A Veiled Deception (14 page)

I’d always known that Deborah was a force to be reckoned with, but she’d never been quite as terrifying as she was at this moment.

“You’re on the wrong floor,” she said, acting normal, for Deborah, and in the now again.

I brought the gown back to the mannequin to redress it and gather my wits. “I know. I got lost right away, and your gorgeous stairway beckoned. You shouldn’t expect anything less in this showplace, Deborah. It was like I was swept into another world. I mean, it’s all so luxurious and stately, like a beacon in a historic tapestry.”

Scrap, I’d better stop kissing “class” before I ended up testing my gag reflex. “This room in particular seemed to call my name the minute I opened the door. I sat to rock and enjoy its classic atmosphere. And there was Sherry’s gown just waiting for me to learn its
secrets
.” I stressed the word “secrets” on purpose and watched Deborah for a reaction.

She didn’t even blink.

“I know the
room
has secrets,” I said, trying again. Still no reaction, but her poker face gave away her need to hide her emotions.

“Well, dear, I can see why it called to you. This
was
once a sewing room, and you do take in sewing.”

“I’m a designer. A world-class New York designer. Have you bought a Faline in the past five years? I probably designed it.”

I was annoyed with myself for falling in with her verbal one-upmanship. And yet, why not make the best of it? “After I fit the gown to Sherry, I’ll send Faline pictures of it, and get her to send me a dated Faline label for a side seam. That’ll add to the gown’s provenance and value.” Only a slight truth stretch. With a vintage redesign, the label would only help the gown
retain
its value.

Deborah’s eyes, like little slot machine windows, went
cha-ching
. I smiled despite myself. “You should have someone document the gown’s history on acid-free paper so Sherry can keep the history with the dress when she has it preserved after the wedding.”

Okay, so I was getting in another shot. The last bride to wear the gown became its custodian, and its link to the next generation, which had apparently not occurred to Deborah before this moment.

“So,” I said, to smooth her frown, “a Faline label. Good idea? You’ll be able to say you wore a Faline wedding gown.”

“Aren’t you a helpful girl?”

As I stood, Deborah took my arm. “Is there anything else you’d like to see while we’re up here?”

“As a matter of fact, there is,” I dared, “and I think Sherry would like to see it, too. Will you show us the photos of the Vancortland brides who wore the gown?”

Deborah squeezed my arm; in friendship or warning, who knew? “I think that can be arranged.”

We went back to the dinner table together, raising a few eyebrows when we walked in like BFFs. Yep, me and Deborah, best friends forever. What a hoot. I gave Sherry a look asking her to play along.

Her expression said she was willing but reluctant.

I’d told her about my possible psychometric ability and my visions as we got ready this evening. She didn’t say I was nuts. She didn’t say she believed me. She did say that she loved and trusted me.

Nick rubbed his nose again, clearly amused, because he knew me well enough to know that I was up to something.

“I’m so excited, Sis,” I said. “Deborah is going to show us pictures of all the brides who wore your gown. Seeing them will help me fit you properly.”

“What a great idea.” Sherry didn’t have to add “I guess” as she raised her glass.

“Thank you, Deborah.”

A tense moment ensued when I feared Deborah would ask Sherry to call her

“Mother,” but it passed when my father raised his glass. “To Justin and Sherry,” Dad said. “May you find a lifetime of joy and the blessing of old age together.”

Sherry teared up and I swallowed hard, both of us understanding his wish. He also toasted the Vancortlands for their generosity. I guess it was settled. The wedding would take place here, and for the moment, Deborah didn’t seem to mind that she hadn’t gotten her fight.

Made me wonder what she’d pull next.

After dinner the men went to the smoking room, even Justin and Nick, though they didn’t smoke, but they planned to go to the billiard room after for a game.

“Wedding albums,” I said, urging Sherry forward behind Deborah with a getgoing hand.

“Imagine,” I said behind her. “Pictures of all the brides.”

I saw the light finally go on in her eyes as Sherry turned to me. Forget the amazing staircase; we took an elevator to the third floor. The turn-ofthe-nineteenth-century lift had brass filigree V’s in a flamboyant script decorating its see-through doors.

