The Spring at Moss Hill (12 page)

“She is, Daphne.”

He hadn't hesitated. She knew she should be pleased. “You were certain right from the start?”

“Early on. I wouldn't say from the start. Loretta thought I was up to no good at first.”

“She's a smart woman. I've married a few times. One marriage barely counted. We didn't last two years. I thought it would last forever when we said
I do
. That was my first husband. He was a good man, but his idea of fun was watching television from six to nine-thirty every single night.”

“He was boring,” Julius said.

“For me. Not for his second wife. They've been married thirty-three years. They have a beautiful home and three grown children. I think there are grandchildren now.”

“Regrets?”

“A million but never a dull moment. My second husband liked to do things, but he was lousy with money. I'm lucky I have a penny to my name after twelve years with him.”

“That's when you first hired Sawyer & Sawyer.”

She nodded. “One of my smarter moves.”

“You're one of the smartest women I know in Hollywood,” Julius said. “You're no one's fool, Daphne.”

She said nothing. She tried her sparkling water. It was horrible. She remembered why she never ordered it.

Marty set a glass of beer in front of Julius, who took a sip before he continued. “You're not Debbie Sanderson anymore.”

“But I am, Julius.” Her throat ached with emotion when she spoke. “Deep inside I am the teenager who ran away from home to Knights Bridge and then took a bus west, not knowing whether I'd end up dead in a gutter.”

“You always knew you'd end up a wealthy, successful costume designer.”

“Wished it.”

“Made it happen.”

“It could have gone all wrong,” she said.

“But it didn't,” he said quietly.

“I can't go back home. It was a mistake to think I could. It was one thing to be introduced at a fashion show. Whisk in and out of there. A master class seemed like a good idea, a chance to share my knowledge and experience...” Daphne trailed off, not sure where she'd been going with her thought. She'd been talking to herself more than to Julius. She turned to him. “Ruby and Ava O'Dunn have gotten ahead of themselves, I think, and it's affected me.”

Julius drank more of his beer. “You don't have to get mixed up in their plans.”

“I don't want to disappoint them.”

“I know you don't, but you're afraid they're relying on you—and you don't want anyone relying on you.”

“I remember wandering around out by the old Moss Hill mill as a teenager. The ghosts. I'm telling you, they were for real.” Daphne shuddered. “Forget it, Julius. I'm not going.”

He handed her his phone. “You call Russ and tell him he's wasted this trip.”

“He'll shoot me.”

“He won't shoot you.”

“He'll throw me off your deck, then. I wouldn't blame him.”

“He'll tell you to get on that plane when the time comes and stop with the nonsense.”

She tossed her head back, miffed. “Marty just said I can cancel, and it's not a prison sentence.”

Julius scoffed. Only word for the sound and look he gave her. “Come on, Daphne. You can't cancel because of ghosts.”

“You've never been to Moss Hill.” She crossed her arms on her chest. “I can twist an ankle or come down with a sinus infection.”

“Daphne.”

“All right, all right. I hate flying commercial, though. Last time Noah Kendrick took us in his private jet, remember?”

“Not everyone's a billionaire.”

She returned his phone to him. “This all seemed like a better idea in February.”

“You'll get through it. The diva act aside, you're a tough old broad.”

“That makes me sound like a piece of beef jerky.”

Julius didn't have the courtesy to argue with her. Daphne didn't know whether to be annoyed or amused. “I'm going to miss you when you move to San Diego,” she said, jumping down from the stool. She could feel the two martinis, but it wasn't too bad. She blinked back tears. “I know I'm not important in the grand scheme of things.”

“You're important, Daphne.” He sounded sincere. “Not only are you a valued client, you're a friend.”

“You're humoring me and not doing a very good job of it.”

Julius laughed. “Have it your way. But you're pleased I'm happy,” he said, as if cueing her. “I know you are.”

“I suppose, but I wish it didn't mean I had to suffer.”

“Daphne...” He blew out a breath. “Never mind. You're in full diva mode. Enjoy yourself.”

There was no joy in it. She'd only hoped to distract herself from the uneasiness churning inside her. Butterflies, she thought. She hadn't had butterflies in a very long time. It wasn't just the thought of doing a master class—in fact, it wasn't that at all.

It was Knights Bridge.

* * *

Daphne left Julius muttering about her “diva mode” and said good-night to Marty. She'd taken a cab to the bar and took one home. Less than ten minutes later, she was at her house. She did like Julius's deck, but her patio was special, too. She didn't have his patience with potted plants, and she didn't want to hire someone. It was enough to keep up with all the other maintenance expenses.

“Imagine if you cashed out of here and relocated to Knights Bridge,” she said aloud.

