I got Millicent tucked up in bed, wearing her flannel nightgown with a heating pad and a box of tissues. She was so shaken we had to take her upstairs in the miniature elevator that their mother, Florence, had installed during the war for a wounded cousin who was recuperating with them. Millicent wasn’t happy. She felt like avoiding stairs was a slippery slope and, once you did that, you might as well give it up, but we convinced her these were extraordinary circumstances. She wasn’t decrepit.
Joy, The Girls’ housekeeper, settled Myrtle in the overstuffed wingback chair next to Millicent’s bed and covered her in a quilt that my grandmother made her.
“I’m fine. No need to fuss,” she said, glancing at Millicent, who was dabbing at her eyes with a shaky hand.
“I know,” said Joy, “but it was cold out there. You have to be careful.”
“A brisk walk does a body good.”
Joy pursed her lips.
“They weren’t outside that long,” I said.
“I know exactly how long they were outside.”
“We’re fine,” said Millicent, before blowing her nose and having a tear slip down her pale cheek.
Joy shot a harsh look at me. “Come make some of your father’s Hot Toddies.”
“You know the—”
She raised a brow.
“How about I go make some hot toddies?”
“Good idea,” said Joy.
“That would be lovely,” said Myrtle and Millicent nodded.
Joy took me by the arm and practically dragged me out of the room, closing the bedroom door firmly behind us. “Stop upsetting them. What are you thinking?”
“I didn’t see this coming,” I said. “I’m not upsetting them on purpose.”
“Millicent looks like she gave blood three times in two hours.”
“Well, she didn’t.”
“That Dr. Bloom called and you didn’t answer. Then they went tearing off down the street when that busybody Mrs. Haas told them you were up a tree at your parents’ house. They were excited, but you brought them back needing heating pads and whiskey. They are old, Mercy. I know you don’t see it. But they are. If they break a hip, it’s game over.”
“They’re not going to break a hip. Their bone density is all good. I watch it.”
Joy took a breath and marched me down the long curved staircase. She didn’t let go of my arm, like there was a chance I’d go back and start shouting obscenities or something equally crazy.
“I know you keep a good eye on their health, but it’s been a lot this last year. Carolina’s stroke, Lester, and let’s face it, you’ve gotten in trouble aplenty.”
We walked into the massive kitchen and there was the chair that Lester died in, attacked by emissaries of The Klinefeld Group in yet another attempt to find out what Stella Bled Lawrence sent back from the war. It had been a very bad year and very hard to pinpoint what was the lowest point.
I went to over to the enormous stove and put on the kettle. “I don’t go looking for trouble.”
“I know, but still.”
“Still what?”
“The Girls worry about you.” Joy got out four mugs, the homeliest ones they had. I’d made them in middle school pottery class. I’m so bad at art it’s embarrassing. “They love you like no one else.”
I let that hang in the air to see if she would elaborate, but, of course, she didn’t. That I was a favorite was well-known in and out of the Bled family. Why wasn’t well-known. The Bleds became connected with my mother’s family, the Boulards, in 1938 when Amelie and Paul Boulard did something to help The Girls’ cousin, Stella Bled Lawrence. That secret was so well-kept The Girls didn’t know it and they didn’t know what The Klinefeld Group was after either.
But there was more to it. Isn’t that always the way? Nothing’s simple. The Bleds favored my father’s family, too. That started when The Girls met my grandad, Ace Watts, after one of The Klinefeld Group’s break-ins. He was a detective assigned to the case and from that moment on, they were oddly attached to us, going so far as to arrange a meeting between my parents. I guess they knew what they were doing, because here I am and, as far as I can tell, it’s what they wanted. Me. A combo of Boulard and Watts. The only one.
“Joy?”
“Yes?”
“Am I a Bled?”
She carefully arranged the mugs so that the gnarly handles all faced the same way and said, “Yes, I think so.”
“Did The Girls say something?” I asked.
“No. It’s just a feeling about you, your father, and Ace.”
“Not Mom’s side then?”
“I don’t think so. Lester always said all you Watts were family.”
“Then he knew something?”
“He must’ve. He was with them long before me. I’d find the three of them curled up looking at the scrapbooks. The family tree. I heard your name, more than once. Something was going on,” said Joy.
“Why don’t they just tell us?”
“I’m sure they’ve got their reasons and they are sensible ladies. Don’t force the issue.”