Deborah left us in her personal sitting room while she went for the albums.

“Look at this place,” Sherry whispered. “You’d think she was royalty.”

“Well, it is the master suite,” I pointed out.

“No, it’s not. Cort’s suite is on the second floor.”

Separate suites on different floors. I filed the information into the growing data bank in my brain. I’d seen Mildred cross this very room on her way to Deborah’s bedroom. At the time, there’d been no doubt in my mind that Cort and Deborah shared the suite.

I thought of the interested way that Cort and the cake lady had looked at each other at the party. But I was losing track of my purpose. Would the Vancortland wedding photos include the mystery bride? I could hardly wait to see. Deborah brought a stack of wedding albums. “They’re all here except mine. I can’t think where I put it. But don’t worry, I’ll find it eventually.” She forced Sherry to move so she could sit between us on the French provincial settee. We had to sit through four complete albums. Five if you counted Justin’s baby album. Then we had to go and find the portraits of each bride, the first having married around the turn of the century.

Why hadn’t I asked to see portraits instead of the albums? There went two hours of my life I’d never get back. Okay, so my disappointment had grown a sharp edge. No album or portrait of the bride that was becoming more illusive by the minute. After what seemed like five hours, the men came to find us. As soon as they arrived, I asked Cort if any of the Vancortland men had ever been engaged to anyone other than the women they married.

Deborah and Cort went very still and avoided making eye contact between them.

“Nope,” Justin said, taking Sherry’s hand and tugging her beside him. “The Vancortlands marry their first loves and they stay married, right, Mom and Dad?”

Did he sound facetious?

His parents said nothing, but I didn’t think a “yes” would fit on either count. Who the Hermès was the dark-haired woman in the gown? Did people get false psychic vibes? Could I have picked up on a maid who’d daydreamed about a Vancortland, whose fantasies included the gown and the master of the house?

I didn’t dare ask for a tour of the servants’ quarters, given my prevalence of interest in anything Vancortland on this occasion. That would be too telling, but there was so much more to explore.

Eyeing Sherry, I let my gaze run from left to right, and back, hoping she’d read my “I want to see it all” signal.

She leaned into Justin like a cat seeking a stroke. “Show us more,” she coaxed. Justin tipped up her chin. “You’re being polite. You don’t really want to see the whole mausoleum?”

Deborah protested his disrespect.

Sherry ignored them both. “Every corner.”

Shaking his head, Justin led Sherry by the waist, while Nick and I followed the same way. My father paid more attention to Deborah than her husband did. We saw the indoor pool, and the outdoor pool, the gymworkout room and the
Sound of Music
ballroom. “That’s it for the high points,” Justin said.

“But I’ve never seen servants’ quarters,” Sherry said, her arm around his waist sliding toward his butt.

“No!” Deborah snapped. “That’s where I draw the line. No one needs to go up there. I hate it up there.”

“I like it up there,” Cort said. “It’s
genuine
.”

Sixteen

I love the T-shirt as an anti-status symbol, putting rich and poor on the same level in a sheath of white cotton that cancels the distinctions of caste.—GIORGIO

ARMANI

“Come, daughter.” Cort stole Sherry from Justin. “I’ll show you the servants’

quarters. I made myself an office up there.”

Deborah’s gasp made Nick and I hesitate, but my father shooed us along. “I’ll prevail upon Deborah to show me her hothouse.”

“My orangerie,” Deborah said. “I forgot that you like horticulture, Harry.”

Good, my father would be in his glory and Deborah would be too busy to fume and collect mental darts for our return.

The servants’ stairs were plain, serviceable, and immaculate. They smelled of lemon and family secrets. Tacked to the wall at each landing, near the servants’ entrance to the family quarters, was a map of the rooms on that floor with occupants’ names.

“I don’t want to invade anyone’s personal space,” I said. “I just realized that people must live up here.”

Cort shook his head. “Not an issue; employees don’t live in anymore.”

Employees, he’d said. Deborah would have called them servants. He pointed to a name on the map on the second-floor landing. “Right . . . here . . . this was my mother’s room.”

Justin came closer and ran his finger over the name. “I didn’t know that. I didn’t even know her name was Elinor.”

