Small Plates (2 page)

“I need to talk to you and Tom. It's desperately important!” Her eyes looked like a doe's caught by headlights, and she was holding on to Faith's arm as if it were the last gorse bush on a crumbling cliff.

Before Faith could conjure up more similes from nature—something about the woman suggested frightened wildlife and dire mishaps—she proposed lunch instead, gently detaching Prudence's hand before she cut off Faith's circulation.

“Come back with us after the graveside ceremony. I made some butternut squash soup and sandwiches.” She knew that there would not be any cold baked meats at the Winthrop town house or elsewhere. Eliza had stipulated no collation after the service. “Don't want everyone having a party at my expense,” she'd told her lawyer.

“I hate to be a bother, but that would be wonderful. You see . . .”

“A problem, cousin Prudence?” interrupted Bradford Winthrop IV, looking both elegant and capable in his well-cut black topcoat from Brooks Brothers. Faith hadn't heard him approach. He'd simply oozed his way between them.

Prudence flushed unbecomingly. “No, I was just talking to Mrs. Fairchild about the, uh, service.” Unaccustomed to uttering falsehoods, of any color or size, Prudence was stammering.

“Good, good, then let us proceed. Why don't you drive back into town with us afterward?” Although his voice rose, it was clearly not a question but an order.

Bradford was several years younger than his cousin and was known as a highly successful businessman who adhered to the belief that “ruthless” was a complimentary adjective.

He put his arm through Pru's. “I'll send Nicholas back. No need for him to stay and wait for you.”

As he ushered her off, Pru looked back at Faith over her shoulder, the proverbial lamb to the slaughter. Faith mouthed, “Call you later” and was heartened to see a slight nod.

Bradford left Prudence briefly and spent several moments in deep conversation with Nicholas before waving the butler-chauffeur away.

I
t wasn't until lunch the following day that Prudence was able to get to the parsonage. The soup had kept, and Faith had added chicken salad with tarragon and grape sandwiches.

“I hardly know where to begin,” Prudence said, dipping her spoon into the soup. “Aunt Eliza was, well, a bit eccentric—and she did like to play games—but she was absolutely of sound mind.”

Wondering where this was all going, Faith asked, “Has someone been suggesting otherwise?” Tom had finished his soup and the sandwich would be gone soon too. Her husband was what was known as “a big, hungry boy.” Four-year-old Ben was playing with Legos on the floor next to Faith, and Amy, eight months, was enjoying a postprandial snooze. Faith had fed them earlier.

“No, not really. But, you see, it's Aunt Eliza's will. Nobody's actually seen it, and that's the problem. Instead of depositing a copy with her lawyer, Aunt Eliza left a letter to be opened after her death with instructions for the funeral and the information that she'd hidden her Last Will and Testament.”

Faith dropped her spoon. Soup splashed on the tablecloth. “Hidden it?”

“Yes.” Pru nodded. “Somewhere in the house. And she stated that except for bequests to the servants, the church, and some charities, whoever finds the will inherits everything! She called it ‘a treasure hunt.' ”

Faith and Tom exchanged surprised glances.

“How incredible,” Tom said. “I've heard some odd requests and stipulations in wills, but to play games with a fortune like that!”

And what a fortune it was, Faith reflected. Not simply the house, worth many millions, but also its contents. And then all the other assets, squirreled safely away by Eliza's forebears and guarded by her.

“I get to look first,” Pru said. “But I only have a week, starting from the day of her death, when the letter was opened.”

“But that only gives you three more days!” Faith said.

“I know—and I've been searching everywhere. I haven't been able to find a thing.” It hardly seemed that Pru could look more woebegone, but she did.

“And bright and early Friday morning, you can be sure Bradford and the rest will be at the door with bloodhounds.” Faith wasn't quite sure what breed of dog could sniff out documents, but Bradford Winthrop would make certain to find out and acquire one, or several, by Friday.

Prudence put down her spoon and gave up any semblance of eating. “There's something else. I think the house is haunted.”

Tom choked, hastily drank some water, and said, “Prudence, you can't be serious.”