“As if I could make them tell me.” I rolled my eyes.
She laughed and got out a hefty bottle of good Irish whiskey and a jar of loose tea. “Now you tell me what’s upset them.”
“How about you tell me what Dr. Bloom wanted?”
“I can’t, because I don’t know.” She measured the tea into the strainer and then faced me. “Tell me what happened. Millicent has had a blow and she’s no snowflake.”
I poured the boiling water into the tea pot and reluctantly told her about Aunt Miriam and Sister Maggie’s medal. She listened without interrupting, but her face got more and more grave.
“Did you know about this?” I asked.
“I knew about her death, the murder, I mean,” said Joy, rolling one of my mugs between her palms.
“How? They never mentioned her to me and the only pictures of nuns that I’ve seen are those cousins, Lidija and Paloma.”
“My mother was housekeeper before me. She was a maid with the family when it happened,” said Joy.
“I totally forgot that.”
“My family has been with the Bleds for three generations.”
I measured out a jigger of whiskey into each mug and started cutting up a lemon. “So you know everything.”
“I wouldn’t say that, but I know what my mother said about Sister Maggie. She told me to never ever bring it up. To say it’s an open wound is an understatement.”
“No kidding. I wish somebody had told me.”
Joy shrugged. “It was so long ago. I didn’t think it would be a problem. Do you really think it’s Sister Maggie’s medal?”
I nodded. “I do. Aunt Miriam would’ve said if it wasn’t, and that would’ve been the end of it.”
“I agree.”
“Do you think The Girls can identify it?”
“For goodness sake, don’t ask them to look at that. It was on her when she died, I don’t think they can take it,” said Joy in a rush.
“How do they know her? What’s the deal?”
It’s amazing how you can know someone your whole life and still be in the dark on the most important things. In my case, I do mean my whole life. The Girls attended my birth. My dad didn’t cut the cord. They did. Dad was out on a case and Mom gave birth without him, but The Girls were there. They didn’t miss a second of me, but I didn’t know the story of them, not all of it, not even close.
The Girls were very attached to Margaret (Maggie) Mullanphy. There was some kind of family connection that Joy wasn’t sure about, but she did know that they knew her from childhood. There were pictures of the three of them in the atriums, playing hide and seek and having tea parties. The connection was never lost, even though Maggie went to Catholic school while The Girls were educated at home. Maggie and Millicent were especially close. Best friends, Joy’s mother had said and they did everything together, but Maggie wasn’t the only one close to Millicent. Maggie had an older brother, Patrick. Joy went to the library and found a small scrapbook that I’d never seen before. It wasn’t like the big ones, handmade with fine leather covers. The Girls had those scrapbooks. This one was small and handmade, but not by a professional. It had wood covers and the initial “P” carved into the front. Inside were pictures of Millicent and a handsome young man at dances, having ice cream, reading, doing all the things that kids do. There were ticket stubs pasted in the pages and flowers, carefully dried and preserved. The last picture was of Patrick sitting in the back garden of the mansion among the roses on a lounge with blankets up to his chin. Millicent knelt beside him with her face pressed against his hand. He was smiling but clearly very sick.
“So he died,” I said.
“He did,” said Joy. “Lymphoma, I think.”
“Looks about twenty.”
“Sounds right. I believe Millicent was seventeen. My mother said she was devastated. The family thought she might hurt herself. Maggie and Myrtle were the only people she could bear to be with. Florence didn’t know what to do and in desperation, she sent The Girls and Maggie to Europe so they wouldn’t have to be reminded every day. They were gone a year.”
“It must’ve worked,” I said.
“As well as anything does. They came back and The Girls married their husbands. Myrtle had Lawton and Maggie became a nun. But I don’t think Millicent really got over it.”
“How come?”
“He died on May fifteenth in your mother’s bedroom. The Girls are never in the house on that day. Didn’t you ever notice?”
I thought about it. Maybe. I wasn’t sure. They traveled a lot, particularly when they were younger. “I guess so.”
“It’s not a guess, Mercy. It’s a fact. They go to Europe or New York. Sometimes it’s just out to Prie Dieu, but they are never in this house on that day. Lester usually went with them. He said Millicent would stay in bed and refuse to see anyone, but the next day she’d come out like nothing happened.”
