1 Death Pays the Rose Rent (4 page)

As though he were delivering a lecture before a class of very slow college freshmen, he began, “My ancestor George MacKinstrie, having heard of the beauty of the western part of the country, struck out from Philadelphia into the wilderness in 1745. Luckily for us, his wagon lost a wheel and plunged into what is now known as the lickin Creek. He immediately realized that the scene of the accident had everything he would need for farming—a mild climate, protected on all sides by mountains, water, and a stream with power enough to operate a gristmill. He made friends with the Indians, obtained permission to settle here, and built a large plantation.

“Within twenty years he had become a rich man, and he decided he would build a town along the banks of the Lickin Creek. He laid it out carefully and then advertised in the Philadelphia newspapers that he would hold a drawing for the lots. Hundreds of people poured into the valley, and in a few years there was a bustling community along the banks of the very creek where he’d had his fortuitous accident.

“My ancestor, according to the news of the times, was a modest and unassuming man who was embarrassed as well as pleased when the newcomers named the town MacKinstrieburg in his honor.

“Rather unfairly, it seems to me, people continued to call the town Lickin Creek, after the stream that runs through the center, and that name was perpetuated by a post office mapping error sometime early in this century.”

He paused to sip from his glass.

I wondered if he’d ever get to the Rose Rent part.

“MacKinstrie, like many Scotch-Irish of his time, believed in a hell of fire and brimstone. As he grew older, he worried about what would become of his soul. He had never been a churchgoing man, but decided it was now time to begin.

“He had no way of knowing which church had a direct line to heaven, so he decided to cover all options. He provided three choice lots, downtown near the town square, to three different religious orders: the Presbyterians, which you would expect from a Scotch-Irish, the Catholics, and the Jews. They were to build their churches on these lots and in return pay a small annual rent.

“And for the rent, he specified that the congregations of the three churches would get together once a year and present one red rose each to him or to his oldest living descendant. Naturally my ancestor was the guest of honor at these festive occasions.

“It might have seemed an odd thing to ask, but it proved to be an absolutely brilliant move. The three churches worked together to organize Rose Rent Day, and within a few years it became quite a celebration with the whole town involved. Best of all, this spirit of cooperation extended to other projects as well. Old MacKinstrie died happy, assured of a place in heaven, and the community had the benefit of what could have been rival organizations working together for the good of all.”

“That’s fascinating,” I said, half meaning it. “So these congregations have been paying rent in roses to MacKinstries for over two hundred years.”

“Not exactly,” he said. I groaned inwardly—no more, please!

“When George MacKinstrie died, his descendants received the Rose Rent until 1861. But so many men from MacKinstrieburg left to fight in the Civil War that payment of the Rose Rent was postponed indefinitely. After the war was over, it apparently was forgotten forever, or would have been, if it had not been for Sylvia Thorne.’’

I interrupted. “That’s your neighbor who lives in the mansion?”

He looked surprised. “How did you know that? Well, anyway, she was digging about in the county archives about thirty years ago, looking for a subject to research that would earn her an invitation to join the lickin Creek Historical Society. She found several references to Rose Rent Day and was intrigued enough to keep searching until she unearthed the whole story, which she then presented to the annual meeting of the Historical Society. Naturally, the Society immediately voted to offer her membership on the basis of her original research. It’s considered a great honor to become a member of the Society. It’s certainly the most prestigious organization in lickin Creek, and belonging to it assures one of the highest social standing.

“The president of the Society at that time was my grandfather, David MacKinstrie. He suggested that she approach the present-day leaders of the three congregations to see if they would be interested in resurrecting the Rose Rent ceremony. They were all delighted by the idea and asked Sylvia Thorne to form the new Rose Rent committee.

“With her at the head of the committee, the community rallied round the flag, so to speak. Preparations went on for weeks, and on the last Saturday in July, my grandfather sat on a platform in the town square and was presented with three red roses. After

that everyone in town lined up to receive their refreshments, while bands played, flags were waved, and balloons were released. From that first small celebration thirty years ago, the day has mushroomed into a major festival, with just about every civic group in Lickin Creek participating.

“My father succeeded my grandfather as guest of honor, and I, of course, have inherited the honor of receiving the Rose Rent this year.” He folded his hands over his stomach (I was pleased to notice a bit of a paunch beginning there) and leaned back, looking as smug as a banker who’d just foreclosed on someone’s family farm.

