Sylvia’s Secret Page 5

  Chapter Five

  The library was easy to find. Branson entered through wood-framed glass French doors. Every wall had floor to ceiling bookshelves with neatly arranged volumes, all except one. On that wall was a brick fireplace that curved along a rounded wall. Pewter plates and ivory miniature pianos donned the marble mantle. The cream-colored ceiling, easily twenty feet above the floor, had a scrolled texture like one might find in an older European home.

  Although comfortable wing-backed chairs were arranged throughout the room along with low coffee tables and workspaces, a woman sat in a formal, straight-backed chair, pressed close to a desktop. She was curled over papers, busily writing, and focused so deep she didn’t respond to his entering the room.

  He cleared his throat. “Excuse me. Are you Sylvia Duvet’s personal assistant?”

  The woman turned. Her eyes slightly reddened. She scooped strands of light brown hair behind her ear. “Yes. And you are?”

  “Branson Carhill. Mrs. Colinfield retained my services to locate Mrs. Duvet.”

  The woman stood and held out her hand to shake his. “Thank you for helping us. I am Jeanie Holloway.”

  “Do you have time to answer a few questions?”

  The clock to her left bonged the noon hour. She glanced at it. “I’m sorry. I lost track of time. Cook will have a fit it I don’t break for lunch right now.”

  The pause left him with uncertainty. He didn’t want to leave then take the time to return. He waited for her to offer a solution.

  “Would you like to join me? I’ll have the cook prepare something light.”

  Good idea. “That would be fine. Thank you.”

  “I’ll be right back.” She left the room.

  He walked past shelves containing numerous volumes and fought the jealous desire to transport the library to his home. The genres represented historical, biographical, and selected well-known fiction works. The greater part of the library contained professionally compiled photo books, histories, museum issued works, travelogues, language study, and the like, representing locations Anneliese had mentioned. Shelves contained books about Honduras, Israel, Jordan, mountainous areas such as The Rockies, The Alps, The Appalachians, Himalayas. An empty space indicated she’d left room for more volumes. If this was his library, he’d tackle the Andes next. By far, the greatest shelf space had been dedicated to France. This did not surprise him.

  The woman returned. “I assume you wouldn’t mind eating lunch in here?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I see you have found Mrs. Duvet’s passion for travel. She adds several books every year.”

  “Especially about France?”

  “Yes. Well, she is intrigued by the entire world, wanting to see as much as possible while she can. But you are correct. She has a special fondness for France.”

  “Her high school French Club has kept in close touch over the years.”

  “Ahh, so you’ve done your research, Mr. Carhill. I think Mrs. Duvet would like to meet with her friends more often than she or they have time. Since high school, they’ve each married men of great means and moved to grand residences across the United States. I think one of her friends is planning to move to England. Mrs. Duvet was the first to lose her husband. That alone has created most of her problems. She’s kept herself busy with the usual obligations all right, and her daughter finds time to have tea once in a while—”

  “But she is lonely.”

  Jeanie looked at him. “You are a perceptive man. Yes.”

  A servant walked into the room carrying a large tray laden with food. She spread a dark red cloth over one end of the large rectangular walnut table and arranged the lunch.

  Branson waited for Miss Holloway to initiate a move toward the seating.

  “Come, Mr. Carhill. Let’s enjoy our lunch.”

  They sat and placed pressed cloth napkins on their laps. Cook provided croissants stuffed with chicken salad, finely presented with bright peaches, adding color to the plate. Hot tea steeped in the pot. He poured a cup, leaving the cream aside this time since no one from the elite station had joined them. It was a taste he’d not acquired. Two lumps of sugar, though, sweetened the cup. He stirred and sipped the hot brew.

  “Did Mrs. Duvet speak of taking a trip? Perhaps one she desired to take at Christmastime or one she asked you to plan. Do you plan her trips or is there someone else hired for those services?”

