“Just tell me where I turn, Nora.”
“Should be a right in about two miles.” David let the map lay on his lap and shifted to enjoy the scenery. “Now that we’re so hot on the trail of the mysterious jewels, just what are we going to do if and when we find out where the bracelet originally came from?”
“Knowledge is power.” Harper shrugged. “Something like that. And I’ve had enough of sitting around waiting for something to happen. The jeweler said it came from the Hopkins estate.”
“Cream cheese.”
“What? You’re hungry?”
“Cream cheese,” David repeated. “You spread it on smooth and thick. ‘My girlfriend really loved the bracelet. She’s got a birthday coming up soon, and since it was such a hit with her, I wondered if you had any matching pieces. Something from the same estate? That’s the Kent estate, isn’t it?’ Guy practically fell over himself to give you the information, even if he did try to sell you a couple of gaudy rings. Ethel Hopkins did not have flawless taste. You should’ve sprung for the earrings, though. Hayley would love them.”
“I just bought her a bracelet. Earrings are overkill at this point.”
“Your right’s coming up. Earrings are never overkill,” he added when Harper made the turn. “About a half mile down this road. Should be on the left.”
He pulled into a double drive beside a late-model Town Car, then sat tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he studied the lay of the land.
The house was large and well-kept in an old, well-to-do neighborhood. It was a two-story English Tudor with a good selection of foundation plants, an old oak, and a nicely shaped dogwood in the front. The lawn was trimmed and lushly green, which meant lawn service or automatic sprinklers.
“Okay, what have we got here?” he queried. “Established, upper middle class.”
“Ethel’s only surviving daughter, Mae Hopkins Ives Fitzpatrick,” David read from the notes he’d taken from the courthouse records. “She’s seventy-six. Twice married, twice widowed. And you can thank me for digging that up so quickly due to my brilliant observation of Mitch’s methods.”
“Let’s see if we can charm our way in, then get her to tell us if she remembers when her mother came by the bracelet.”
They went to the door, rang the bell, and waited in the thick heat.
The woman who opened the door had a short, sleek cap of brown hair, and faded blue eyes behind the lenses of fashionable gold-framed glasses. She was tiny, maybe an inch over five feet, and workout trim in a pair of blue cotton pants and a crisp white camp shirt. There were pearls around her throat, whopping sapphires on the ring fingers of either hand, and delicate gold hoops in her ears.
“You don’t look like salesmen to me.” She spoke in a raspy voice and kept a hand on the handle of the screened door.
“No, ma’am.” Harper warmed up his smile. “I’m Harper Ashby, and this is my friend David Wentworth. We’d like to speak with Mae Fitzpatrick.”
“That’s what you’re doing.”
Genetic good luck or, more likely, a skilled plastic surgeon, Harper thought, had shaved a good ten years off her seventy-six. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miz Fitzpatrick. I realize this is an odd sort of intrusion, but I wonder if we might come in and have a word with you?”
The color of her eyes might have been faded, but the expression of them was sharp as a scalpel. “Do I look like the simpleminded sort of woman who lets strange men into her house?”
“No, ma’am.” But he had to wonder why a woman who claimed good sense would believe a screened door was any sort of barrier. “If you wouldn’t mind then, if I could just ask you a few questions regarding a—”
“Ashby, you said?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Any relation to Miriam Norwood Ashby?”
“Yes, ma’am. She was my paternal grandmother.”
“I knew her a little.”
“I can’t really claim the same.”
“Don’t expect so, as she’s been dead some time now. You’d be Rosalind Harper’s boy then.”
“Yes, ma’am, her oldest.”
“I’ve met her a time or two. First time being at her wedding to John Ashby. You have the look of her, don’t you?”
“I do. Yes, ma’am.”
She slid her eyes toward David. “This isn’t your brother.”
“A family friend, Miz Fitzpatrick,” David said with a full-wattage smile. “I live at Harper House, and work for Rosalind. Perhaps you’d feel more at ease if you contacted Miz Harper before you speak to us. We’d be happy to give you a number where you can reach her, and wait out here while you do.”
Instead she opened the screen. “I don’t believe Miriam Ashby’s grandson is going to knock me unconscious and rob me. Y’all come in.”
“Thank you.”
The house was as neat and well-tended as its mistress, with polished oak floors and muted green walls. She let them into a generous living room that was furnished in a contemporary, almost minimalistic style.
“I suppose you boys could use a cold drink.”
“We don’t want to put you to any trouble, Miz Fitzpatrick,” Harper told her.
“Sweet tea’s simple enough. Have a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Classy,” David commented when she left the room. “A bit pared down, but classy.”
“The place, or her?”
“Both.” He took a seat on the sofa. “Ashby-Harper is a very slick entree. Charm wouldn’t have worked on her.”
“Interesting she knew my grandmother—she’s some younger—and that she was invited to my mother’s wedding. All these little intersections. I wonder if one of her ancestors knew Reginald or Beatrice.”
“Coincidence is only coincidence if you don’t have an open mind.”
“Living with a ghost tends to leave it gaping.” Harper got to his feet as Mae came back with a tray of glasses. “Let me get that for you. We very much appreciate your time, Miz Fitzpatrick.” He set the tray on the coffee table. “I’ll try not to take up too much of it.”
“Your grandmother was a kindhearted woman. While I didn’t know her intimately, your grandfather and my first husband had a small business venture together many years ago. A real estate venture,” she added, “that was satisfactorily profitable for all involved. Now, why has her grandson come knocking on my door?”
