Fatal Deduction (2 page)

I snapped on the dog’s lead and determined not to think about all the daunting possibilities lying in wait for Chloe and me. No sense in looking for trouble before it came. And it would come. I knew it as certainly as I knew Princess’s shrill bark would alienate all the neighbors.

If Tori didn’t accomplish that feat first.

“Come on, baby.” I set Princess on the ground and eyed the cluster of row homes set so close together that one’s right wall was the next’s left wall. I desperately missed my yard and my flower garden, and I’d only left home an hour ago. Growing up, I’d always compared our suburban homes on their little plots with Philadelphia’s row houses and felt blessed to have a yard and space between houses. On this lane I didn’t even have a driveway. Or fresh air. Would six months smelling the city’s fumes shorten our lives appreciably?

Not that I had a choice. Aunt Stella had made sure of that.

She wasn’t really my aunt but my great-aunt, Pop Keating’s sister. She was the one who moved away and sought her fortune and became head buyer for Wanamaker’s, retiring just before the giant department store closed its doors. She was also the only one in the family who actually had an estate to leave, but sadly no one to leave it to, as she’d never married. So she’d reached into the bottom of the familial barrel and picked Tori and me.

It was sad, really. We saw her about once a year, and those visits were always laden with tension because Mom and Nan resented her so much. Aunt Stella had money, and they struggled to make ends meet. She could come and go as she pleased, taking exotic vacations in fascinating locales around the world, while they were tied down in Haydn. She had an ordered and genteel life in a lovely, historic house while they lived in a Depression-era home that was slowly falling apart around them.

The resentment had been simmering for a long time. Both Dad and Pop treated Aunt Stella like the Queen of the World whenever she showed up, which only fueled Mom’s and Nan’s antipathy. She was Pop’s only living relative, and as his older sister, she had raised him after their parents died, their father in 1945 in the South Pacific and their mother eight years later of pneumonia when Stella was eighteen and Pop fifteen.

Since Mom and Nan were always and already mad at the men in the family for what they considered Dad and Pop’s cheerful and unapologetic disregard, adding Aunt Stella to their hate list didn’t take any effort at all.

I shook off the malaise that thoughts of family frequently brought and turned my attention to Chloe, who I was determined wouldn’t suffer as I had.

With a sigh at the imposition of carrying her own luggage, she started down the narrow lane, dragging her duffel. Princess pulled on her lead, choking herself in her desire to follow Chloe. I made sure the van was locked, then grabbed the suitcases I’d tugged out, pulled up their handles, and followed, trying not to step on Princess, who zigzagged in front of me like a drunk driver on New Year’s Eve.

I studied the block of Olde Philadelphia as I walked toward Aunt Stella’s house, the bags bumping and complaining their way over the uneven surface. I should be happy to be living here, being in the antiques and collectibles business as I was, but I guess no one likes having her life rearranged without her permission. At least I didn’t. I’m not very adaptable.

This little block of Colonial-era homes was removed from the tourist area, a mere five blocks from Broad Street—or the Avenue of the Arts, as they were calling this section of it now. How had it survived when so many of the old places were gone? And how had Aunt Stella ended up living in what had to be a very expensive home? Being head buyer undoubtedly paid a nice wage, and she’d had only herself to support, but still…

All the brick-fronted homes were impeccably kept, their brass door handles, knockers, lamps, and locks shining in the sun, the paint on the doors and matching shutters gleaming, the window boxes full and flourishing. I stopped at the fifth unit, the one with the glossy black door and shutters, the window boxes stuffed with deep red geraniums, white petunias, and brilliant blue lobelia, with bright green and crimson sweet potato vines trailing to the ground.

Aunt Stella’s home. Now Chloe’s and my home for six months. And Tori’s.

Taking a deep breath, I inserted the key in the front door.

“Are you Libby or Tori?”

