“Supposedly. That’s what I need someone to find. Someone thorough, with meticulous attention to detail.”
“And that someone is me?”
He smiled. “None other. The will stipulates that the museums get first pick of any assets. So I imagine you’ll run into other local museum staff while you’re there.”
“So I won’t be alone.” She wouldn’t mind a change of scenery, and the Hudson River valley was a lovely place. But the idea of going through a dead couple’s dead birds on a dusty Gothic estate in the middle of nowhere seemed macabre. A bit of company would be welcome.
“Not at all. In fact, the relatives are allowed to go in and take whatever the museums don’t want. They’ve been asked to stay out of the way for a few days, except for a Mr. Guy Spalding. He’s the nephew who inherited the land and property. He’ll be your contact should you need anything there.” He stood, and she took the signal to do the same. “What are you working on now?”
“A group of warblers arrived from some vacationers who wanted us to have them,” she reminded him. “I’m preparing the last of them today.”
“Very good. Finish that, then begin at the Van Tessels’ estate tomorrow. Elmhurst, they called it. Plan to spend two or three days a week there until the project is done, which I anticipate will take a couple of weeks or so. That’s the goal, anyway. I still need you reporting to your office here on the other days to keep up with your regular work. Besides, Spalding declared at the reading of the will that he would donate the entire estate to the county to avoid paying the taxes on his inheritance. He was keen to put that plan into motion immediately, but I don’t know when that hand-off is. Oh, and Miss Reisner, I’d advise wearing sensible shoes at Elmhurst.” He glanced at the Mary Jane heels she’d changed into after walking to work in flats. “You’ll have a lot of ground to cover, including plenty of stairs.”
“Yes, sir.” She would not point out that a good pair of shoes would only take her so far.
CHAPTER
2
TARRYTOWN, NEW YORK
TUESDAY, AUGUST 24, 1926
“You’re sure this is where you want to be, lady?”
Elsa peered out the window at the turreted Gothic mansion. It was only two miles from the Tarrytown train station, but it might as well have been twenty for how remote it felt. If she didn’t know better, she could imagine she’d stepped into a fairy tale set in medieval Europe.
“I’m sure.” Paying the driver his fare, she asked him to return for her at four o’clock.
Pebbles crunched as the taxi rolled away, leaving Elsa on the circular drive. Slinging her bag over one shoulder, she tipped her head back, trying to take it all in. Above the veranda, sunshine washed the stone walls in oyster pink. An arched window with ribbing made the house look like a cathedral. The roofline, interrupted by a four-story tower, had steps up and down, like a fortress wall. It was difficult to believe this had also been a residence, and for only two people, as the Van Tessels had no children.
It was so quiet here. All she heard was the rush of wind through the trees. Mr. Spalding was likely inside.
A German shepherd came bounding toward her from behind the house.
“Shoo!” She held out both hands to slow his advance. Mud coated his paws, and yet the dog seemed to be in a state of absolute bliss.
“Stay down,” she tried.
He did not stay down. Instead, he stood on hind legs and planted front paws on her royal blue skirt. She could feel the wet cold seep through the fabric.
“Down!”
The animal’s tail wagged so hard it swayed his body. He seemed to have no intention of leaving her be. With grim determination, she tugged off the white cotton gloves she wore and stuffed them in a pocket before taking his paws and shoving them away. “You really need to work on your manners, pooch. Coming on strong is no way to treat a lady.”
Her hands now as filthy as his paws, she headed toward the closest door to the mansion. “Mr. Spalding!” she called out, hoping he was near enough to hear. “Your dog is loose, Mr. Spalding!” And he trotted right alongside her, tongue lolling from a grin, tail beating against her thigh as if they were in cahoots or something.
“Barney!”
The commanding voice stopped her before she reached the veranda. Turning, she watched the dog run to his owner, who was dressed far more casually than she’d predicted for a man expecting a meeting. The trousers were fine, she supposed, but he wore no jacket, and his shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows. He hadn’t even bothered to pomade his brown hair, and a thatch of it fell over his brow. As the man approached, Barney stayed obediently at his side, ears pricked up, tail still wagging.
“Sorry about that, miss. Barney never met a stranger.”
Elsa squinted at the sun over his shoulder before a cloud diffused the harsh light. She stifled a gasp. A long scar slashed theleft side of his face from the top of his cheekbone to his jaw. A smaller scar marred his square chin. A gust of wind lifted his hair, revealing a third mark on his brow. If she’d met him in a dark alley, she would have turned tail and run.
Snapping her attention to his deep grey eyes, she stuck out her hand, hoping that she hadn’t stared for more than a fraction of a second. “Elsa Reisner,” she said. “I’m here from the American Museum of Natural History, for the bird collection.”
He looked at her hand and, instead of shaking it, placed his handkerchief in her palm.
