POPPY WAS STILL sitting on the floor in the library, tapping on her laptop, when Ivy returned.
“You haven’t moved,” Ivy said, clutching the historical volume on Las Brisas that Nan’s husband had given her.
Poppy tore her focus from her screen and looked up. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “I’ve reached out to a lifestyle blogger in Los Angeles. She has a huge following, and she wants to visit and post about the historic Las Brisas del Mar—now the Seabreeze Inn. She loves the historical angle. And the fire pit on the beach.”
“Of course she does,” Ivy said, laughing. “I’ll buy one right away.”
“Do you know of any local businesses we can chat up? The best place for brunch or coffee, a cute boutique. Oh, and I need to create a website for you, too.”
“Poppy, you’re a dream. You can mention Java Beach and Antique Times.” Ivy marveled at Poppy’s organizational and computer skills and knew she’d have to dust off her skills, too. “I’ll buy a domain right away.”
“And look at this.” Poppy spun the laptop around. “I took exterior photos of the house and used an app to paste flowers into the garden. I hope you don’t mind. Shelly said she’s planting them anyway. When do you think we can have interior photos?”
“Maybe sooner than we think.” Ivy tapped the historical volume she held. “This is the key.”
Poppy’s eyes grew wide. “What’s that?”
“Shelly and I were poking around and found some furniture on a lower level. I just need to verify what is original, and what might be…on loan.”
“Wow, what incredible luck. Shelly wouldn’t let me go down there.”
“We wanted it to be a surprise.” Ivy felt a little bad about not bringing Poppy into the secret, but she’d promised the chief to keep it quiet.
“Do you need help bringing things up?” Poppy pushed to her knees.
Ivy hugged her. “I’d love your help.”
“I’ll call my brothers. They have friends, too. Get a bunch of strong guys, and bam, the job is done.”
Shelly sauntered in. “Bam, what’s done?”
“Bringing up things from downstairs,” Ivy said. She held up the historical book. “I met the president of the Summer Beach Historical Society at City Hall. This volume is chock full of old photos that can help us separate the original furnishings from the other…later pieces.”
“Good idea,” Shelly said. “Mitch is just finishing. You should see the kitchen now.”
“And Mitch. He’s awfully hot,” Poppy said, suppressing a giggle.
“Are you interested in him?” Ivy asked. She guessed Mitch was maybe five years older than Poppy, if that.
Poppy flashed a grin at Shelly. “Wouldn’t matter if I were. He’s been checking out Shelly all day.”
“Not all day,” Shelly shot back. “He’s been working hard.”
“Every time I went in the kitchen for a glass of water,” Poppy said. “He would’ve been done in half the time if you weren’t there.”
Ivy wasn’t surprised. Guys had always been drawn to Shelly. She just hoped her sister would choose well this time around. Mitch seemed more reliable than Ezzra, but then, they didn’t really know much about him other than he owned Java Beach and a boat. “Eyes wide open this time, Shelly. Remember Ezzra.”
Her sister’s mouth gaped open. “You think I’m already replacing Ezzra?”
“I just don’t want you to make the same mistake.”
“Like you did?”
Ivy couldn’t reply. Jeremy was far from perfect.
Her anger rising, Shelly folded her arms. “So what kind of mistake might I be making?”
Ivy didn’t like where this was going, but she knew Shelly well enough to know that if her sister was becoming defensive about Mitch, then she was definitely interested in him. “Getting involved with someone emotionally unavailable or afraid of commitment.”
“Who said I’m getting involved with anyone?” Shelly threw up her hands. “When you’re ready to see the fine job that the commitment-phobic Mitch has done—for free, I might add—be my guest.” Shelly whirled around and marched from the room.
Poppy widened her eyes. “Aunt Ivy, she’s really sensitive about that issue.”
“You think?” Yet if the situation were reversed, Ivy would expect Shelly to look out for her best interests, too. As far as Ivy was concerned, that’s what family was for, like it or not.
“I have to see another client soon.” Poppy powered off her laptop. “What are you wearing to Nana’s big bash on Saturday night?”
