October, seven years later
“HAVE A NICE VACATION, EH,” the cab driver said, and heaved the suitcase over the lip of the trunk.
“Thanks,” Rachael said absently, handing him the money, her eyes and thoughts on the grey-and-tan stone house before her. The faintest hint of apprehension trickled down her back, like a single bead of perspiration; then it was gone, swiped away by excitement and curiosity. She wasn’t here for pleasure, but for work.
Behind her, the cab kicked into gear and motored off down the driveway that ribboned its way through a row of stately evergreens. And she heard, over the silence of the Adirondack Mountains, only the faint, distant purr of a lawn mower.
Manor MacPherson spread out before her, the late afternoon sun glinting off its many windows. The massive front door, located up a wide flight of low steps, was flanked by two bulging towers. On either side of the towers unfurled the wings of the house; except for the towers, the building was shaped like a capital I, because each wing ended in a front-to-back-facing hall.
Above the front door, in a semi-circle sweep of stained glass, Rachael saw the MacPherson family crest, a cat sejant, proper, and the words “Touch Not The Cat Bot A Glove.” She wondered what had prompted the ancient MacPherson clan, far away and long ago in Scotland, to adopt such a warning for their motto: “Don’t touch the cat without a glove.”
The ominous motto somehow disturbed her, and she reminded herself that this was a job just like any other she’d had in the past few years. Simple genealogical research, back through the MacPherson family tree. She was eager to get started.
Hauling her laptop case and overstuffed suitcase up the steps, she opened the door and maneuvered inside. She stopped. Slowly setting the suitcase back down, she looked around, enchanted.
The front room was as fabulous as the outside of the house promised it would be. On either side, a massive staircase began its ascent; halfway up, each split into two sets of stairs, heading forward and back to connect with walkways along the second floor. Above each staircase was a high skylight allowing a view of the wispy cirrus clouds outside. Hallways led left and right along the front of the house, as well as back beneath the staircases. Straight ahead were two pairs of paneled double doors, one door slightly ajar. A gilt chandelier hanging from the two-story ceiling provided crystalline flashes of light. The room smelled of fresh pine and a light, sweet scent Rachael couldn’t identify.
There was no front desk, but a small sign beside a half-open door on the wall to her right said “Manager.” Leaving her suitcase and computer inside the front door, Rachael crossed the parquet floor and peered in. A short woman, wearing a pinstriped blue-and-white blouse, khaki skirt, and Docksiders, was sliding a manila folder into a filing cabinet drawer. Rachael knocked lightly, and she looked up.
“Hi! Welcome to Manor MacPherson,” the woman said, closing the drawer. Some of the freckles on her face vanished into the grooves of laugh lines around her eyes as she smiled. Rachael guessed her to be in her early thirties. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m Rachael de Young,” Rachael said, extending her business card. Embossed in purple on the marbled lavender card were the words “Rachael S. de Young, Genealogical Researcher & Historian,” and her contact information.
“You made it,” the woman said, sounding pleased. “We’ve been looking forward to your arrival. Let me go tell Celeste you’re here. I’m Karyn Cappricci, hotel manager, by the way.” With barely a glance, she plucked a key from a pegboard and swung around the desk, her hip skimming the corner with practiced ease. “I’ll be back in a sec—have a seat.”
“Thanks,” Rachael said, sinking into the indicated chair outside Karyn’s office. But she’d been sitting all day—cab to plane to train to cab—and moments after Karyn had hurried off, she was up again, restlessly prowling the front room.
A host of MacPhersons had trod the floor where she walked, and she felt a heavy wave of history undulate beneath her feet. For a fleeting second she had the sensation of standing in the middle of all of them, as they surged and wandered and lived and died around her. Suddenly she felt as though she were no longer alone, and whirled. For the briefest of moments she thought she saw a pair of haunting green eyes, but she was still alone in the hall.
The MacPhersons, she knew, were known for the rich green of their eyes, and yet she couldn’t shake the sensation that someone had been with her—not watching her, but being with her.
She was standing before a sweeping oil painting of what could only be the original Manor MacPherson in Scotland when Karyn returned to the front hall and returned Rachael to the present.
