Puzzles Can Be Deadly

“What’s a six-letter word for ‘fatal,’ Purrvis?” Skip said. The tabby looked over from his perch on the window sill, blinked slowly, and meowed. “‘Murder’! Of course you’re right. And today’s a perfect day for a murder, I’d say. Weather-wise, anyway.” Skip hurriedly scribbled the final letters into the squares of the newspaper puzzle and checked the small table clock, smiling broadly. He marked his time on a little pad beneath his previous entries, then set it and the newspaper aside, glancing back at his feline friend once more as he did so. “Now what shall we do?” Skip said, but Purrvis ignored him this time, his attentions focused on a little brown sparrow perched on a tree branch outside, its feathers blowing and ruffling in the harsh wind and rain. Skip sighed, got to his feet, peered out the window at the sparrow, gave Purrvis a scratch, paced about, and sat down again.

Skip was easily bored. He’d taken a bath, washed his ginger-red hair, done a load of laundry, had lunch, and finished his latest book. Arthur Godfrey and His Friends, a favorite program, didn’t start for another two hours, and it was too early for dinner and too miserable outside to go for a walk. Absentmindedly, he picked up a Life magazine and flipped through it as he wondered what Henry was doing that afternoon. Almost as if on cue, the phone on the side table began to ring. He could reach it from where he sat, so he picked it up quickly.

“Hello?” he said. Skip enjoyed phone calls. They were always a mystery until the answer to that first hello, and he was glad for someone to talk to right now, no matter who it was.

“Hello, Skip, it’s Henry.” A rich, deep male voice resonated through the line and receiver into his left ear.

“Well, hello,” he said. Mystery solved. “How are you?”

“Fine. I’m not interrupting, am I?” Henry said.

“No, not at all. I was just thinking of you, as a matter of fact, and you have perfect timing. I finished the crossword puzzle in the paper, and I broke my old record.”

“As I recall, your old record was nine minutes and something.”

“Nine minutes and thirty-two seconds, to be precise.”

“So, what was your time today?”

“Nine minutes, twenty-nine seconds,” Skip said proudly.

Henry whistled. “You are one smart cookie, Valentine.”

“Thanks, but it’s not so hard once you get the hang of them. I’m good at puzzles.”

“Not me. I think I spent the better part of an entire afternoon on one of those crossword things once. For me, puzzles can be deadly.”

Skip laughed. “Maybe we can do one together sometime.”

“Sure, that could be fun. But say, I’ve got some news for you about this weekend.”

Skip twirled the phone cord around his fingers, noting his nails needed trimming. “I’ve been anxious to find out what your big surprise is. I just can’t imagine. All you’ve told me so far is that we’re going somewhere. So mysterious.”

“Well, I know you like a good mystery, but don’t get too excited, it’s not a trip to Paris or New York. How do you feel about a weekend in Ann Arbor?”

“A weekend in Ann Arbor? I’ll say it’s alliterative.” Skip tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Why do you want to go to Michigan?”

“Well, it’s complicated.”

“Go on,” Skip said, getting to his feet. He had a feeling this would be a lengthy conversation, and the phone cord would just reach the bathroom, so he retrieved his fingernail clippers, nail file, and buffer along with a towel and returned to his place on the davenport in the living room.

“My Uncle Ambrose, Ambrose Booth Rutherford, lives in Ann Arbor with his elderly mother. He’s not technically my uncle, and I haven’t seen him since way before the war. He’s my mother’s second cousin.”

“I always get confused by first cousins once removed, second cousins, and whatnot,” Skip said, spreading out the towel on top of the coffee table. “What is this Ambrose fellow to you?”

“Well, um, I’m not sure, exactly. I’ve always just called him Uncle Ambrose, though he’s only about seventeen or eighteen years older than me. I guess technically he might be my second cousin once removed, or something like that, anyway.”

“All right. But I still don’t understand why you want to visit him all of a sudden,” Skip said with a light chuckle, taking the clippers in his left hand as he cradled the phone receiver between his left ear and shoulder. He started on his right pinkie finger, making sure the clippings landed on the towel.

“It all boils down to money, to be honest. The Rutherford money.”

“Oh? Do tell. I wasn’t aware there was Rutherford money, or Rutherfords, before just now. Your last name is Finch.”

“Yes, as I said, he’s related on my mother’s side. I was only vaguely aware of the money myself, being distant relations and all. I mean, we’ve always known that side of the family was well off, but it wasn’t discussed.”

“Good breeding, I suppose,” Skip said. “One never talks about how much money one has.”