Ivy shook her head. With so much going on, the dates had slipped past her. “I have no idea. I had planned to ask Shelly to go shopping and help me choose a new outfit, that is, once she starts speaking to me again.”
“If you want, I’ll go shopping with you.” Poppy slipped her computer into its case.
“That would be fun,” Ivy said. The next few weeks would be a blur, but the most critical task was to find out what her mother had been concealing from them. She prayed that Carlotta was in good health, but both of her parents were of an age where they needed their children to look after them more. After hearing about Mrs. Erickson’s battle with Alzheimer’s, Ivy was even more concerned about her mother’s health.
That evening after a tense supper with Shelly, Ivy tucked herself into bed early and armed herself with a notepad, sticky notes, the historical house volume, the ledger, and a glass of red wine. At last, she could relax and try to sort out this mystery.
Cool evening breezes lifted the sheer curtains at the open window, and moonlight spilled across the room like a heavenly balm for her aching muscles and fevered thoughts. All the lifting and sorting and cleaning that she’d been doing around the house had awakened every dormant muscle in her body.
She picked up her new reading glasses, which were indigo blue with cadmium-yellow, the exact shade that Monet had used for his Water-Lilies after 1916. She’d had black frames before, but she was feeling more daring. Shelly liked them, too.
As she slipped on her glasses and sipped her wine, she began to read about Las Brisas, the architect Julia Morgan, and Amelia Erickson. Studying the photos taken in the 1920s and 1930s, she recognized much of the furniture that was stored on the lower level.
She opened the ledger to the page she’d seen. January, 1942. The receipt tucked between the pages might have been for the bricks and building supplies. Deciphering the flowing cursive script, she found that the descriptions matched the furnishings downstairs, as well as those she saw in the book. Amelia might have been keeping a record of the furnishings she’d moved downstairs.
Hidden from potential invaders.
Ivy reached for a magnifying glass to look at the photos again. Peering closer, she didn’t see the paintings that she’d seen in the crates or flat files, although Amelia’s taste had been unerring.
Even though Ivy hadn’t finished exploring the treasure trove down below, she’d seen enough to know that if Mrs. Erickson had purchased the paintings Ivy had seen before WWII, she would have proudly displayed them in the most visible places in the house. The artistry was that impressive.
Unless she couldn’t.
Ivy removed her glasses, thinking about how frightened Amelia must have been. Running her hand across the old ledger, she wondered if she might find other items Amelia had tucked away in the house. Where might she have hidden other writings or treasures?
The painted Chinese screen caught her eye. Behind it were mirrored closets, shelves, and cubbyholes, but she was too tired to investigate tonight.
By the time Ivy turned off the crystal lamp next to the antique walnut bed she slept in, she had a good idea about which pieces were safe to bring upstairs to furnish the bedrooms. In the morning, she would ask Arthur to come by the house and inspect the chandelier in the foyer. If she could get a good price for that, she could afford the new mattresses, linens, and pillows that every guestroom would need.
As she punched her pillow and snuggled under the thin blanket, she thought about Shelly and hoped her sister would be in better spirits in the morning. She sighed and stared at the ceiling. Maybe she owed her an apology.
As much as Ivy had once loved Jeremy, he hadn’t turned out to be the stellar catch either, even though he had been a good father to the girls. When he was around Sunny and Misty, he had spoiled them by lavishing them with shopping sprees while she was the one who was stuck with the mundane discipline when he left on his business trips to Florida or the west coast. Had she but known then what she knew now…
She wondered if she could ever forgive Jeremy his behavior and his flaws.
Or did it even matter now?
Dead tired but restless, she punched the pillow again, trying to make sense of the strange predicament in which she now found herself.
What she needed was a good night’s sleep. She blew out a breath of exasperation. Tomorrow was, indeed, another day.
Thank you, Scarlett O’Hara. She closed her eyes.
Ivy and Nan peered up at the sparkling chandelier in the foyer, while Arthur balanced on a ladder above them inspecting the vintage crystal. It was quite the statement piece, but to Ivy’s eye, it overwhelmed the area.
With a frown of doubt etched on her face, Nan asked, “Are you sure you want to let this go?”