She plopped onto a lounge chair and looked out at her small yard, filled with all sorts of plants that would die in the long, cold New England winter.

“I wouldn't have to worry about rattlesnakes, brown spiders, black widows or scorpions.”

Not that she worried about them here. But still.

How had returning to Knights Bridge for a few days spun her into thoughts of moving there?

“Classic catastrophizing.”

She decided that was funny and laughed. Moving east wouldn't be a catastrophe.

She
was
a diva.

She went inside, peeled off her clothes and put on a swimsuit and a cover-up, then walked back outside. With his small hillside lot, Julius didn't have a pool, although she wasn't in enough of a foul, self-absorbed mood to think he'd married Loretta Wrentham and was moving to San Diego because of Loretta's pool.

Daphne eased into the warm water, did a few laps and then sank onto her lounge chair. She was meeting friends for breakfast in the morning.

She had a hell of a good life.

She was relaxed, half asleep, when her phone buzzed on the table next to her. She planned to ignore it but peeked at the number, just in case it was someone interesting. Russ Colton. Well, he was interesting. She picked up.

“Colt Russell,” she said, just to tweak him. “How's my favorite little town?”

“Quiet. Late. Do you know an illustrator named Kylie Shaw?”

“No, should I?”

“Know any Shaws?”

“I once had a crush on Robert Shaw. He was the rogue in
Jaws
. He's no longer with us, alas.”

Russ sighed as if he'd regretted calling.

“Julius asked you to check in, didn't he? This question about Shaws is just cover.”

“Yes. You have forty-eight hours to angst before your flight takes off.”

“You're not like Julius, you know. Julius is nice compared to you.”

“You got that right.”

He seemed amused. Daphne didn't know whether she should be amused, too, or be annoyed, but maybe there was no “should” to it. She felt what she felt. “You two aren't taking my reservations seriously.”

“We are, Daphne. We want you to do what's right for you.”

“Did you say that with a straight face? I'm calling you back on FaceTime to make sure.”

He was chuckling when he hung up.

“Bastard,” Daphne said, realizing she was smiling.

Twelve

R
uss had no trouble finding the Farm at Carriage Hill on another winding Knights Bridge road. Olivia Frost, now Olivia McCaffrey, had purchased the 1803 house and several acres of gardens and fields a couple of years ago, when she'd been working as a graphic designer in Boston, dreaming of returning to her hometown.

It's a pretty spot
, Loretta Wrentham had told him.
Different from what you're used to
.

Agreed on both statements, Russ thought as he parked under the Carriage Hill sign, depicting a clump of blossoming chives, the small inn's logo. When he got out of his car, he noticed the air was warmer here than on the river. Carriage Hill Road had once led into the now-flooded Swift River Valley. Now it dead-ended at a Quabbin gate, one of more than forty gates that dotted the perimeter of the reservoir and its protected watershed.

He took a flagstone walk to a blue-painted door that, according to Julius and Loretta, opened into a large country kitchen, a later addition to the original center-chimney house, which also had a blue-painted door. Narrow, cream-colored clapboards, black shutters and mature landscaping with old shade trees and evergreens completed the classic New England setting.

Before he could knock or find a doorbell, a redheaded woman opened the door. This one would be the second eldest O'Dunn sister, Maggie, the caterer who'd supplied dinner last night and was married to Brandon Sloan. She and Olivia had been friends since childhood and ran Carriage Hill together. Russ hadn't done extensive research on the people of Knights Bridge so much as paid attention to what Julius and Loretta had told him.

He and Maggie introduced themselves. “You just missed Olivia,” Maggie said. “She's walking Buster.”

“Buster being...”

“Her dog. More accurately, the dog who lives here. He adopted Olivia when she moved in a year ago.” Maggie opened the door wider. “Please, come in. Dylan is up at the new place. You passed it—it's the house and barn up the road.”

“Nice place.”

“Isn't it? It's been a major project for months. Not as major as restoring Moss Hill to better than its former glory, but it's in a different category. Amazing, isn't it?”

Russ followed Maggie inside. The kitchen was homey and cheerful with its butcher-block island, honey-colored cabinets, oversize gas stove, and a table and chairs by a window. A large pot bubbled on the stove.

Maggie, dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt and running shoes, pulled off a white apron and tossed it on the back of a chair. “Dylan's looking forward to giving you the grand tour,” she said.

“I appreciate that. I noticed a few construction trucks and vans parked up the road.”

“That would be Sloan & Sons at work. They did the construction. It's almost finished. My husband, Brandon, is up there now. Mark Flanagan was the architect—he did Moss Hill, too. But I guess you know that. Hard to believe sometimes. I remember when he would fall asleep in the back of class in high school. He's a few years older than I am, but my sister Phoebe remembers...” Maggie waved a hand. “I'll spare you. It's enough to try to keep all of us straight in your mind.”