“Or doesn’t have, which in my case would be practically none,” Henry said. “But anyway, two weeks ago my mother got another letter from Lillian Peacock Waters, she’s the older sister of Ambrose’s mother, and she lives in Traverse City, Michigan. She and my mother correspond fairly regularly, and Mom always keeps me up to date on family doings.”

“Gossip by post,” Skip said, finishing with his right pinkie.

“Exactly. Where else can you get all the news that’s fit to print on two pages for the price of a three-cent stamp?”

“Have these Rutherfords always had money?”

“Ambrose’s father Giles made a fortune in lumber at the turn of the century, but then he died from tuberculosis when Ambrose was only a year old or so and his brother Arthur was just five, leaving Arthur as the heir.”

“Okay.”

“But then a year or so later, Arthur died of pneumonia.”

“How sad,” Skip said. “And that left Ambrose as the heir.”

“Yes, with a caveat that as long as his mother is alive, she has equal control of the finances. Giles wanted to make sure she was taken care of and not abandoned. My mom never met the older child, doesn’t remember him since he died at the age of five, and doesn’t know Ambrose all that well. He used to come down to Chicago fairly regularly, but it’s been some time. I’ve never been to Ann Arbor and have never met his mother.”

“This is all rather interesting, Henry, but I still don’t see why you want to spend a weekend with these people. It sounds like you hardly know them.”

“I suppose it does seem odd. But it all comes back to the most recent letter my Great-Aunt Lillian Waters sent. In it, she told my mother that Gabria, Ambrose’s mother, is in poor health and declining rapidly. When she passes, the estate will go to Ambrose. Since he has never married and has no male children, if he remains single and childless when he dies, it goes to the next oldest male relative. Believe it or not, that’s me. Our family tree is pretty tight.”

“It would have to be a male relative,” Skip said as he finished his right hand. “All that patriarchal nonsense.”

“Well, in this case, it benefits me since I’m a male, so I’m not going to argue.”

“A homosexual male, to be precise. I take it they don’t know?”

“They definitely don’t know. I think if they did, they’d find an excuse to overlook me as the heir.”

“Our little secret, then,” Skip said. “And knock me over with a feather. I’m dating an heir and I didn’t know it.” He switched the receiver to his right ear and cradled it on his shoulder once more as he started on his left.

“Uncle Ambrose is only in his early forties and apparently in good health, so I wouldn’t get too excited. Still, Great-Aunt Lillian said I should plan a trip to Ann Arbor and sign some papers at Mrs. Rutherford’s lawyer’s office sooner rather than later, just as a formality. The rest of the family has already signed.”

“What kind of papers? I mean, if you’re the heir, why do you have to sign anything? Wouldn’t it just all be in the will of your uncle’s mother, or his?”

“I don’t know. Legal stuff. They probably have certain terms I have to agree to in order to get the money when and if the time comes.”

“Well, don’t sign anything you haven’t read and understood.”

“I won’t, don’t worry. Anyway, I figured this might be a good time to head up there and take care of it since I’m in between jobs for a few days, and you already told me you have some time off from the library.”

“Right, I work tomorrow, but then I don’t have to be back until Tuesday. They’re having the whole place fumigated for bookworms.”

Henry laughed again. “I don’t know why, but I find that funny.”

“Bookworm is a generic term applied to silverfish, spider beetles, paper worms, and more. Since they all feed on paper and thus books, a bookworm is considered someone who likes to read.”

“I didn’t know that was where the term came from. I can tell you’ve been spending time on the research desk at work.”

“One of my favorite places to be. You know, I’m surprised your Uncle Ambrose never married. Is he that awful?”

“On the contrary, I remember him as being attractive and bright. I guess he never found the right girl.”

“Or perhaps the right fellow,” Skip said.

“Maybe. Maybe it runs in the family. Or perhaps he’s heterosexual and he’ll still find his mate. It only takes one, but you have to find him or her, and you never know where or when that will happen,” Henry said. “I found mine in the middle of a crosstown bus on Valentine’s Day when he knocked me in the head with a baton.”

“It was standing room only, and my baton was under my arm. You were lucky enough to have a seat. My baton barely touched you as the bus took a sharp turn.”

“It knocked my hat off.”

“And I picked it up for you, gentleman that I am. And apologized profusely.”

“And then I asked you why on earth you were carrying a baton on a bus in the first place.”

“Because I was on my way home from marching band practice, of course.”

“So you said.”