  Ms. Holloway ate a bite of sandwich then dabbed her lips. “I schedule everything for Mrs. Duvet. Everything. I speak honestly when I say she didn’t go anywhere without me knowing. I don’t know why she didn’t have anything scheduled for these two weeks. There should have been hair appointments and more. I…I must have turned two pages. I’ve never done that before. You’ve seen the book I assume?”

  “Yes. Every line had notations except those two pages. There isn’t any blame to cast. I assure you. I only want to find Mrs. Duvet and ensure her safety, wherever she is.”

  She pushed her hand across her cheek, wiping new-fallen tears. “Of course. You’re absolutely right. Please, ask whatever you need.”

  “Let’s start at the beginning. When did you first come to work for this house?”

  “My mother served here her whole life. Mrs. Duvet only allowed me to accompany my mother because I was well behaved.” She laughed. “I really wasn’t such the perfect child. I kept by my mother’s side like a princess in training. Mrs. Duvet took a shining to me and dressed me in frilly pink dresses, ribbons in my hair, and satin shoes.” She used her napkin to dab her nose. “On occasion, Mrs. Duvet smiled at my curtseys and little-girl twirling about the room.” She drew in a deep breath. It tumbled back out with jagged emotion.

  “The day my mother died Mrs. Duvet stood by me. She wept and held my hand, sharing her lace handkerchief. We were the last two to leave the gravesite. Through her tears, she said, ‘You will become my new assistant, won’t you?’ Mr. Carhill, I hardly knew what to say.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I had such dreams for my future. I wanted to be an actress, an ambassador, a business manager.”

  He sipped his tea. “You told her yes.”

  “I did. And you know what I’ve learned? I am an ambassador—for Mrs. Duvet. I am the business manager—for her house. And I am an actress taking on any role I am given, including this time without her, when I have no script. So, to answer your question, I suppose I’ve worked here my whole life and have full intentions of staying.”

  Branson poured a second cup of tea. “It seems then that you know Mrs. Duvet very well.”

  “I do.”

  He looked at his notes from Mrs. Duvet’s yearbook and the letters. “Tell me about her friends, Elizabeth Alexander, Laurel Grimaldi, Constance Weise, and Marguerite Chadwick.”

  “I figured the high school French Club would enter the conversation at some point. They always have and always will be Mrs. Duvet’s dearest friends. Like I said earlier, they’re spread out over the United States, each living the posh life they’d been groomed to assume. Busy schedules, enough obligations to drive someone crazy, and yet they’ve kept in contact with phone calls and attempt to meet once a year or so. They laugh. Have secret code words. Support each other with their sisterhood. If only I had such close friends.”

  “You’ve met them?”

  “No. But who needs to when your employer laughs out loud while on the phone with them? They have a bond I think everyone wants.”

  Branson’s plate was empty, and he’d drunk his fill of tea. “Do you think she’s with these women?”

  Jeanie’s eyes burst wide. “She would have told me. I…I thought you understood the rules of her class. Of course, not every breath is in the planning book, but a trip? Definitely. There would have been phone calls to make. If she and her friends went abroad, her passport had to be taken out of storage. Her suitcase packed. Days of proper preparation.”

  Branson leaned back in his chair. “Well, her suitcase is here. I s
aw it myself.”

  “There. You see?”

  Still, the travel idea made the most sense, and he really didn’t want to return to the topic of Dementia just yet. Mrs. Duvet met with her friends for a fun holiday and would be back in a week. She didn’t tell her staff because, he thought for a moment, why wouldn’t she tell her staff? According to Miss Holloway, she knew everything Mrs. Duvet did, except of course the single breath.

  There was no choice but to go back to the beginning and assume the poor woman walked the streets dressed in her robe and bedclothes. During the Christmas holiday. Freezing and possibly hungry. Some soup kitchen had taken her in. Her appearance disheveled. He winced. The poor woman. Mrs. Colinfield was correct when she imagined the worst appearing in a media blitz.

