Due or Die (25 page)

She held out her hands and let the heat from the fire wash over them. It was only January, but she was good and done with the snow. As far as she was concerned, they could move right into spring.

She glanced up and examined the painting over the fireplace. It was an Impressionistic piece; no, not an actual Monet, but definitely someone of note from that era.

She wondered which of the Sints had been the art collector. She’d only glanced into a few of the rooms they had passed, but she’d seen enough to know that collecting art had been someone’s hobby. Given that the pieces were on display and not stored away in some vault, she had to assume that whoever collected didn’t just do it for the investment but because they loved art and they loved to have it around them.

She turned her back to the fire and let the heat wash over
her. When she was pretty sure her bones were melting, she moved away, but the chilly air quickly enfolded her in its shivery embrace, and she tried to find the perfect distance from the fire to be warm, but not hot. Four feet seemed ideal.

She studied the room, admiring the powder blue drapes that framed the large windows, which boasted a view of an intricate stone garden below that gave way to a sweeping lawn, now covered in snow, which ended at a private beach on the bay. The Thumb Islands dotted the horizon, and Lindsey could see the town of Briar Creek nestled on the far end of the bay. She could just make out the pier, and she thought instantly of Sully, which made her feel guilty, which was ridiculous. There was nothing to feel guilty about, she assured herself, but somehow she couldn’t seem to help it.

“All set,” Edmund said. “Simpson is setting another plate for lunch, which should be ready in twenty minutes. While we wait, why don’t I give you a tour?”

“That would be fantastic,” Lindsey said.

“This is the blue parlor, named for the obvious,” he said. He gestured to the ornate furniture upholstered in shades of blue velvet, which rested on a gorgeous Aubusson carpet in shades of navy and gold. “This was my grandmother’s favorite room. She liked to sit by the fire and enjoy the view out the window while she worked on her needlepoint.”

“That sounds like a well-spent afternoon,” Lindsey said.

“She made those pillows,” Edmund said. “I can still remember her working on them when I was a child.”

Lindsey glanced at the throw pillows on the velvet settee in the corner. They had peacocks stitched in minute detail done in brilliant jewel-toned silk thread.

“They’re lovely,” she said.

“Everything in this house is,” Edmund said, and he
glanced around appreciatively. “I never understood why my father, well, no matter.”

Lindsey glanced at him curiously. “Did you grow up here?”

“No,” he said. There was a trace of bitterness in his voice. “My father was disinherited.”

Lindsey raised her eyebrows. She waited for him to continue, but he said no more.

“Come on,” he said. “There are twenty-eight rooms in all. Let’s get going or we’ll miss lunch.”

Lindsey followed him out of the blue parlor and into a study, a concert hall and a sunroom. The opulence reminded her of the mansions in Newport, Rhode Island. This had probably been a summer getaway for the Sints. Having been brought up in academia and now being a public servant, Lindsey couldn’t really wrap her brain around having so much money to spend on a home. It did, however, explain why Bill was such a pompous ass.

They made quick work of the upstairs, touring the vacant bedrooms and peeking into the large marble bathrooms. Lindsey’s favorite room by far was the solarium built on the southeast corner of the mansion. It was filled with all sorts of exotic plants and boasted glass walls and a glass ceiling that she imagined was amazing when the stars were out at night.

A bell chimed in the distance, and Edmund led her back to the main hall. “I believe that is Simpson, letting us know that lunch is served.”

Walking down the stairs, with her hand running down
the banister, Lindsey felt like she should be in a satin ball gown with a tiara on her head. The thought made her smile.

Edmund caught her expression and grinned at her. “It gets under your skin, doesn’t it? The house?”

“It’s the stuff of dreams,” she said.

“Dreams can come true,” he countered. At the bottom of the stairs, he offered her his elbow and Lindsey put her hand on the crook of his arm. He escorted her into a small sunny dining room that looked out over the snow-covered stone garden. Lindsey wished she could see it in the spring. She imagined it was lovely.

There were only two places set, and Edmund helped her into her chair before taking his.

“Bill isn’t joining us?” she asked.