Even accounting for her unsettled state due to her recent loss, a sudden belief in apparitions was a shock to his clerical sensibility.

“I can't think of any other possible explanation,” she said.

She told them about the elevator, adding, “The servants are back now and they swear they have not been using it, yet it comes and goes at the same time—Aunt Eliza's bedtime—every night. I trust them completely; they've been with us since before I came to live in the house. And there's something else. The fire escape ends at my window, and last night I thought I saw something white floating outside. When I went to look, it was gone.

“I have the only key to the house. Aunt Eliza was most insistent that we have only two. Nicholas and Nora don't even have one. Aunt Eliza kept her key in the drawer of the cherry secretary in the front drawing room, and it's there. I checked before I came here. And mine is in my purse.”

Faith made a quick decision. Obviously the woman needed help—in more ways than one, but the beauty makeover could come later. Right now they had to save her fortune and find out who was trying to frighten her out of her home. Given the cast of characters Pru had for relations, the “who” wasn't the hard part. It was the “how”—and “where,” in the case of the hidden will.

“Why don't Tom and I come in tomorrow to help you search? You can spare the time, can't you, darling?” Faith reached under the table for her husband's hand and gave it a quick squeeze. She knew the stacks of paperwork and reading material in his study had reached near Mount Sinai proportions, but this was an emergency.

“I'd be delighted,” Tom said. “Two more pairs of eyes should solve the problem.”

Prudence Winthrop smiled.

P
hone calls in the middle of the night were not completely out of the ordinary at the parsonage, but at the sound of the first ring, Faith always leaped out of bed prepared for the worst. Although with Tom next to her and both children slumbering down the hallway, it could only be the next worst: her parents, Tom's parents, sisters, brothers. By the time she picked up the phone, reaching it before the reverend did, she had imagined every relation in extremis. It was a positive relief to hear Prudence's voice—until she realized what Pru was saying.

“Faith! Someone just tried to get in my window! I ran out and I'm locked into the library. I don't know what to do! On my way downstairs I screamed for Nicholas and Nora, but they must not have heard me. They aren't answering the bell either! I'm afraid something dreadful has happened to them!”

“Did you call the police?”

“Police?” Prudence seemed to find it a novel thought, and Faith realized that Winthrops did not normally have any dealings with Boston's finest, except perhaps a slight acknowledgment when crossing Beacon Street at rush hour.

“Look, keep the door locked. I'll call the police and Tom or I will be there as soon as we can.”

“Oh, Faith, hurry! I'm at wit's end! If someone doesn't come soon, I don't know what I might do!

I
t was Tom who ended up making the trip to Boston. When he returned a few hours later, Faith was waiting up for him. He'd called to say briefly that all was well but didn't give any details.

“No signs of forced entry,” Tom said. “The servants had fallen asleep with the TV on and that's why they didn't hear anything. By the way, Nicholas and Nora must be major couch potatoes. Big screen, surround sound, every fancy remote gadget known to man or woman.”

“What did the police say?”

“Not much. I'm afraid our Prudence may not have impressed them as rock-steady. Of course, she was terrified. But she couldn't remember whether it was an actual face or just the outline of a person. She told them about the other events, but conceded that the ‘ghost' outside the window could have been an albino pigeon, when one of the officers offered the suggestion.”

“Sounds like an inventive guy, but I believe Pru. And there's only one way to stop this nonsense: find the will. So let's see if we can get an hour or two more of sleep, then head in there.”

The last thought Faith had before drifting back to sleep was how odd it was that some people grew up into their names. It was almost predestined. Prudence, indeed! But what about “Faith”? She was asleep before she'd figured that one out.

T
he next morning the Fairchilds paused to take an appreciative look at the Winthrops' brick town house. A large wisteria vine starting to bloom mingled with English ivy on one side of the doorway. A few panes of the original glass, turned purple by the sun over many years, shone in the morning light. The brass door knocker and handle glittered. Everything about the house proclaimed its long pedigree of careful—and wealthy—inhabitants.

