I frowned and refolded the letter, as I had done many times in the three months since Dad had died. His second request, and the brilliant sapphire and diamond ring I had found in the cupboard, baffled me. In his career as a painter of animal portraits-horses, dogs, cats, birds, lizards, snakes, leopards-my father had worked for fabulously wealthy people, with access to the homes and estates where these pampered pets lived; as far as I knew, he had never stolen anything. I did not look forward to presenting this piece of missing property to Adrian Westbrook or to seeing a place that I connected so strongly with my mother. But I had to honor at least one of my father's final requests.
I carefully returned the letter to my travel bag and paced the room I had taken at a bed-and-breakfast in Wisteria, Maryland. After airport security, a sixhour transatlantic flight, customs, and a two-hour ride in an airport shuttle to the Eastern Shore town, I longed for a decent cup of tea, but the sooner I got this over with, the better. I headed downstairs to a small room equipped with a guest phone and punched in the number I had found in an Internet directory.
My call was answered on the third ring. 'Mason's Choice.'
For a moment I was confused, then I remembered that that was the name of the estate where Ashley had lived.
'May I speak with Mr. Westbrook, please, Adrian Westbrook.'
'Who is calling?' asked a woman with a deep voice.
'Kate Venerelli.'
'Excuse me?'
Aware that years of schooling in England had given me an accent more clipped than Americans were accustomed to, I repeated my name slowly.
'I'm sorry. Mr. Westbrook is not available.'
'When may I call back?' I asked.
'You may leave a message with me now.'
I hesitated. An image of a person I had long forgotten formed in my head: a cap of straight gray hair, a pale stone face, a mouth and forehead carved with disapproval. Mrs. Hopewell. It seemed as if the housekeeper should be 103 by now, but of course, when you are five, anyone older than your parents seems ancient to you. She was probably in her sixties.
'Thank you,' I said politely, 'but I would like to speak to Mr. Westbrook myself.'
Click.
I stared at the phone-she had hung up. Quickly I dialed the number again. 'May I speak with Mrs. Westbrook, please?' I knew from Dad's clients that rich old men always had wives, usually young, pretty ones.
'Who is calling?'
'Kate Venerelli.' There was no reason to lie-I was certain the housekeeper took note of the number displayed on her phone and realized the same person was calling.
'Mrs. Westbrook is not available,' Mrs. Hopewell replied.
'Who is it?' I heard a younger woman ask in the background.
'Someone selling something, a marketing call,' the housekeeper said, just before the click sounded again in my ear.I put down the phone. My reluctance to carry out my father's request had melted in the low heat of Mrs. Hopewell's voice. I strode down the hall, hoping to learn something current about the Westbrook from the owner of the Strawberry B&B.
I found Amelia Sutter in the kitchen, finger-deep in bread dough. She was very glad to talk, but I discovered that conversation with her was harder to steer than a flock of birds. It took twenty minutes of kneading to learn that Adrian had married a young woman named Emily and now had a little boy. Both of Adrian's grown children, Trent Westbrook and Robyn Caulfield, had divorced and never remarried. Of course, there was much more to those stories, details worthy of a racy novel, but those were the only statements made by Mrs. Sutter that I believed to be facts.
As her stories wandered on to other subjects, so did my attention. I tried to think of a reason to show up at the gates of Mason's Choice, some excuse that would get me past Mrs. Hopewell. Until I understood why my father had taken the ring, I wasn't going to reveal it to anyone but Adrian Westbrook. I stared down at a college newspaper lying open on the kitchen table. cars towed, a headline read. That was an idea-l could pretend I had a disabled car and needed help. I continued scanning the page, my eyes stopping at an ad with a familiar phone number-the one I had just called.
Wanted: tutor for 7-year-old child. Duties incl. transportation to school, homework, & some rec time. Excellent job for college student. Room, board; salary dpdt. on experience.
My ticket in! I thought, jumping up so fast, I startled Mrs. Sutter. I didn't actually want the job-l had plans to tour cross county before attending universitybut an interview would get me onto the estate, inside the house.
'Oh, there I've gone and offended you.' Mrs. Sutter sighed. 'I forgot how proper you English folks are.'
'I'm American,' I said, bluntly enough to prove it, then remembered my manners. 'Would you excuse me? There is something I need to do-to do as soon as possible.'
I hurried upstairs and grabbed my coat. Certain that the vigilant Mrs. Hopewell wouldn't answer a third call from the same number; I headed out in search of a pay phone.
At 4:20 that afternoon, about ten kilometers outside of town, Mrs. Sutter-Amelia, as she had asked me to call her-pulled up to the iron gates of Mason's Choice.
They swung inward, triggered by an electric eye, an orb less discriminating than Mrs. Hopewell's. My plan had worked. Having used a phone at the local college, a bad French accent (I was afraid my American Southern wouldn't convince a native), and a polite request to speak to Emily Westbrook, I had gotten past the housekeeper.
My job interview was at 4:30, but the gloomy weather of early March made it appear later than that. A chilly fog had settled over the Eastern Shore, turning even the small wood that shielded the estate from Scarborough Road into the forbidding forest of a fairy tale. Massive vines and dripping black branches crowded close to both sides of the private road that led to the house. Amelia sped up, as if eager to get through the wood. A broken branch whisked across the windshield. Past the wood was an open area of lawn, bounded by a long hedge, perhaps three times the height of an adult, with a keyhole cut through where the entrance road passed. As a child I had found this living wall rather menacing; it didn't seem much friendlier now.
Then I remembered and turned my head quickly to the right. 'Amelia, could you stop for a moment?'
'Yes, of course, dear. What is it?' she asked.
'A cemetery.'
She strained to see. Had I not already known it was there, I wouldn't have noticed it-the wrought-iron fence and weeping angels. It had been foggy like this the week Ashley had fallen through the ice. After her funeral, I had visited her grave with my mother.
I remembered gripping my mother's hand as I watched the wisps of mist slip between the leaning stones. Ashley had claimed that the ghosts in the graveyard whispered to her; even when we weren't together, she said, the spirits watched me and told her what I did.
I shook off the eerie memory. Every day had been exciting with Ashley, but she had also frightened me. That summer, autumn, and winter, she and I had had the entire estate for our playground-gardens, pool, docks, play equipment, an old barn, and deserted outbuildings. She had loved daring me to try the forbidden. Spoiled and hot- tempered, and two years older than I, she had known how to scare me into doing what she wanted.
'Thanks, Amelia,' I said, turning back. 'We can keep going.'
Passing through the hedge, we drove through the formal gardens bordering the long drive. The flowering plants were clipped clean to the ground, and the boxwood was perfectly manicured in patterns that looked as if they
