Chapter 8
She wasn’t sure where to start, but logic told her to begin by looking into her uncle’s business dealings by scouring his office. It was on the first floor of the mansion, not far from the front parlor where he lay.
Waverly knew she’d won no points in her friendship with Aveline when she’d assigned the maid to watch over the bodies.
But someone needed to satisfy the lawyer, Mr. Grossman, should he visit unannounced to verify the terms of Leopold’s will were being honored.
Now, her quest to find answers—as Titus Fitzgerald had so compellingly argued—would be even more difficult.
Because Preston Scofield had arrived.
Her uncle’s former assistant, a rat, had returned to Traeger Hall shortly after Titus had left.
She stood a safe distance away from the man in the sitting room.
No one could fault her for harboring suspicions about everyone she met these days.
Waverly eyed the man. Had Preston murdered her uncle?
And if so, why? The fact he’d come back to Traeger Hall after a rather convenient absence only made Waverly question his motives.
“I cannot believe this happened!” Preston’s face was ashen.
“Have a seat, please.” Waverly extended her arm toward a stuffed chair, and Preston slumped onto its cushion like a man with no strength left in his legs.
“Is he truly dead?” Preston asked.
Waverly took a seat opposite the man and assessed him for a moment. Could a person fake such stunned surprise and mortification? she wondered. “You saw him in the parlor, yes?”
“I-I did,” Preston stammered.
“And were you away on business on my uncle’s behalf?” Perhaps Preston would be forthcoming, and Uncle Leopold’s business holdings could be explained by his right-hand man.
Preston stilled, and a bit of color came back into his angular face. He hesitated, his mustache twitched, and then his focus shifted to the ceiling.
Was he hiding something?
“I was,” he finally answered, “but that is beside the point. To return to this . . . nightmare is appalling.” He pushed to his feet, and Waverly was quick to follow suit. “I must speak with the authorities! Press them to tell me what they know!” He stalked toward the door with purpose.
“If they knew anything, they would have told me,” Waverly said to his back.
Preston stopped, turned around, and shot her a doubtful look.
“Why would they tell you?” It was an honest and insulting question posed with no intention of receiving her answer.
He bent and swept his hat from the floor where, in his distress, it had fallen.
He brushed imaginary dust from its brim.
“Leave everything to me,” he advised. “I will visit with the authorities on the matter. I will also arrange a meeting with Mr. Grossman. No doubt there are legal matters to be tended to.”
Waverly held up a hand to stop Preston’s arrogant assumption that he was now in charge.
“I’ve already met with Mr. Grossman. As my uncle’s heir, his business holdings are my responsibility.
” It was a lie, but she felt it necessary—at least until she could further gauge Preston’s motives and state of mind.
“Preposterous!” Preston’s eyes widened, and Waverly wasn’t sure if this was due to outrage or fear. Perhaps both.
“And for the record,” she added, “you are thusly employed by me now.” Well, that was a stretch, seeing as Mr. Grossman retained control of her uncle’s assets. But Preston didn’t know this.
His voice hardened. “You have no attachment to the Traegers except through your aunt. I was close enough to your uncle to know he would not have left you in charge of his business interests.”
Waverly hesitated. Perhaps she should be more careful talking about herself as an heir. If someone was willing to kill her uncle and aunt, why wouldn’t they do the same to her if she stood in the way of whatever it was they were after?
“Well,” she said, “I have spoken to Mr. Grossman nonetheless.”
Preston settled the hat on his head, and it did nothing to improve his appearance except to cover his balding scalp. Which really was not the part of Preston that made him unattractive. It was that horrendous mustache.
“Be that as it may, I will still be meeting with Mr. Grossman.” He lifted his chin, staring down his nose at Waverly with a lofty air.
“In the meantime, your role is to continue with the funeral arrangements. Coordination with Reverend Billings is of utmost importance. I would be comfortable leaving the religious elements of the service under your care.”
“How kind of you.” Waverly offered him an exaggerated smile of compliance. “However, Uncle Leopold isn’t to be buried for five days yet, according to his wishes outlined in the will. The will Mr. Grossman has already gone over with me.”
Preston stiffened, his eyes narrowing. “Five days? Why, Leopold will be quite . . . I mean, that’s a bit eccentric, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps,” said Waverly, “but it was written in my uncle’s will that he and my aunt must remain here at Traeger Hall for a certain duration before being taken to their mausoleum.” She didn’t indicate the events that would take place afterward.
Preston’s chest heaved as he sucked in an irritated breath. “I’ve things to do, Miss Pembrooke, starting with setting up a meeting with Mr. Grossman.” His conclusion was firm, communicating that he intended no further debate. “I will see you this evening.”
“This evening?”
Preston’s eyes glimmered. “Yes, Miss Pembrooke. Leopold assured me on numerous occasions that I would always have a place at Traeger Hall. I will be staying here in the interim as a guest, at least until Leopold is properly buried.”
