The Secret Staircase (A Wendover House Mystery Book 1) (2 page)

Duty done, I turned to the internet and started figuring out the logistics of travel. They were complicated.

It turned out that my inheritance was on Little Goose Island, a small land mass with three houses and a shared dock. It was part of the town of
Goosehead
, which incorporated Great Goose, Goose Haven, and Little Goose islands. Harris Ladd’s offices were located on Great Goose, which is where we met four days later after I had traveled thirteen hours by jet, private plane, and water taxi, all ever decreasingly pleasant modes of travel. The regular ferry only docked on Tuesdays and Fridays, so it being a Wednesday I was out of luck.
Hence the water taxi.

There were stares but no offers of help or introduction from the two men on the dock in Great Goose, both of whom had faces that were a decent match for a frying pan and whom I suspected were brothers. As I mentioned, I am fairly tall and athletic looking; probably I seemed well able to carry my own small bag.

The law office was small and squat, as was everything on the one main street, but was antique, built of stone, and on that sunny day, with wild flowers growing out of the cracks in the walls, absolutely charming. There wasn’t a single edifice that wasn’t charming on an unclouded day. I had a feeling though that in winter it was another matter. Of course, Minnesota does bleak with the best of them, but I suspected that all that gray water probably added another dimension to the feeling of isolation and cold. Oddly enough, I found this exciting rather than off-putting.

Ladd himself was also antique and charming, and almost handsome, in the lean and battered way that some New England men have. Actually, he reminded me of the autographed picture of a young Will Rogers that Grandma Mac had hanging in her den. He was respectability made flesh. When he spoke it was with a slight accent that caused words ending in
r
sound more like
ah
.

“Please, call me Harris,” he insisted. “Mr. Ladd is my father.”
Fathah
.

This informality seemed impossible when he was wearing a bowtie and old-fashioned legless spectacles that clung to the bridge of his sloping nose, so I compromised by not calling him anything.

We settled into the two armchairs on the visitor’s side of the desk and Mr. Ladd offered me tea, which I declined. He looked a bit concerned at my refusal and asked if I had had a rough crossing. I spend a little time on myself now that I am nearing forty. Not a lot of time, but I don’t come from that magical place where women look beautiful and refreshingly dewy without the aid of some moisturizer and blush, so cosmetic help here and there is necessary. But there is only so much that makeup and a hairbrush can do to repair the ravages of travel. I probably looked as tired as I felt.

I gave in and accepted a cup of tea.

Mr. Ladd was slow to come to business, but I was not perturbed. The chair was comfortable, the tea fragrant, and he would get to the matter in his own good time. There was no need to hurry him and make him think me rude when he seemed so very happy to see me. I gathered from his few words on the subject that finding me had been something akin to the labor of Hercules. Grandma had well and truly covered her tracks when she left Maine. I had only been located when Mr. Ladd began tracking down my grandfather instead. Once he discovered that Grandpa Mac was buried in Lakeside, the rest became fairly easy for a man interested in genealogy. A private eye couldn’t find me, but the Mormon genealogists could.

Once Mr. Ladd began legal explanations, he spoke without hesitation. The will was straightforward, but the situation with the Wendover House and environs was not. It turns out that jurisdiction over Little Goose is in dispute. Canada and the United States both claim to own it, though neither claims it very hard and Harris Ladd described it as “an ongoing historical anomaly.” I looked it up later and here is what it says in The Treaty of Paris:

And that all disputes which might arise in future on the subject of the boundaries of the said United States may be prevented, it is hereby agreed and declared, that the following are and shall be their boundaries, from the northwest angle of Nova Scotia, that angle which is formed by a line drawn due north from the source of St. Croix River to the highlands; . . . by a line to be drawn along the middle of the river Saint Croix, from its mouth in the Bay of Fundy to its source, and from its source directly north to the aforesaid highlands which divide the rivers that fall into the Atlantic Ocean from those which fall into the river Saint Lawrence; comprehending all islands within twenty leagues of any part of the shores of the United States, and lying between lines to be drawn due east from the points where the aforesaid boundaries between Nova Scotia on the one part and East Florida on the other shall, respectively, touch the Bay of Fundy and the Atlantic Ocean, excepting such islands as now are or heretofore have been within the limits of the said province of Nova Scotia.

Unfortunately, Mr. Ladd explained, this left a few islands in uncertain circumstances.

I asked who islanders paid inheritance and income taxes to, hoping we didn’t have to pay both countries, and he said that depended on where the citizen was employed. On Great Goose, the only resident paying taxes to Canada was the lighthouse keeper who worked for the Canadian Coast Guard.

“We have a very able accountant here on Great Goose. Marge Holmes keeps abreast of events and will take care of you when you need help.”

This sounded like he was assuming I would stay.

“And if one needs the police or a doctor?” I asked, curious and unable to ignore what might be a good story for
The Democrat
. I was used to living in a small town, but we had a major city nearby. The thought of going to a three-house island was kind of like visiting the edge of the world.

“We have an arrangement with the Haven police department—which is made up of Everett and Bryson Sands. And if you need a doctor, Hillary Abbott is your man—
er
, woman. She is also here on Great Goose.”

“Is there any hope of selling the house?” I asked bluntly, bracing myself for bad news. The economy was hardly hearty in this part of the world and who in their right mind would want to live on an island with only two other houses?

Mr. Ladd looked startled.

“You wish to sell Wendover House?”

“Well, you see I own a newspaper in Minnesota. It would be rather a long commute.” Especially given that the paper was on its last legs and I had to work about three different jobs and might have to take on a fourth since my paper boy was threatening to quit if I didn’t give him a raise. You know the difference between a small-town editor and Sisyphus? In addition to pushing a heavy weight uphill forever, I also have to pay taxes and rent.

