Sylvia’s Secret Read online

  “Nice tip, thanks,” the driver said.

  A burst of chilled wind slapped Branson in the face when he opened the car door. His shoes sank into slush residue on the sidewalk until he reached the gate.

  “May I help you?” a male voice spoke through a speaker.

  “Yes. I’m Branson Carhill. I was hired to—” A buzz sounded as the gate remotely opened.

  The sidewalk leading to the front door had been impeccably groomed. Not a trace of ice or snow anywhere. Even the five stairs leading up had a texture that kept guests from slipping.

  The front door opened as he walked across the porch. A man dressed in pressed black pants, white button-down shirt, a black vest, and tie stood in the doorway. Depending on the number of staff working in the Duvet home, the title for the greeter’s position could be one of several. For now, he’d refer to him as a butler.

  The butler held out his hand and asked for Branson’s coat and hat then stored them. From there, he escorted Branson to an office on the lower floor where a tall, slender woman closed the top drawer of a file cabinet before walking to a desk. She sat. “Please be seated,” she said.

  Across from her desk was a wing-backed chair. The floral fabric appeared quite worn. A rescued beloved piece of furniture Mrs. Duvet had sent to the trash no doubt. Branson sat and pulled out his notebook. “Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon.”

  “What is your name?”

  She looked up from her work a bit surprised. “I do believe I should be interviewing you, sir. This is my office.”

  To keep up appearances, he refused to be put on the defense. A fine line separated the one who solicited answers as an established, credible agent from the one who meant to pry. “True.” He set his notebook on his lap. “I am Branson Carhill. I have been retained to find Mrs. Duvet.”

  “I don’t like the press or any other nosy person coming into Mrs. Duvet’s home and snooping around.”

  Now he understood the previous gruff comment. “I am only here because Mrs. Colinfield personally came to my office and requested assistance. I do not mean to intrude.”

  Her facial features calmed. “I apologize. My name is Martha Shepherd, head housemaid. You can imagine what a tizzy the whole house has been in. I’ve worked here twenty years and never once worried where Mrs. Duvet was. We keep a rigid schedule.” She grabbed a tissue and dabbed one eye.

  He had no idea what she meant. “The staff keeps a tight schedule?”

  “Why no. Mrs. Duvet. She is a very precise woman. Wakes at the same time every morning whether the sun is shining or not. She showers precisely for twelve minutes and expects her breakfast on the table at seven sharp. I liked it. We always knew what to expect.”

  Branson wrote a few notes then asked, “When did the staff notice her missing?”

  “This morning.” She paused as he wrote. “That would be December 11th.” A detail he already knew. “She didn’t come down for breakfast. I thought, maybe Mrs. Duvet was ill, so I hurried up to her room as fast as my poor back allowed. I knocked on her door and said her name. She didn’t call out permission to enter. I pressed an ear against the door and heard not a sound.”

  She looked down at her hands. “I’m not one to disobey orders or push my way into Mrs. Duvet’s business. Still, I thought, she might need a doctor. I pressed the door open a crack and looked inside. Her bed linens were tossed as though she’d slept there. Her clothes from yesterday hung over the back of a chair as usual. I looked at her bed and didn’t see her night dress or robe. Come to think of it, her slippers weren’t there either. That’s when I called Mrs. Colinfield.”

  Not seeing the night dress added a twist he didn’t expect.

  “Can you find her, please?” She dabbed her red eyes. “I don’t know what we’ll do without her.” Head housekeeper, Martha Shepherd, became more upset as the minutes went by, slipping into fits of sobbing. She’d nearly emptied an entire tissue box.

  Branson had learned long ago to give women and their tears time together. His mother said it cleansed the soul. And although he found no benefit in the watershed, his mother proved her words ten minutes after any last sob by regaining her ability to hold a genuine conversation.

  He didn’t have that much time. “Could one of the staff show me to Mrs. Duvet’s room?”

  Mrs. Shepherd’s hand flew to her mouth, which screamed her perceived impropriety of such a request!

