Chapter 19
Jennie
Newton Creek, Wisconsin
Present Day
The rain was still coming down in sheets, but Jennie was more content than she had been in weeks.
She looked to her side at Milo. He had initiated her move from the recliner to the couch by summoning her with hand motions.
Now he sat close to her, his knees pulled up and his feet perched on the edge of the seat.
A book filled with glossy pictures of dinosaurs was propped against his legs, and he was engaged in its content.
“He likes you.” Zane entered the living room and took Jennie’s vacated spot in the recliner.
He’d changed into dry clothes and now clutched a YETI tumbler of coffee.
Trixie had given Jennie some dry clothes as well, which left her feeling cozy and content.
Strange considering what had already happened that day.
“I like him too,” Jennie replied, watching Milo enjoy his book.
“We should probably talk,” Zane said and took a sip of coffee. His words weren’t intended to sound ominous, but they did to Jennie nonetheless. Her peace evaporated.
“May I join you?” Trixie asked, entering the room with her own cup of coffee.
Without waiting for an affirmative answer, Trixie sank onto another recliner in the corner of the living room.
The furniture in the plain ranch-style house was well broken in, comfortable, in various shades of brown, with the sofa being a navy blue.
The lace curtains added a feminine touch.
The wall opposite Jennie was a collage of family photos hung in assorted frames.
The Harris house was a home.
Jennie could feel it. And she longed for it. And with Milo tucked into her side? Strength emanated from the boy in a way Jennie couldn’t understand, let alone decipher.
“What happened?” Trixie wasted no time. Though her directness was obvious, the way she held her cup with both hands, her expression relaxed, somehow made her approachable.
With a glance at Jennie as if seeking her approval, Zane filled Trixie in on the events of the morning. His mom’s eyes widened with concern and not a little amazement.
She stared at Zane. “You went inside?”
Jennie wasn’t sure if Trixie was upset or just stunned.
Zane didn’t appear rattled by her reaction. He took another sip of his coffee, then nodded. “Yeah. It was . . . surreal.”
Jennie now wished she had a cup of coffee, something warm to hold on to, and something to keep her hands occupied.
But she’d refused it earlier for fear the caffeine would make her nerves even worse.
Instead, she stuffed her hands into the center pocket of the hoodie sweatshirt that belonged to Zane.
A freshly laundered scent clung to it that enveloped and reassured her.
Trixie looked between them, then settled on Jennie. “And you didn’t think to wear a face mask?”
Zane shook his head. “That’s on me.”
Trixie shifted her attention to him. “Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t go back inside that house without the right gear. And what if the flooring isn’t safe? We’ve no idea what condition the structure is in. Just because we’ve kept it up on the outside doesn’t mean the inside isn’t crumbling.”
“I’m sure it is. Crumbling, I mean.” Jennie looked up and met Trixie’s questioning gaze and then Zane’s. “Anything locked up for so many years . . . well, its brokenness has been hidden from everyone.”
A softness entered Trixie’s eyes. She sipped from her mug of coffee, studying Jennie over its rim. Jennie could tell she was being assessed, and when Trixie lowered the mug, she offered a smile. It was kind. It was knowing. “Yes. Yes, that’s true,” she said.
Zane seemed to miss the subtle interaction between the women. “The floor seemed stable enough—at least in the entryway.”
“What happens next?” Trixie leaned forward.
Milo turned a page in his book.
Zane looked at Jennie expectantly.
She tried not to squirm beneath their focused attention.
What happened next? She was woefully unprepared for all of this.
Mom would have had a plan. An adventurous course of action.
But at least Jennie knew Mom’s main goal would have been to solve the age-old mystery of Leopold and his wife’s murders.
To hunt for any elusive pieces of art. But it seemed heartless to mention now that Allison’s remains had been found at the sawmill.
This was a recent discovery, and the confirmation of her death affected this family very deeply.
Jennie couldn’t just blurt out that she hoped to solve a historical cold case on behalf of her dead mother while this family was trying to hold it together for the sake of the little boy snuggling at her side.
“I don’t know,” she finally answered.
“I know!” A voice piped up from the hallway.
A young woman with pretty green eyes appeared who looked to be around sixteen.
She gripped a tablet computer in one hand, her dark hair hanging around her shoulders, with the front section braided away from her forehead.
No doubt this was Zane’s sister, Hannah.