“I’m sorry to sound so surprised. Of course you would want to sell. Just because there has been a Wendover on Little Goose since the late eighteenth century doesn’t mean that you would want to stay.”

He did not sound convincing and I am not tone-deaf. In fact, I was pretty sure he felt that a failure to stay would be a complete dereliction of duty on my part.

“Wanting doesn’t have much to do with it,” I replied apologetically and then paused to think about my wishy-washy answer. Did I truly want to stay? “It’s the ways and means that are troublesome.”

He sat back in his chair.

“I see. But you would like to stay if it were possible? We should think on this. There could be ways to arrange things, creative sources of income that might allow you to hire someone to manage the paper for you.”

We
.
That was kind of nice. His suggestion was not really practical but I appreciated the sentiment.

Certainly there wasn’t anything drawing me back to my cracker-box apartment, and only duty to my grandmother’s memory forcing me to work every day. I’m not saying this wasn’t a strong compulsion, but I was awfully tired of the burden.

However, if I did move here, what would I do? How would I make a living? Two hundred and fifty thousand was a lot of money, but it wouldn’t last forever. I would need a job.

“The housing market isn’t strong right now and the house does need a little work to make it appealing to outsiders,” Mr. Ladd said. “You know, we have a newspaper here and they are always looking for contributors. It was established in 1820, the year we broke from Massachusetts and became a state.”

“No, I didn’t know.” But I could imagine all too well. I, too, was always looking for contributors who would work for free or very little. I didn’t even require that they be able to spell.

“Well then. First of all, it’s time to eat. One can’t make decisions on an empty stomach.” He stood up, removing his strange eyeglasses. He looked younger without them.

“Really?
I do it all the time. It’s the lot of the owner-publisher of a small-town paper to go
lunchless
.” I smiled as I rose to show I was joking. Mr. Ladd smiled back but I don’t think he saw the humor of what I was saying.

“We’ll have something to eat and then we’ll head out to Little Goose so you can look over the house. How can you decide anything when you haven’t even been to the island?” He was sounding cheerful again so I decided not to say anything blighting about my decision-making skills being excellent even without seeing the house. “Leave your bag here for now. I promise it will be safe. We have very little crime here.”

We walked out of the office and he didn’t lock the door. About forty feet up the street was the Great Goose Public House. The hour being advanced, we had the restaurant almost to ourselves. The interior was gloomy with soot-stained walls and small windows, but I thought it would look nice with a fire in the hearth and the candles lit.

“Is it sacrilege not to order lobster?” I asked, forgetting Mr. Ladd had no visible sense of humor. If Shakespeare’s Beatrice was born to speak all mirth and no matter, then I was her opposite. But Mr. Ladd made me feel like a veritable comedian.

“Not at all—but you do like fish, don’t you? It comes over fresh from Goose Haven daily. That is where most of the fishing boats are docked. They also have a lovely chowder house.”

I do not especially like fish, but I didn’t say it aloud since he seemed worried about pleasing me and dining options were limited. Scanning the menu I saw corn chowder in a bread bowl and opted for that.

There was a short wine list, but Mr. Ladd didn’t even glance at it, so I contented myself with a cranberry soda. He requested coffee when our waitress came to the table. She studied me openly.

“Louisa, this is Theresa MacKay. Louisa and Jeb Parker run this place.” Louisa Parker was forty going on sixty, her blonde hair fading into gray. Her eyes were pale blue but friendly enough even with their drooping lids. Her husband, who was working behind the bar, nodded but said nothing. He seemed a little older and not so much wrinkled as withered. His smile was charmingly puckish though.

“Please call me Tess,” I said. Neither of us offered to shake but we smiled and nodded. “This is a lovely building. It’s very old?”

“
Ayuh
, built in 1863,” she said proudly.

We all smiled some more and Mr. Ladd ordered food with our drinks. I was a little surprised at him giving my order for me, but supposed it was just an old-fashioned courtesy that lived on in that small community.

I was given a local history lesson while I spooned my chowder, which was quite good. Mr. Ladd talked about the American Revolution, the fishing trade, the weather, the current inhabitants of Great Goose. Since I interview people for a living it was easy to absorb his lecture and nod at the right moments without ever betraying that parts of the verbal tour were not entirely fascinating.

He did not mention anything about my family or their place in local events.

Now I don’t talk about my family either, but it seemed odd that given the
Wendovers
had been around for two or three centuries, he made no mention of them while recounting local lore. Finally he ran out of local wild birds and flowers to list and then apologized for monopolizing the conversation.

“That’s alright. I don’t actually know anything about the area or the
Wendovers
so it is all very interesting.” Okay, I lied just a little. The recitation of local birds and flowers had gotten a bit tedious and I had stopped paying attention.

“Your grandmother never spoke of your family?” He was looking worried again.

“Almost never.
She was very busy with the newspaper after my grandfather died and very … forward focused.”

“This is the paper you now own?”

“Own and run. And write for.” And printed, cut, and folded.

“Your hands are full then.”

“Always.
Fortunately I’m ambidextrous.”

This got me another perfunctory smile. So he understood my jokes, he just didn’t share the humor of them. Or maybe he didn’t like being reminded that I had a life elsewhere and wouldn’t be staying on the island, though why he should care so much remained a mystery.

After lunch, which he paid for and tipped a strict ten percent, he took me up to the market. It was in a corner building with a low ceiling. It was perhaps fifteen feet wide and maybe twenty long, about the size of a mini-mart, but it felt smaller and had less variety. There was no slushy machine or microwave food. Almost everything came in cans and they gave the impression of being dusty, though of course they weren’t really. The shelves sagged slightly and there were footpaths worn into the floor.