  “My apologies.” Branson quickly said. “I meant to add that I fully expect the staff person to stay in the room to ensure Mrs. Duvet’s belongings are not disturbed.”

  The apology worked like a piece of chocolate. “Why, yes. Of course.” She picked up her phone. “Anneliese. Please show Mr. Carhill to Mrs. Duvet’s room and stay with him to answer any questions.” Ms. Shepherd set the phone onto the cradle then returned to her work.

  Branson took her action as a cue to stand. “Thank you for your time.” He pulled a business card from his inner suit coat pocket and handed it to her. “If you think of anything that would help me find her, please call.”

  “I will.” She set the card on her desk. To his surprise, she put her pen down, ignoring her paperwork then walked to the window. The woman lost her composure with a sniffle.

  Making a comment would only embarrass the woman. He walked to the door and waited for Anneliese.

  A young woman wearing a pale blue uniform stopped outside the room. “Mr. Carhill?”

  Branson nodded.

  “If you’ll follow me.” She turned right and walked to a staircase halfway down the hall. The stairs delivered them to a corridor on the main floor where light beige walls reached fourteen feet and touched ornate ivory crown molding that bordered a white ceiling.

  Along the passage, servants attempted to hide both their presence and their curiosity. Branson allowed them the satisfaction of successfully catching a glimpse of the stranger in the house by not turning.

  Anneliese led him up another wide staircase, hardly suitable for guests. This one seemed tailored for one special user. Each step only rose a few inches. The handrail had indentations on both sides allowing for a hand to grip. Anneliese climbed the stairs without the assistance.

  At the top, she turned to the right and opened a door. “This is Mrs. Duvet’s room.” She stood to the side.

  The master suite spanned thirty by twenty feet and had a soft lemon color scheme. Like Mrs. Shepherd had reported, the bed linens were tousled. A wing-backed chair near the bed had clothes draped over the top. There was no bed attire left on the mattress. A French writing desk with a matching chair faced the window.

  Branson walked with liberty to the desk. He stood to the side, allowing Anneliese ample, unhindered space to watch him. Inside the center drawer, stationery, specialty pens, wax, and a seal had an impeccably organized look. He drew the paper close and, as expected, it had a scent. It took a moment to identify Lily as the floral perfume.

  Anneliese approached the desk. “That’s Mrs. Duvet’s favorite stationery. She uses it only for corresponding with her friends.”

  The pile of paper was about two inches thick. “Did she have many friends whom she hand wrote letters?”

  “I’d say three or four. I don’t know their names. Ms. Shepherd could help with that detail.”

  “I take it she has known these friends for some time?” Most people communicated with social media or email today.

  “I don’t really know. She received maybe one or two letters a year that made her truly smile. She’d take the envelope and retreat to this room.”

  “Did she keep any of the letters?”

  Anneliese glanced around the room. “If they’re not in the drawers of her writing table, I wouldn’t know where she’d keep them.”

  Branson jotted a note to ask Mrs. Shepherd about the friends. “May I look at her closet?”

  Anneliese walked to the other side of the room where she opened double doors. The walk-in closet had a shoe display of nearly every color
and style. Her garments hung on a large u-shaped pole where she had business suits, dresses, and formal wear sorted by season. All in all, the woman had exquisite taste and kept her belongings organized.

  “Where does she store her sleeping attire?” Anneliese’s puzzled look required he offer an explanation. He added, “I ask because Ms. Shepherd said last night’s garments appeared to be missing.”

  “Oh.” She walked to an oversized wardrobe, opened the doors, and pointed to the third drawer down on the right. She stepped back. “It’s not my place to touch her things. Her personal assistant cares for them.”

  “Where is she?”

  “This is her day off.”

  “And she is scheduled to work tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  Branson opened the drawer and found three sets of sleeping garments. “Do you know how many Mrs. Duvet owns?”

  “I’m sorry. There may be some in the laundry.” She looked toward the ceiling then back at him. “I honestly don’t know which one she wore last night.”

