As I made my way back home, I noticed Aunt Lydia’s car was parked in the detached garage that flanked the right side of the house. There was another car pulled up behind hers—a luxury-brand silver sedan.
I didn’t recognize the car and couldn’t imagine who we knew with the money to purchase such a vehicle. Taking the gravel path that skirted the garage, I heard voices and quickened my pace. Aunt Lydia was in the garden, talking to someone whose voice I didn’t recognize.
“Amy, there you are! I was worried.” Aunt Lydia was still dressed in her church clothes—a simple navy linen dress with a white bolero jacket and pearls. “I saw your clippers lying on the ground, and the back door was unlocked. I was about to call Brad Tucker.”
“Oh, sorry.” I hurried to her, bobbing my head at the other woman who stood nearby. Sylvia Taylor Baker, my aunt’s second cousin.
What the hell was she doing here? She and my aunt were family but not friends.
“I was just next door. Richard Muir wanted to show me the work he’d had done on the Cooper place.”
A bright smile replaced Aunt Lydia’s concerned expression. I groaned internally. She probably thought her matchmaking efforts were paying off.
“Ah, yes,” Sylvia said. “The great-nephew. Strange that he wants to live here after all these years.”
Sylvia was tall and slender like my aunt, but her blue eyes were as steely as her expertly coiffed gray hair. She wore carefully applied makeup that made her look younger than her fifty-nine years. Her clothes exuded sophistication and wealth—a light-gray silk suit obviously tailored to fit her figure.
Sylvia’s smile was cool. “Hello, Amy. How you’ve grown. But it’s been years since I’ve seen you, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Amy is living with me now, you know,” Aunt Lydia said. “Such a help with the house and gardens. And she’s the director of the town library too.”
Sylvia looked me over. “So I heard. Left a position at Clarion, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I muttered, bending down to pick up my clippers. When I straightened, I noticed Sylvia staring at me. “Needed a change.”
“Yes, I heard that too.”
I rubbed at the side of my nose as heat rose in my face. So Sylvia had somehow found out about my disgraceful exit. Of course she had. She was one of the university’s biggest donors.
Sylvia Taylor Baker was the only child of Rose Baker’s nephew, William Baker Jr. She’d inherited most of the Baker fortune—everything except the family home and a small legacy that had been bequeathed to Rose and her husband, Fairfax Litton.
Unlike my direct relations, Sylvia’s father had turned his inheritance into a larger fortune, buying up real estate before the commuter rail took off and the area became a popular bedroom community for people working in Washington, DC. Sylvia, who’d never married, had built an elegant estate outside of town but rarely lived there. She spent most of her time traveling and managing her investment properties.
According to Aunt Lydia, Sylvia was not satisfied with her wealth, elegant estate, and various vacation properties. She’d always coveted the family home and had made numerous attempts to buy it.
Numerous unsuccessful attempts. I wondered if that was why she was here today. One more try.
“Sylvia was at church today . . .” Aunt Lydia shot me a conspiratorial glance. My aunt had often mentioned that Sylvia Baker only attended church services at Easter and Christmas. “. . . and asked if she could stop by to see the garden. So I invited her over.”
“I see.” I yanked off my straw hat and wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. “Sorry it isn’t in perfect shape. Still need to finish the weeding.”
“I suppose that is a never-ending chore.” Sylvia’s gaze swept over the expanse of flowers and vegetable plants.
I rolled the edge of my hat between my fingers. “Pretty much.”
“Couldn’t manage it without Amy,” Aunt Lydia said. “Of course, it will all be hers someday, so she does have a vested interest.”
“Yes, I suppose,” said her cousin.
Aunt Lydia’s smile shone in direct contrast to Sylvia’s sour grimace. “And we’re thrilled that Richard Muir has moved in next door. The Cooper place sat empty too long. I was afraid it would eventually fall to pieces and have to be torn down. Now with all the work Richard has put in, I’m sure the house will endure for many more years.”
“Very nice,” Sylvia said, although her expression did not match this pronouncement.
“Of course, we are concerned about the plans for the development Bob Blackstone is pushing. Have you heard anything about that?” Aunt Lydia said this in a perfectly innocent tone, but I knew she was fishing for confirmation that Sylvia was involved.
Sylvia thinned her lips and did not respond.
I cast her a broad, if insincere, smile. “Yes, it seems that Don Virts has invested some money in the deal. Guess Mayor Blackstone needed an infusion of extra cash to get the property into shape to sell. Heard he might have to put in a few wells and septic tanks if the town system can’t be expanded soon enough.”