“I suppose you’re a member of the hotshot Historical Society,” I said.

He ignored the “hotshot” and smirked with unnatural modesty. “Not yet, but I have good reason to believe I will soon be asked to join it.”

“I’m sure that will make you very happy.”

“It would definitely ensure the success of my business. All the best people belong.”

As Alice-Ann came back into the living room, Richard glanced at his watch. “I’m sure you two girls have a lot to talk about, and I’ve got a meeting of the Rose Rent Committee to go to, so if you’ll just fix me a quick sandwich, I’ll get out of your hair tonight.”

Alice-Ann spoke softly, almost apologetically, not like the woman I thought I knew. “Richard, I’ve been invited to the meeting, too. I had to call Sylvia Thorne today about delivering the frame I fixed for her, and she said she’d told you to bring me. I told her that you’ve been so busy you probably forgot to tell me.”

His nostrils pinched closed as if he smelled something unpleasant.

“Yes, of course I forgot. Sorry, my dear. I’ll give her your apologies and tell her you have company.”

“Richard, she invited Tori to come, too. Wasn’t that nice?”

“You must have asked to bring her, Alice-Ann. What else could she do but invite her? That is what I consider very bad manners on your part, Alice-Ann.”

Alice-Ann clenched her fists and sucked in her lips until they were invisible.

Richard seemed to remember I was there and told me, “Sylvia Thorne is the social and cultural leader of this community. I’m sure you can understand that committing a faux pas with her could just about ruin someone socially. In the real-estate business, one must be very careful not to make any such gaffes.”

Why is it, I wondered, the less education people have, the more they like to use French words? Too bad he pronounced it fox pass.

“Well, don’t worry about me, Richard,” I told him. “I promise not to commit a faux pas, and I took lessons in curtsying to royalty in London before I was presented to the queen.” I stood up and demonstrated with a deep knee bend. I’d had all of him I could take for now. “Alice-Ann, I’d like to go to my room and unpack.”

“Sorry, Tori. I should have shown you your room when you first got here. Come on, you can have a shower while I fix us some sandwiches.” She

grabbed my suitcase and practically ran up the stairs, while I followed more slowly with my typewriter case. Yes, the diet
must
start tomorrow!

In my room, she sat on the side of the bed.

I stood near the door, hands on my hips. “Well?” I prompted.

“I’m sorry, Tori. I invited you here under false pretenses. I’m going to ask him for a divorce this week, and I didn’t want to be alone.”

“Are you afraid of him?” I asked, concerned for her safety.

She shook her head. “It’s more like I’m afraid of myself. I keep starting to bring it up, then I lose my nerve. You’re my Dutch courage.”

She hugged me and showed me where the towels and the bathroom were. “I’ll tell you the sorry details later,” she said before she went back downstairs.

My little bedroom was charming. I was beginning to find country decorating attractive. The walls were a soft, creamy yellow and the furniture was all white wicker, except for the ornate iron double bed, which had been painted white. Through the window, framed with fluffy white curtains, I could see past the end of the gardens and through the weeping willow trees to where a sparkling stream meandered toward an old-fashioned stone bridge. Bucolic. Pretty.

A small table with a lamp on it had been placed in the corner. I figured if I brought up one of those wobbly oak chairs from the living room, it would be a perfect place to work. Which reminded me that I had a book to write. That was something I’d have to get to work on without any more delay. Tomorrow. When I start my diet.

After my shower, I dressed in black slacks and a sleeveless red shell. I put on small gold hoop earrings and a gold chain and checked my image in the mirror. I was pleased with the ladylike gypsy I saw reflected there. Then I stuck my arms straight out to the sides and flapped my hands up and down to see if my upper arms looked flabby. They weren’t. Sleeveless was still safe.

I went downstairs to find Richard, Mark, and Alice-Ann talking comfortably in the kitchen. The earlier tension had dissipated, thank God.

While Alice-Ann set the table, I went out to the yard where I had earlier seen the swing and sandbox. I filled two plastic buckets with sand and carried them through the kitchen into the laundry room where both cats were waiting with their legs crossed. I must say I was careful and hardly spilled a grain, but when I came back into the kitchen, Richard’s face was bright red.

“Don’t worry. I’ll clean it up. Alice-Ann, do you have a broom?”