“I’m sorry, but Celeste is on an overseas business call,” she said. “She’ll be half an hour at most. Why don’t I take you up to your room?” At Rachael’s nod, she swept up the heavy suitcase. “Not only am I the manager, but I’m also the bellhop,” she said with a grin as she marched across the polished floor toward the right-hand set of stairs. Though her hips were roundly curved, she wasn’t overweight or, obviously, out of shape. Rachael’s long-legged stride allowed her to keep up with the energetic woman, and she was only one step behind as they mounted the staircase.
“I was really excited to hear you were coming,” Karyn said, her blunt-cut pageboy swinging at her shoulders. “I studied history for a few semesters in college, and I wish I could have taken more classes in it.”
“What kind of history did you study?” Rachael asked, now curious.
“Just your basic survey courses. I didn’t have many free credits to blow, and history didn’t have much to do with my major, Hotel Management. It was a real treat to get the job here—this place is fabulous.”
“It is,” Rachael agreed admiringly. She wished she could stop and look at every object, picture, and architectural feature that they passed, but she restrained herself, knowing she’d have ample time in the ensuing days.
“This wing, the east wing, is all guest rooms,” Karyn explained, leading her down a long, narrow hall. “There are a few in the upper west wing, but most of that is the MacPhersons’ private living quarters. We’re putting you in one of the business suites, since we figured you’d need some room to spread out your research stuff.”
She had stopped about halfway down the hall, and, putting Rachael’s suitcase down, inserted the large brass key into the lock. It turned easily, but Karyn had to use a shoulder to help encourage the heavy door to swing in. “Here you go,” she said, standing back so Rachael could enter first.
The two-room suite enthralled Rachael, right down to the bowl of fresh flowers on the highboy and the crystal decanter of brandy and two glasses on the night table. She pulled her laptop out and set it on the desk, then slung the case back over her shoulder while Karyn laid her suitcase on the steamer trunk at the foot of the four-poster bed.
“Do you want to freshen up before you meet with Celeste?” the manager asked solicitously. “I know how tiring your trip must have been.”
“No, I’m fine,” Rachael said quickly. Her curiosity—what had led her to this field of study in the first place—demanded some immediate appeasement. “This is a huge house—how many rooms do you rent to guests?” she asked as she re-locked her door and pocketed the key in the comfortable jeans she’d worn for traveling.
“Twenty. We have eight regular rooms, four honeymoon suites, and six executive suites. We also have two rooms that each have an extra bedroom attached, in case a couple is traveling with a third person. We discourage small children, though—too many delicate antiques lying around.”
As Karyn led her back downstairs, she pointed out the frescoes on the stairwell ceiling and the detailed carvings of the wall panels, which she said were exact copies of the originals in Scotland.
“I’m also the tour guide,” she joked. “I know as much about this house as Celeste and Ian do.”
“What about the family history?” Rachael asked. “Are you an expert on that as well?”
Karyn paused on the landing. “If you’re talking about the tragedy, then no. It’s not discussed. Since you’ll be researching the MacPherson history, I’m sure Celeste will speak to you about it.” Her voice wasn’t unfriendly, but held a firmness that Rachael knew better than to push. She wondered if Karyn fielded this question often, because of the guide book or simply local gossip. At any rate, Celeste had hired her, so she was the one to question.
“You can wait here, in the parlor,” Karyn said, pushing the double doors open further so they could walk through into the room across the front hall. “Celeste will be with you in a jiff. If you need anything, I’ll be in my office. Make yourself at home.” She smiled and left.
Rachael dropped her attaché case on a settee and walked to the wide bay window. She knelt on the built-in, cushioned bench and looked out at the wide expanse of lawn, smooth as a putting green and dotted with small copses of trees and, Rachael saw with delight, a stone fountain. The lawn sloped away to a thicket of trees. With the afternoon sun upon them, the tops of the trees looked afire, the leaves crackling vermilion, pumpkin, and citron flames. And beyond the trees loomed the mountains that made up the Adirondacks. The majestic peaks ringed her vision, some tree-lined and colorful, others grey with shale and slate; the highest already snow-capped, fading into blue and purple in the distance. Rachael, a Midwestern-born-and-bred flatlander, never ceased to be awed by the presence of mountains, and her attention was only drawn away when she leaned farther into the oriel and saw the edge of a garden peeking out from the right side of the house. She couldn’t wait to explore the grounds. But her first priority would be the massive house.
No, she realized ruefully as she slid off the bench, her very first priority would be to find a bathroom. Finding her makeup kit, which was buried in the bottom of her attaché case, which doubled as her purse, she crossed the parlor to the door, and saw that Karyn’s office door was shut. Well, she could certainly find a bathroom by herself.