“Should be a right in about two miles.” David let the map lay on his lap and shifted to enjoy the scenery. “Now that we’re so hot on the trail of the mysterious jewels, just what are we going to do if and when we find out where the bracelet originally came from?”
“Knowledge is power.” Harper shrugged. “Something like that. And I’ve had enough of sitting around waiting for something to happen. The jeweler said it came from the Hopkins estate.”
“Cream cheese.”
“What? You’re hungry?”
“Cream cheese,” David repeated. “You spread it on smooth and thick. ‘My girlfriend really loved the bracelet. She’s got a birthday coming up soon, and since it was such a hit with her, I wondered if you had any matching pieces. Something from the same estate? That’s the Kent estate, isn’t it?’ Guy practically fell over himself to give you the information, even if he did try to sell you a couple of gaudy rings. Ethel Hopkins did not have flawless taste. You should’ve sprung for the earrings, though. Hayley would love them.”
“I just bought her a bracelet. Earrings are overkill at this point.”
“Your right’s coming up. Earrings are never overkill,” he added when Harper made the turn. “About a half mile down this road. Should be on the left.”
He pulled into a double drive beside a late-model Town Car, then sat tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he studied the lay of the land.
The house was large and well-kept in an old, well-to-do neighborhood. It was a two-story English Tudor with a good selection of foundation plants, an old oak, and a nicely shaped dogwood in the front. The lawn was trimmed and lushly green, which meant lawn service or automatic sprinklers.
“Okay, what have we got here?” he queried. “Established, upper middle class.”
“Ethel’s only surviving daughter, Mae Hopkins Ives Fitzpatrick,” David read from the notes he’d taken from the courthouse records. “She’s seventy-six. Twice married, twice widowed. And you can thank me for digging that up so quickly due to my brilliant observation of Mitch’s methods.”
“Let’s see if we can charm our way in, then get her to tell us if she remembers when her mother came by the bracelet.”
They went to the door, rang the bell, and waited in the thick heat.
The woman who opened the door had a short, sleek cap of brown hair, and faded blue eyes behind the lenses of fashionable gold-framed glasses. She was tiny, maybe an inch over five feet, and workout trim in a pair of blue cotton pants and a crisp white camp shirt. There were pearls around her throat, whopping sapphires on the ring fingers of either hand, and delicate gold hoops in her ears.
“You don’t look like salesmen to me.” She spoke in a raspy voice and kept a hand on the handle of the screened door.
“No, ma’am.” Harper warmed up his smile. “I’m Harper Ashby, and this is my friend David Wentworth. We’d like to speak with Mae Fitzpatrick.”
“That’s what you’re doing.”
Genetic good luck or, more likely, a skilled plastic surgeon, Harper thought, had shaved a good ten years off her seventy-six. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miz Fitzpatrick. I realize this is an odd sort of intrusion, but I wonder if we might come in and have a word with you?”
The color of her eyes might have been faded, but the expression of them was sharp as a scalpel. “Do I look like the simpleminded sort of woman who lets strange men into her house?”
“No, ma’am.” But he had to wonder why a woman who claimed good sense would believe a screened door was any sort of barrier. “If you wouldn’t mind then, if I could just ask you a few questions regarding a—”
“Ashby, you said?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Any relation to Miriam Norwood Ashby?”
“Yes, ma’am. She was my paternal grandmother.”
“I knew her a little.”
“I can’t really claim the same.”
“Don’t expect so, as she’s been dead some time now. You’d be Rosalind Harper’s boy then.”
“Yes, ma’am, her oldest.”
“I’ve met her a time or two. First time being at her wedding to John Ashby. You have the look of her, don’t you?”
“I do. Yes, ma’am.”
She slid her eyes toward David. “This isn’t your brother.”
“A family friend, Miz Fitzpatrick,” David said with a full-wattage smile. “I live at Harper House, and work for Rosalind. Perhaps you’d feel more at ease if you contacted Miz Harper before you speak to us. We’d be happy to give you a number where you can reach her, and wait out here while you do.”
Instead she opened the screen. “I don’t believe Miriam Ashby’s grandson is going to knock me unconscious and rob me. Y’all come in.”
“Thank you.”
The house was as neat and well-tended as its mistress, with polished oak floors and muted green walls. She let them into a generous living room that was furnished in a contemporary, almost minimalistic style.
“I suppose you boys could use a cold drink.”
“We don’t want to put you to any trouble, Miz Fitzpatrick,” Harper told her.
“Sweet tea’s simple enough. Have a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Classy,” David commented when she left the room. “A bit pared down, but classy.”
“The place, or her?”
“Both.” He took a seat on the sofa. “Ashby-Harper is a very slick entree. Charm wouldn’t have worked on her.”
“Interesting she knew my grandmother—she’s some younger—and that she was invited to my mother’s wedding. All these little intersections. I wonder if one of her ancestors knew Reginald or Beatrice.”
“Coincidence is only coincidence if you don’t have an open mind.”
“Living with a ghost tends to leave it gaping.” Harper got to his feet as Mae came back with a tray of glasses. “Let me get that for you. We very much appreciate your time, Miz Fitzpatrick.” He set the tray on the coffee table. “I’ll try not to take up too much of it.”
“Your grandmother was a kindhearted woman. While I didn’t know her intimately, your grandfather and my first husband had a small business venture together many years ago. A real estate venture,” she added, “that was satisfactorily profitable for all involved. Now, why has her grandson come knocking on my door?”
