Chapter 6
Sleep had never been a good friend of Jennie’s.
When she was eight and her dad had awakened her one night, that was the first time but not the last that the night became filled with monsters.
Afterward, there was always the belief that just out of view, hidden in the darkness, lurked a monster.
Monsters were real. She kept coming face-to-face with them too.
That was when Mom had given Jennie a coffee-table book with beautiful photographs of paintings from the Renaissance to Postimpressionism.
As a child, Jennie had lost herself in the paintings.
She’d searched for their hidden meanings, consuming the artists’ pains and joys, and if Jennie was honest with herself, she was bitter that Mom had chosen to give her an art book to abate her fear of her narcissistic, abusive father.
Yet as she grew older—and as Jennie had told her therapist many times—she understood why Carol Phillips hadn’t stood up to her husband, even on behalf of her daughter, Jennie.
The reason the monsters were so frightening was because she couldn’t scare them away, no matter what she did.
Besides, more often than not, a person simply traded one monster for another, and at least with her father, Jennie and her mom had their needs more than met.
Wealth became a bandage, art became their vacation, and Dad the beast they tried to keep in the closet as much as they could.
Jennie’s first experience with death had been five years ago when her dad died.
She’d not cried, not once. Her therapist told her that was just fine—at first—but now her therapist kept trying to coerce tears from Jennie because they’d be “healing.” Jennie wanted to scream at her to make up her mind.
A person couldn’t cry on demand, and a person didn’t weep over dead monsters.
She’d cried, however, when her mom died.
She’d wept at Mom’s burial, wept when she read Mom’s journals, and wept when she explored Mom’s notes of her studies of Traeger Hall.
Somehow, Mom had linked the place to the classical art world, and it was the only piece of Dad’s estate that her mom ever cared about preserving.
Jennie had ignored it all. Instead, she’d focused on Paris and the Louvre Museum.
She’d gone to school for art. She’d visited New York and toured the Museum of Modern Art for hours.
This was art she could see and feel, the art that had saved her night after night.
Unlike her mother, Jennie was no treasure hunter.
She didn’t want to explore ancient tombs with stories of lost art and treasure.
She wanted what was already established, predictable.
Jennie understood its beauty and pain. She saw nothing but chaos in a treasure hunt.
But today? Today Traeger Hall was one last weight Jennie needed to be free of.
She needed to cut all ties to her father, to his greed and his need to own anything and everything he came across.
She was ready to be free of Traeger Hall once and for all, as well as the surrounding properties her father had invested in, because Jennie needed to let her mom go.
Let go of Mom’s dreams of opening up Traeger Hall, which had been sealed for over a century.
Mom was not alone in believing the stories that the original owner, Leopold Traeger, who’d been murdered in the Hall and whose bell tower had pronounced his murder to the town of Newton Creek, was also a secret hoarder of valuable art pieces.
Maybe under different circumstances, Jennie would have loved to treasure hunt here with her mom.
But Mom was dead, Dad was gone, and Traeger Hall was an unwitting reminder of abuse and of boarded-up dreams.
In a way, Jennie felt bad for the old mansion and its bricked-up windows and doors.
It was a victim of sorts, being barred from having occupants all these decades.
Traeger Hall had been abused and misused.
The place hid so many secrets that Jennie thought it too much like her.
Traeger Hall was Jennie Phillips; and Jennie, Traeger Hall.
Now, Jennie braced herself. Yesterday had been awful.
A few hours of being questioned by Detective Darrow, feeling the stare of the man who had been introduced to her as Zane Harris, the little boy Milo’s dad, and then returning to her rented Airbnb for a night’s sleep?
Nope. She couldn’t afford to take on more trauma.
It was morning now and here she was, where she originally intended to be but without the emotional hangover of yesterday.
She was sitting outside an attorney’s office, wrestling with that same premonition of doom she often had and that always seemed to be correct.
Jennie glanced at her phone and reread the email.
Her attorney—no, Dad’s attorney—wasn’t able to meet her in Newton Creek as promised.