“Pick a direction—any direction,” she muttered cheerfully. Well, she’d been in the east wing already; perhaps it was time to explore the West. Karyn had said the family quarters were upstairs, but had given no indications that the lower level was private. She headed down the back corridor, carefully opening doors on both sides. She found two closets, a TV room, a staircase and two generic sitting rooms, and was beginning to give up hope when she discovered a short hall leading right, toward the back of the house. A whining noise caught her attention. That would mean a person, she deduced; she could ask on the whereabouts of the bathroom. She knocked, but no one answered; the whining clatter continued. She opened the door, and, surprised by what she found, she took an involuntary step inside.
Although the paneled walls, stained-glass window edging, hand-woven carpet and heavy dark furnishings definitely belonged to the manor, the rest of the office was thoroughly modernized; so much so that Rachael felt physically jolted. Two computers, each with a large, flat-panel LCD monitor, two printers (one a combo scanner/fax machine), and two telephones completed the high-tech array. The noise was from one of the printers, which was choking helplessly on a piece of paper. Rachael moved to succor the afflicted printer, tucking her makeup case under her arm. She opened the side of the printer, tugged at the paper, and it uncrinkled, revealing several more sheets that had built up in the mechanism.
And then someone grabbed her from behind.
Rachael cried out in surprise, a bright ribbon of fear twisting and knotting itself about her midsection. Her makeup case tumbled to the floor. Heart pulsing frantically, she reached deep for strength and twisted in the powerful grasp, trying to free herself from the vise-like hands that gripped her upper arms.
“Don’t turn around,” a voice rasped close to her ear. Rachael smelled expensive, subtle aftershave and a hint of smoke—not cigarette, but more carbon-like, as if a match had suddenly flared. She stopped trying to crane her neck around, knowing if she continued, she would only anger her assailant.
“What are you doing in here? Don’t you know this is a private office?”
From his words, Rachael realized this was no baseless attacker, but rather, a servant or security guard. She tried to determine why his voice contained the unnatural raspiness, wondering if he were trying to disguise it. His strong fingers bruised her biceps. She gritted her teeth and said, “I was looking for the bathroom. I heard a noise and saw that the printer was jammed.”
“The bathroom is down the hall, second door on your left,” he said shortly. He released one arm to swipe her makeup case off the floor. He handed it to her, then turned her and propelled her to the door. “Stay out of my office.”
As he pushed her out of the room, she caught a glimpse of the hand that held her left arm. It was smothered in a supple black leather glove.
The door shut firmly, with finality; not a slam, but neither a soft click. Trembling, Rachael didn’t stop walking until she was in the bathroom. Then she sat down.
By the time she’d finished washing her hands, they’d stopped shaking and she felt calmer. She’d intruded on the man’s office, and of course he’d been angry. Yes, he’d been more forceful than the occasion warranted—he’d deliberately tried to frighten her, it seemed—but on the other hand, he’d walked in and seen a stranger messing with his printer. Still, she couldn’t fathom why he’d not allowed her to see who he was.
A critical look in the mirror showed her that, as she’d expected, the hours of travel had done little to damage her makeup. Rachael found the stubby end of an eyeliner and brightened the line around her eyes in a cerulean that mirrored and accentuated her eyes. A few quick dabs of powder around her nose and on the slant of her high cheekbones completed her work, and she headed back to the parlor, hoping she hadn’t missed Celeste.
Celeste was nowhere in sight, and Karyn’s office door was still closed. Too shaken from her encounter with the strange man to sit and stare out the window, Rachael plopped down on the loveseat next to her attaché case and pulled out the heavy, banded folder that held her notes. She wrapped the wide rubber band around her wrist.
Northwoods Press
November 1, 19--
HEATHER MOUNTAIN, N.Y. — Tragedy struck last night at Manor MacPherson when fire ravaged an outbuilding, killing three family members and seriously injuring another.
Killed in the blaze were Jordan MacPherson; his brother, Shane MacPherson; and Shane’s wife, Emilie Shaw MacPherson.
Mr. and Mrs. MacPherson’s son, Ian, aged 6, is in critical condition at Mercy Hospital with burns on at least 50% of his body, hospital officials said.