She curled into a recliner opposite Jennie and Milo, offering a little smile. “I’m Hannah. The girl with the school stalker.”
“Hannah.” Trixie’s low reprimand didn’t faze the teenager.
Jennie exchanged a glance with Zane and then looked back to Hannah. “Hi, I’m Jennie. Nice to meet you.”
“Oh, I know who you are! You own Traeger Hall.”
“Hannah, please,” Trixie admonished.
Hannah shot her mom a look. “What? It’s no secret, Mom.”
“I know, but still—maybe be a little less blunt.” Trixie’s tone was accompanied by a tender expression.
Jennie was reminded of her own mom and the times they’d shared together. She missed their companionship and ached to have her mom back in her life.
“So.” Hannah pulled Jennie back into the present. She set the tablet in her lap and swiped at the screen with her finger. “Here’s what I’d like to suggest.”
“Hannah, maybe—” Zane began.
“What?” She grinned at her brother, a quizzical frown at her brows. “I’m the one threatened if Traeger Hall is opened, and now it’s been opened. I think I should have a say in where things go next.”
“You’re not Nancy Drew,” Trixie inserted, as if to remind Hannah that amateur sleuthing wasn’t actually what popular fiction portrayed it to be. “But you’re right—the police haven’t yet figured out who left that note in your locker, and until then—”
“I know.” Hannah held up a hand and offered Trixie the resigned look of an imprisoned daughter.
“I’ll stay here with you, Dad, or Zane at all times until it’s proven I’m no longer in danger.
” That she was repeating instructions was apparent.
“Which will be for a while now that you opened Traeger Hall,” she added with a pointed look at Zane.
Jennie sensed Milo squirming next to her.
He slid off the couch and hurried into the kitchen, where she saw him retrieve his own tablet before exiting the kitchen and disappearing down the hallway.
He must have taken inspiration from Hannah, who was busy swiping at something on hers.
She propped up the tablet, then turned the screen for them all to see.
“Exhibit A.” Hannah’s tablet displayed an image of a painting. “This is a—”
“Mary Cassatt,” Jennie supplied.
Hannah grinned. “Yes. She was an American painter who studied painting in Pennsylvania in the 1860s before she moved to France. She began exhibiting her Impressionist art in the 1870s, along with artists like Monet, Renoir, and Degas.”
“What’s your point?” Zane didn’t seem impressed by Hannah’s choice of topic, nor by the painting of a little girl in a blue armchair.
But Jennie had an inkling of where Hannah was going with this. She scooted forward on the couch. “Cassatt would have still been creating paintings during the time Leopold Traeger was alive.”
“Yes.” Hannah jabbed the air with her index finger. “And since Cassatt was originally from the States, it’s not too far a stretch to think that Traeger might’ve had connections to the art world.”
“Right,” said Jennie. “Such as through his investors and other business ventures.”
“You’re saying that was how Traeger acquired the rumored collection of fine art?” Zane asked. He turned to Jennie. “Is the painting of the woman, the one we saw by the staircase . . . is that a Cassatt?”
“There was a painting?” Hannah shrieked.
Jennie quickly shook her head before things got out of hand. “It wasn’t a painting I recognized.”
“But it still could have been by a famous artist, and you didn’t recognize it because the world has never seen it!” Hannah beamed conspiratorially.
“Hold on, Hannah,” Zane said. “It was just a portrait, not unlike any other portrait in an old Victorian house.”
“I didn’t recognize the style either,” Jennie added. At Zane’s questioning glance, she bit her tongue. He didn’t know about her background in art. But there was no way the portrait of the chestnut-haired woman was a Cassatt or a Degas.
“Fine. But there was a painting, you said. So? That could be just the beginning. I’ve been researching .
. .” Hannah uncurled her legs from beneath her in the chair and planted them on the floor.
“Let’s assume that Traeger did have a connection with those who knew Cassatt, and he acquired not only her work but the works of others Cassatt had rubbed shoulders with.
If so, then it’s little wonder that Traeger would want that art collection protected after his death. ”
“That’s always been the story,” Trixie inserted. “Fine art—treasure—hidden inside the mansion by a miser long dead. But there’s no firm connection to Cassatt, is there?”
“No.” Hannah wilted a little. “I’ve been trying to come up with a plausible way that a man in Wisconsin like Leopold Traeger could become part of the European art world.”