“It was true. And you got off at my stop and followed me home.”

“I didn’t follow you home, I walked with you.”

“And when we reached the front door of my apartment building you asked me to dinner that very night.”

Henry chuckled. “And you said yes, though I found out later you’d just finished an early supper after practice.”

Skip laughed, too. “I was so full, but you were so charming, my proverbial tall, dark, and handsome man, that I couldn’t say no.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Thanks, me too—though I could barely eat a bite.”

“I thought you were such a light eater and a cheap date. You only ordered a salad and no dessert.”

“Well, I’ve made up for it since then. By the way, how did you know I was a fellow homosexual? You never did say.”

“I didn’t know for sure, but you were carrying a baton. And you’re a bit of a dandy. I think you were the only man on the bus in a bowler hat, a full three-piece suit with a gold watch in your vest pocket, handkerchief in your suit pocket, cufflinks, spit-shined oxfords, and two rings on each hand, carrying a Louis Vuitton satchel and a baton. Do you always dress like that for marching band practice?”

“Don’t be silly. We practiced in the gymnasium, and I changed in the locker room before and after.”

“Sure, but you have to admit you were a tad overdressed for the crosstown bus. I had on a simple suit and tie, like most of the other men.”

“And you looked extremely handsome in it, I’ll never forget. But getting back to your uncle.”

“What about him?”

“I can’t help but think that an attractive, rather bright, wealthy man would be in high demand. And if he’s in his early forties, he’s still fairly young.”

“He was serious about one woman, I guess. His mother wrote my mother a letter a year or so ago telling her all about it, speaking of gossip.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. She was an actress. I can still remember her name, Marjorie Banning. Same name as my old English teacher in high school.”

“What happened to her?”

“Gosh, Mrs. Banning must be in her eighties by now, if she’s still alive. I’m sure she retired from teaching long ago.”

“Henry Finch, you know full well I meant the actress.”

Henry chuckled once more. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. According to my mom, Mrs. Rutherford took tremendous pride in running Miss Banning off. She felt an actress was beneath her son, which is funny considering she wanted to be an actress as a young girl, I’m told.”

“Hypocritical,” Skip said.

“Definitely. And Ambrose hasn’t cut the apron strings yet. He’s over forty and still lives with her, so there you go.”

“Mrs. Rutherford sounds like a tough cookie.”

“Yes. But if Miss Banning was truly a love interest, that would be the answer to which way my uncle swings, so to speak.”

“Not necessarily. She could have been a smoke screen.”

“That’s possible, I suppose. I’ve heard of men doing that.”

“So have I, and with a mother like that I’d say it’s very possible. So, you want to go to Ann Arbor to sign those papers this weekend, is that it?”

“Well, yes. I sent Uncle Ambrose a letter a week ago, asking if it would be all right if we stayed at the house, but Mrs. Rutherford is the one who responded and said we were welcome to visit. Frankly, I was surprised.”

“If she’s in as bad a shape as this Mrs. Waters says she is, perhaps she wants to finally meet you before she dies,” Skip said. “Maybe she wants to critique the second in line to the Rutherford money and see if she approves.” Two nails on the left hand done.

“I hadn’t thought of that, but you could be right. Hopefully, I’ll measure up.”

“You’ll measure up and then some, but are you sure you want me along?”

“Of course. Having you by my side will only add to my confidence. You’re charming, handsome, and smart. With you there, how could I lose?”

“You do know how to sell me on a trip to Ann Arbor, but won’t they wonder who I am and why I’m there?”

“I already told them in my letter that you’re a friend, a buddy, and that you would be coming with me. We’ll be in separate rooms, I’m sure, just two young bachelors.”

“That doesn’t sound like much fun.” Three nails on the left hand done.

“Plenty of time for fun when we get back. Who knows, maybe we can sneak in a rendezvous late at night while we’re there.”

“Now, that sounds better,” Skip said. “You’re hard to resist, you know. It would be challenging behaving myself all weekend.”

“Sweet talker. What I still can’t figure out is, what does a guy like you see in a crazy old man like me?”

“What are you talking about? You’re bright, funny, and dangerously gorgeous. And you’re not old. You’re only twenty-five.”

“Thanks for that, and you’re only twenty-two. Your whole future ahead of you.”

“You have your whole future ahead of you, too.”

Henry paused and let out a long, slow breath. “Some future. I was discharged from the Army three years ago, and now with the war in Korea I may end up being recalled.”

“And I may get drafted. Maybe we could go together.”

“You’re exempt from military service because you have flat feet.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Skip said.