Edmund frowned. “He’s taking longer than I thought to come around. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s all right,” Lindsey said. Although, in all honesty, she felt like he was really being a bit of a whiner. “His feelings were hurt. I’m sure it just takes time to get over these things.”

“That’s very understanding of you,” Edmund said. “Especially given that he’s always had everything handed to him and has never had to work a day in his life. One could argue that he is bit spoiled.”

Simpson came into the room through a swinging door. He had a tray loaded with two salads and a basket of warm French bread. The salad was leafy greens with raspberries and walnuts and a zesty vinaigrette drizzled on top of it.

“Will there be anything else?” he asked.

Edmund glanced at Lindsey and she said, “No, thank you. It looks wonderful.”

Simpson gave her a nod and she noticed that a small smile played upon his lips. He wore a blue chef’s coat, buttoned up to the throat, and his gray hair was slicked back from his broad forehead, making his features seem sharper than they were.

Recognition suddenly hit Lindsey. She knew Simpson from the library, except everyone there called him by his first name, Harvey. He was partial to spy novels like Ludlum’s Jason Bourne series and Le Carré’s George Smiley.

She would have liked to have asked him if he’d read any new spy novels lately—the cold snowy days had put her in the mood for a nice espionage thriller—but Edmund dismissed him with a curt nod before she could ask.

Lindsey reached for her glass and clumsily dropped her napkin. Harvey quickly stooped to retrieve it. When he handed it back to her, his gaze met hers and he whispered, “Sully is better read.”

Not him, too. Lindsey took her napkin from him and gave him a quelling look. She was beginning to think there was a conspiracy afoot.

“What was that?” Edmund asked him.

“If she would prefer, there is also red,” Harvey lied without even fluttering an eyelash as he indicated the bottle of white wine on the table with a wave of his hand.

Lindsey wondered if he learned that from his spy novels or if it was just a survival skill for hired help.

“White is fine,” Edmund said and looked at Lindsey. “Yes?”

Harvey disappeared behind the swinging door with a soft swoosh.

Edmund poured them each a glass of French Sauterne, a dry
white wine served cold. Lindsey took a small sip, enjoying its light, delicate flavor.

They spent the rest of the meal talking about Lindsey’s time at the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library at Yale. Lindsey had been an archivist there upon graduating with her library science degree. She had always been fascinated by the preservation aspects of library science. To her delight, she had been lucky enough to work primarily with illuminated manuscripts from the Medieval and Renaissance periods.

Surprisingly, or perhaps not, given the house he lived in, Edmund asked very intelligent questions about the business of rare books. How they were appraised, what constituted a rare book and where one would go to buy rare books if one wanted to invest in them. It was a delightful conversation, and Lindsey felt the part of her that had been an archivist glory in discussing something so dear to her heart.

She had loved her work and still missed it, but budget cuts has forced a reduction in staff, and she had fallen on the last-hired-and-first-fired sword.

They had finished the main course and Harvey had just brought in cream puffs and espresso when the door banged open and there stood Bill, looking almost as deranged as Marjorie Bilson on a bad day.

“What is
she
doing here?” he cried.

“Hello, Bill,” Lindsey said. She decided to pretend he wasn’t being rude and see if that would calm him down.

He glowered at her and turned to Edmund. “Well?”

“Lindsey is my guest for lunch,” he said. “We were hoping you would join us.”

“Not likely.” Bill scoffed. “I
will not be dining with the enemy anytime soon.”

This was getting ridiculous.

“Bill, I am not your enemy,” she said. “Honestly, I didn’t have anything to do with how the Friends voted.”

“Huh!” Bill snorted. “She hasn’t been near my library, has she?”

“Well, I…” Edmund was obviously at a loss in the face of his uncle’s ire.

“You let her in there?” he cried. “In my precious sanctuary?”

“I gave her a tour and we just peeked in the door,” Edmund said. “I had no idea it would upset you so.”

“Did you touch anything?” Bill asked. “Where’s your bag? Did she bring a bag?”

“Mr. Sint, may I offer you a refreshment?” Harvey appeared and stood behind Lindsey.

She wondered if this was normally his way or if he was offering her moral support. Either way, she appreciated his calm demeanor in the face of Bill’s hysterics.