“I should start an Evernote file on Knights Bridge.”

Maggie laughed. “That's almost scary to think about.” She grabbed a long-handled spoon and checked the pot on the stove. “Minestrone soup. Smells good, doesn't it?”

“Smells great.”

“It's what we're having for lunch.”

“Thanks for dinner last night.”

Maggie stirred the soup. “Ruby told me she bailed and Christopher had a fire call. She's a bundle of raw emotions right now. I hope it wasn't too awkward with just you and Kylie.”

Russ smiled. “Homemade cookies helped.”

“A huge ice-breaker.” She wrinkled up her face. “I think that's a mixed metaphor or something.”

“Do you have guests here right now?”

Maggie shook her head. “Not until Daphne Stewart arrives.”

Carriage Hill wasn't a traditional inn or bed-and-breakfast open to walk-in overnight guests. It hosted guests attending destination events held there—baby and wedding showers, girlfriend weekends, teas, the occasional small wedding. Olivia and Dylan had been married in the living room on Christmas Eve. Russ could easily picture the antique house decorated for Christmas, inside and outside, with the surrounding fields and woods covered in snow. The image was so powerful that he could see himself walking through the sunlit snow, feel the cold air on his face, as if he'd entered a parallel universe in which he lived a different life.

“I have oatmeal bread rising to go with the soup,” Maggie said. “Hope you don't mind a simple lunch.”

“Sounds perfect,” Russ said, forcing himself back to the present and his reasons for being in Knights Bridge. He had a job to do. “Ruby mentioned you're a caterer.”

“One of my multiple hats. I've always loved to cook. Phoebe always loved books, and the twins always loved theater—they started putting on their own plays when they were three. Dylan said he'd meet you up at the barn for your tour. Would you like coffee first? I don't have much to go with it. I could thaw a cranberry muffin.”

“I'm fine, thanks.” He nodded to the table, where a dozen paint cans of various sizes were lined up on a sheet. “Need a hand with anything?”

“Oh, that'd be great,” Maggie said. “I could use some muscle to open a couple of the paint cans. I collected everything Olivia and I had left over from various winter painting projects. Now we're into spring painting projects.”

Russ grabbed a screwdriver off the table and tackled one of the cans, with dried creamy white paint on the sides and top.

Maggie took a smaller can and shook it. “Doesn't feel like much paint's left in this one. I understand you're here to get the lay of the land before Daphne's arrival. I can show you the room we have her in if you'd like.”

“No need,” Russ said, popping open the paint can. “She's looking forward to staying here.”

“I never thought she'd be back to Knights Bridge, to be honest, but Ava and Ruby can be very persuasive—and their enthusiasm is contagious, don't you think?”

“I haven't met Ava yet. Ruby is certainly enthusiastic.”

Maggie peered into the opened can. “That looks good—enough left to paint something, even if I don't know what yet.” She set her can back on the table. “Ava and Ruby both put a lot of pressure on themselves. They're fascinated by costume design and are thrilled to have Daphne here, but I don't think anything's going to come of this children's theater. Not yet, anyway. Ava loves New York, and Ruby's heart is set on acting. Do you know a lot of actors, Russ?”

He shrugged. “Some.”

“How's Julius these days?”

“Moving to La Jolla with Loretta.”

“Good for them. I never put the two of them together, not that I know them well. I'm glad it's worked out.” Maggie pointed to another can. “I think that's the teal. I have a chair I want to paint teal.”

Russ picked up the can. Sunlight streamed through the kitchen windows. The rain had ended overnight, and the morning had dawned bright and clear. He set the can on the table. It, too, popped open with little effort.

Maggie sat on a chair at the table and stretched out her legs. “I've been on my feet all morning. Feels good to sit down a second. How do you like our little town so far?”

He replaced the lid on the teal paint. “Quite a mix of people.”

“It's been a wild ride around here ever since Olivia wrote to Dylan last March to come clean up his yard or let her do it. Imagine, he didn't realize he owned property here. Now he's discovered a grandmother he never knew existed, and he's married to one of Knights Bridge's own. Life can be strange sometimes, can't it?”

“No argument from me.” He replaced the lid on the white paint, tight but not so much so it would be a struggle to reopen. “Kylie Shaw is another newcomer to town.”

“I don't know her well,” Maggie said, her tone neutral. “Samantha Bennett, my almost sister-in-law, and Clare Morgan at the library both know her better than I do. Mark says he was happy to have her move into Moss Hill. I think he and Jess kept an eye on her when she was renting the house up the road.”