“I did some checking because I was worried about you. They say anyone diagnosed with flat feet is not suited to marching and could sustain spinal injuries and is therefore exempt. And your feet, as cute as they are, are as flat as Donald Duck’s.”

“Gee, thanks. Well, maybe you won’t get recalled to active duty.”

“Maybe. I could even end up stateside with the Army National Guard, but hard to say. If it happens, at least I’ll have a steady income and three squares a day again. I gotta tell you, Skip, being an heir to the Rutherford fortune sounds pretty swell, but in the here and now I’m not much of a catch. I’m dead broke, living in a one-room apartment on Sheridan Road, no job…”

“You do have a job,” Skip said. Only the left thumb to go.

“Yeah, fry cook at Daley’s on Cottage Grove Avenue. You must be so proud. I start next Wednesday.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a fry cook, Henry. Besides, it’s only until you can find something else.”

“What I need to do is finish school, but money is in short supply right now. To be honest, when I wrote Uncle Ambrose, I also asked him for a loan, just temporarily, until I can get on my feet and go back to college. I’m laying out my heart and soul to you, Skip. I’m not proud to have to ask for a loan, but the way I see it, it’s my money, too, since I’m a member of the family.”

“Asking for a loan is nothing to be ashamed of, Henry. But I have money. My folks, as much as I miss them, left me pretty well off. Very well off, as a matter of fact. It’s the least they could have done after naming me Horace Quintus Valentine.”

“That is quite a mouthful.”

“No kidding. They named me after Quintus Horatius Flaccus, better known as Horace, a Roman poet during the time of Augustus.”

“Yikes, I guess it’s a good thing they didn’t go with Horatius Flaccus Valentine. Either way, Skip fits you better.”

“I think so, too. My uncle gave me the nickname Skipper when I was five, and it eventually became just Skip. He was a sailor.”

“In the Navy?”

“In the yacht club. Anyway, I’d be happy to loan you some money.”

“Absolutely not, out of the question.”

“Why?”

“Because family is one thing. We’ve only known each other a few months.”

“Eight months as of the fourteenth. And you, mister, are a stubborn man.”

“It’s one of my best qualities,” Henry said.

“I can think of other qualities of yours I like better, but have it your way. So, what did your uncle or whatever he is say about the loan?”

“He didn’t say anything, because it was his mother that wrote me back, remember? Boy, does she have bad penmanship. She didn’t mention the money or the loan, but she did say we’re more than welcome for the weekend. I thought perhaps if we went, I could talk to Ambrose about it in person, maybe be more persuasive.”

“You can be persuasive. I know that firsthand.”

“Thanks. I’m hoping my uncle will be as appreciative of my talents and take pity on me.”

“So, we’re off to Ann Arbor, then.” Left hand done also, he set the nail clippers on the side table and picked up the nail file, smoothing out any rough edges.

“Right, if that’s okay. Do you mind?”

“I guess not. I’ve never been to Ann Arbor, and it might be fun.”

“Splendid. I’m not sure about fun, but with you along it will be more tolerable, anyway. And my mom will be happy you’re coming with me, too. She seems to like you, not that I’m surprised.”

“And I like your mother. She’s a peach.”

“Funny you should say that. She told me she’s going to make a peach cobbler for us to take. It’s a Finch family tradition. Anyone we go to visit overnight gets a peach cobbler, like it or not.”

“In my family, it’s a buttermilk pie. Maybe I’ll make one for you sometime.”

“I’d like that. My mouth is watering already.”

“Good. So, a trip to Ann Arbor. Well, I’m on board if you are.”

“Thanks, Skip. That means a lot to me.”

“Of course. You mean a lot to me. Are we taking the train?”

“No. I looked at the schedules, and the times aren’t that appealing. We’ll drive.”

And driving is less expensive, Skip thought. “All right, good. I prefer driving anyway. But what are we driving in? Neither of us has a car.”

“Not to worry. My friend Bernie said I could borrow his ’39 Ford Coupe.”

“Oh, okay. When do we leave? When are they expecting you?”

“I said we would get there sometime Friday afternoon. How about I pick you up early, say six thirty? It’s about a five-hour trip, so we’ll arrive close to lunch.”

“Will they be okay with that? It seems rude to show up hungry and at meal time.”

“Hmm, perhaps you’re right. How about I pick you up at ten, then?”

“That sounds much more civilized. Besides, it takes me a while to get ready, you know. I don’t do well with early mornings.”