  The twenty-four hours had passed. He didn’t like the idea of notifying the police, what with the ears of the newspapers on every corner. Poor Mrs. Duvet, a revered woman of class, would be plastered across the tabloids by this evening. It would break his promise to allow the paparazzi into the Duvet family secret. It would sink his business. But if the leak happened by his contacting the police, he would do it. For her safety.

  His cell phone buzzed with a message. “Excuse me, Miss Holloway.” He keyed his password and read the doctor’s address and appointment time sent from his secretary.

  “Thank you for lunch.” He set his napkin on the table. “I have an appointment.” He stood. “Since you are her assistant, do you mind if I take this yearbook and the letters?”

  “She’ll want them back, you know.” The hopeful look in her eyes said much more. The objects represented a woman she highly respected and loved.

  “Of course.”

  “Exactly as you found them.”

  “There won’t be a crease on a yearbook page and the ribbon will be pressed back into place.”

  “Very well.” She looked down at her paperwork as he turned to leave. No surprise there. The conversation had ended, and he knew his way to the door.

  “Wait, Mr. Carhill.”

  He faced her. “Yes?”

  She held an envelope. “I’ve been muddling over what to do regarding this invitation for tonight. Mrs. Duvet gave her word to the committee that she would attend. If she doesn’t show, other guests will speculate.”

  “And the social columnists will be there, I presume.”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you want to do?”

  “It would be better if someone went in her place and made excuses. At least the rumors can be controlled that way.”

  “I agree.”

  “Do you know how to dance?” She handed him the invitation.

  Dance? He’d mastered all the ballroom dances and more in less than six months. “Care to have a demonstration?”

  She smiled. “All right, Mr. Private Detective, show me. Warning, I’ve been trained by the best.”

  He flashed her his half grin and walked to her side of the table.

  She looked toward the door. “Play ballroom dancing.” Music piped in from speakers positioned on the shelves, producing a lively surround sound. The bass and treble played, perfectly balanced.

  He wrapped his right hand around her waist and led her in a flawless waltz. They stepped across the room as one, her sensing when he wanted to promenade. On the last beat, he raised his arm and twirled her around once. The dance ended as the music stopped.

  She lowered her hand and inhaled a deep breath. “I daresay, Mr. Carhill, you will do fine this evening.” The smile that followed and the coloring to her cheeks confirmed she’d been impressed. “Do you have a tux?”

  He always rented one from the same reliable resource. One who always asked him for the occasion then provided the correct attire. “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll have Thomas pick you up at your office. At six?”

  “Very well.” Branson gathered the letters and the yearbook.

  * * *

  A taxi waited outside. Reserved, courtesy of the Duvet household. He climbed inside and gave the address for the doctor’s office. On the drive, he took out his cell and called the tux place.

  “Herb’s Tux Rental. How may I help you?”

  “Branson Carhill here.”

  “Where are you off to, Mr. Carhill?”

  “The Children’s Hospital Fundraiser. Need the tux by 4 PM.”

  “Hobnobbing with the elite, eh?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Want it delivered to your office or your home?”

  “The office will be fine.”

  “All right, sir. The courier will deliver your tux at 3:45 and will leave it with Mrs. Spinnaker.”

  The call ended, leaving him time to thumb through the yearbook. He opened the pages and at first turned to the foreign language club features. Page forty-seven had a full spread featuring French Club activities.

  Thirty-five students comprised the membership. In each photo, five long-haired girls stood clumped arm-in-arm, or in a unique pose from the other thirty students. They never posed in the same order, showing they’d formed a solid group and never fractioned into smaller clicks. The core ingredient of lifelong friends. Photos of a trip to France bordered the page. Many of the five friends. At the Eiffel, the Louvre, a vineyard, cramped into a car, always laughing. A caption under one read, Cinq Amis. They’d definitely been five close friends.