“I’d like a more casual beach vibe,” Ivy said. “And I really need the money.”
“Gilt-bronze and rock crystal,” Arthur pronounced, his shaved head and half-glasses gleaming against the crystal. “Circa 1800, I’d say, and definitely Italian. This is a collector-quality piece and should go to auction at one of the large auction houses.”
“I don’t have time for that,” Ivy said.
Nan caught her husband’s eye. “What about you-know-who in Beverly Hills?”
Arthur looked perplexed for a moment before his eyes brightened. “Ah. That’s a distinct possibility.”
Nan turned to Ivy. “I have a friend who’s an interior designer to the stars, and she has a shop in Beverly Hills. One of her former clients—a mega superstar known for her over-the-top style—just bought a home that she wants to renovate. This might be perfect for her. It’s certainly large enough.”
“That would work,” Ivy said with hope.
Fumbling in her vintage designer handbag, Nan said, “Let’s find out.” She pulled out her phone, snapped a photo, and tapped a text to her friend.
A knock sounded at the door behind them. When Ivy opened it, she was surprised to see Chief Clarkson. One of his officers had arrived at eight o’clock sharp this morning to take photographs. Having just put on a pot of coffee then, Ivy and Shelly quickly changed clothes and helped the officer unwrap each painting for her to photograph. Including the canvases in the flat files, they found more than a hundred paintings—a staggering number that Ivy still couldn’t believe. Each new discovery had touched her heart. And nearly all of them were museum quality.
“Afternoon, Ivy. Is now a convenient time to talk?” the chief asked, raising his eyes to Arthur, who was still perched on the ladder. “Hello Arthur, Nan,” he said, his deep voice booming in the empty room. “Always nice to see you two.”
Arthur descended the ladder to shake the chief’s hand. “How did that gift for the missus work out?”
“My wife loves antiques, so it was perfect. Thanks for your help.” Chief Clarkson turned back to Ivy. “There’s something we need to discuss. Is there a place we can speak?”
Clearly interested in why the police chief was visiting Ivy, Arthur nevertheless folded the ladder and nodded to his wife. “We’d better be off, Nan.”
“Oh, of course,” Nan said, her eyes wide with curiosity. “We’ll let you know if we hear back from you-know-who.”
“I sure appreciate it,” Ivy said and closed the door behind them.
Chief Clarkson was a barrel-chested man who looked like a former Marine. His tight, curly black hair was closely cropped. He towered above her, and Ivy hadn’t realized how tall he was when they were sitting in Bennett’s office. He ducked to avoid grazing the tip of the chandelier.
As soon as the door closed behind the Ainsworths, the chief began. “We transmitted the photographs to the FBI’s Art Crime Team. Two agents on the team are on their way.”
Ivy hadn’t expected such a rapid response, which made her all the more convinced that the paintings were indeed lost masterpieces. “That’s good news.”
“They’ll need a statement from you and others who were present.”
“Just my sister Shelly.”
“Good. You should expect the team of Cecile Dupont and Ari Steinberg tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Any problem with that?”
“No, of course not.” Only that her parents’ party was this weekend, and she’d hoped to go shopping in the afternoon.
After Chief Clarkson left, Ivy sat on the first step of the grand staircase and thought about the weekend ahead.
The more she thought of what her mother’s announcement might entail, the less festive she felt.
Earlier today, Carlotta had called Ivy to say that the family—and only the family—should be there an hour before other guests were due to arrive.
Once again, Carlotta had asked, “Are there any pieces of my jewelry that you would like?”
A chill crept over Ivy. “Mom, we discussed this when I was there. I’d like for you to continue enjoying your things.” She paused. “Why do you keep asking?”
“We’ll go over that tomorrow,” Carlotta replied, her tone pleasant, but firm. “We’re simply trimming our belongings.”
Ivy’s heart thudded with anxiety. Whatever Carlotta had to say, she would tell her family first. Ivy had to brace herself for the worst.
Between her mother’s possible illness, the hovering tax collector, and now the FBI, Ivy was afraid this summer was shaping up to be truly unforgettable.