Heather Mountain Fire Chief Wayne LeFevre said it is unknown at this time how the fire started in the unused cottage located approximately one-half mile from the manor.
The blaze was first noticed at about midnight by friends leaving the manor after the MacPhersons’ annual All Hallows Eve Costume Ball.
By the time firemen put out the fire, the cottage was gutted.
Funeral arrangements for Misters MacPherson and Mrs. MacPherson are incomplete at this time.
No further details were available at press time.
Rachael practically had the words memorized, but the clippings still fascinated her, drawing her back again and again to read the blurred words. She fished in the folder for the next article.
Northwoods Press
November 3, 19--
HEATHER MOUNTAIN, N.Y. — The New York State Police have been called in to investigate the Manor MacPherson tragedy because they have learned two of the deceased were killed not by fire, but by gun shot.
Police have determined that Jordan MacPherson and his sister-in-law, Emilie Shaw MacPherson, were both shot sometime before the fire was started. Shane MacPherson, Mrs. MacPherson’s husband and Jordan’s brother, was not shot, police said. He was killed by the ensuing fire.
Fire officials continued their investigation today of the Manor MacPherson fire that destroyed an outbuilding on the manor property following the family’s annual All Hallows Eve Ball.
“When we learned there had been a shooting as well, we started to look for signs of arson,” said Fire Chief Wayne LeFevre. Someone had spilled lamp oil around the building, a cottage located about one-half mile from the manor, he said.
Ian MacPherson, aged 6, remains in critical condition at Mercy Hospital. Dr. Joe Billings said he is unsure whether the boy will survive.
Due back at the manor today from New York City are Celeste MacPherson Jenner and her husband, Arden Jenner. The rest of the immediate family are currently in residence; letters have been dispatched to relatives in Scotland.
A wake will be held at Manor MacPherson on Friday and Saturday. Burial will be held at 3 p.m. Sunday at the family plot in Heather Mountain.
Rachel spoke into her digital recorder.
“Reminder: see if the State Police will release the investigation records. Also, see if the Heather Mountain Fire Department has records concerning the fire investigation. And see if the chief or any firefighters who fought the fire are still around.”
The mysterious fire. In the past few years, Rachael had made a career of solving mysteries—of the genealogical type. She wasn’t sure what intrigued her about unraveling family relationships and charting the place of people in history, but she did know she’d chosen a rather limited specialty in the field of history. While most of her colleagues found teaching jobs and worked to get grants for projects, or settled into jobs at museums or universities, Rachael had chosen to create her own niche.
The rest of the Northwoods Press articles she’d found contained little information, finally summarizing that police were baffled by the violent crime. The charred remains of a gun had been found in the shell of the cottage; it was believed to have been Shane’s, but there was no way to tell who had fired it: whether someone had shot Jordan and Emilie with it or whether Shane tried to defend them. There were no clues pointing towards who might have set the fire. Young Ian, though badly scarred, had survived.
A sheet of heavy, cream-colored paper slipped from the folder as Rachael shuffled through the papers. The letterhead displayed the MacPherson family crest, and along the bottom was a strip of the MacPherson modern dress plaid, black, yellow, maroon and cream. Rachael fingered the fine stationery, looking at the bold strokes making up the signature of Celeste MacPherson Jenner, the person who had commissioned her for this project.
The matriarchal woman sat behind a wide desk topped with black slate, a Mont Blanc fountain pen poised in the act of signing the paper before her, a sheet of ivory stationery. An expensive perfume rose discreetly in the air.
“I’ve made up my mind,” she said. “It needs to be done.” Her voice held conviction, but her eyes were troubled. The person to whom she spoke stood before her; Rachael could only see his broad-shouldered back, and his hands where they rested on the edge of the desk—
—his left hand shrouded in a black leather glove.
The man began to turn….
Rachael gasped, the letter fluttering from her fingers. She pressed a trembling hand to her lips.
She hadn’t meant for that to happen. She must be more tired than she realized—or more shaken by her confrontation. In the seven years since she’d discovered her psychic ability, she’d learned to control it. Images no longer came unbidden, unwanted, unexpected, when she held an object. But her control had just slipped, and the loss of restraint frightened her.
If she concentrated, Rachael knew she could learn a great deal about Celeste from this simple letter, including things that Celeste probably had no intention of sharing with her. She had already seen Celeste in her office in the act of signing the letter. She’d heard Celeste speak to the mystery man, smelt her perfume. That much, in a few meager seconds, from a single, simple piece of paper—and so much more was possible.