“I remember times when she’d stay in her room. Myrtle said she was sick or was tired. I didn’t think anything of it.”
“No reason you should,” said Joy. “Please don’t bring up Patrick and if you can stay off Maggie, that would be good.”
“I don’t think they’re going to let it go.” I finished the toddy with a dash of bitters and put the mugs on a tray.
Joy sighed. “I know. But her murder is all wrapped up with Patrick. My mother said they were incredibly close until the day she died and they went into mourning for a year.”
“I can see that.” I picked up the tray, but Joy put a hand on my arm.
“Mercy, they stopped going to church for that year.”
I nearly dropped the tray. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“But they always go. They’re hard core about it. When we traveled, no matter where we were, they had to attend mass. We’d drive hours, if we had to. I always tried to get out of it, but that wasn’t happening.”
“I know. My mother said they were angry about something to do with the church, but they didn’t discuss it with her.”
“They obviously got over it,” I said.
“People do. When Lawton’s father died, they needed their faith. The church came with it.”
“I’ll try to stay away from the subject.”
“Please do. They’re older than they seem and they’ve had so many sorrows. It won’t help to remember them,” said Joy.
I did my best. I really did, but some sorrows don’t grow old like people do.
Millicent smiled at me when I came in with the tray. “I’m sorry, dear. Just a foolish old lady. I shouldn’t have alarmed you.”
“There’s nothing foolish about it,” I said, putting the tray on the foot of the bed. “Now what’s this about Dr. Bloom calling?”
The Girls looked like they might object, but they let me lead them away from Sister Maggie’s medal and I was seriously relieved.
“Oh, yes that,” said Myrtle, blowing on her toddy. “He had some information and you won’t answer your phone.”
“Yeah, well, it’s been a rough week.” I sipped my toddy. I should’ve doubled up on whiskey.
“Surely people don’t really think you smell,” said Millicent.
“They surely do or, at least, they like thinking I do, which is basically the same thing,” I said. “What did Dr. Bloom say?”
Myrtle pointed at Josiah’s scrapbook on Millicent’s dresser. “Can you get that, dear? Wait until you hear. It’s very exciting.”
I got Josiah’s book, holding it tight to my chest before I laid it on Millicent’s lap and cuddled up next to her. I’d always thought Stella’s book was the key to everything, but a few weeks before I’d had a brainstorm. We’d been trying to figure out who our family lawyer, Big Steve’s, mother was. Constanza Stern was brought back to the US from Switzerland by Aleksej Bled after she survived an Auschwitz satellite camp. We knew she had something to do with Stella and The Klinefeld Group. All we’d discovered so far was that Constanza Stern was an alias and that most likely she wasn’t the real owner of the objects she sold in 1947, but the things she kept were a clue. Chuck found out that her locket and pin were from Prague and that was the first time Czechoslovakia had come up in relation to Constanza.
Big Steve had long given up on finding out about his mother, but he had a couple of pictures of her. Bad pictures. Constanza had a serious aversion to being photographed, that was the reason we thought she was probably a spy with Stella or maybe in the resistance. When I looked at those pictures, something sparked in me. It took a while to figure it out, but I knew I’d seen that face before.
Millicent opened Josiah’s book and turned to the critical page and there she was. Constanza Stern in black and white, standing with Josiah Bled and Stella in front of an amazing staircase in an impressive mansion, possibly a palace. Josiah was wearing a uniform so it was definitely during the war and it was the only picture of Constanza where she was facing the camera. That picture revealed her in more ways than she could ever have imagined in the moment. She was young. We’d guessed that the picture was taken in 1942. She was supposed to be seventeen at the end of the war. That would’ve made her fourteen in the picture, but she appeared considerably younger than that. I’d have guessed eleven. She had no breasts to speak of, was exceedingly thin and bruised with deep, dark grooves under her intense, angry eyes and masses of thick, dark hair. She stood stiff in an ill-fitting dress that might’ve been part of a servant’s uniform between the smiling Josiah, looking jaunty in his uniform and Stella, who, while thin and tired, was beaming, looking past the camera at someone off to the left.
Millicent and I couldn’t stop gazing at her face. It was that kind of face, pretty, striking in its angles, but it was the eyes that drew you to her. Constanza had been places and they were bad.
“Do we know who she is?” I asked, still looking at those eyes.
“No,” said Myrtle, smiling. “But we know where she is.”