Ben was at nursery school, but baby Amy was securely strapped to Tom in a backpack. The Fairchilds had strolled from their parking place on Commonwealth Avenue through the Public Gardens, pointing excitedly at the swan boats and the bronze statuettes of the mother duck and her offspring from Robert McCloskey's
Make Way for Ducklings
. Amy responded appropriately with a string of nonsense syllables and smiles.

But this was no family outing. They had to find the will, and they had to find it today. So far nothing had happened to Prudence, but tonight she might not be so lucky. Faith was sure the nocturnal visitor was trying to get Prudence to leave in order to search for the will without interference. Faith only hoped that he, or she, hadn't been successful the night before.

They mounted the stone steps and rang the bell. Nicholas, the butler-chauffeur, answered. He looked the part, perfectly groomed down to the moons on his fingernails. He stood ramrod straight as he announced, “Miss Prudence is expecting you in the library.”

Faith had visited Eliza Winthrop a number of times, but she was impressed anew by the lovely antiques that filled the spacious room. One wall was lined with bookshelves filled with leather-bound books. A large Canton Blue porcelain bowl, ballast, no doubt, from one of the clipper ships the family had operated during the China Trade years, sat on a Sheraton card table. Prudence was sitting at a large Chippendale secretary at the far end of the room, going through a stack of papers.

“Any luck?” Tom asked.

“No. I started with the books. Don't people usually hide wills between their pages? Aunt Eliza didn't. At least not in here. Now I'm looking through these correspondence boxes, and I'm beginning to think it's impossible. Winthrops have been savers for generations. These are Great-Grandfather Austin Winthrop's receipts from his tailor!”

“I know your aunt didn't get about much these last months,” Faith said. “In which rooms did she spend the most time?” It made sense that Eliza would have secreted the will near to hand.

“Well, for almost a year, only two rooms—the library and the front drawing room, which has a little alcove where we moved her bed. We even took our meals in one or the other. She said the dining room depressed her.”

Faith had had a rather lugubrious meal in the Winthrop dining room, with its heavy, light-obscuring damask draperies and rows of dour family portraits staring disapprovingly down from the walls as she took each bite. It was no wonder Aunt Eliza had preferred someplace else.

“Why don't we start in the front room, near her bed?”

Nora appeared in the doorway. Like her husband, she could have answered a casting call for any number of productions needing old family retainers—pleasantly plump, crisp white apron, and a kindly look about the eyes and mouth.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Fairchild, but I would be happy to watch the baby if you like.”

Like! Faith's diaper bag was stuffed with nourishment and toys for Amy, but Faith had been worried about the effect of Amy's boredom on their hunt. The baby was soon settled in the kitchen, delightedly crowing at Nora's huge orange cat, Aster, as he batted at an elaborate cat teaser.

“My Nicholas made it,” Nora said proudly. “He's very mechanical.”

Before Faith rejoined Prudence and Tom, she wanted to take a look around—at the elevator and outside, underneath Prudence's window.

There was nothing unusual in the elevator, except for a new-looking panel of controls, perhaps installed by the mechanically adept Nicholas. Faith got in, pulled the ornate metal gate across, and went to the top floor, then down to the basement. She opened the door into the basement and stepped out. Labyrinthine hallways led past a number of rooms. Noting the undisturbed dust on the thresholds, Faith doubted they had been visited lately by anyone, with the possible exception of ghosts. The only two areas that showed signs of recent occupancy were the furnace room and one with a workbench and tools.

Faith left the basement through a door into the backyard, leaving it unlocked for her return. The trash barrels were set directly to one side, and she lifted the top of the first one, taking a stick to poke around. Nothing incriminating, except some pizza boxes. Perhaps Nora got tired of her own cooking. The other barrel was more interesting. Near the bottom, Faith's stick unearthed two empty Scotch bottles—definitely not the expensive single-malt kind.

She went around to the side of the house and looked at the fire escape that climbed the wall next to a tall pine tree. Last night the police had found no signs of an intruder, but the ground cover in the light of day certainly showed that someone had been straying from the brick path recently. The bright purple myrtle flowers were squashed in several places. Faith peered up at Prudence's window. The ivy appeared intact.