That, Rachael refused to do.
She was glad her talent for psychometry hadn’t revealed itself until she was in her early twenties—when she was mature enough to deal with the implications of the power. If she decided to misuse her ability to see images by holding an object, she could delve into the most intimate and private matters a person had. Oh, occasionally the temptation was strong, as it had been when she returned from France to learn of her boyfriend’s betrayal. But she’d swiftly decided that, when it came to that situation, what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. And, she decided soon after, what she could know could hurt other people.
On the other hand, psychometry could be an extremely valuable tool for an historian. So Rachael had laid down a simple law for herself: Never use her psychometric powers on something that belonged to a living person. Sometimes that wasn’t easy, for an object could be passed down through the generations, but, with practice, Rachael had learned how to focus her ability on the time period she was aiming for.
If the object had a particularly powerful event attached to it, however, images of that event might come unbidden, and she would struggle to retain her own identity and control the visions that swept her in. She had worked hard at that control, still knowing it would always be a frightening experience—consciousness snatched away, dropped into a pit where senses sharpened, experiences were unwanted and difficult to escape from. The recent shudder to her nerves had damaged her control as well.
The MacPherson project, she guessed, would be particularly difficult because the potent event had happened a mere forty years ago. The traces of memory of it would be fresh, unblurred by the passage of time, of hundreds of years of later memories pressed on top. Most of the recent history of the families she studied was relatively bland; usually the older events were more exciting. By the time Rachael handled them, the emotional aura on the objects had faded to a manageable level. But there was something about this project that had intrigued her from the moment she received Celeste’s first letter.
Intrigued her—and frightened her. Frightened her in the same way that her slip when holding the letter frightened her. That was, Rachael realized, exactly why she had been apprehensive in the first place. The history of the fire hadn’t been laid to rest yet, and she would no doubt continue fighting to keep herself from getting tangled in the strands of time.
She squared her shoulders. She was overreacting. She was here to study the entire MacPherson genealogy—the Halloween massacre was only a tiny part of their history, and not what she going to be spending her time on.
Despite everything, she was excited about this undertaking, and looked forward to spending some time in the beautiful Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York. Celeste MacPherson had said in the letter that autumn was the best time to visit the Adirondack Park. Rachael knew that the word “park” was a misnomer, bringing to mind tidy, open lands prepared for maximum visitation for city-dwelling vacationers; in reality, much of the alpine land was either privately owned or still in a state of untamed, often dangerous wilderness.
Although she’d never seen the North Country in the other seasons, Rachael had to admit she couldn’t imagine a more beautiful setting than the one outside the bay window. Right now, a family of deer placidly munched their way across the lawn near the border of trees.
She shuffled through the papers on her lap, choosing not to reread the relatively unhelpful obituaries of Jordan, Shane, and Emilie, and selected a page she’d photocopied from a guidebook called Where to Stay in Northern New York. Pulling the rubber band from her wrist, she twisted it absentmindedly around her fingers as she read.
Manor MacPherson Built in 1850, this majestic hotel is one of the oldest buildings in the North Country. Copied almost to the stone from the historic MacPherson manor in Scotland, the hotel is still home to the MacPherson family. They opened to the public in 1956. Currently, Celeste MacPherson Jenner and her cousin, reclusive businessman Ian MacPherson, jointly run the operation. The MacPhersons also own MacPherson Syrup, Inc., one of the leading providers of maple syrup in the country.
There are few tales of ghosts or spirits at Manor MacPherson, despite a tragedy that the family steadfastly refuses to discuss. In 19--, three members of the family—Ian MacPherson’s mother, father, and half-uncle—were killed one night: two by gunshot and the third in a mysterious fire, all in the same cottage on the property. Intense rumor at the time speculated that an illicit affair had been going on between two of the deceased, though no concrete evidence supports this. Some visitors to the manor say the faint notes of a piano are sometimes heard wafting from the music room when no one is inside—but it is doubtful that this romantic notion can be linked to the fire.
As if to divorce itself from that tragic night, the family still holds a gala, full-costume-required Halloween Ball every year, carrying on the family’s hundreds-year-old tradition despite the fact that one took place on the night of the 19-- fire.
