Murder at the Mansion

Sylvia's room was the first door at the top of the staircase. I knocked quietly. When there was no response, I knocked harder.
She must really be a sound sleeper
. I tried the door, but it was locked.

I rushed downstairs, retrieved her room key, and glanced at my watch. If Sylvia hurried, she'd still have time to make the start of the tour. Arriving back at her door, I knocked again.

“Mrs. Porter, it's Kelly. The tour is starting in a couple of minutes.” I got no response, so I unlocked the door and peeked in. Sylvia was sitting in front of her dressing table, her back to me.

I opened the door a little farther. “Mrs. Porter?” I stepped inside the room. In the filtered light from the curtained windows, Sylvia's image reflected in the mirror. Her eyes were closed, and her head rested on her shoulder. She must have dozed off before making it into bed for a nap.

My attention was drawn to a brooch on the left side of Sylvia's blouse as I approached her. I hadn't noticed it before. It was a lovely piece—a large egg-shaped pearl surrounded by a burst of red.

I touched Sylvia's shoulder. No response.

“Mrs. Porter?” I gently shook her.

Sylvia's head rolled forward and hung down. Her dangling hair covered the side of her face.

I gasped, and my heart began to pound. I looked more closely at her. The burst of red wasn't part of a pin—it was blood . . .

Books by Janet Finsilver

 

 

 

 

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Murder at the Mansion

Janet Finsilver

LYRICAL UNDERGROUND
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I want to thank my husband, E.J., for his understanding and support as I wrote this book. He did a wonderful job entertaining the dogs when they'd “knock at the door” asking me to come out and play with them. I am very fortunate to be part of a writing group with Colleen Casey, Staci McLaughlin, Ann Parker, Carole Price, and Penny Warner as members. I greatly appreciate all the feedback they gave me and the laughs we shared. Thanks to Lann Westbrook for reading the book and sharing her thoughts, and to Georgia Drake for her thoughtful input along the way. I value the contributions of Michael Grimes, who shared his knowledge of European mansions, and cookbook author Susan Powers, who provided me with helpful information and shared some of her raw food creations with me. I am grateful to have the opportunity to work with an outstanding agent, Dawn Dowdle, and a great editor, John Scognamiglio. Thank you all.

A
s I straightened out the Jeep after rounding a long curve, Redwood Cove popped into view. White buildings, looking like small squares, dotted a grove of trees. An aquamarine Pacific Ocean crashed against rocky outcroppings on my left, spewing foam and creating swirling mists.

Redwood Cove. My new home.

Excitement pushed away the weariness of long driving hours from Wyoming. My heart beat faster and goose bumps rose on my arms.

My new home. I whispered it aloud.

My new job. I spoke it aloud.

Tiredness slipped away as my mind raced ahead. My foot remained steady on the gas pedal, remembering the horse trailer I pulled behind me, filled with my belongings. I turned off the song “Walking on Sunshine” playing on the radio, put the window down, and let the salty breath of the ocean pour in.

I visualized the business cards nestled in a leather case in my purse. R
ESORTS
I
NTERNATIONAL
in raised letters at the top. K
ELLY
J
ACKSON
, MANAGER,
R
EDWOOD
C
OVE
B
ED-AND-
B
REAKFAST
artfully displayed in the middle. The cards would rest on the engraved brass holder my boss, Michael Corrigan, had sent as a welcoming gift.

I turned off the highway and the steeple of Redwood Cove Bed-and-Breakfast stood out against the sky. As I pulled into the driveway of the B & B, I inhaled deeply, struck by the sheer beauty of the place as well as the intense sweet fragrance permeating the air. The brilliant array of flowers on the trellised vines created a kaleidoscope of color next to the elegant white sculpted pillars. Gingerbread trim adorned the two-story inn.

I drove to the back and pulled off to the side of the parking area by the garage. The back door of the inn burst open, and a ten-year-old boy bounded down the stairs, followed by a short, heavyset basset hound.

“Miss Kelly! Miss Kelly! Hi!” Tommy Rogers slid to a stop in front of me. “Welcome back.” His tricolored hound, Fred, jumped up and down next to him, or at least as best he could. His upper torso could only clear the ground by a couple of inches.

I smiled. “Glad to be here, Tommy.”

He flew by me with Fred at his heels and clambered onto the fender of the trailer. “Did you bring a horse? Did you? Did you?”

“No, sorry, Tommy. It's filled with my things.”

Helen, Tommy's mother, had followed him outside. She wiped her hands on her apron and gave me a hug. “It's so good to have you back, Kelly.”