Jumping slightly, I turned to find a woman with beautiful white hair and a warm smile standing in the lane in front of the house directly across from ours. Her midnight blue window box, visible over her shoulder, was crammed with bright pink geraniums, miniature snapdragons in light pink and white, and light blue lobelia. English ivy trailed over the edges.

“I’m Libby Keating.” I held out my hand. “And this is Chloe.”

“I’m Tinksie Mowery.” She looked at Chloe curiously. “I didn’t realize a child was coming. Stella never mentioned her.”

I bit back a smile at the expression on Chloe’s face at being called a child. As far as Chloe was concerned, the only thing keeping her from leaving home to manage on her own was lack of a driver’s license. And money. At least Aunt Stella hadn’t made the mistake of providing that.

“Mrs. Mowery,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Oh no, dear. Tinksie.”

Oh no, dear
was right. How could I ever call a woman older than my grandmother
Tinksie?

“I know, dear. Terrible name for an old lady, isn’t it? Why don’t people think about the fact that you’re not always going to be a three-year-old when they give you nicknames?”

“A very good question,” I agreed.

“My husband’s name is James.” Tinksie twinkled at the mention of his name. “Everyone calls him that. Not Jim or Jimmy or, heaven forbid, Jamie. James. We both loved Stella.” Tinksie blinked rapidly, and I realized that just mentioning Aunt Stella had made her teary.

“I’m happy to meet one of Aunt Stella’s friends.” I smiled warmly.

Tinksie nodded. “She was my dearest friend. We lived across from each other for, oh my, I don’t know how many years. But James will know.” She pulled a tissue from the outside pocket of the large
bag hanging over her shoulder and brushed it across the end of her nose. “He knows everything.”

“Are there any kids in this block?” Chloe asked, either missing or ignoring the tears for more pressing matters.

“Just one, dear. For a few months. Drew Canfield’s girl.”

“How old is she?”

“I don’t know exactly, but she might be about your age.” Tinksie tucked her tissue back in her bag’s pocket. “James will know.”

James was going to be a very interesting person to meet.

“Well, I must go.” Tinksie adjusted the pearls at her neck, the huge rock on her ring finger flashing in the sun. “Today is my day at the Kimmel Center. But welcome to the neighborhood.” With a cheery wave she walked past the van and turned left.

“Well, she was nice.” I wondered what Tinksie did at the Kimmel Center, the city’s replacement for the old Academy of Music.

“A
chi-uld
.” Chloe’s voice dripped with disgust.

I bit back a smile. Tinksie would have to go a long way to recover from that inadvertent insult.

“Is she gone?” The whisper emanated from the minuscule crack in our now-open front door. “She’s so cheery she drives me nuts.”

“Tori?” I peered into the shadowed interior.

“Yep, it’s me!” The door flew open, and I blinked at the vision before me. Tori’s blond hair was pulled into a curly topknot with tendrils falling coquettishly against her nape and over her ears. Her eyes were a vivid blue, the color accented by artfully applied shadow, mascara, and liner. She wore a tight pink camisole with a built-in bra—at least I hoped there was a built-in bra—and a short denim skirt. Her long tanned legs were bare, as were her feet. She looked beautiful. As always.

I thought of my own blond hair scraped back in a haphazard ponytail, any strands breaking free not tendrils but springs of frizz.
My cheap navy T-shirt had side seams so skewed that they ended up in the centers of my stomach and back, and my khaki shorts were more wrinkled than a dozen Tinksies.

I could feel myself begin to shrink. Thirty seconds with Tori and I was back in Wonderland. I didn’t need the contents of Alice’s little bottle with the Drink Me label to dwindle to nothing. I just needed my sister, my twin, my other half. My nemesis.

“Aunt Tori!” Chloe threw herself at Tori as I stepped inside.

“Hey, kiddo!” Tori hugged her, then held her away, looking amazed. “Good grief! You’re as tall as I am.” She sighed. “Your mother simply has to bring you to visit me more often. I can’t take shocks like finding my niece a grown woman, you know.”

Chloe smiled happily. “That’s what I keep telling Mom.”