“Did I ask for a refreshment?” Bill snapped.

“Now, Uncle,” Edmund said in a placating manner.

“Don’t patronize me,” Bill snapped. “I know all about you, little miss library director. You were an archivist at Yale, you love rare books, but you got fired, didn’t you? What happened? Were you helping yourself to the goods?”

“What? No!” she protested.

“Even your law professor boyfriend dumped you,” Bill continued. He narrowed his eyes in a speculative gaze. “What happened? Was he afraid you were going to go to jail
and tarnish his reputation so he dropped you like a bad habit?”

“No! It’s none of your business what happened between me and my former fiancé,” Lindsey said. “How did you find out about him anyway?”

“I have my sources,” Bill said.

“Well, your sources are wrong; I dumped him, after he cheated…Well, it really doesn’t matter,” she said. “The fact is, I was let go from my job due to budget cuts, not fired.”

“There,” Edmund said. “See? It’s all perfectly reasonable. I think you owe Ms. Norris an apology.”

“Like hell,” Bill snapped. He turned on his heel and strode from the room. “I am going to inventory my library and make sure every single title is exactly where it is supposed to be.”

He charged from the room. Edmund and Lindsey exchanged a worried look and followed after him. The man appeared to be having a nervous breakdown. For Lindsey’s part, she was particularly irked. He was all but accusing her of theft. She had to tamp down the urge to kick him in the seat of the pants.

They found Bill climbing his rolling ladder. He had begun his inventory on the top shelf and was checking the title of each book. Part of Lindsey was impressed that he knew them all and another part of her was alarmed for the same reason.

“Uncle Bill, come down,” Edmund said. “This is ridiculous. Lindsey didn’t even step into this room. She’s a librarian, for Pete’s sake; she’s not going to steal your books.”

Bill was muttering under his breath, reading the titles as he worked his way across the shelves.

“Bill, if you’re accusing me of theft, I’d like you to come down here and do it to my face,” said Lindsey.

She could feel herself getting fairly steamed over the whole thing. She had a pretty long fuse, but when her temper blew, it generally took the doors and windows out with it.

She looked at Edmund, who appeared to be getting equally agitated.

He reached over and shook the rolling ladder. “Uncle Bill, come down here now!”

Bill had to clutch the side of the ladder to keep from falling, and Lindsey let out a gasp. With as much dignity as was possible, Bill straightened himself up and glanced at the shelf in front of him. He then reached out and grabbed a dark, brown leather-bound book. He climbed down the ladder with the book in his hand.

“Well, this is curious,” Bill said. Gone was his anger and instead his tone sounded bewildered. He tipped his head and looked at Lindsey and then Edmund. All of his panic and hysteria seemed to have evaporated as he studied the book in his hand.

“How so?” Lindsey asked.

“This book isn’t mine,” he said. “It doesn’t belong in my collection.”

“O
bviously, you’re mistaken,” Edmund said. He went to take the book out of Bill’s hands, but Bill moved it out of reach.

“No, I’m not,” he said. “I know every single title in this room.”

“Where would it have come from?” Lindsey asked. “Maybe you just forgot it.”

“I would expect as one archivist to another,” he said, his tone quite condescending, “that you of all people would appreciate my knowledge of my own collection.”

“May I see the book?” Lindsey asked. “Maybe there’s a reasonable explanation.”

“No!” Edmund stepped forward and snatched the book out of his uncle’s hand.

“Now really, there’s no call to be grabby,” Bill
said. “Bindings are fragile, you know.”

“Sorry, but enough is enough, this is just ridiculous,” Edmund said. He tucked the book under his arm. “I’ll take this book for now and we can discuss it when I get back. Lindsey, I’m sorry but I think it best if we finish our luncheon another day since Uncle Bill is obviously not feeling at his best.”

Bill had turned back to the shelves, and Edmund twirled his index finger at his temple and pointed to him. Lindsey nodded. Her presence had definitely made Bill agitated.

She turned and headed toward the door, where Harvey, rather Simpson, stood with her coat and her handbag.

“Thank you,” she said.

“No trouble, Miss Lindsey,” he said. He then disappeared and returned with Edmund’s coat and gloves.