I looked up. “Really? Where?”
“Bickford House in England.”
“Bickford,” I said. “Never heard of it.”
The Girls chuckled. “You certainly have.”
“Um…what?”
“You’ve been.” Myrtle picked up a manila folder and tossed it on the bed. “Take a look.”
I opened the folder and it was creepy. I got a chill. I mean it, an actual chill. The photo inside was in color, but it was eerily similar to the Constanza photo. I was standing between Millicent and Myrtle, about four years old and mad as hell. My eyes were as angry as Constanza’s and The Girls were as happy as Josiah and Stella. Millicent was even looking off to the left.
“We were there,” I said. “I can’t believe it.”
“I knew I recognized that staircase,” said Millicent. “But I couldn’t place it.”
“Why were we there? Was it about some pieces from the Bled Collection? Stella’s pieces?”
Stella had spent a good deal of energy smuggling property and people out of the Third Reich. The pieces she saved ended up with Florence, The Girls’ mother, for safekeeping until the owners could come and claim them. Most didn’t survive. The Girls had taken over the search for survivors and relatives after Florence passed away. It was a consuming passion and I had begun to suspect a duty that I would inherit.
“No,” said Myrtle. “We were actually going through a local archive that included children from the Kindertransports and were invited to dinner by the earl when he heard we were there.”
“It was an amazing house,” said Millicent.
“House?” I asked.
They laughed.
“So did you find what you were looking for?”
“We did. Four children belonging to…oh, I can’t remember the family name off the top of my head, but their property was returned,” said Myrtle.
“Did the earl help you with that?” I asked.
“No, it was simply a dinner,” said Millicent. “That happened a lot. We were often invited to dinner, fetes, even State occasions because of the brewery.”
That was very true. I’d sat through dozens of dinners with boring aristocrats, bribed into goodness with the promise of chocolates and pony rides.
“But didn’t he know that his family knew Josiah and Stella?” I asked.
“We don’t know that they did. Perhaps they were there the same way we were. The name has always been a key to most gates.”
My gaze went back to Constanza and then to Stella. “Do you think Stella had anything to do with the Kindertransports?”
The Girls’ eyes widened.
“It’s not mentioned in her book and I never heard anything to that effect,” said Millicent. “Have you, Myrtle?”
“No, not a peep. What are you thinking, Mercy?”
“Constanza is certainly young enough to have been included in the rescue operation,” I said.
“The earl’s family were guarantors for the transports,” said Millicent.
Myrtle shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. 1942 is too late.”
She explained that the Kindertransports, brainchild of Norbert Wollheim, took place from 1938 after the Kristallnacht until 1940. Children were allowed to emigrate to Britain as long as someone was willing to pay for their upkeep. They were supposed to go home after the war. No one imagined that most of the Jewish population would be wiped out and there would be no families to return to.
“We could be guessing the date wrong,” I said.
“Perhaps, but Josiah’s uniform indicates it’s later. He wasn’t stationed in England until ’42.”
“Oh,” I said disappointed.
Millicent patted my hand. “You could be right and Constanza could’ve been on a transport.”
“Dr. Bloom gave us a number for us to call, but we didn’t want to call without you,” said Myrtle.
Dr. Bloom was an Oxford historian, who, through his research on resistance fighters during WWII, accidentally pointed out my great grandparents, Agatha and Daniel, to The Klinefeld Group. Agatha and Daniel were murdered in a plane crash on their way to St. Louis because they knew or had something that The Klinefeld Group wanted.
“A number?” I asked.
“For an architectural historian, Dr. Wilfred Wallingford. He was the one who recognized the staircase. Dr. Bloom says he’s lovely and would be happy to talk to us about Bickford House. The number’s in the folder.”
I took a slip of paper with an international number written on it. “Should we give Wilfred a ring?”
“Let’s,” said Myrtle and she gave me her phone.
I dialed and the most Scottish-sounding dude on the planet answered. I wasn’t even sure he was speaking English for a second.
“Dr. Wallingford?” I asked.
There was a garble of something that didn’t sound like a no.
“Um…this is Mercy Watts. I’m with Myrtle and Millicent Bled. Dr. Calvin Bloom said we could call you about Bickford House.”
Dr. Wallingford’s accent got a whole lot easier to understand once he realized he was talking to Americans. “Yes. Yes. Of course. I am happy to help you in any way I can.”
