the show’s producers decided that renovating the main floor was good enough. I shoved the fabric into the washer and started it up.

I noticed a kitty litter box in the corner, although I hadn’t seen any cats since I’d been working in the house. They were probably spooked by all the commotion of the renovations, not to mention the chaos surrounding Professor Burbridge’s death. I started searching around the corners, calling, “Here, kitty, kitty” in my most persuasive voice. I didn’t flush out any kitty cats, but I did notice a strong smell of smoke when I approached the boiler. Worried about the possibility of fire, I poked around, trying to discover the source of the smell. A thin stream of smoke drifted up from a fresh pile of ashes in a metal bucket next to the boiler. Next to the bucket a manila folder lay discarded on the floor. I picked it up and turned it over to read the label: “Treason.”