“I remember. I’ll pick you up at ten, and we can stop at a diner in Kalamazoo, which is about the halfway point.”

“Okay. What should I pack?”

“Mrs. Rutherford told me dinner is served at seven. And she said they don’t dress for it.”

“Oh my, that must make for an interesting evening. Hopefully they don’t serve hot soup.”

“Skip…”

“I’m just kidding, Henry. Honestly, that makes it easier, not dressing.”

“For me, too. My one and only tuxedo has been in mothballs since before the war. It would need days to air out.”

They heard a distinct click on the line.

“Hello?” Henry said.

“This is Mrs. Granger. I need the phone, please,” an elderly voice said.

“Sorry, Mrs. Granger. We’re almost through,” Henry said.

“Thank you.” The line clicked again as she disconnected.

“Party lines, ugh. I suppose we’d better hang up.”

“Yeah, I suppose so. I’ll see you Friday at ten, and we’ll head back Sunday morning after breakfast. I’m assuming you’re okay with missing church.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Just because my father was a church usher and my mother the organist and member of the choir doesn’t mean I inherited their pious ways.”

Henry laughed again. “You most certainly didn’t. I’d say about the only thing religious you inherited is the ability to be on your knees for a lengthy time.”

“Flatterer. I’ll see you Friday morning, Finch.”

“See you then, Valentine.”

Skip hung up the receiver and rolled his head about, cracking his neck. “Well, Purrvis,” he said, carefully picking up the towel from the coffee table, “looks like I’ll have to find someone to watch you for the weekend, and I’ll have to figure out what one packs for a weekend in Ann Arbor.”

Chapter Two

Friday morning, October 6, 1950

Skip Valentine’s apartment in Chicago

Skip stepped out of the shower and dried off with a fluffy white bath towel before walking into the bedroom, where Purrvis had taken up a spot on the bed, licking himself clean. Skip gave him a scratch on top of the head, to which he responded with a noisy purr. He had one of the loudest purrs Skip had ever heard, which was why he named him Purrvis when he found him in the street, flea-bitten, skinny, and forlorn. “Mrs. Notley from down the hall will look in on you while I’m gone, my friend. Be kind to her. No scratching and no biting.”

Purrvis purred louder, still licking himself.

“That’s right, get yourself nice and clean, dear boy, like I just did. Now I have to get dressed, though. Sometimes I envy you not having to deal with clothes.”

Skip walked over to the closet and the dresser and extracted various garments, laying them out on the bed next to his already-packed suitcases. Purrvis watched, suspending his self-cleaning temporarily, as Skip put on white cotton briefs and a crewneck T-shirt, followed by a white dress shirt with silver cufflinks and new green pleated trousers. Green and white argyle socks were next, followed by black wingtips, a black leather belt, green tie, and a black single-button sport coat with a white pocket square. He put his gold pocket watch and fob in his pocket and picked up his black Hamburg and gave it a quick brush, setting it jauntily atop his head. Finished, he admired himself in the full-length mirror, then twirled around, making sure the back was all right, too. “Well, Purrvis, what do you think?”

“Meow,” he answered loudly.

Skip smiled. “Thanks, buddy. You look good, too. Very handsome indeed, and divinely clean.” He carried his suitcases out to the hall, then went back for his raincoat and umbrella, giving Purrvis a final kiss and a scratch behind the ears. He locked the door of his apartment and walked down to 212, where he gave a spare key to Mrs. Notley, with last-minute instructions on the cat’s care and feeding. Assured all would be well, Skip put on his raincoat and carried his bags and umbrella down to the sidewalk, pacing back and forth in the morning fog waiting for Henry. The weather was dirty, damp, and dreary, not much improved from the last two days. He tugged his raincoat close about him as he continued to pace, careful to avoid puddles. To pass the time he practiced his twirling, using his umbrella as a baton, throwing it up in the air, spinning it about, and catching it behind his back, much to the bewilderment of one of his neighbors, watching from a window.

Finally, at one minute to eleven, just as Skip executed a perfect backhanded catch, Henry drove around the corner, ground the gears of his friend’s cherry red 1939 Ford De Luxe coupe, and stopped close to the curb. He grinned as he hopped out and zipped around the front of the car to where Skip was standing, looking him up and down.

“Well, as I live and breathe, Valentine, you look smashing.”

“How can you tell? I’m covered practically head to toe in my raincoat.”

“Yeah, but it’s a divine raincoat.”