I returned the embrace. She looked much better than the last time I saw her, with more color in her face and no longer gaunt and haggard looking.

“And it's wonderful to see you, Helen. And Tommy and Fred again, of course.” I smiled at her. “I'm excited to hear how things are going.”

“Why the horse trailer?”

“I decided this trailer was the easiest way for me to haul my stuff. My parents are going to come for a visit in a couple of months when the Wyoming weather at the ranch makes California sound good. They'll take it back with them then.”

Tommy climbed down and petted Fred, who'd been unsuccessful at jumping up on the fender of the trailer.

“I didn't bring a horse, Tommy, but I do have my saddle. Would you like to see it?” The last time I'd been here, Diane at Redwood Cove Stable had offered to let me ride an Appaloosa, Nezi, when the horse was available. I intended to take her up on it.

“You bet.”

I went over to the trailer, unlatched the tailgate, and placed it on the ground, forming a ramp. The saddle was on a wooden stand I'd secured to the wall. Tommy rushed into the trailer and began to trace the intricate tooled leather pattern with his fingers.

“I'll be doing some riding at a local stable,” I told him. “It's nice to have my own saddle because the stirrups are adjusted for me and the seat fits.”
And it's part of my family life I brought with me.

“Cool. Did you bring your bridle?”

“No, the bits used on the bridles are specific to each horse's need. There are lots of different types.”

Tommy reached out and touched my leather belt, with the gold-and-silver championship barrel racing buckle. “Wow.” His eyes were wide.

I had never heard a one-syllable word sound so long as when Tommy uttered that word. I had wrapped the belt around the saddle horn at the last minute. It wasn't everyday wear, but I'd ridden with it for years and decided to bring it along.

Before I could explain, my attention was drawn away to the rattling engine of an approaching vehicle. I looked down the driveway as a faded blue Volkswagen bus approached.

I knew it well.

The vehicle parked at the back of the inn, and tall, lanky Daniel Stevens emerged, the newly appointed manager of Ridley House, a sister property. His daughter, Allie, appeared from around the back of the bus. They were father-daughter look-alikes with their straight blue-black hair, high cheekbones, and copper-hued skin.

Daniel gave me a quick, friendly hug. “It's good to have you back.”

“I'm glad to be here.”

Allie smiled. “Hi, Kelly.”

Tommy called out, “Allie, come look at this cool saddle and belt.”

She left to join him.

“How are the renovations coming?” I asked.

“Fine. They're on schedule,” Daniel replied. “Should be done by the beginning of next week, and Redwood Cove B and B will be ready to open.”

“Michael asked me to do an inventory of some historic items at a place called Redwood Heights and help out with a festival this weekend.”

“He told me,” Daniel said. “After acquiring Ridley House a couple of months ago, Michael decided to put Redwood Heights up for sale. It's a little different from his other properties,” Daniel said.

A glance passed between Helen and Daniel.

What was that about?

“I've been helping with some repairs to get the place ready to sell,” Daniel continued. “Michael's got an interested buyer. It's worked out well, since I've been overseeing the construction on all three places.”

Helen chimed in. “I've been preparing the afternoon appetizers. Since I was available, it made sense to give the cook at the Heights a chance to have a vacation.”

“What's the event this weekend?” I asked. “Michael said you'd fill me in.”

“The whales migrate this time of year,” Helen explained. “And there are some great whale watching opportunities. Communities up and down the coast host various events.”

“What fun!”

“We call our festival Whale Frolic,” Helen added. “There'll be a chowder contest and the inns around town will have wine and gourmet treats for people to enjoy. Redwood Heights will be one of the places participating. The money from ticket sales benefits the local hospital.”

Daniel watched the kids happily chattering as they examined the saddle and the belt. “There's a social hour at five at Redwood Heights if you'd like to go tonight,” he said. “That is, if you're not too tired.”

“Sounds great. After all the sitting I've been doing, I'd enjoy some activity.”

“We can introduce you to the manager, Margaret Hensley.” He shot Helen another quick look.

What was going on between these two?

A creaking noise caused the three of us to look down the driveway. A large motor home was crawling toward us, rocking gently from side to side. It drove by and parked in front of my Jeep.

Pictures of two larger-than-life beagles covered the side of the RV. One of them wore a pink collar, the other one blue. The slogan emblazoned next to them read, “Bedbugs? Termites? If you've got 'em, they'll find 'em. Call on Jack and Jill. Get the four-legged pros on the job and have a restful sleep tonight.” A phone number was underneath it.

“Daniel?” I turned and looked at him. “Is there something you haven't told me?”