She fetched one out of a narrow closet, and I swept the sand into a little pile in the corner. Richard must have thought I was just going to leave it there because he opened his mouth to say something and the bite of sandwich he had just taken fell onto the table. Alice-Ann caught my eye, and we both started to laugh.

As Richard’s face went from red to purple, he looked like a stroke waiting to happen. Wisely, Alice-

Ann suggested that Mark take his plate to the living room and watch TV while he ate. The child was thrilled by this unexpected treat.

While Richard gnawed angrily at his tuna salad sandwich, I swept the sand into the dustpan and dumped it outside in a flower bed. When I returned, Richard put his sandwich on the plate, looked across the table at me as though he were going to say something nasty, then apparentiy changed his mind as he addressed Alice-Ann instead.

“My dear, I may soon have some very exciting news for you.”

“That’s nice, Richard. What kind of news?”

“There’s a very good possibility that I may be invited to join the Lickin Creek Historical Society.”

I had the impression that this was meant to impress me. If that was his intention, he sure was mistaken.

Alice-Ann didn’t look too impressed either. “I thought you had to present some sort of scholarly research report to be eligible for membership. Digging up some minor historical point out of dusty old books just doesn’t sound like you, Richard. Surely, you don’t think I’m stupid enough to believe you’ve been at the library all those nights you’ve been gone?”

Yippee! The old Alice-Ann was back.

His face grew dark again. “There are people in this town who appreciate what I’m doing. You’re in for a big surprise, Alice-Ann. Soon, too. And it’s not a minor historical point. It’s a major discovery that will bring me a lot more than mere local attention. I might even say it’s a discovery of international importance.”

“That’s nice, dear,” Alice-Ann said in the tone of voice one usually uses only with a small child. Richard finished his meal in silence.

CHAPTER 4 

After the sitter arrived, we went down the back stairs to the basement where Alice-Ann and I each picked up an end of a six-foot-long rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. “Get my hammer, will you please?” she said to Richard. “I prefer to take my own with me whenever I have a picture to hang,” she explained to me. Richard pulled a heavy-duty claw hammer off the Peg-Board and led the way out the back door to a narrow footpath, actually no more than a trail through the trees, which meandered down the hillside. Alice-Ann explained that the MacKinstrie home and the Thorne mansion shared the gravel driveway, but this shortcut was quicker.

“All this land used to be part of the MacKinstrie estate,” Richard boasted. “Part of it was sold to the Thorne family by my great-great-grandfather—no, maybe it was my great-great-great—”

Alice-Ann had obviously had it. “Nobody really cares about your great-great-anythings, Richard. So, please, just shut up, will you?”

“It would behoove you to take a little more interest in the history of Lickin Creek,” Richard snapped. “You might discover it’s not quite the hick town you think it is.”

“I’m sorry, Richard. I really am. It’s just you take all this local history stuff so seriously.”

Richard stormed off ahead of us, while we struggled with the picture frame. The damn thing was heavy and slippery! We had to stop several times to get a better grip on it.

When we emerged from the trees at the bottom of the hill, we crossed the stone bridge I had seen from my window and came to the edge of a small pond. On our left, a sparkling waterfall bubbled out of the side of the hill and splashed into the shining water. In the center of the pond was a tiny island, just large enough to hold a charming Victorian gazebo filled with wicker furniture. A small rowboat was tied up under a weeping willow, and a family of ducks cruised gracefully near the bank where we stood.

Alice-Ann had told me the Thornes lived in a mansion, but that’s like describing the Taj Mahal as a cemetery plot. Facing us across the water was a castle. A real one, built of stone, probably as high as my four-story tenement building, with crenellated towers on either side of the entrance. Rows of leaded-glass windows extended for at least a mile in each direction. Words like majestic and romantic would have described the castle perfectly if it had not been for the countrylike screened porches that had been attached without much thought to various parts of the building.

The white gingerbread trim on the porches lent a

humorous, humanizing touch to what would otherwise have been coldly imposing. A light layer of mist hung over the pond, and in the softness of twilight it wasn’t hard to imagine beautifully gowned women strolling with their elegant gentlemen friends out onto the porches to enjoy the cool summer breezes coming across the pond. Tall trees and heavy underbrush, including the dangerous firethorn bushes, grew around the castle, hiding it from the road and from the MacKinstries’ house. “When old Michael Thorne built his castle, he made sure this place would be his own private kingdom,” Alice-Ann said.

