decades ago. She had not abandoned her black oxfords. She bore down the stairs toward them, face thrust forward like a proud ship’s figurehead leaning into a storm.
Curt Greene, middle–aged, affable, neatly groomed in suit and tie, assumed the lead. “Mrs. Langdon, this is indeed a pleasure,” he said, and shook her hand.
Sylvania remained crusty. “We’ll see, gentlemen.”
After they stood in the broad second floor hallway, Greene spoke again. “For years we’ve admired this impressive house from a distance. We’re looking forward to really seeing it for the first time.”
While he introduced the others in his party, John and Brandy stayed discreetly in the rear. More than once Sylvania cast a sharp, knowing eye in Brandy’s direction, but for the moment her attention centered on the trio of architects. In the living room she introduced the earlier visitor, a frail woman with silver–blonde hair, lounging by the fireplace in an ivory crepe pants suit as stylish as Sylvania’s sheath was drab.
“My sister–in–law, Grace Able,” Sylvania said briskly, turning her eyes toward the mantelpiece portrait. “Brookfield’s widow. She asked to look for a little table of theirs before I sell the extra furniture.”
Mrs. Able rose with a shy smile. “Goodness, don’t let me interfere with these gentlemen. I was curious when I heard the old place was being destroyed, but Sylvania’s explained. I’m leaving as soon as my companion checks upstairs for a Duncan Phyfe end table we used to own. It’s the only piece I have room for now.”
Brandy stepped forward, ignoring Sylvania’s scowl. “Brandy O’Bannon from the Beacon, Mrs. Able. I’m doing a story on the house. How do you feel about seeing it sold and perhaps torn down?”
Grace pressed a dainty hand to her cheek. “Goodness, it’s no secret that Brookfield and I didn’t enjoy living here.” She looked around with a perceptible shiver. “It’s not what I would call a friendly house. No, I really shan’t care what happens to it.” She favored Brandy and the others with another genteel smile. “Goodness, perhaps that isn’t what you expected to hear.” She shrugged thin shoulders. “Talk to Sylvania. She’s the family historian.”
At that moment a stout, tweedy looking woman came struggling down the stairs, carrying a scarred mahogany end table.
Grace rose, waved a hand in her direction, and moved toward the hallway. “Here’s my companion, Mrs. Mabel Boxley. Like a dear, she drove me over this morning. Not that I couldn’t drive myself, of course. I’ve got to go now. It’s time for my morning swim. The pool at my condo won’t be crowded yet.”
“She’s still a marvelous swimmer,” said the loyal Mrs. Boxley.
Grace turned back with a patrician smile. “Thank you, Sylvania dear, for allowing me to come.”
While the committee members produced yellow pads from their briefcases and began examining the blue glazed tile on each side of the fireplace, the tile mantel, and the cast iron insert and wrought iron grate, Brandy slipped into the hall and caught up with Grace and Mrs. Boxley at the door.
“I’d very much appreciate talking again with you, Mrs. Able,” she said. “Is there a time I could see you?” In the newspaper account of Eva Stone’s drowning Grace had been the party’s guest of honor.
Grace Able held her fingers to her shapely lips, considering. “Well, of course, there’s the flower show tomorrow afternoon. I’m exhibiting. Mabel, would you give Miss O’Bannon the address? About four o’clock. The judging should be finished by then.”
The indispensable Mrs. Boxley dug a small card from her purse and handed it to Brandy. This woman must be the “keeper” Mack had mentioned, Brandy thought. But Grace Able seemed quite able to keep herself.
In the living room the trio were admiring the wide, irregular cypress floorboards. Brandy scribbled notes about the cornices and the chair rails in the
Curt Greene, middle–aged, affable, neatly groomed in suit and tie, assumed the lead. “Mrs. Langdon, this is indeed a pleasure,” he said, and shook her hand.
Sylvania remained crusty. “We’ll see, gentlemen.”
After they stood in the broad second floor hallway, Greene spoke again. “For years we’ve admired this impressive house from a distance. We’re looking forward to really seeing it for the first time.”
While he introduced the others in his party, John and Brandy stayed discreetly in the rear. More than once Sylvania cast a sharp, knowing eye in Brandy’s direction, but for the moment her attention centered on the trio of architects. In the living room she introduced the earlier visitor, a frail woman with silver–blonde hair, lounging by the fireplace in an ivory crepe pants suit as stylish as Sylvania’s sheath was drab.
“My sister–in–law, Grace Able,” Sylvania said briskly, turning her eyes toward the mantelpiece portrait. “Brookfield’s widow. She asked to look for a little table of theirs before I sell the extra furniture.”
Mrs. Able rose with a shy smile. “Goodness, don’t let me interfere with these gentlemen. I was curious when I heard the old place was being destroyed, but Sylvania’s explained. I’m leaving as soon as my companion checks upstairs for a Duncan Phyfe end table we used to own. It’s the only piece I have room for now.”
Brandy stepped forward, ignoring Sylvania’s scowl. “Brandy O’Bannon from the Beacon, Mrs. Able. I’m doing a story on the house. How do you feel about seeing it sold and perhaps torn down?”
Grace pressed a dainty hand to her cheek. “Goodness, it’s no secret that Brookfield and I didn’t enjoy living here.” She looked around with a perceptible shiver. “It’s not what I would call a friendly house. No, I really shan’t care what happens to it.” She favored Brandy and the others with another genteel smile. “Goodness, perhaps that isn’t what you expected to hear.” She shrugged thin shoulders. “Talk to Sylvania. She’s the family historian.”
At that moment a stout, tweedy looking woman came struggling down the stairs, carrying a scarred mahogany end table.
Grace rose, waved a hand in her direction, and moved toward the hallway. “Here’s my companion, Mrs. Mabel Boxley. Like a dear, she drove me over this morning. Not that I couldn’t drive myself, of course. I’ve got to go now. It’s time for my morning swim. The pool at my condo won’t be crowded yet.”
“She’s still a marvelous swimmer,” said the loyal Mrs. Boxley.
Grace turned back with a patrician smile. “Thank you, Sylvania dear, for allowing me to come.”
While the committee members produced yellow pads from their briefcases and began examining the blue glazed tile on each side of the fireplace, the tile mantel, and the cast iron insert and wrought iron grate, Brandy slipped into the hall and caught up with Grace and Mrs. Boxley at the door.
“I’d very much appreciate talking again with you, Mrs. Able,” she said. “Is there a time I could see you?” In the newspaper account of Eva Stone’s drowning Grace had been the party’s guest of honor.
Grace Able held her fingers to her shapely lips, considering. “Well, of course, there’s the flower show tomorrow afternoon. I’m exhibiting. Mabel, would you give Miss O’Bannon the address? About four o’clock. The judging should be finished by then.”
The indispensable Mrs. Boxley dug a small card from her purse and handed it to Brandy. This woman must be the “keeper” Mack had mentioned, Brandy thought. But Grace Able seemed quite able to keep herself.
In the living room the trio were admiring the wide, irregular cypress floorboards. Brandy scribbled notes about the cornices and the chair rails in the
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