“I saw the house on my run on Sunday. It's a beautiful place, but I don't know if I'd want to be alone out there all winter.”

“No kidding. They'd see her shoveling the walk—Jess says she went out there one day and found a snowman in the front yard, complete with coal eyes and a carrot nose. Kylie must have made it. I've lived by myself. I never considered making a snowman. But she's an artist, and I'm a cook.”

Russ wondered if the snowman had resembled one of the Middle Branch Badgers. “Do you know much about her work?” he asked Maggie.

“Children's books. That's all I know. Phoebe thinks she might use another name. We try not to pry. Kylie came to town for a personal artistic retreat. I don't think she meant to stay this long. Her lease with Mark is month to month. I'd be surprised if she stays another winter, but you never know.”

“Does she have a permanent address?”

“I think Moss Hill is it right now. The house she rented is up for sale, or will be soon. It's owned by an art professor who got a job in Iowa. I think she and Kylie are friends.” Maggie reached across the table for another small paint can, this one with no label or dried paint splatters. “Mystery paint. Want to have a go at it?”

She set the can in front of Russ. He tackled the lid with his screwdriver.

“Kylie might have friends in town I'm not aware of,” Maggie added. “Believe it or not, I don't know everyone in Knights Bridge. You don't suspect she's behind these silly rumors my mother heard, do you?”

“I have no reason to suspect anyone of anything.”

“That's good. Kylie moved to town before any of us had heard of Daphne. A number of people remember her when she lived here as Debbie Sanderson. I wonder how many people are tucked in the hills and hollows and along the streams and ponds out here that I don't even know exist. It's easy in a small town to get into a rut of who you know and don't know. The Frosts, the Sloans, the odd person here or there.”

“That's probably normal.” Russ gently opened the can to a vibrant pink. He showed it to Maggie. “What you were expecting?”

“No, but it's a great color. Can't think of what we'd use it for, but we'll think of something.” She grabbed the lid and replaced it on the can of pink paint, banging it down with such force that Russ figured he knew why the lids were on so tight. “On the whole, I'd say we're open to new people, but we don't want to be intrusive, either. Brandon and I lived in Boston for several years. We moved back to Knights Bridge to raise our boys and be a part of our hometown.” She grinned at Russ. “That's the short version of that story.”

Kylie Shaw remained a mystery, but Russ doubted it would be difficult to track down more information on her. Friends, family, colleagues, previous addresses. Boyfriends.

Did he want to go that far?

Maybe.

He found himself liking Maggie and looking forward to meeting Olivia and Dylan. Julius had described the new couple as grounded, eager to make Knights Bridge their main home. Dylan—and now his wife—also owned a home in San Diego.

“I saw Kylie a little while ago, by the way,” Maggie said casually, getting to her feet. “She was on her bike.”

“Out here?”

“She cruised past the house about an hour ago.”

“It's a dead-end road.”

“She comes out this way regularly. We wave to each other.”

“Since the weather warmed up?”

“I saw her a few times last fall, too. I don't remember if I noticed her before that—I think she moved into Knights Bridge in July. Bike riding is great exercise. I should probably do more of it myself. I haven't noticed her ride by again. It's turning into a gorgeous day. She could have decided to ride into Quabbin. There's an old road inside the gate that bikers sometimes use. There are strict rules, since it's protected land. Or she could have parked her bike and taken a walk in the woods.”

“Alone?”

Maggie reached for her apron. “I think Kylie does a lot of things alone.”

Russ couldn't think of a single reason he should care if Kylie Shaw was riding her bike here or anywhere else.

“Olivia should be back soon with Buster. He's a great dog, but I always keep in mind this is Buster's turf.”

“I'll take a walk down the road and then head up to the barn.”

“Great.” Maggie gave Russ a cheerful frown. “Why do I have the feeling we weren't just having a friendly chat?”

“We were.”

“But you're an investigator. You know how to get people to talk.”

He winked at her. “I look forward to the soup and bread.”

He headed outside, noticing dozens of daffodils blooming on the border on the Quabbin side of the yard. He could hear birds twittering in the trees, but he had no idea what kind of birds. Little ones. Best he could do.

He stood on the front walk and looked up the road, toward the new house and barn the McCaffreys were building, now almost finished. Then he looked down the road, where Olivia McCaffrey was walking the infamous Buster and, presumably, pretty, secretive Kylie Shaw, aka Morwenna Mills, was on her bike.

Russ went that way.

* * *

Bike tire tracks and the prints of a large dog in the dirt on the side of the old, narrow road compelled Russ to continue around a curve. The pavement looked as if it had taken a beating over the winter, but many of the potholes, ruts and cracks probably weren't new. On either side of the road were trees and more trees, and a stream, no doubt working its way into the reservoir.