“Did I ever tell you I lived in a castle once?” I remarked, admiring the imposing structure. “In Yugoslavia. Castles are vastly overrated as places to live—cold and damp, and the bathroom facilities are invariably dreadful.”

Richard turned his glare at me and said sarcastically, “Is there anything you haven’t done? Any place you haven’t lived, Tori?”

I smiled sweetly. “I was just trying to make conversation.”

We walked past a parking area full of cars. Once the castle must have been the site of many grand parties, but the weeds pushing through the gravel attested that those times were long gone. We reached the steps that led up to the front door of the castle, although front door was an inadequate term for something this grand. The Gate or The Entry to the Keep or something equally dramatic would be more appropriate. I wanted to use the huge lion-headed door knocker to pound on the wood, but to my disappointment there was a very ordinary doorbell set in the doorframe. Alice-Ann pushed it.

As we stood there, wrapped in uncomfortable silence, I amused myself by imagining a black-cloaked Bela Lugosi answering our ring. Again, I was disappointed, as the woman who opened the door wasn’t even Mrs. Danvers, but a rather ordinary-looking middle-aged woman wearing a white net nurse’s cap. Her gray hair was pulled straight back in an unbecoming bun and tucked under the hat. She wore a pale green, flowered print dress with an attached, matching cape that came down in a point to cover her chest. Black stockings and Nike running shoes, trimmed in turquoise, completed the ensemble. She was quite pale and had the same kind of colorless eyes as Janet from the bus station.

She frowned when she saw Richard, but broke into a big grin of welcome for Alice-Ann.

“You’uns come on in. They’re just gittin’ ready ta start.” There was that accent again!

We walked into the great center hall, and she shut the door behind us. I was stunned. Maybe she wasn’t Mrs. Danvers, but I certainly felt like the second Mrs. de Winter stepping into the front hall of Manderley for the first time. The ceiling must have been sixty feet above us and was decorated with gilded bas-relief angels, their glowing beauty somewhat dimmed by the dirt of time. A massive stone staircase rose from the center of the hall to a balcony, where Gothic arches led to the upper halls of both wings. Centered at the head of the staircase was an immense stained-glass window. At first I thought it depicted a

biblical scene, but as my eyes adjusted, I saw that it featured a Michelangelo-type God, reclining on a cloud that floated above a grape arbor, beaming like a proud father over an old-fashioned railroad locomotive. I started to laugh, but changed it to a choking cough when Alice-Ann gave a small warning shake of her head.

The nurse mistook my cough for a gasp of admiration. “People’s always surprised the first time they seen it,” she said proudly. “That’s the first Mr. Michael Thorne and his railroad he brought to Lickin Creek. His grandson had it done by some folks in New York, Tiffenary, or something like that.”

“You mean that’s supposed to be a railroad magnate and not God?” I asked as I stared in disbelief at the Tiffany window. It had to be worth a fortune!

“Yep. Fine-looking man, wasn’t he?—though I think he should of had some clothes on. Made a fortune on the railroad. Then for his beautiful young wife, Sylvia, he built this castle. Just before the Civil War. Copied it right out of a picture book about England, they say.”

“Sylvia? Isn’t that the name of the woman who owns this place?” I asked.

“Named after her beautiful great-grandmother, she is. Sylvia of the silver hair. You’uns’ll see why soon enough. Better follow me.”

For once, I couldn’t think of anything to say. Alice-Ann and I—Richard would not deign to lift anything heavier than his little finger, it seemed—picked up the painting we were delivering and quietly followed

the weirdly dressed nurse down a long, dark hallway toward the sound of muffled conversation.

She led us into an enormous drawing room where about fifty people were sitting on several rows of folding chairs facing a long Jacobean table, upon which sat a crystal vase containing three red rosebuds. A woman standing near the table spotted us and marched regally toward us. She appeared to be in her late sixties and had pure white hair that hung Alice-in-Wonderland style down to her waist. This was a woman who took that “crowning glory” business seriously.

Alice-Ann barely had time to put her end of the picture frame down before the woman swept her into an exuberant embrace. She was at least as tall as Alice-Ann and probably fifty pounds heavier. That was one big woman!