“Thank you. Can I put you on speakerphone so everyone can hear you?”
“Certainly.”
I put him on speakerphone and The Girls expressed their gratitude and amazement at his recognizing Bickford House. They explained that they’d been there and hadn’t. He laughed and said that he didn’t recognize it at first either. He had to dig through some archives on staircases before he found it. He’d never been to Bickford himself.
“What do you know about the family?” I asked.
“I’m not an expert, but then no one is. The family is notoriously private and it’s a private house, not part of the National Trust and not open for tours.”
“I seem to remember the family and the earl, in particular, as very friendly,” said Millicent.
“Oh, they are. Great favorites among the local population, but they have no interest in being the object of lurid fascination.”
“I can understand that,” I said.
Dr. Wallingford chuckled. “I imagine you can.”
“You’ve examined the picture?” asked Myrtle.
“I have and I understand you have an interest in the young girl,” he said. “I can tell you that she isn’t a member of the family or a servant. She is wearing a servant’s dress. It’s hard to recognize because she isn’t wearing the apron.”
“How do you know she isn’t a servant?”
“First of all, she’s posing with two Bleds, which would be highly unusual. And second, the dress doesn’t fit correctly. There are a few pictures of the Bickford servants floating around on the internet. A group photo was taken every year since 1860 and copies were given to senior servants as a gift. The uniforms fit perfectly and I couldn’t find this girl in any of the photos I viewed.”
“Perhaps she was there only a little while,” said Millicent.
“I very seriously doubt that. Bickford is unusual. Would you like me to explain?”
“Please do.”
Dr. Wallingford did explain, like the university professor he was, quick, concise, and very enthusiastic. Bickford was a grand estate of an extremely wealthy family that married well and for love. They didn’t fall victim to the financial crises in the 1880s or after the First World War like other great families. As a result, they paid their servants extremely well and were unusual in their permissiveness. At a time that other wealthy families required servants to devote their whole lives to their masters, the Bickfords’ servants often married and had children. The estate had family apartments in the servants’ quarters and houses out on the estate for servants’ use, if they had several children. As a result, servants didn’t leave to marry and their children tended to stay. There were servants at Bickford currently that could trace their lineage back to the building of Bickford. That was over four hundred years.
“You like them,” I said.
“I do. I think few would find the family disagreeable. They’re generous and charitable, but I’m sorry to say that girl is not one of them.”
“What about the Kindertransports?” I asked.
“I wondered if you’d ask me about that,” Dr. Wallingford said, happily. “The family was extremely generous with donations. I don’t have the exact number of children they helped get out of Germany and the Reich, but I can find out. It would be several hundred, I’m sure.”
The Girls exchanged a look, a look I’d seen before. They smelled a lead that might bring them to more families in the Stella Collection. “Can you get those names for us?” asked Millicent. “Our search wasn’t completely satisfying.”
“I have a friend. She’s an expert on the Kindertransport children. Her grandmother was one of them.”
“We will be happy to pay for her time and yours, naturally,” said Myrtle.
“That is unnecessary, but I appreciate the offer,” he said. “Do you have any other questions?”
“I don’t think so,” said Millicent before taking a huge glug of toddy.
“I don’t,” said Myrtle.
“Then I will let you go. Please feel free to call me at any time.”
“Hold on,” I said.
“Yes?”
“Has Bickford House had any problems?”
The Girls smiled at me approvingly and I gave them a grin in return.
“Like what?” asked Dr. Wallingford
“Robberies?” I asked.
“Why in the world would you ask that? I thought this was research, family research.”
“It is, but someone is trying to get information about Stella Bled Lawrence and we’ve been broken into.”
He paused and then shuffled through some papers. “That’s interesting. What happened?”
“The Bled Mansion has been broken into several times over the years. The last time, the chauffeur was murdered, and there have been attempts on my parents’ house.”
“I see, but I don’t know how those incidents could be related to Bickford. Except for the picture, there appears to be no connection between the families. The Bickfords don’t have any interest in brewing either socially or commercially.”
“But have they been robbed or just broken into?” I asked.
“Well, yes. Bickford has been broken into a couple of times that I know of.”
“When?”
“Years ago,” he said. “That can’t be related to the murder of your chauffeur.”
Millicent spoke up. “I’m afraid it can, Dr. Wallingford. There’s history that is difficult to explain.”
