Troy. It seemed right somehow. Maybe because of the Ngaio Marsh connection.
Kev looked like he could get used to being an honored guest. Of course, we’d only been there for minutes and he hadn’t had time to mess up.
Miss Troy murmured delicately that if we wished to freshenup after our trip, there were facilities around the corner. She gestured beautifully with her long, slim white hand. I couldn’t help but admire her modern manicure with the short, smooth nails in deep, glossy burgundy. I was glad I’d done my own nails in palest nude. My hands are small and dexterous, perfect for using the traditional tools of my family. Have I mentioned I received a set of lock picks for my Sweet Sixteen? Despite this encouragement, I’ve stuck to the straight and narrow. Mostly.
Uncle Kev and I took advantage of her offer to freshen up. Vera never freshens up; if anything, she blands down.
As we passed through the foyer, I admired the glossy marble floors with their intricate inlaid designs and the spectacular curving mahogany stairs. Everything gleamed. The space smelled of lilies from the towering arrangement on a Chippendale table. Unlike Van Alst House, the money was obviously still here to keep Summerlea at its best. The ladies’ room was opulent in cream paint and dark mahogany woodwork. The soap was Crabtree and Evelyn Citron, Honey & Coriander. The hand towels were pale linen. I thought we should consider upping our game at Van Alst House, but of course, Vera rarely had visitors unless they were trying to kill her.
Anyway, why spend scarce funds on soap and linen towels when there were still first editions to buy, would be her response. Still, I decided I’d start keeping an eye out for linen hand towels at the vintage shows. Maybe I’d find some embroidered with
V
for Van Alst, or even better,
B
for Bingham.
Of course, I couldn’t spend the day admiring the facilities when luncheon awaited. I reluctantly left this little oasis of luxury and rejoined Miss Troy in the hallway.
She smiled sympathetically, and I wondered if she could sense the generations of grifter from me, one of whom had tagged along. The smile seemed pitying.
We found Uncle Kev in front of a small demilune tablewith another arrangement of lilies. He was gazing at a petite marble nude carving and grinning innocently, always a bad sign. Had he just put that down when we reached him? What else had his eye spotted? His blazer didn’t seem lumpy, so I didn’t need to worry about lecturing him to return whatever he’d pilfered from the little boys’ room. At the same time, I didn’t let myself touch the flower arrangement to make sure those blooms were real. Of course they were. I didn’t want to come across as gauche.
We were shepherded into a large sitting room for drinks. The butler—whatever his name was—looked like he’d be right at home mixing cocktails. Inside the splendidly appointed room stood the person who could only be Chadwick Barrymore Kauffman, last of the Kauffman clan. He leaned against the fireplace, waiting with a weary smile glued to his thin face. He was not what I’d expected. There was no sense of warmth or welcome. It was impossible to imagine him presiding over charity fund-raisers. My research told me he was forty-three, although he looked younger. He seemed to do a slight double take when he spotted Vera rolling in. I imagined it was the mud-brown acrylic cardigan she sported. How the pilling danced in the light. And it felt worse than it looked. She wouldn’t go for the blue silk blouse I’d picked out for her. Usually, I can at least count on her to wear one of her brilliant diamond brooches for a social event. This time, she’d declined to do that too. “Don’t want to look like we’re doing too well,” she’d said. There was little danger of that. If Vera had looked any worse, someone might have started a fund-raiser for her.
Chadwick paused, watching her through heavy-lidded eyes. He reminded me of
Kev looked like he could get used to being an honored guest. Of course, we’d only been there for minutes and he hadn’t had time to mess up.
Miss Troy murmured delicately that if we wished to freshenup after our trip, there were facilities around the corner. She gestured beautifully with her long, slim white hand. I couldn’t help but admire her modern manicure with the short, smooth nails in deep, glossy burgundy. I was glad I’d done my own nails in palest nude. My hands are small and dexterous, perfect for using the traditional tools of my family. Have I mentioned I received a set of lock picks for my Sweet Sixteen? Despite this encouragement, I’ve stuck to the straight and narrow. Mostly.
Uncle Kev and I took advantage of her offer to freshen up. Vera never freshens up; if anything, she blands down.
As we passed through the foyer, I admired the glossy marble floors with their intricate inlaid designs and the spectacular curving mahogany stairs. Everything gleamed. The space smelled of lilies from the towering arrangement on a Chippendale table. Unlike Van Alst House, the money was obviously still here to keep Summerlea at its best. The ladies’ room was opulent in cream paint and dark mahogany woodwork. The soap was Crabtree and Evelyn Citron, Honey & Coriander. The hand towels were pale linen. I thought we should consider upping our game at Van Alst House, but of course, Vera rarely had visitors unless they were trying to kill her.
Anyway, why spend scarce funds on soap and linen towels when there were still first editions to buy, would be her response. Still, I decided I’d start keeping an eye out for linen hand towels at the vintage shows. Maybe I’d find some embroidered with
V
for Van Alst, or even better,
B
for Bingham.
Of course, I couldn’t spend the day admiring the facilities when luncheon awaited. I reluctantly left this little oasis of luxury and rejoined Miss Troy in the hallway.
She smiled sympathetically, and I wondered if she could sense the generations of grifter from me, one of whom had tagged along. The smile seemed pitying.
We found Uncle Kev in front of a small demilune tablewith another arrangement of lilies. He was gazing at a petite marble nude carving and grinning innocently, always a bad sign. Had he just put that down when we reached him? What else had his eye spotted? His blazer didn’t seem lumpy, so I didn’t need to worry about lecturing him to return whatever he’d pilfered from the little boys’ room. At the same time, I didn’t let myself touch the flower arrangement to make sure those blooms were real. Of course they were. I didn’t want to come across as gauche.
We were shepherded into a large sitting room for drinks. The butler—whatever his name was—looked like he’d be right at home mixing cocktails. Inside the splendidly appointed room stood the person who could only be Chadwick Barrymore Kauffman, last of the Kauffman clan. He leaned against the fireplace, waiting with a weary smile glued to his thin face. He was not what I’d expected. There was no sense of warmth or welcome. It was impossible to imagine him presiding over charity fund-raisers. My research told me he was forty-three, although he looked younger. He seemed to do a slight double take when he spotted Vera rolling in. I imagined it was the mud-brown acrylic cardigan she sported. How the pilling danced in the light. And it felt worse than it looked. She wouldn’t go for the blue silk blouse I’d picked out for her. Usually, I can at least count on her to wear one of her brilliant diamond brooches for a social event. This time, she’d declined to do that too. “Don’t want to look like we’re doing too well,” she’d said. There was little danger of that. If Vera had looked any worse, someone might have started a fund-raiser for her.
Chadwick paused, watching her through heavy-lidded eyes. He reminded me of
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