She wanted to clear up a few questions surrounding the Traeger property, such as why her father had bought it to begin with, and whether she could sell the place or was it tied to some ridiculous, ancient will the attorney’s office determined was still binding.
Now she was attorney-less, heading into a meeting with no legal expertise.
She’d take detailed notes, not make any snap decisions, and per her attorney’s instructions call him later that evening to discuss the matter.
That was the problem with having high-powered lawyers from her home in the Twin Cities.
They had other clients too, ones with more pressing issues and who brought in more money to the law firm than a case like hers—cleaning up an old estate in Wisconsin.
Jennie took a last look in the mirror at her SUV’s visor.
Her brown eyes were rimmed in black, and her dark blond hair was up in a messy bun, a thick fringe swept to her temple.
She’d skipped her contacts this morning and opted for her studious-looking glasses with their brown tortoiseshell frames.
They made her look more put together. She hoped.
Jennie exited the vehicle and straightened her clothes. Cuffed blue jeans, ankle boots, a button-up silk blouse in navy blue, and silver jewelry to accessorize. She was ready. She hoped.
The air was permeated with the sweet scent of lavender, blowing from an oil diffuser in the corner of the small law office.
White walls, black stuffed chairs, a couple of abstract paintings hanging here and there.
The decor was all rather clinical, more modern than Jennie had expected.
That included the woman behind the desk, who looked only a little older than Jennie.
Her hair was styled in a short bob that emphasized her fine-boned features.
She had the appearance of a model. Jennie had been wrong in assuming the law office would give off the same aura as the rest of Newton Creek: Midwestern rural.
Instead, the woman now lifting dark eyes that matched her hair color gave off New York chic.
She even had tapered red fingernails, and her blouse definitely sent an Yves Saint Laurent vibe.
“Welcome!” Her smile was warm, her voice accented with an Eastern European finish. “How may I be of assistance today?”
Jennie braced herself and answered, “I’m Jennie Phillips. I have an appointment regarding my property, Traeger Hall and Estates.”
“Oh, yes!” The accent grew thicker. Russian?
Latvian? It didn’t matter, as it was exotic and beautiful and intimidating regardless.
As the woman’s smile reached her eyes, she appeared completely nonjudgmental.
“I am Lisbet. I work for Mr. Wellington, and I am so glad you came. Give me one moment to see if he is free?” She held up an index finger to indicate the number one and smiled again.
Jennie nodded politely and then waited, shifting from foot to foot.
Lisbet returned in a whiff of subtle perfume that reminded Jennie of lilacs. “He will see you now.” She tilted her head. “Do you want water or coffee?”
“No, no. I’m good.” Jennie just wanted to get this over with. She followed Lisbet down a short hallway and into a small office. In the center was a conference table of dark walnut. A painting of red tulips greeted Jennie, and she took the offered seat in a sleek black chair on wheels.
“He’ll be right with you,” Lisbet said, then strode from the room with her shapely legs, black heels, and bright red soles.
This was definitely not what Jennie had expected from a small-town law office.
And then her expectation came through the door.
The attorney was short and round with a balding head, a plaid shirt, khaki pants, and brown leather shoes that were badly scuffed. He hugged a portfolio and a few manila folders that looked as though with one puff of air, papers would go flying everywhere.
“Ah!” His gray mustache tweaked upward with his smile.
“You must be the proud inheritor of the legendary Traeger properties. Miss Phillips, is it?” The man dropped the portfolio and folders onto the conference table, and they slid into a disorderly pile.
Unaffected, he sank onto a chair, releasing a sigh that indicated he enjoyed his job and was completely unaware how out of place he looked.
“I’m Percival Wellington. Most people call me Percy around here.
Born and raised in these parts. Lisbet is my daughter-in-law, and this room is one hundred percent Lisbet’s doing, her way of bringing my law office into the twenty-first century.
” His chuckle was throaty, jovial. “I told her that I draw the line on remodeling me, however.” Percy stuffed papers that had slipped from one of the folders back inside it.
“Like they say, you can’t take the country out of the man. ”