Chapter 20 #2
“Very well.” Waverly suddenly felt a bit more empathy for her aunt.
If Aunt Cornelia had witnessed such happenings in the years she was married to Uncle Leopold—well, no wonder she despised having Preston visit.
His behavior was appalling, and Waverly could only assume that Aveline was not the first young maid to receive his attention.
Poor Aunt Cornelia. Perhaps her irritability was merely a facade to hide the awfulness lurking in Traeger Hall.
To hide her husband’s frequent shifts in personality.
To hide the shame of her help’s behavior.
To keep secret the freedom Uncle Leopold gave Preston as his assistant.
Waverly’s small smile directed at Aveline was one of pity, not friendship. Aveline’s expression fell even further. “When you retire tonight,” Waverly said, “you will keep your door locked, and there will be no visitors.”
“Yes, miss.” Aveline took a few hesitant steps up the staircase and then fled the rest of the way.
Waverly steadied her nerves. It was well past eleven, and she had battled over what to do now.
Preston hadn’t threatened her life like she’d half expected earlier had he met with Mr. Grossman and learned of Uncle Leopold’s will and its terms. On the other hand, Preston—if he was the killer—now had even more motive to do her in.
She hurried through the hallways, a lamp in her hand. Waverly lifted it before each painting her uncle had on display.
Vallée.
Vallée.
Vallée.
Who was this artist? At first, she had considered that maybe Uncle Leopold had purchased stolen art or perhaps spearheaded art thefts.
That would explain his death and possibly explain why Newton Creek would also perish with his murder.
If it was discovered that he’d been involved in art theft or illegal dealings, such a disclosure could upset his estate.
The art collection would be seized in order to make restitution to the victims and their families who had their property stolen.
But Vallée?
Waverly didn’t know the name. But why would her uncle display this artist’s paintings throughout the Hall if he had been engaged in subterfuge, underhanded dealings, or even art theft?
She really didn’t want to be stabbed to death, or shot to death, or put to death by any other means, and by some unknown person intent on, what, revenge? Obtaining Uncle Leopold’s wealth? Did they hold her responsible? Could it potentially be tied to . . . ?
Waverly drew up in her thoughts.
No.
Her meeting with the unidentified man had nothing to do with it, of that she was certain.
Waverly’s position was growing more precarious by the moment. She stared at one of the paintings, a field of wildflowers. White splotches and pink pokes of paint among yellow and green grasses.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow the paintings were key to the mystery, and it had nothing to do with Uncle Leopold’s holdings at the bank and the sawmill.
The paintings were his hidden passion. They were what he’d been observing those nights Waverly had witnessed him wandering about in the Hall.
But she couldn’t make any sort of case for it because she had nothing to explain.
A person couldn’t just point to a painting by an unknown artist and claim That is why my uncle was brutally murdered—not unless one could explain why.
And she couldn’t. The only person she could think of who might be able to shed some light on the matter was Titus Fitzgerald.
She wanted to go to him, to find safety in the funeral parlor where he prepared the dead for burial.
But then wouldn’t her sneaking out in the dead of night to see him and beg for his insight be considered as scandalous as what she’d witnessed that afternoon?
And there was no way she could tell Titus about that incident!
The indiscretion made her blush just thinking about it.
To describe for Titus what she’d seen . .
. the censure in his eyes, his brooding frown and brow, the deep honey of his skin, the purse of his sculpted lips, and the way he—
“Lord, have mercy,” Waverly whispered as she hurried down the hallway toward her bedroom.
Once there, she gathered her shawl and pulled a carpetbag from her wardrobe. Hurrying to her bedside, she scooped up Foo and stuffed him yowling into the bag, then buckled it shut.
“I’m sorry, Foo,” she said, but she had no intention of leaving Foo behind to be slaughtered in her absence.
Waverly slipped from Traeger Hall into the night, shawl wrapped around her shoulders and carpetbag clutched under her arm.
She rushed across the lawn, hearing the creek in the distance and Foo’s occasional growl of protest. She could see the outline of her uncle’s sawmill, the wheel proud and robust as it stood still for the night.
Waverly stumbled to a halt. The darkness was pierced only by the thin sliver of moonlight, and the crisp chill helped to keep the fog at bay.
Along the tree line she glimpsed a silhouette, and the vision made her stumble to a halt.
Uncle Leopold? Impossible! Waverly squinted, attempting to see more clearly.
Surely not—but yes. It was Uncle Leopold!
He glided as if his feet didn’t touch the earth.
His familiar form moved quietly, shoulders back with authoritative confidence.
“Uncle?” But it came out a gargled whisper of fear and shock. She darted behind a tree, hugging its trunk as she peered around it.
His ghost.
It was so clear.
She knew Uncle Leopold was dead; she had just seen his corpse in the parlor. So it had to be her uncle’s spirit.
Waverly watched as his form paused by the side of the bell tower and then, in an instant, dissipated before her very eyes.
Uncle Leopold had been there—and then he wasn’t.
A wisp.
A reminder.
That he was watching her. Just as he always had been. Yes. He was watching her.