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Authors: Barbara Levenson
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the mountain roads. Margaret, the post office person, needed to explain where this mail came from and I had to escape from the house of strange noises.
.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
I left Sam in the car, grabbed the mail and entered the post office. One side contained all the mail boxes for the village. The other side had a high counter and the usual post office signs and stamp pictures.
Margaret was busy dispensing stamps and chit-chat to an older couple. She looked over at me.
“Hi, Mary, is everything okay? You’re as white as a newly fallen snow.”
“I’m not sure. I have a question for you, but I’ll wait ‘til you’re free.”
“No problem the woman said. Go ahead and help her, Margaret.”
“Mary, meet John and Emma Collins. They live up the hill from the Sterns’ house.”
“Oh, you must be the visitor Jack was opening the house for. You’re from Miami where Lucy lives, right?”
I couldn’t get used to everyone knowing who I was and where I was staying,
“I don’t mean to intrude on you but I found this mail in Lucy’s front hall and when I saw the Brousseau name, well, isn’t that the woman who was murdered last year? Why would this be in the Sterns’ house?”
The Collins and Margaret looked at the letters and looked at each other.
“What would the Sterns be doing with the Brousseau mail? “ Margaret looked over her glasses at me as if I were a suspect in a mail theft.
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here asking you,” I said.
“Just a minute. Tell me what house you’re staying in,” Emma Collins said.
“Lucy Stern’s house,” I answered.
“No, I mean describe the house. How did you get to it?”
“I went up the River Road. I counted the driveways after I left the village. When I got to the third one I turned right and followed it up the hill ‘til I came to the house. It’s a white farm house with a big porch around three sides, and there’s a red barn on the side.”
Margaret and the Collins looked at each other. John Collins shook his head. Margaret was trying to stifle a laugh.
Emma finally turned to me. “Honey, you’re in the wrong house. You’ve been staying in the old Brousseau place. Lucy’s house is up the next dirt road from where you turned. Lucy’s house is a two story federal style house with an attached garage.”
The two women stared at me. I guessed they thought I was some flakey airhead like they see on TV shows about South Beach.
There was a long silence. Then John Collins spoke up. “Don’t feel bad. It’s easy to miss Sugar Hill. That’s the road to Lucy’s house. Those sharp turns on River Road can throw you. But no harm done. No one stays in Carolyn’s house since the murder.”
“This just isn’t possible. Lucy told me the house would be all ready for me, and when I got there, there was a fire in the fireplace and wine on the table.”
“Well, Tom Brousseau owns that house now. That’s Carolyn’s son, but he left here right after the funeral and no one’s seen him around here since. He’s got some caretaker, but it isn’t one of us. He hired some fancy agency, I hear. Serves him right if his caretaker is using his house,” John said.
“Oh my God, are you telling me I’ve been staying in the house where Carolyn Brousseau was murdered?” I’m not squeamish about the details of a murder. I hear plenty of that, courtesy of my clients. But when it comes to paying overnight visits to murder scenes, my stomach lurches.
“Is there some other family around here that uses the house? I’ve been hearing a lot of strange noises.”
“Nope, no other family exists. Carolyn’s husband died a few years before her. They only had the one son, Thomas. He lives somewhere around Boston, I hear,” John said.
“Well, he was at the funeral,” Margaret interrupted.
“Yeah, well he hasn’t been seen since. Folks say he’s just disappeared. He and Carolyn had a falling out right after he quit Dartmouth. I heard he was going to
.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
I left Sam in the car, grabbed the mail and entered the post office. One side contained all the mail boxes for the village. The other side had a high counter and the usual post office signs and stamp pictures.
Margaret was busy dispensing stamps and chit-chat to an older couple. She looked over at me.
“Hi, Mary, is everything okay? You’re as white as a newly fallen snow.”
“I’m not sure. I have a question for you, but I’ll wait ‘til you’re free.”
“No problem the woman said. Go ahead and help her, Margaret.”
“Mary, meet John and Emma Collins. They live up the hill from the Sterns’ house.”
“Oh, you must be the visitor Jack was opening the house for. You’re from Miami where Lucy lives, right?”
I couldn’t get used to everyone knowing who I was and where I was staying,
“I don’t mean to intrude on you but I found this mail in Lucy’s front hall and when I saw the Brousseau name, well, isn’t that the woman who was murdered last year? Why would this be in the Sterns’ house?”
The Collins and Margaret looked at the letters and looked at each other.
“What would the Sterns be doing with the Brousseau mail? “ Margaret looked over her glasses at me as if I were a suspect in a mail theft.
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here asking you,” I said.
“Just a minute. Tell me what house you’re staying in,” Emma Collins said.
“Lucy Stern’s house,” I answered.
“No, I mean describe the house. How did you get to it?”
“I went up the River Road. I counted the driveways after I left the village. When I got to the third one I turned right and followed it up the hill ‘til I came to the house. It’s a white farm house with a big porch around three sides, and there’s a red barn on the side.”
Margaret and the Collins looked at each other. John Collins shook his head. Margaret was trying to stifle a laugh.
Emma finally turned to me. “Honey, you’re in the wrong house. You’ve been staying in the old Brousseau place. Lucy’s house is up the next dirt road from where you turned. Lucy’s house is a two story federal style house with an attached garage.”
The two women stared at me. I guessed they thought I was some flakey airhead like they see on TV shows about South Beach.
There was a long silence. Then John Collins spoke up. “Don’t feel bad. It’s easy to miss Sugar Hill. That’s the road to Lucy’s house. Those sharp turns on River Road can throw you. But no harm done. No one stays in Carolyn’s house since the murder.”
“This just isn’t possible. Lucy told me the house would be all ready for me, and when I got there, there was a fire in the fireplace and wine on the table.”
“Well, Tom Brousseau owns that house now. That’s Carolyn’s son, but he left here right after the funeral and no one’s seen him around here since. He’s got some caretaker, but it isn’t one of us. He hired some fancy agency, I hear. Serves him right if his caretaker is using his house,” John said.
“Oh my God, are you telling me I’ve been staying in the house where Carolyn Brousseau was murdered?” I’m not squeamish about the details of a murder. I hear plenty of that, courtesy of my clients. But when it comes to paying overnight visits to murder scenes, my stomach lurches.
“Is there some other family around here that uses the house? I’ve been hearing a lot of strange noises.”
“Nope, no other family exists. Carolyn’s husband died a few years before her. They only had the one son, Thomas. He lives somewhere around Boston, I hear,” John said.
“Well, he was at the funeral,” Margaret interrupted.
“Yeah, well he hasn’t been seen since. Folks say he’s just disappeared. He and Carolyn had a falling out right after he quit Dartmouth. I heard he was going to
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