“I really had no idea,” Sylvia said shortly.
“No? I thought you knew everything that went on in town, especially where development was concerned. Aren’t you on the zoning board?” I caught Aunt Lydia’s warning frown out of the corner of my eye.
But if Sylvia Baker was involved in Bob Blackstone’s land deal, along with Don Virts, she might know something useful about Don’s finances. Not that she would be likely to tell me anything directly, but just knowing of her involvement could provide me with another avenue for research.
“I am, but I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to share the information from our meetings with outsiders.” As Sylvia waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, a scent of flowery perfume wafted through the air.
It was enough to entice an inquisitive honeybee. The bee flew a circle about Sylvia’s head.
“Get that thing away from me!” she shrieked.
“It won’t hurt you if you just stand still,” Aunt Lydia said after Sylvia batted at the bee furiously and jumped backward.
I covered my smile with one hand. The oh-so-elegant Sylvia was hopping on one foot like an angry crane. “Wait, let me shoo it away.” I crossed to her and flapped my hand, and the bee took off, heading for the monarda bed.
Sylvia tugged down her jacket. “I hate those things.”
“They’re essential for the environment,” I said. “We actually plant flowers to attract them.”
Sylvia’s lips twitched. “I never would. All that environmental stuff is mostly nonsense anyway.”
“Oh, I can’t agree with that,” Aunt Lydia said. “We have to take care of the Earth. It would be a shame to leave a trashed planet to the next generation. Which is why”—she straightened and stopped smiling—“I don’t agree with the plans for this development.”
“Me either,” I said.
Sylvia gazed at both of us, her expression once again haughty. “Progress is equally valuable. This town will die without an infusion of new blood. Just think of the businesses all those new households could support.”
Aunt Lydia’s slender fingers curled around her strand of pearls. “Yes, but where are those businesses going to be built? And when? You know how strict the zoning laws are here. Well, you should, since you had a hand in creating them.”
“We will bring in the proper things at the proper time.” Sylvia gave a little sniff. “Not that riffraff that’s sprung up like mushrooms outside of town, either.”
Some in buildings you own, I thought, fixing Sylvia with a fierce stare.
But . . . mushrooms. I looked from my aunt to her cousin and back again. “Funny thing, you mentioning mushrooms. Just uncovered an old article about that in the archives yesterday. It said something about an orphanage that used to be on the old Cooper land and people dying from eating bad mushrooms. Weird, because no one has ever mentioned that to me before.”
Sylvia’s face paled to match the white roses in the bed behind her.
“Oh, that was so long ago.” Aunt Lydia, who had leaned over to deadhead a dried-up daylily, apparently did not notice Sylvia’s reaction. Or, if she did, thought nothing of it.
But I did. I stared at my second cousin once removed with interest. Something about that old tragedy had touched a nerve.
I shoved my hat back on my head. “I just think it’s strange that no one talks about it.”
“It was rather a blot on the town’s reputation,” Aunt Lydia said. “Although it was no one’s fault, really. Even poor Eloise Fowler wasn’t truly to blame. I suspect she was distracted, dealing with feeding so many children, and just picked the wrong mushrooms accidentally. Or maybe one of the children did—they used to help her with the foraging, from what people said. Of course, I was only six at the time, so I wasn’t told much directly. Just overheard stuff.” She glanced at Sylvia, who had regained her composure. “And you were barely one, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” Sylvia replied tersely.
“Anyway, it broke Paul Dassin’s heart. That’s what he told me later. He’d so wanted to honor the Coopers with something positive, and then another tragedy occurs on the same land.”
“It’s just history now. No bearing on the present.” Sylvia brushed an imaginary wrinkle from her slim skirt. “Which is why I support the development. Taylorsford has to move forward, not stay mired in the past.”
That was rich, coming from a woman who practically worshiped at the altar of family history.
Aunt Lydia twirled the daylily blossom between her fingers as she studied her cousin. “But why not turn the land into a town park instead? That’s what Amy’s friend, Sunny, and her environmental group want to do. Which really makes sense to me. Let the development happen on the edge of town, where there’s already a lot of modern construction. Preserve the historical nature of the town proper.”
Sylvia lifted her sharp chin. “That environmental group, as you call it, primarily consists of young people from the city. Not true Taylorsford residents, except for Sunshine Fields. So why should they have any say in our town? And anyway, the type of people we want to move in have no desire to build where they’ll be staring at car dealerships and grocery stores. They want the beautiful lots and views the old Cooper farm can provide.”