“Does it have to do with the Jewish artwork in the Bled Collection?”
“It’s related,” said Myrtle. “When were the Bickford break-ins?”
“Bear with me, ladies,” said Dr. Wallingford as he typed madly. “Oh, yes, here it is, but I don’t believe this will help you.”
“What is it?”
“In 1939, Bickford House’s butler Mr. Smith reported a burglary in the library. This is too early, before the war was declared on Germany.”
“What did they take?” asked Millicent, breathless with excitement.
“A few things. Nothing of real value. Books, a silver letter opener, a small statue.” He paused for a moment. “Now this is odd. All the stolen items were recovered. They were found in a dustbin at a pub in the village.”
The Girls and I shared knowing glances.
“Sounds like the stuff they took was just a cover for what they were really doing,” I said.
“I would have to say so,” he said. “And this will interest you.”
“Yes?” asked Myrtle, leaning forward and splashing toddy on her lap.
“A young maid got clubbed with the statue. At least that’s what’s in the report.”
I pictured Lester in his chair, dying for no reason. From the looks on The Girls’ faces they did, too.
“Did she survive?” I asked.
“I assume so. It doesn’t say she didn’t. There’s no mention of any arrest or suspects. I found a newspaper clipping. It doesn’t mention murder, but it was printed the morning after. She may have died of her injuries later.”
“Any other robberies?”
“Looks like 1947. Mr. Smith reported that he caught someone posing as a butcher’s delivery boy in the library. He was searching the desk. Nothing was taken and the man got away. That’s it. I don’t see anything else.”
“Thank you very much, Dr. Wallingford,” said Millicent. “You’ve been quite helpful.”
We said our goodbyes and promised to keep in touch. Like all good historians, Dr. Wallingford knew people and he was happy to make introductions to his counterparts in other countries. He was clearly curious about Bickford House and I could practically hear the wheels turning. Maybe we could get him in. His focus was Elizabethan architecture and not to be allowed in such a stunning example pained him. I’d do it, if I could, but there wasn’t any reason to think that very private family would let me in, much less him. I doubted anyone remembered we were once invited and it’s not like I could count on being invited because I was connected to The Girls.
After we hung up, Millicent got shaky again and started eyeing me. Myrtle said she ought to take a nap. She wasn’t taking a nap. No way. Not going to happen.
As a delaying tactic, I asked to use her laptop. She nodded, growing paler. Joy came in and tried the nap thing, too. The idea barely got acknowledged.
I quickly opened the laptop and Joy asked with a warning in her voice, “What are you looking for?”
“Bickford House,” I said and the ladies all relaxed.
“That estate in England?” asked Joy. “What for?”
“Stella was there with Josiah and Big Steve’s mother.”
“You don’t say? That’s interesting. I hear it’s a fabulous house.”
Myrtle sat up. “How do you know it? We’ve been there with Mercy when she was little and I barely remember the visit.”
“I heard about it on my tour of great country estates last year,” said Joy.
“But you didn’t see it?” asked Millicent. “We just heard from Dr. Wallingford that it’s not open for visitors.”
“It’s not. It was part of the tour of Hardwick House. They had a whole display to compare the buildings and the ladies who built them.”
Millicent’s laptop booted up and I typed in Bickford House. It was on Wikipedia, of course. There were a few other sites that named it as a fine example of Elizabethan architecture and listed as a Grade 1 stately home and historical site. I saw very little on the family. The current earl was the son of the earl Millicent and Myrtle liked so much. He was married and ran some sort of multinational company.
“Anything good?” asked Joy.
“Not really.”
I searched back through the listed earls and they were as Dr. Wallingford described them, rich and private. “Here’s the earl during the war. George. Married to Agatha. Four sons. He was an ambassador.”
“That’s political,” said Millicent. “Perhaps that’s how he knew Stella and Josiah. The family was very active in trying to change our emigration policies to let the Jews in. The earl said that when we were talking about the Kindertransports, I think.”
I looked up grinning. “He resigned in November 1938.”
“That can’t be a coincidence,” said Myrtle.
“I agree. You should investigate that thoroughly.” Joy gathered our mugs and, since we were well off the subject of Sister Maggie, she said she was going to make us a snack and left.
I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn’t need her beady eyes on me. “I’ll tell Spidermonkey when he comes back from vacation. His wife wants him to concentrate on family for once and not get distracted by working.”