Which? That I need to take you to visit more often or that you’re a grown woman?
Neither option made me happy.

“And you, little lady.” Tori bent to pet Princess, who was jumping against her shins, barking for attention. She scooped the little dog in her arms, unhooked her lead, and planted a kiss on her nose. Princess returned the favor with an enthusiastic lick and settled against Tori.

Traitor
. I retracted the leash and put it and my purse on a living room chair, carefully tucking the door key in the purse’s inner pocket.

Tori, Chloe, and Princess disappeared into the house, talking and laughing.

“Chloe, there’s more to carry in!”

But Chloe was struck with selective deafness, an affliction common to teens, its cure unknown to modern science.

I looked at Chloe’s duffel, abandoned on the stoop beside the suitcases, and sighed as I dragged the luggage inside.

It was going to be a long six months.

“H
I
,”
CAME A YOUNG VOICE
behind me.

I turned from pulling more supplies out of the van’s side door and saw a girl standing in the lane watching me. She looked about Chloe’s age with straight dark hair tucked behind her ears and eyelashes the rest of us would kill for.

“Hi,” I answered with a smile.

“Did you have a good trip to Atlantic City?”

“Not me.” I tucked a bag of groceries into the crook of my arm. “That would be my sister.”

She squinted as she studied me. “Boy, you look alike.”

“Identical twins. My name’s Libby. She’s Tori, but you already know that if you met her.”

“Elizabeth and Victoria. Queens.”

Quick study, this kid. “That’s us. Rulers of all we survey.” Not. I had a quicksilver flash of Mom calling us her “little princesses.” How old had we been when she stopped that? Five? Six?

The girl laughed. “I’m Jenna, after no one famous.”

My smile widened. I liked this girl. “Perhaps you’ll be the one to make the name famous.” I caught a second bag in my other arm.

She rolled her eyes. “Right. Can I carry a couple of bags for you?” Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed a pair, and we began walking toward the house. “Do you have to live here for six months like your sister?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

I wasn’t going to tell her about Aunt Stella’s hope of healing our family’s broken relationships, especially since I was the cause of much of the trouble. “It’s what Aunt Stella said in her will or the house gets sold and all her money goes to charities.”

Jenna seemed shocked. “All the money? Can she do that?”

“All
the money. And she can do whatever she wants with her estate.”

“So you get nothing if you leave in, like, November?”

“You got it. Or if Tori leaves.”

“Weird.”

“My thoughts exactly.” If Aunt Stella was waiting for me in Glory, and I was afraid the
if was
a rather large one, I planned to ask her which of us she expected to change as a result of this forced intimacy—Tori or me. Of course, if she was waiting for me in Glory, then it was Tori she had hopes for.

“We’re here for six months too.” Jenna hiked a sliding bag up with a flip of her hip. “Third house over there.” She pointed to one with a red door. “No money involved though. Dad’s doing one of those house exchange things while he’s on a sabbatical from teaching. He’s over the moon about getting to stay in a Colonial-era place. He’s a Ben Franklin scholar, and he’s writing a book.”

I studied the row of old homes, most extended trinities like Aunt Stella’s. A genuine trinity was a house of three stories with one room on each floor, called a trinity after the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. The old homes on Elfreth’s Alley down by Independence Hall in the historic district were trinities. Those on our little lane—or at least Aunt Stella’s—were extended in the back to add another room or rooms to each floor. I could see why an Early American historian would love the idea of living in these little, inconvenient places, provided his family wasn’t too large.

Personally I yearned for my own little house. I’d only managed to buy it last year, and I wasn’t at all blasé about it yet. “How about you? Are you glad to be in Philadelphia too?”

“Ask me in a couple of months, okay? Back home our neighbors have a swimming pool, and I had unlimited access.” She grinned. “They also have two hottie sons. Dad says they’re too old for me, and they probably are. They’re seventeen and eighteen, and I’m thirteen. But a girl can dream, right?”