I kicked some pea gravel with the toe of my sneaker. “The type of people you want? What does that mean?”
“People who can afford the best, of course. Educated people with good jobs in the city. People who can really contribute something to the town.”
“People with money, you mean.”
“Well, yes. Because those are the people who can support the things Taylorsford needs. Like the library.” Sylvia cast me a pointed glare. “People more like our ancestors, if I’m honest.”
“Oh, lumber barons? Not too many of those left.”
Aunt Lydia dropped the daylily flower and gripped my wrist. “Now Amy, you know what Sylvia means.”
“Yeah, I think I do.” I eyed Sylvia with distaste. “She means people who can afford the rents she wants to charge for those buildings she owns in town. Driving out other people, like Bethany Virts, who can’t.”
“Speaking of Bethany Virts, I hope she’s doing okay,” Aunt Lydia said after squeezing my wrist rather hard. “Poor thing, losing her mother in such a fashion.”
“A tragedy.” Sylvia turned her cool gaze on me. “I understand you’re the one who found the body. That must have been a shock.”
I pulled free of Aunt Lydia’s grasp. “Yes, it was.”
“But I heard that you didn’t see anything more? I mean, nothing that would help lead to the perpetrator? That’s a shame.”
“No, Richard and I just stumbled over the body. We didn’t see anything else.”
Sylvia’s eyes were clear and cold as an icicle, and her gaze as sharp. “It’s probably for the best. If you had seen the murderer, you might have been placed in danger as well.”
I hadn’t considered that aspect of the situation. I shivered. “I guess.”
“I’m sure the sheriff’s department and other investigators will find the monster who did this,” Aunt Lydia said. “They always do.”
“Not always. But I wouldn’t worry. I agree with Don Virts—it was probably some vagrant passing through. High on meth or moonshine or some such thing. Maybe he’d broken into the archives to sleep off a binge, and Doris walked in on him, and”—Sylvia spread out her hands—“he was startled and attacked her. You know how those people can turn violent for no reason.”
It was a clever hypothesis, I had to give her that. But also a good cover for a different type of murderer. I wondered if she or Don had come up with it and, if so, why Sylvia was willing to spread his theory. I wasn’t aware they were friends.
But Don had money, and Sylvia was always seeking investors for her various real estate dealings. So there was one likely connection.
Or maybe they were joint investors in Bob Blackstone’s pet project. I studied Sylvia’s haughty face, which was surprisingly devoid of lines. No doubt she’d indulged in a bit of plastic surgery or Botox. Chasing youth the way she chased money.
Aunt Lydia looked thoughtful. “Maybe. That might explain it, because it certainly doesn’t make sense otherwise. Doris Virts had no enemies as far as I know. And it’s not like her children would kill her for their inheritance, because there isn’t any.”
Sylvia nodded. “That’s why Don’s theory seems sensible. Which means we may never know who did it. But if that’s the case, hopefully they’ve fled and won’t return.”
“Speaking of returning to Taylorsford, I found out something interesting from Richard just the other day.” I turned to Aunt Lydia. “Remember that boy who lived with Paul Dassin for several years? You said his name was Karl Klass, right?”
“Yes.” My aunt’s fingers caressed her pearls again. “What of him?”
“He did come back. Or at least someone claiming to be him contacted Richard to set up a meeting. Richard’s a little worried he might be angling for a piece of Paul’s estate, so he asked me to accompany him on his visit. To have a witness to whatever’s said, I guess.”
My aunt flinched as if she’d been stung by that bee. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Don’t worry. It can’t be anything that shady. Even if the guy has a different name now, he’s quite respectable. In fact, it seems he moves in the highest social circles.”
“That doesn’t sound like Karl,” Aunt Lydia said. “He was always so rough around the edges.”
“Apparently he smoothed them out. Seriously, you’ll never guess who it is.”
“Kurt Kendrick.” Sylvia’s eyes sparkled with the obvious pleasure she took in divulging this information.
Aunt Lydia yanked on her necklace so hard the clasp sprung open, leaving the strand of pearls dangling from her fingers. “Surely not.” She shoved the jewelry into her dress pocket and shot Sylvia a sharp glance. “And even if so, how did you know anything about this?”
