Chapter 15
Sveyn stalks through the library, and Boots, Eva, and I shuffle ourselves on the furniture, out of his path.
“Mr. Zephyr got wind of the new ‘chit in charge’ through the gossip mill and canceled his order. Once word gets out, it will cause a chain reaction among our customers. This is nothing short of catastrophic!” Sveyn grinds to a halt, nearly toppling himself along with a potted spruce.
The man is a hothead, and he has certainly not curbed his disdain over my inheriting the estate. Could he have quarreled with Mr. Sanders one last time—hard enough to kill him?
“I begged Dakon to require payment up front, but did he listen to me?” Boots grumbles from the sofa opposite where Eva and I perch on the two wide chairs.
His bow tie has gone askew against his pin-striped shirt.
“Of course not. Called me a fussbudget. Maybe he should’ve fussed more, is what I say.
Now we owe the men for work done on a half-finished boat, and we have no work for the rest of the year. ”
That certainly sounds bad. But I can’t help wondering how often Mr. Sanders disregarded the Jamaican’s advice. Did the exacting labor manager grow resentful enough to snap?
With a disgusted sigh, Sveyn plunks beside his comrade. A look passes between them.
Boots squares his shoulders to me. A row of short teeth present themselves for inspection. “Miss, er, Lucy, as you can see, we are facing complicated problems.” His accent becomes coaxing.
Sveyn nods with his whole body. “The calling of mortgages on our new excavators—”
“Excavators?” I ask.
Eva, quietly taking notes from the adjacent chair, says, “Digging machines.” She is neither friend nor foe, but at least she is not squarely on their side.
“To say nothing of the new Corliss engines,” Boots adds with a glance at Sveyn. I am put in mind of two men working a saw at a stuck root. “Such matters can be taxing for the weaker, gentler sex.” More teeth appear on Boots’s smile.
I feel a surge of irritation.
Sveyn opens his massive hands in apology, voice now syrupy. “And the business of yachts, it’s a man’s business. Ask Miss Jack. She won’t even board them.”
Eva’s eyes round, and two spots of pink bloom on her cheeks. “I, well, yachts are not for me.”
“You see?” Sveyn gestures toward her, triumphant. “Let us run the company on your behalf until you get your feet wet. Public confidence will soar.”
Eva stares at her notes, her pencil not moving. She probably doesn’t appreciate being made a patsy.
Handing over the reins would certainly free up time, even my conscience.
But how can I trust men who only yesterday hinted I could have played a role in Mr. Sanders’s murder?
Until I can assure myself that the Brain Trust are innocent of that charge, I must keep my seat.
“So if we get Mr. Zephyr’s business back, we could stem, er, the blood loss? ”
“Yes, though that’s a three-legged horse’s chance in the derby,” Sveyn booms sternly.
“I will give you my answer at the end of the day.”
Flossie is battling an army of colorful dresses on Lydia’s bed when I return to my room. Mrs. Sanders was certainly a woman who did not shy from color, just like her dahlia garden. She was a rare island marble butterfly, full of interesting hues.
“Help me out of this dress before it kills me.”
The maid’s fingers make short work of my buttons, and then I am standing in my drawers, fanning my thin chemise against my damp skin. Heaven. “Are there any other mourning dresses in that collection?”
Flossie gives my gown a shake, but it is stiff as cardboard.
“No. Bit of a devil’s handcuff, this one.
But you don’t have to wear it. Way I see it, it is your house now, miss.
A lady should be able to choose her clothes, same as her curtains.
And look at all these jewels ripe for the wearing.
” She opens a carved box full of sparkling rings, gold bracelets, pearl combs, and diamond tiaras that look real.
Of course they are. A millionaire’s wife doesn’t wear paste.
“I wish it were that easy,” I murmur, picking up a ruby ring. “You must have seen my speech.” My shoulders slump at the memory of it. “I cannot worsen my image by showing up looking like a brazen hussy.” I set the ring back inside the box and lower the lid.
She sets the box in a drawer. “Well, you turned it around in the end.” She flips the dress inside out and powders the inside with talc. “People listen when they know it is you talking.”
“Thank you, Flossie. Where do you come by all this wisdom?”
“Eight brothers and an eejit of a father, I suppose. If it was raining soup, he’d be outside with a fork.”
I smile, something I haven’t done in a while. “All right, help me back into that dress. I have a company to save.”
Viridian House, a cozy abode with a tree-lined walk and a second floor from which to see the ocean, always filled me with a quiet longing.
The big house had a way of shrinking everything inside it, but Viridian House seemed the perfect size.
But now the madrones stand like hostages, each red trunk potentially concealing a murderer. I make haste to the door.
Before knocking, I rehearse what I will say.
The house seems quiet: no shadows in the stained-glass windows, no telltale footsteps, no “Love’s Dream After the Ball” humming through the walls.
Nash always cranks the volume on his phonograph all the way up.
Buddy said Nash would take the five o’clock ferry, but perhaps he left on the early boat, though he’s never been a morning person.
The door opens with an irritated whuff, sucking all my prepared words with it.