Cort’s quiet pride was rooted in family. This was his home, but it was Deborah’s trophy. His ownership was born of heritage, hers of self-indulgence. Justin regarded his father with a new awareness. He might have grown up feeling rooted here, too, if he’d learned to think of this as more than a society prize or a gaudy showplace.

Cort had failed his son on that score, until now.

Unsure as to whether truth or conjecture filled my thoughts, I knew only that I saw more life in Cort at this moment than in any of the other times we’d met. Today, I liked him.

He squeezed his son’s shoulder, held for a minute, let go, and led the way up another flight. The higher we went, the bigger the secrets. I felt them in the air around us, thickening it, making it heavy, weighing me down with a need to fix problems I didn’t know.

“My grandmother’s name was Elinor,” Justin said to Sherry. “What do you think about Elinor for a girl’s name?”

Cort faltered, but didn’t look back. Nevertheless, he straightened, shoulders back, a new pride in his gait as he continued leading the way.

On the top floor, his office took up one simple room with a round window that looked out over the back lawn and the greater Mystic River beyond. A room pulsing with life.

A small plain bed sat tucked under the eaves, a hand-crocheted rosette coverlet in lilac giving the room life and substance. Beside the bed, a delftware pitcher and bowl of lavender wands sat on a small dry sink.

Cort reached over and squeezed a wand to bring out the faint scent of lavender. He relaxed as he breathed deeply.

A man’s worn plaid robe lay across the foot of the bed. A pair of slippers sat perfectly aligned on the floor beside it.

Cort chucked me under the chin. “It gets chilly up here in the winter, and yes, sometimes I nap up here. Just to get away,” he whispered. “But I don’t live up here. This is not the doghouse. It’s quite the opposite.”

I smiled, listened for the secrets, and ran my hand over the coverlet, hoping for a vision. I saw nothing but the present.

Cort neatened the papers on his desk. “I come here to work in peace.”

He took pride in Justin showing Sherry and Nick a railroad map. The Vancortlands had made their money in railroads years ago but diversified soon enough to save the family fortune. They now owned excursion trains in several countries in addition to North America.

I stood back to take in the room at large, and that was when I noticed the framed photo on the wall by the door. My heart beat a hopeful tattoo, because I couldn’t believe my eyes, so I went to examine the old photograph more closely. When I got there, elation shot through me.

Oh my Goddess!
The illusory bride herself, young, happy . . . guileless.

“Mr. Vancortland,” I said, trying to give the impression of polite interest, my heart now running a marathon, my palms starting to sweat.

“Cort,” he said. “We’re about to become family, Madeira . . . if I may?”

I nodded. “Cort and Madeira it is.” He
could
be a charmer, I thought. “I couldn’t help but notice the wonderful vintage coat in this picture,” I said, pretending that the photo of the wearer
didn’t
make me want to Snoopy dance around the room. “I’m sure you don’t know, but vintage clothes are a passion of mine.”

“Well, I know you’re a fashion designer,” he said, “so it stands to reason that the history of fashion appeals to you.”

“Thank you, Cort. You’re the first Mystic resident who’s made my passion sound sane.”

He chuckled.

I returned my attention to the picture. “Despite the black-and-white photo,” I said, “I can tell you that the model is wearing a wool gabardine coat, probably blue, so the velvet and braiding on its bertha-type collar would be burgundy. It’s a great example of the forties style.”

“I’m impressed,” Cort said. “You got the colors exactly right. The coat used to be my mother’s.”

“She had excellent taste. My compliments. Is this her in the picture? She’s exquisite.”

I’d seen his mother’s wedding pictures. This was not her. Cort slid his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. “The wearer’s name is Pearl,” he said. “The coat was a hand-me-down by then. Pearl was my nurse’s daughter and my best friend growing up.”

“She’d been playing in the snow, I see.”

“
We’d
been playing in the snow,” he admitted.

“Is she still on staff?”

“No.” He seemed to look back for a minute. “She quit one day and left no forwarding address.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. Maybe she went back to where her mother came from.”

“New Orleans,” he said, “but I went looking once. Her uncle said that Pearl wasn’t there.”