  Frustrating a person is a great way to get them to stop talking. That was the last thing he wanted to do. “No problem. You’ve been a great help.” He closed the wardrobe. “Mrs. Duvet liked to look out that window.” He indicated with a nod.

  “Yes, she did. In the few free moments she had in her schedule, she’d come to her room and sit at the desk, looking out at the gardens. She’d ask me to bring her tea. When I returned with the service, I always found her sitting at this desk and facing the window. That’s how I know she liked sitting here.”

  Branson walked back to the writing table and sat on the chair. “There is a garden out there.”

  “Yes.”

  “She likes to walk through it?”

  “Her left leg causes her problems at times. On a lovely summer day, she’d walk through the flowers a bit but then come in to rest.”

  “Does she use a cane?”

  “She only has this year. Not in the house but for walking any distances.”

  He scanned the room. “Where does she keep it?”

  “She has several. One for outdoors and several for indoors to match a garment or an occasion. A few are stored by the front door.”

  “I only have one more question. When did you see her last?”

  The question seemed more difficult than he’d intended. Anneliese spent quite a time searching her memory. At last, she answered. “Last night. She’d been reading in the library, said she was tired, then came up here. She asked me to bring her tea. I served her around ten.”

  Ms. Shepherd said she opened the bedroom door at seven this morning. So sometime between ten last night and seven this morning Mrs. Duvet disappeared.

  “What time did you arrive for work this morning?”

  “Nine, same as I always do. I’m required to stay until Mrs. Duvet retires for the evening. I am scheduled for work later as compensation.”

  He assumed the rest of the staff would have told her what happened when she arrived. “Thank you for your assistance. Could you see me back to Ms. Shepherd’s office?”

  “Yes, sir.” She escorted Branson on the same path back to the lower level and left him at the head housekeeper’s office. “Excuse me. I have work to do.”

  He nodded.

  Anneliese hurried down the hall, most likely to inform curious staff he’d discovered precisely nothing new. On the contrary, he found several new leads and a long list of new questions.

  Branson knocked. Through the door he heard a woman grunt then footfalls moved closer. The door burst open.

  “Mr. Branson, I have an enormous amount of work to do. Should Mrs. Duvet return home, she will expect every detail in order. I’m already hours behind.”

  “I will be brief.”

  She glanced away then back at him, very put out. “You may have five minutes.” She walked to her desk.

  “I can leave a list of questions and have my secretary return for the information if you prefer.”

  “No. You’re here.” She threaded her fingers together impatiently. “Ask your questions now.”

  “I understand Mrs. Duvet wrote letters to three or four friends over the years.”

  “Yes.”

  Her short answer didn’t make the interview any easier. “Did she keep any of the letters she received?”

  “I don’t know.” She raised her chin. “That would be a private matter. A good housekeeper never snoops or meddles in the personal affairs of her employer.”

  “Did you post letters she sent out?”

  “Yes. I handed any correspondence from Mrs. Duvet to the postman when he delivered the mail.”

  Finally, information to work with. “Do you recall to whom she addressed the letters?”

  “My dear Mr. Carhill, that would make me a snoop. And I—”

  Branson pressed his hand out to stop her. “I know. You’d never meddle in your employer’s private matters. You are not on trial, Mrs. Shepherd. I am only seeking your assistance in finding Mrs. Duvet. You do want me to find her, correct?”

  She sat in her chair and rested her head on her hands. “Yes, of course.”

  “Then did you happen to notice, even out of the corner of your eye, to whom she addressed just one of the letters?”

  She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath.

  “I only wish to contact the individual to find out if Mrs. Duvet is visiting.”

  Mrs. Shepherd opened her eyes. “I think I saw the name Elizabeth.”

  He wrote the first name and waited for the last. When silence indicated the information wouldn’t be given easily, he looked up at her. “Martha?” The use of her first name violated every rule he’d established for himself. Propriety had to be honored at all times. Maybe he shouldn’t have said it. The surprise on her face, though, seemed to bring her around. “I can only help if I have the last name.”