Sylvia swept her hand through the air in a dismissive gesture. “Oh, I’ve been to a few of his parties. We share some mutual friends. But I didn’t want to blow his cover since it seemed he wasn’t interested in being remembered in Taylorsford. Not as Karl Klass, anyway. But now that he’s contacted Dassin’s great-nephew, I suppose he’s decided to reveal the truth at last.” She narrowed her eyes. “I thought you would’ve recognized him from that photo in the paper, Lydia. I realize he’s in his early seventies now, but he still looks like he could man a longboat. The Viking. Remember, that was his nickname?”
“Yes, because he was so tall and broad-shouldered and fair.”
“And still is, although his hair is white now, instead of blond. But those blue eyes are just as striking as ever.” Sylvia patted her lacquered hair. “I was only six when he took off for parts unknown, but I remember being dazzled even then.”
Aunt Lydia sniffed. “He was a hooligan. Dragged Andrew into all sorts of trouble.”
“So you should be glad he disappeared when he did. For Andrew’s sake, I mean.”
“No, because it hurt Andrew and broke poor Paul’s heart.” Aunt Lydia glanced at me. “Karl just took off when he was eighteen. Never contacted Paul or Andrew or anyone in Taylorsford again, as far as I know. Paul could never locate him, no matter how hard he tried. Karl just vanished. I think Paul always worried that he was dead in a ditch somewhere.”
“People always did seem to disappear on Paul Dassin. Not the luckiest individual, was he?” Sylvia turned to look at the back of the house. “I think you need a paint job on the trim, Lydia.”
I assumed that was the end of the talk about Karl Klass or Kurt Kendrick or whoever he was, at least as far as Sylvia was concerned. I wanted to ask more questions, but one look at my aunt’s tense face locked my lips. Anyway, I knew I’d have a chance to learn more about Taylorsford’s prodigal son soon.
Sylvia lifted her sharp chin. “You don’t want to let that go too long. I have some professionals I could recommend.”
Aunt Lydia shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Thanks, but I don’t know when we’ll be able to afford a full paint job. Not a cheap proposition.”
“No.” Sylvia focused her gaze back on my aunt. “You know, if it ever becomes too much of a burden, my offer to buy the place still stands.”
There it was. The real reason for her visit. “I don’t think Aunt Lydia is interested in selling—ever,” I said forcefully.
“I just hate to see the family home fall into disrepair.” Sylvia patted her short hair with one hand. It didn’t move, which verified my suspicion that it had been heavily lacquered with hairspray. “And it’s much too large for one person to rattle around in.”
Said the woman who owned multiple large homes.
“Two,” I said. “Two people.”
Sylvia’s aristocratic nose twitched as she looked me up and down. “Ah, yes, two. But you won’t live here forever, will you? I imagine you’ll eventually marry, or move in with someone, or whatever it is you young people do these days.”
I couldn’t help myself. “You never married, or . . . whatever.”
Sylvia stared at me like I had just burped in public. Or worse. “Well, I suppose I should be running along. Thank you for allowing me to see the garden, Lydia. And don’t let me keep you from your weeding, Amy. Seems like a rather messy task to me, but I suppose you probably enjoy that.” Her gaze ranged over my ragged ensemble. She sniffed before turning away and walking to her car.
“That was a bit rude,” Aunt Lydia observed as the sedan backed out of the driveway.
“Who? Me or her?”
“Both,” said my aunt, but she grinned. “Don’t worry. You can’t say anything to Sylvia that I haven’t already considered. She’s always been a bit of a pain. Obsessed with the family heritage, you know. That’s really why she wants the house, not because she wants to live here. She’d probably renovate it into some froufrou monstrosity and turn it into a bed-and-breakfast.”
“Called ‘Baker House,’ to perpetuate and glorify the family name?”
“Yes, which is not my name or yours. So I guess she thinks she has more of a right to everything connected to it.” Aunt Lydia shaded her eyes with one hand and stared at the back of the house. “The trim does need painting. But I’ll be damned if I’ll ever sell this place to Sylvia Baker. I’d let it tumble down before that.”
“It won’t. We’ll take care of it.”
Aunt Lydia smiled. “Of course we will. Now don’t work too long in this heat.” She patted my arm. “I’m going in, but I’ll bring you some water here in a minute. You look far too flushed.” She turned away but glanced over her shoulder and gave me a wink before heading toward the back porch. “Unless that’s simply the residual blush from spending time with our new neighbor.”
I swore loudly, but Aunt Lydia just laughed and disappeared into the house.