Alice-Ann detached herself and grabbed my arm. “Sylvia, let me introduce my good friend Victoria Miracle. Tori, this is Sylvia Thorne.”

I propped my end of the package against my knees and shook her hand. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Thorne.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Miss Miracle, but it’s not Mrs. Thorne. I was never fortunate enough to find a man who could put up with my idiosyncracies long enough to marry me.” (Tell me about it, I thought.) “Please call me Sylvia, and I will call you Victoria.”

Before I had a chance to say “Tori,” she had pulled me with her to the front of the room. When we reached the table, she picked up a gavel as big as a

sledgehammer and pounded on the wood three times. The crowd grew still.

“Good evening, dear friends. I am pleased that so many of you could be here tonight to finalize the plans for this year’s Rose Rent Day. Before we start, though, I want to introduce to you our very special guest. Please welcome the famous, best-selling novelist, Victoria Miracle.” She led the applause.

I could see people whispering to each other as they clapped politely. Probably wondering who the hell Victoria Miracle was—with good reason.

“Victoria, my dear, I am sure our little group would like to hear a few words from you. Could you tell us something about your most recent novel?”

Feeling like a fraud, I tried to smile graciously, but my dry upper lip stuck to my teeth. I hoped it resembled Joan Fontaine’s endearing half-smile in Rebecca, but I didn’t believe it for a minute.

“The title of my book is The Mark Twain Horror House. It is a ghost story, based on some occurrences which were supposed to have actually happened in a town house in Greenwich Village. It’s something like The AmityviUe Horror; except I don’t claim that it’s anything but fiction.”

I knew I’d lost my audience the instant they heard the title, so I quickly murmured something about being very pleased to be here and looked for a hole to crawl into and die.

Sylvia pointed to a seat at the end
of
the front
row
next to an elderly gentleman. She didn’t seem to be quite as thrilled to have me as a guest as she had a few minutes ago.

As I sat down, the elderly gentleman whispered, “I liked your book.”

I stared at him in awe, not only because he was my one and only fan, but because he wasn’t elderly at all. It was his thick white hair that gave that impression. Actually, he was quite gorgeous, around thirty I’d guess, with a dark tan that emphasized the bright blue of his Paul Newman-like eyes. I could actually see muscles rippling under his T-shirt. Things were definitely looking up in lickin Creek!

Sylvia put another dent in the table with her gavel and glared at us. I pretended she had my total attention.

People began to give their progress reports. It was obvious most of the preparation for Rose Rent Day had already taken place. There would be a parade, of course. The high-school and junior-high-school bands would play in the square throughout the morning. The prize-winning lickin Creek Cowgirl Drum, Glockenspiel, and Gymnastic Marching Team would perform at eleven, followed by the YMCA women’s barbershop quartet. The Scene of the Accident literary Society would present poetry readings on the front steps of the bank all day, and the lickin Creek Community Theatre would re-create the fateful day of MacKinstrie’s Accident on the exact spot where it had happened.

At noon, Sylvia Thorne would step onto the platform, which was even now being constructed in front of the fountain on the square, and officially start the ceremony. After her remarks, the combined choruses of the two elementary schools would sing

the national anthem, and Cub Scout Den Three would raise the flags of the United States and Lickin Creek. That’s when Richard MacKinstrie would take his rightful seat on the platform and accept his roses from representatives of the Presbyterian, Jewish, and Catholic religions. After that momentous event, the women’s organizations of the three participating congregations would serve coffee and doughnuts to everyone.

And that only touched upon the highlights of the big day—I could hardly wait!

Sylvia, reading from a list, reminded the committee that the doughnuts were the responsibility of the synagogue, coffee would be provided by the Presbyterians, and the Catholics were to take care of the cream and sugar. This brought a protest from the priest in the back row. “That isn’t fair, Sylvia. We did cream and sugar last year. It seems to me we should be back to coffee pouring by now.”

Sylvia looked at him as if he were an ant at a picnic—not particularly unpleasant, but a nuisance. “Father Burkholder, it is too late to make any changes now. If you had thought it important to attend the meeting of the food committee, you could have spoken then.”

She directed her next remark to the whole group. “I hope this impresses upon all of you the need to attend every meeting.”

The priest sat down, looking embarrassed, and Sylvia went on with the meeting. “Do we have a report from the doughnut committee?”