Of course. The mud.
“Thanks.” She wiped between every finger, then pressed the handkerchief to the pawprints on her skirt. At least she couldn’t fret about her first impression with Mr. Spalding since it was his dog who had sullied her.
He extended his hand, and this time Elsa shook it. His grip was firm and calloused. “I’ll pay the dry-cleaning bill.”
“That isn’t necessary, but thank you.” Returning the handkerchief, Elsa shifted her gaze to Barney. Now that he was sitting and leaning against his master’s leg, she could appreciate that the animal just loved people. So did she. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Spalding,” she added. “Your aunt was a fine woman. I didn’t know her well, but we shared a love of birds. We at the museum are honored by her bequest.”
When he frowned, he looked downright foreboding. “You misunderstand.”
“Do I? Which part?” Remembering her gloves, she pulled them out of her pocket and back on her hands, feeling only slightly less exposed. The handkerchief had been no help in cleaning the dirt from beneath her nails.
The door opened onto the veranda, and a man of middling years in a three-piece suit filled the frame. After a moment’s hesitation, he left the house and joined them.
“Miss Reisner?” Beneath a closely trimmed beard, his face was narrow, and somewhat pinched. The smell of Brilliantine from his light brown hair competed with the fresh air.
“Yes,” she said, looking between the two men.
Turning, the scarred man walked away, and Barney went with him.
“Well.” The newcomer eyed her mud-smeared ensemble. “Guy Spalding. I was watching for a professional, not a schoolgirl.”
Heat flooded her face. She knew she looked younger than her age but couldn’t do much about that. “Then who was that?”
“The man of few words? That’s Luke Dupont, with Dupont & Son, the architectural salvage dealer. His company is removing and purchasing some architectural elements from me. The county plans to tear down this monstrosity once the transfer of ownership is complete, so I might as well get some cash out of it first. Now, Miss Reisner, aside from those spectacles, you’re far too pretty to be a researcher type. I thought girls like you didn’t get up until noon.”
She bristled. “Blondes, you mean? I certainly hope you haven’t formed your opinion based on the novelGentlemen Prefer Blondes. It’s a bunch of applesauce, if you ask me. For all of Lorelei’s talk of brains, she sure didn’t have any. Some of us do. Even if we are blond.”
“My daughter is blond,” he told her. “But I see you’re not cut from the same cloth.”
With no reply to that, Elsa straightened her jacket and began walking toward the mansion.
Mr. Spalding’s eyebrows lifted as soon as he noticed her limp. “Ah, that explains a lot.”
Elsa stopped short. “Excuse me?” She and Mr. Spalding were not getting off on the right foot. If she didn’t turn this around, working with him wouldn’t get any easier. She needed to try this again. “Mr. Spalding, I’m very sorry for your loss. Your aunt was a wonderful woman. If there’s anything I can do for you duringthis time of mourning, let me know. Otherwise, I will do my work as quickly and efficiently as possible. If you’ll kindly point me to the collection and the field notes, I’ll keep to my own work and let you get on with yours.”
The sooner she could start, the sooner she’d be done with this lonely place, where the friendliest beast was a dog. She didn’t even like dogs.
Inside the mansion, Elsa followed Mr. Spalding through the vestibule and into an octagon-shaped parlor with floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the Hudson River. Birds were everywhere. Not only did they sit upon each horizontal surface, but some had been clipped to the draperies, while canaries and parakeets perched in Victorian birdcages. Elsa spied warblers, flycatchers, finches, a sandgrouse native to Africa, and an imperial pigeon that had to be from the islands of Papua New Guinea.
“They’re all yellow,” she observed.
“Naturally. This is the yellow room.” Mr. Spalding huffed a laugh and gestured to the gold drapes and papered walls. “Every room has its color. You’ll see. On some fanciful whim, my aunt had her maid rearrange all the birds a year or so ago. If Uncle Linus had still been alive, he never would have allowed it.”
At the museum, birds were grouped by habitats. It made the most sense, especially once they’d started creating dioramas with lifelike flora and fauna in each display case. This way, visitors could see the birds in their proper context.
But here, birds collected from all over the world mingled. Elsa’s palms began tingling as she counted more than a dozen species spanning eight genera, seven families, and four orders. The habitats represented here came from five different continents. It defied all scientific logic, mixing them together like this. It was disorienting. Even as a child, she had cut pictures fromBird-Loreand pasted them into scrapbooks according to their place in the animal kingdom.
Elsa set her shoulder bag on the writing desk next to a stack of notebooks. Turning the cover, she cringed at the careless handwriting. There were protocols in her line of work. Block letters only, very neat, no abbreviations. The point was for anyone to be able to understand. “These are the field notes?” Such amateur recordkeeping would slow her down.
“The ones I’ve come across, yes.” Mr. Spalding unbuttoned his suit jacket and slipped a hand into his trouser pocket. “The will mentioned that there are notes for every expedition, so there must be more than this, but I’ve no time to hunt for them. In fact, I’ve no time to show you the rest of the mansion. Should you finish here, go ahead and move to another room. There are no locked doors, so help yourself.”
“Are all the skins stuffed like this?” she asked before he could leave. When he hesitated, she clarified, “Are all the birds mounted with stuffing inside them? Or did the Van Tessels leave bird skins—perhaps in drawers or boxes somewhere—that were empty?” If she found anything valuable for the museum’s collection, she’d stuff them herself.
“If there’s a cupboard full of skins somewhere, I hope I’m not the one to find it. You’re on your own, Miss Reisner. Good luck to you.” He started toward the door, then turned back to her. “As you are searching for bird skins and field notebooks, if you come across a medieval aviary, please set it aside for me. It’s quite valuable, and I haven’t been able to find it yet.”
“You mean an illuminated manuscript with illustrations of birds?” she confirmed.
“Yes.” He looked at his watch. “You’ll know it when you see it. I trust you’ll bring it to my attention when you do. For now, I must be off.”