  “Very well. I think the last name was Alexander.”

  “Thank you.” Branson turned to leave then stopped at the door. “If one of the staff could search the house for the letters from her friends, assuming Mrs. Duvet kept any, please either send them to my office or call my secretary. Their help could produce the key to finding her.”

  She picked up her phone. “Mr. Tanner, please escort Mr. Carhill to the door. He is in my office.” In the time it took the butler to appear, Mrs. Shepherd made a second call. “I want a meeting with the entire staff in ten minutes.”

  Mr. Tanner extended one arm toward the stairs. “This way, sir.”

  The distance to the entrance left Branson little time to converse with the butler. “Did you happen to notice the front door unlocked this morning?”

  “No, sir. Mrs. Colinfield arrived around 8 am asking for her mother, who was nowhere to be found. No other visitor appeared before that time. I remember unlocking the front entrance for Mrs. Colinfield then leaving it unlocked for the day as is my duty.”

  Mrs. Duvet could have opened the door and verbally reset the computer’s security alarm system before leaving. “Did you happen to notice any footprints on the sidewalk? Maybe something made with Mrs. Duvet’s size of boot or shoe?”

  The butler shook his head. “Years ago, she had a special heating device installed under the sidewalk that warmed the cement and kept it free from snow and ice. The safety of her guests is paramount. As a result, no prints are ever left.”

  At the front entrance and to the right of the door was a tall wicker basket. “Is this where Mrs. Duvet stores her canes?”

  “Typically.”

  “But not always?”

  “On occasion, her leg bothers her enough to require its use around the house.”

  “Did such occasion happen last evening?”

  Mr. Tanner nodded. “She said she had a headache and retired early to her room. She also requested a cup of tea. I saw Anneliese deliver service around ten.”

  Branson recalled what he saw when there. “I was just in her room and found no service. If she requested tea, w
ouldn’t the cup still be there since nothing had been disturbed?”

  “Perhaps, except the kitchen staff becomes rather testy when even a spoon has not been returned by the end of the night. Most likely, one of the maids went to her room and retrieved the empty tea service before midnight.”

  “And Mrs. Duvet was in her room at that time?”

  “I don’t know. The maids would have to be asked.” Mr. Tanner opened the door. “Good day, Mr. Carhill.”

  Branson reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “If you think of anything that can help me find Mrs. Duvet, please call.”

  He accepted the card. “I will.” Mr. Tanner held the door open until Branson stepped outside.

  At the end of the sidewalk and through the gate, Branson saw a taxi had already been ordered for him. He climbed in and gave his home address, a row house in a middle-class suburb. During the long drive, he checked his texts.

  Mrs. Spinnaker: No hospital or ambulance reports for Mrs. Duvet. No police reports indicating they found Mrs. Duvet or a Jane Doe matching her description.

  Branson pulled out the planner and flipped through the pages. Somewhere in the line-by-line entries had to be a clue. A woman of her class did not simply disappear, especially near a major holiday like Christmas. “What is your story, Sylvia?” he softly said.

  Chapter Three

  A deliveryman handed Branson a warmed bag from Mr. Messina’s Italian Restaurant. “Here you go, Mr. Carhill.” Snow tumbled onto the doormat from his boots. He looked at the cash Branson handed him then reached into his pocket.

  “Don’t bother with change,” Branson said. “Keep it.”

  The man stuffed the wad into his pocket. “Thanks for the tip, Mr. Carhill.” He walked outside, pulling the door closed behind him.

  Ever since Messina’s offered online ordering, Branson became a regular customer. The tip? Well, it gave the delivery guys incentive to keep the food inside the take-out containers as they barreled through side streets and squealed tires around corners.

  The dining room table had one plate, silverware, and a container of freshly grated Parmesan cheese. No one made a marinara sauce like Messina. He inhaled the fresh basil, garlic, oregano, and meat blended in chunky tomato sauce and closed his eyes. Food! Today he ordered a Caesar salad, a calzone, and tiramisu.