October is certainly a wonderful month to visit Manor MacPherson, not only for the sumptuous ball but also for the famous spectacle of fall leaves in the Adirondacks as well. Also to be noted is the foliage on Heather Mountain—the area was so named for the Scottish Highlands heather that the MacPhersons transplanted on their land when the manor was built. The hardy plants, blooming with sweet-scented flowers of purple, grey-blue and white, are another special touch that makes a stay at Manor MacPherson unique.
Manor MacPherson has managed to perfectly combine the brilliant architecture of the 1500s with the modern conveniences of the twenty-first century. Open an antique cupboard in your room and you’ll find a hotpot, mugs, and a variety of imported teas atop a tiny fridge. Light switches are cleverly disguised to blend almost seamlessly with the surrounding woodwork….
“Rachael de Young?”
An older woman with impeccably coifed short white hair stood in the parlor doorway, smiling.
“Mrs. Jenner?” Rachael moved the overflowing file from her lap to the brocaded loveseat cushion so she could stand.
“Celeste, please,” the woman said, coming forward and taking Rachael’s hand between hers. “We can’t have such formalities when we’ll be working so closely together.”
Rachael smiled back, feeling the last of her anxieties melt away before the gracious woman. She stuffed the photocopy back in the folder and shoved the whole thing into her attaché case.
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” Celeste continued as they left the parlor together. “It was a phone call that simply couldn’t wait.”
“No problem,” Rachael said. The woman was several inches shorter than Rachael, and if it weren’t for her snowy hair, her erect carriage and slim figure would easily cause her to be mistaken for a woman twenty years younger. Her navy suit and simple, high-necked red silk blouse spoke of both elegance and comfort. Rachael felt grubby in comparison in her jeans and soft grey knit shirt, but Celeste seemed not to notice—or if she did, she didn’t mind. “It gave me a chance to look around a bit.”
“And what did you think?” Celeste held open a door and allowed Rachael to enter first.
“Everything is beautiful—gorgeous,” Rachael said lamely.
“Thank you, dear,” Celeste said, and moved around to sit behind her desk.
Her black slate-topped desk.
At Celeste’s gesture, Rachael sank into the comfortable burgundy-leather armchair across from her. So. Even unbidden, her visions continued to be accurate to the last detail.
A cluster of framed photos held court at one corner. Rachael tilted her head around to see them. Most were older, sepia-tinted. One, of a dark-haired man, struck her soul; even though the color couldn’t be in the picture, she saw him with familiar eyes of green.
“Now, I do want to go over a few things before you get started on your research,” Celeste said. “Let me give you a brief overview of the family. Of course, I will always be available to you—I’ll give you whatever information I can. The rest of the family is to do the same, not that there are many of us left.”
“You said that’s the reason you wanted the family history charted,” Rachael said. Celeste’s office also contained modern computer equipment, but Rachael noted that it was recessed in the back wall and doors could be closed to hide it, better retaining the manor’s antique charm.
“That’s definitely one of the reasons,” Celeste agreed. “Really, Ian and I are the only ones of this line, and we don’t seem to be leaving any heirs. I’ve lost track of all the different groups in Scotland—you’ll track most of them down, I’m sure—but I gather they’re diminishing as well. Smaller families, fewer marriages, that sort of thing. My main interest, where I’d like you to concentrate, is on our line of the family since we came to America.” She leaned forward. “Another reason, Rachael, is that, besides the manor itself, the one thing everyone knows about the MacPhersons is a tragedy we had here a number of years ago. I don’t want that to be the only thing everyone remembers.”
“The shootings and fire,” Rachael supplied.
Celeste’s green eyes narrowed. “You know about that?”
“Only because I did some research before I came here,” Rachael said quickly, seeing the woman’s discomfort. “I’d be a poor historian if I didn’t do some preliminary study before I dove into a project.”
“That’s true,” Celeste said, sounding relieved. “So, you know of our tragedy.” She breathed in deeply, the sides of her aquiline nose hollowing. “Yes, I’ll admit I’m sensitive about the subject—although not nearly as much as Ian is, poor boy.” She paused, considering the neat arrangements of objects on her desk: leather blotter, pen holder, closed date book. “I don’t want the only thing people remember about us to be that night, and especially not the rumors about it,” she said slowly. “But I admit there’s a concurrent reason why I hired you.”
Rachael waited.
“In the course of your research, if you can, I wonder if you could find out who murdered three members of my family forty years ago.”