Spidermonkey was a super hacker and Uncle Morty’s number one rival in the world of internet snoops. So far, I’d been able to hide what I was doing from Morty, but it couldn’t last. Neither he nor my dad knew Chuck and I were investigating The Klinefeld Group and by extension my dad’s involvement with the Bleds, namely Josiah Bled’s mysterious disappearance before I was born.
“He’ll get everything there is to know,” said Millicent. “Show me the house. It was winter when we were there and evening. I didn’t get a good look.”
Myrtle chuckled. “It was enormous. I remember that.”
Bickford House was enormous, more like a palace or a Loire Valley chateau. Made of dark stone, Bickford had everything. Turrets, giant windows, gables, and a beautiful lake.
Millicent pointed at the steps. “We stood out there, taking in the view.”
“You were so angry,” said Myrtle.
“Me?” I asked. “Why?”
“The countess had taken us on a tour of the house and you were enamored of the turrets. Oh, did you kick up a fuss.”
“About turrets? Weird.”
Millicent put an arm around me. “Don’t you remember at all? There was a nursery in one with a collection of toys and horses like you’ve never seen. We had to peel you off a large carousel horse to finish the tour.”
Myrtle stood up and picked up the photo of us. “That’s why you look so angry. We paid for taking you off that horse in spades. You were absolutely in love.”
“I was a serious pain in the butt,” I said.
“You were passionate and four.” Millicent kissed my cheek.
I zoomed in on the house. “Which turret?”
The Girls went back and forth about right or left. Main staircase or another one. I stopped listening and zoomed in further, looking closely at the top of the house. A coincidence? Could be. No. No. It couldn’t.
I gave Millicent her laptop and raced out of her bedroom and over to mine where Chuck and I had set up a kind of war room with all our investigation up on corkboards. I plucked a notecard off the corkboard with all the names and carried it back to The Girls.
“What is it?” asked Millicent.
I came over and pointed at the screen. “Check out that stonework.”
Millicent and Myrtle peered at the screen.
“Initials,” said Myrtle. “I remember that. The first countess built the house and put her initials on top so everyone would know whose house it was.”
“CMB,” I said.
“Yes,” said Millicent. “She was named…”
“Cecily,” said Myrtle in triumph.
“That’s right, but why does that matter?”
I turned the card around. CMB was printed in bold letters. “We thought this was a person.”
“It’s a place,” said The Girls in unison.
I got The Girls working on the CMB references in Stella’s book and they were happy to do it. Chuck and I had noted that it was used, but we hadn’t gotten as far as tracking it. Now it looked like Stella was at Bickford House repeatedly during the war. The question was why. What was the connection and how did Constanza Stern fit in?
Joy bustled around with delicate finger sandwiches of Parma ham and gruyere, insisting that The Girls eat and drink buckets of tea. She gave me a wink when I handed over a clipboard and said I had to go. Happily, The Girls didn’t object and I slipped out easily.
Because I was all about making mistakes that day, I made another one. I stopped on the curve of the stairs to look at a photo of Stella, radiant on her wedding day. She was so young and unaware of what was coming and who she would become. Even if The Klinefeld Group disintegrated, I had to know what happened in November 1938 and why it kept going. We couldn’t give them what they wanted.
“Mercy.” Myrtle leaned over the stair rail and crooked a finger at me.
Son of a bitch.
“I have to go,” I said, poised to sprint away.
“Just a moment.”
I trudged back up, cursing my stupidity. The Girls could get out of beds and chairs. Out of sight was not out of mind. I knew that.
“Thank you for distracting Millicent,” said Myrtle.
“You’re welcome. Got to go.”
She grabbed my arm. “Is this thing with Miriam…is it going to be a case?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
She looked at me and took my hands. I couldn’t lie to her. My only hope was that she wouldn’t ask any more questions. I kissed her cheek. “I really have to go.”
“She was our oldest friend. We knew her…I don’t remember not knowing her.”
“Joy told me.”
“Where did they find her St. Brigid?” she asked, so quietly I almost couldn’t hear her.
“Myrtle, it might not be her medal,” I said.
“What did Miriam say?”
“Nothing. That’s why they came to me.”
She put her hand to her mouth and went back to Millicent’s room without another word.
I’m knocking it out of the park today.