Kingsley held up his hands to placate her. “I know, I tried to stop him, but you know Kyle. I delegated management of the family trust to him, and I can’t step in to micromanage every decision he makes.”
The Roost was one of the last original buildings from the early settlers at Jamestown. Every inch of its weathered oak timbers was laden with history, folklore, and secrets of the past. It was located close to the new golf course, shielded by a hundred yards of ancient sycamore and oak trees. To let anyone live inside the Roost boggled her mind.
“The place isn’t even habitable,” Alice said. “Nobody has lived in the Roost since the 1930s. It doesn’t even have water or electricity.”
Kingsley shrugged. “Jack doesn’t mind, and Kyle will do anything to keep him happy. A Jack Latimer golf course will add luster to the country club and attract golfers from all over the state. He’ll only be living there for a few months, and he’s jerry-rigged a generator to get a little electricity. There are some tractors and a run-down trailer parked at the place, too. He put a Baltimore Ravens flag out front.”
Alice put a hand to her forehead, refusing to panic yet as she began pacing in the compact kitchen. The Roost was on land that had belonged to the Tucker family since the eighteenth century, when they owned over five thousand acres of tidewater property. The Tuckers were Virginia royalty, their name as prestigious as the Lees, the Jeffersons, and the Washingtons. They could trace their heritage back to the earliest days of American settlement, and the Roost had been their first homestead. They had sold off some of their land over the twentieth century, but they still retained ownership of the land on which the new golf course, the country club, and the Roost were situated.
“Did Kyle formally lease the Roost to this man?” she asked Kingsley. “Was there actually a signed contract?”
“A handshake deal,” Kingsley said. “The word of a Tucker is stronger than any flimsy piece of paper.”
She’d trust a handshake deal from Kingsley, but not his son. Kyle owned an antique store in town and had a reputation for misleading customers about the value of his offerings. He’d also pocketed a fortune by selling off parcels of family land. When Kyle took over management of the family business, Tucker’s Grove was three thousand acres of mostly undeveloped land in the southern portion of the county. The pristine wilderness was a priceless treasure reminiscent of what the earliest Englishsettlers would have seen when they landed on these shores in 1607.
Alice and the other concerned citizens opposing development lost the battle about the clubhouse and the golf course, but the Roost could still be saved.
“Would you mind if I went to have a look at the Roost?” Alice asked Kingsley. “It would be a shame if the person lodging there did something to damage its historic nature.”
Kingsley’s eyes warmed. “I would be grateful,” he said. “I’m incredibly proud of what Daisy and Kyle have accomplished, but they don’t share the same veneration for history as you and I. By all means, you have my permission to do whatever you think best to preserve the Roost.”
Chapter Two
Alice set off the following morning to investigate the Roost. Her body was still on UK time, so she awoke early enough to wash and blow-dry her hair before styling it into a French twist. She ironed the wrinkles from her blue damask skirt and used spray starch for a crisp white collar on her blouse. Just because she was going into battle didn’t mean she shouldn’t look feminine. She completed the look with low wedge espadrille sandals and a single strand of pearls around her neck.
Most of the drive out to the Roost was on a lovely road that passed through miles of tall switchgrass rustling in the breeze. She had to avert her gaze while passing the acres of destroyed, scraped-over land that would soon be a golf course. What hadonce been flat, marshy land was drained and reshaped with rolling hills and ponds. Nothing had been planted yet, just flat, reddish dirt as far as the eye could see.
The battle over the golf course was lost, but the Roost could still be saved. She had so many questions about the place! Everything that was known about the origins of the Roost had been burned in 1698 when a terrible fire destroyed Virginia’s statehouse located in Jamestown. So many of the colony’s early court records, land grants, and government deeds went up in flames. Historians believed the Roost dated to around 1680, but whoever built it was lost to history thanks to that awful fire. It wasn’t until 1705 that another mention of the Roost occurred in an official record. A single line in a courthouse document noted that Reid’s Roost, once owned by the late Widow Santos, had been sold at auction to Archibald Tucker.
That was all. Who was the Widow Santos, and who was Reid? Those details had been lost in the fire, but Alice had found some clues to their identity in London and needed time to unravel the mystery.
She slowed her car to turn onto the gravel drive leading to the Roost. What had once been a lovely drive through a tunnel of apple and pear trees had been badly abused. Heavy equipment left gouges in the path and dislodged gravel pinged the undercarriage of her Prius as she drove beneath the scraggly tunnel of overgrown trees. Photos from the late-nineteenth century when people still lived here showed a graceful arch of fruiting trees lining the avenue, welcoming visitors to the homestead.
Those days were long gone. Whatever monstrous vehicles gouged the ruts into the dirt path had also damaged the trees. Some of the branches had been knocked down, while other limbs still clung to the trees, dangling at haphazard angles. They’dprobably snap off when the next oversized truck barreled down this path.
The Roost looked grungy and dilapidated beneath the shade of ancient sycamore trees. The two-story building was constructed of half stone and half rough-cut timber. Mismatched gables and a porch across the front gave evidence that the Roost had been expanded and modified many times over the centuries. It was hard to know what the original building had looked like, but she could clearly see Jack Latimer’s influence on the place.
A Baltimore Ravens flag mounted on the front post wafted on the weak breeze. A satellite dish was clamped to the top of the chimney. A car with no wheels sat beside a moldering trailer parked in the yard. A pair of crows hopped in and out of a trash can on the front porch, scattering popcorn and empty bags of potato chips.
She clenched the wheel, willing her breath to slow. It was essential to remain poised and respectful if she was to win Jack Latimer’s cooperation to vacate the Roost and find somewhere else to live while the golf course was under construction.
She resisted the urge to slam the car door, letting it close with a deliberate click instead, then made her way toward the house. The front door was a massive slab of old walnut that always hurt her knuckles if she tried to knock, so she called out instead.
“Hello? Anyone home?” She wiggled the heavy brass handle to generate a little noise, but no signs of life stirred inside.
She walked to the nearest window. The first-floor windows featured small, diamond-shaped bits of wavy glass soldered into lead panes that were original to the house. Alice squinted to peer through the window. It was dim inside, so it took a while for her eyes to grasp the horror. It looked like vagrants had made themselves at home. Sleeping bags and pizza boxes littered the floor. A clothesline dotted with filthy rags was strung before the yawning pit of the fireplace.
The creak of the front door opening caused Alice to rear away from the window.
A man shuffled outside and yes, he looked like a vagrant … skinny, weathered, and not particularly clean.
“Are you Sophie?” he asked. His voice wasn’t the friendliest Alice had ever heard.
“No, I’m not,” she answered. “I’m looking for Jack Latimer.”
Relief spread across his leathery skin. “So long as you’re not Sophie, you can find Jack down at the golf course. He’s working on the waterfall today, so he’ll either be there or at the clubhouse.”
Alice nodded and turned away, frightening the crow wrestling an empty bag of Cheetos from the trash can. A discarded bag of microwave popcorn had already scattered un-popped kernels across the porch, leaving greasy pockmarks on the weathered boards.