The would-be heir stares at me with some confusion, his loose-legged trousers puddling around his bare feet, shirt cuffs open. “I thought I heard someone.”
“Pardon the intrusion.”
He runs a hand through his hair, and a devilish smile tweaks his mouth. The old Nash, sure-footed and up to no good, has returned. I suddenly feel shabby, even though I am dressed better.
“No intrusion,” he says. “Nowhere is your domain.”
“Mr. Sanders built this for your mother. Viridian House belongs to you.”
“How generous.”
For a moment, I get the feeling that we are actors in a melodrama, though it is unclear who is portraying virtue and who vice. “I hardly know what to say.”
“Don’t apologize. You may be seen as weak.”
“I am a woman. I am already seen as weak.” My bodice seems to grip tighter at the admission, but I will not be done in by my clothes.
“Please come in.”
An open, packed trunk lies just inside the door.
Feeling as ungainly as a boar in a parlor, I follow him into a living room filled with simple oak furniture.
A tasteful array of his mother’s paintings adorn walls lined with wallpaper in a design of green and blue leaves.
Nash gestures to a ladder-back armchair with celadon cushions.
“No, thank you.” Sitting will just make breathing more challenging. I position myself by a tidy fireplace with square bricks. “But please don’t stand on account of me.”
“I won’t.” He drops into a leather couch opposite me.
On a carved table sits a nearly empty decanter of spirits, a glass half full of the same spirits, and a pile of wrappers.
An album of photographs is open to a page showing a group of people.
“I would offer you a lollipop, but I have eaten them all. The sweet chases the bitter.”
He certainly has had his fair share of bitterness to swallow, not just the alcoholic type. “I’m prepared to give you some money.”
“A charitable donation?” He leans forward, forearms on his knees. “How quickly you have taken to this role. But you’ll recall, I am not in need of funds. In fact, I’m relieved not to have the burden of Nowhere. And why would you offer?”
“I need something.”
“Attagirl.” He leans back and cradles his head in his hands. “But what could I possibly offer you? Could it be you have sampled something to your liking and would like another bite?” Light pouring from a high window draws playful shadows under his eyelashes.
“Hardly, and I don’t care for your innuendo.”
Tiring of his seat, he stands and flexes his back. “There is no need to worry. I was thinking about joining a monastery.”
“I thought it was the army.”
“Same thing, though more wine.” He silently approaches across a bold carpet with leafy designs. I try to make myself tall, a warning to keep his distance, but he comes so close, I can smell the whiskey butterscotch of his breath.
I step back, nearly colliding with a set of hearth tools.
“So tell me, what can I possibly give you?” he murmurs.
My heart has become a caged bird in my chest. Leaving the fireplace, I position myself on the other side of the couch, as if it is a bulwark to hide behind.
“An image. Mr. Zephyr canceled his order. If you’d read a statement that SSI remains in Sanders hands—that you will play an active role—it might steady nerves. ”
“Active role? You want me to run the business?”
“Not really. Just be a figurehead.”
He snorts. “A puppet.”
“An active puppet. You are charming and can put on a good show.”
His face clouds. “And you would pull my strings.”
“If you must think of it that way,” I huff, feeling lightheaded.
I focus on a painting of his mother and father above the fireplace.
A serious-faced woman with the same strong nose, piercing blue eyes, and jutting chin as her brother, Viridian Sanders-Byre painted herself gazing up at her husband, who stares out of the frame.
What does that say about the artist’s feelings for her husband, who had never visited Nowhere?
That she adored him, clearly, but did he feel the same?
“It’s against my principles to work for free.”
My gaze falls to Nash, who has the same haughty curve to his bottom lip as his father. “Then a monastery won’t suit you.” My head pounds as if too much blood is rushing through it. This python of a dress is slowly squeezing the breath out of me.
“There is something I do want.”
“Yes?”
“I want you to tell me the truth.” Back he travels across the carpet to where I am clinging to the back of the couch. “Why did Uncle D. leave it all to you?”
I hesitate. The fewer who know… the better. I don’t trust Nash. But he didn’t murder my father. He would’ve been two years old then. “Mr. Sanders knew my father. He believes he owes the success of Nowhere to him.”
“Your father.”
“Harry Tang. He was murdered eighteen years ago. He is known as the Can Man.”
His eyebrows pinch like arrows pulled taut. “Killed the same way, though they never found the body.” The lines of disbelief tighten into scorn. He laughs, rolling down his sleeves. “You are pulling my leg. Where is the proof? How come I have never heard of this before?”
My ears ring. “It is the truth, even if you don’t believe it. You asked and I answered. When may we schedule the press call?”
“Well, it is not a satisfactory answer, so there will be no press call. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to pack.”
“But I cannot tell you more.” I am certainly not going to show him the letter. My breath rises faster as my insides begin to boil. The room is too hot.
What did I expect? He owes me nothing. He probably thinks I cheated him out of his inheritance. But doesn’t he want to see his uncle’s company prosper? I begin to sag, my lungs suddenly starved of air.
His face grows closer, so close I must tilt my head up to see him.
Why can’t he open a damn window? And why is he suddenly embracing me?