  The taxi stopped. He paid the fare, including tip, and stepped out of the vehicle into the business section, not far from his office. Often the elite didn’t want others to know they had an appointment with a physician. Conjecture by curious media eyes continually plagued them.

  Dr. Sommersowski’s office was well hidden in a tall building where professional businesses of all sorts occupied space. Inside the atrium, a sitemap listed his office in Suite 735. A sign indicated elevators in the center atrium. Once inside, he pressed the number seven button.

  Five men and women rode with him, departing at other floors. Branson stepped off the elevator on the seventh floor. He followed the signs to suite 735 and opened the door. The exclusive lobby invited patients to wait comfortably with amenities such as service for tea and coffee. He walked to the counter and waited for the receptionist to acknowledge him.

  She looked up. “How may I help you, sir?”

  He pulled out his ID and showed it to her. “I need to speak with Dr. Sommersowski. It will take only a moment.”

  “Is this a medical issue?”

  “No.”

  “Are you a patient with this service?”

  “No. You should see my meeting scheduled.”

  She stood. “I’ll see if he’s available.”

  He waited patiently, entertained by the lobby conversation. A young man offered him coffee service, which he turned down.

  “Mr. Carhill?” The receptionist opened a door near her desk. “If you will follow me.” She led him into the retreats of the practice where patient rooms lined the halls with offices. She escorted him to a small room labeled Conference. “Dr. Sommersowski will be with you shortly.”

  “Thank you.”

  She walked away leaving the door open. He chose not to sit or walk about the room. Sitting conveyed less importance to the matter, a mere casual conversation. Walking about conveyed anxiety, nervousness, or anger, setting the wrong tone. He stood before a magnificent painting. Possibly a copy. He was not an expert. What caught his eye was the peaceful mood in the scene. A small thatch roof home surrounded by what appeared to be a European countryside. Perhaps this was a gift from one of his patients.

  “Branson. You found my office.” A man stood in the doorway wearing a grey three-piece suit. He closed the door and indicated Branson should take a seat. “What brings you here? Not official business, I hope.” The doctor sat across from him.

  “I bring sensitive information and a question.”

  “Oh?”

  “A client retained my services to locate her mother. She’s been missing since yesterday morning.”

&
nbsp; “Have you notified the police?”

  “She asked for another twenty-four hours before doing so, unless it became absolutely necessary. She also requested this information be held in the highest confidence for her mother’s sake. They want it kept out of the papers.”

  “Yes. Of course.” The doctor leaned back in his chair. “How can I help?”

  “I want to know briefly about Dementia and Alzheimer’s. Specifically, if a person previously showed no signs of forgetfulness or unusual behavior could that person, say, leave their home in their nightclothes and wander away?”

  The doctor steepled his hands. “You’re entertaining the idea she might aimlessly walk the streets in her night garment.”

  “I must consider every possibility.”

  “Did this client demonstrate a deep sadness in the days before? Or perhaps, is this person known for walking in her sleep?”

  “Regarding the sleepwalking, I would think the household would have mentioned it during the interview. This woman is highly esteemed in her home. They consider her with great care and respect. If by some unforeseen reason this client walked out of her home and was somewhere about the city in a sleep-state, she surely would have woken by now, regained her faculties, and called the family for help. No, this doesn’t seem likely.

  “As for the sadness, I cannot say. I’ll check into that. If the client did not show any of these symptoms, what would you say?”

  “Usually those closest to a patient suffering from Dementia or Alzheimer’s notice unusual activity. They may deny it at first, but as time passes and the signs increase, these caring individuals seek help for their loved one. If none of these fit your client, I’m afraid you’ll have to look for another reason why the client’s mother may be missing.”

  “Thank you very much, Allen.” Branson rose and shook the doctor’s hand. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Fly to Florida and tee off this Saturday at 8 a.m. with our group? We need another player.”