Waverly shrank back. “That’s hardly proper!”
“Neither is murder proper,” Preston said with a smirk.
“It only stands to reason that I would be the one to stay at Traeger Hall and see to your well-being. After all, you are the presumptive heir, or so you say. Who is to argue over propriety when your life might be in danger? As your uncle’s right hand, I insist.” He paused and flashed her a grin.
“So then, I will take rooms in the east wing of the mansion. You have a maid, I assume. See that she stays with you, and all will be well chaperoned. See? Already I have proven that you have need of me.”
After Preston took his leave, Waverly sank back onto the sofa and tried to catch her breath.
So she and Preston Scofield would be eating dinner together this evening, one at each end of the table.
Well then. She would keep her steak knife within reach at all times, just in case Preston was even more devious than he appeared to be.
Waverly
In an interview shortly before her death in 1950:
When I was eight, my mother died from tuberculosis.
Shortly thereafter, my father followed her, dying of a broken heart.
That might be one of the few true acts of love I ever witnessed because from that time forward, Aunt Cornelia and her then husband became my guardians.
Not ones to be saddled with a child not their own—they had no children of their own—they enrolled me in a school for girls on the East Coast.
I graduated with moderate academic scores and with even more average skills in art, music, and other such roles assigned to young women.
By then, Aunt Cornelia’s first husband had passed away.
She later married Leopold Traeger and joined him at Traeger Hall in rural Wisconsin and the small town of Newton Creek.
It all sounded pleasant enough, so upon my graduation I accepted their kind offer to join them there.
When I arrived in Newton Creek, I saw that Uncle Leopold had made the town and surrounding area into his own little kingdom.
I wasn’t surprised by my uncle’s success and wealth, but I was surprised by the amount of influence he wielded because of this.
Should his business ventures suffer bankruptcy due to a streak of bad luck or should he ever decide to shut down Traeger Sawmill, the town of Newton Creek would soon become economically unstable.
My uncle’s enterprises were a Midwestern gold mine of sorts, the loss of which would turn Newton Creek into a veritable ghost town.
This was why I also wasn’t surprised to see that Uncle Leopold had built a brick bell tower just before his marriage to my aunt.
It was attached to the side of Traeger Hall and rose one story higher than the manor house.
The bell that hung in the tower had been forged of copper.
By the time I moved into Traeger Hall, the weather had already begun the bell’s transition to a coppery-green color.
Uncle Leopold’s bell never rang. Its purpose was not to mark the time of day.
Instead, it was there to function as a warning in the event of an attempt on his life.
I found this disconcerting to say the least. To live under the supposition that attempted murder was not only possible but probable was more than unsettling.
One day I asked Aunt Cornelia, “If there’s an emergency, how will Uncle get to the tower to ring the bell and alert the people of Newton Creek when he’s in the middle of being attacked?”
The look of censure from my aunt did nothing to endear her to me.
Her eyes narrowed, and there was a lift of her chin, and yet I saw a flicker of something in her expression akin to embarrassment.
“Don’t be daft, Waverly. The bell is there for our safety.
And the staff is well trained in the event of an emergency. ”
Even so, it was indeed eccentric to believe such a thing.
Attempted murder? Somehow, though, I got used to living under such a vague threat and even came to dismiss it altogether.
It is apparent now that I shouldn’t have.
It is also apparent that my actions of that night should forever remain a secret, as something I take to my grave.
Upon hearing Aunt Cornelia’s odd explanation, I did what most might do. Curious, I went into the bell tower to take a look for myself—not for the first time—and confirming that no one ever frequented it, I took refuge there.
Even the servants avoided the bell tower.
They were superstitious that it represented a bad omen.
Like Uncle Leopold, the servants didn’t care to be murdered either, and the bell tower was a constant reminder that death lurked just around the corner.
I learned too that some believed the bell tower to be haunted.
I found this belief strange. How could the tower have become haunted when it was less than a decade old and no one had died in it?
Well, maybe a field mouse had, or an insect or spider, but aside from being plagued by the spirits of roving rodents or angry arachnids, one could hardly be afraid of what wasn’t in existence.
Regardless, the bell tower became my retreat.
I would often sit on its brick steps leading to the loft, my back against the cool wall, a book propped on my knees.
It was completely silent in the bell tower.
There were no growls from Uncle Leopold, no moaning from Aunt Cornelia, and with the servants terrified of the place, I was left alone. Marvelously and splendidly alone.
Until I wasn’t. I had my conscience with me, plaguing me.
Therein begins my secret. The secret I never wanted Uncle Leopold to know that I knew. The secret no one in Newton Creek should ever be privy to. The secret that now I must bite my tongue until it bleeds to keep quiet.
Even now I wonder: had I not fallen into subterfuge and cooperation with this secret, would my uncle even be dead?
I find it hard to believe my secret contained that much influence, but one should never underestimate the unlikely.
I have found that the unlikely often becomes the likely, while the likely often never sees the light of day.