Skip laughed, taking in Henry’s blue and white houndstooth coat, white shirt, navy blue trousers, and tie. His short, dark brown hair was parted on the side, slicked down, and swept back. “Not so bad yourself, Finch, quite fetching.”

“Thanks, I manage to dress myself okay sometimes. All done playing with your umbrella?”

Skip frowned. “I wasn’t playing, I was practicing, I’ll have you know, in place of my baton.”

“I thought you were going to quit the marching band.”

“I’m only going to participate in parades and such, but I still need to practice.”

“You’re the only fellow I know who knows how to twirl a baton.”

“Believe me, I got ribbed about it all through high school, but I stuck with it.”

“Good for you, and I admire your gumption and coordination.” He glanced down at Skip’s bags. “Jeepers, two suitcases? We’re only going for the weekend.”

“You, Mr. Finch, don’t understand what all goes into looking like a dandy, as you say. Besides, one never knows about the weather.”

“Aw, it will clear up soon, I can feel it.” He opened the trunk of his car and squeezed the two cases in next to his banged-up old suitcase, the spare tire, and a tool kit. A rusty metal box was wedged in along the side. “There we go, all set. You can stick your baton, uh, umbrella, I mean, behind the seat.”

“Very funny. What’s that, by the way?” Skip asked, pointing to the rusty gray metal container.

“Oh, my tackle box, of course. My fishing pole is on the floor of the car. I had to angle it to get it in. I bet there’s some good fishing in the Huron River.”

“Fishing? You never said anything about going fishing this weekend, Henry.”

He looked abashed. “Oh, didn’t I? Well, only if we have time and opportunity, of course. And if you want to, naturally.”

“Isn’t it a little out of season?”

“Nah, you can fish for trout well into the middle of October. Do you like fishing, Skip? I guess we never talked about it before.”

Skip tried to look cross, but couldn’t. Instead, he laughed. “I’m no good at it, but sure, I like to fish, I suppose. I’ve only tried it once or twice. Did you bring more than one pole?”

“Er, no, but I’m sure we can borrow one.”

“Uh-huh, if there’s time for it.”

Then they both laughed, and Henry slammed the trunk shut as Skip opened the passenger door and climbed in. “Careful of the peach cobbler. I thought maybe it would be safer on the floor up here with us rather than in the trunk,” Henry said.

“I’ll keep an eye on it, but don’t blame me if there’s a piece or two missing by the time we get there,” Skip said with a mischievous smile.

Henry smiled back at him and then went around to the driver’s side, climbed in behind the wheel, and they took off.

Chapter Three

Midday Friday, October 6, 1950

En route to Ann Arbor

“What’s our route?” Skip said as Henry steered the car south through the fog on Federal Street toward West Van Buren on their way out of Chicago.

“I marked it in pencil on the maps in the glove box I got from the gas station. You can be my navigator, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. I’m good at reading maps and I can fold them back up again.”

Henry smiled. “As I said, you’re a smart cookie, Valentine. A man of many talents.”

Skip smiled back as he opened the glove box and unfolded the maps of Illinois and Michigan, noting the heavy pencil lines Henry had drawn from Chicago to Ann Arbor. “Looks pretty straightforward.”

“Seems to be, 41 to Highway 12. Even if we stop in Kalamazoo for lunch, we should get to my uncle’s place around three or so.”

“Sounds good to me,” Skip said.

They drove north, listening to music on WLS 890 AM out of Chicago until they lost the signal, then Skip fiddled with the dial until they picked up a South Bend, Indiana, station. That lasted to Kalamazoo, where they stopped for lunch. Henry pulled into the Brook Meadow Diner right off the highway, the weather much improved. The sign on the roof of the diner proudly proclaimed it had twenty-four-hour service and featured the Big Chief Indian burger with cheese.

“Those poor people,” Skip said, getting out of the car and glancing up at the sign once more. He slipped off his raincoat and left it on the seat.

“Who?” Henry said.

“The natives, of course. I don’t think it’s very dignified to name a hamburger after them. Did you know in 1833 they were cheated out of five million acres of their land for $40,000 in trinkets and trappings? And in 1840, they were forced to relocate across the Mississippi River.”

“Well look at you, all interested in history,” Henry said as they walked toward the doors of the diner.

“History is fascinating, I think. When you said we were stopping in Kalamazoo on the phone the other day, I decided to read up on its history at the library yesterday. And on Ann Arbor, too, among other things. I found out that Ann Arbor was founded in 1824. It’s the county seat and home to the University of Michigan. It was also home to the Potawatomi, until white settlers who were after lumber and land forced them out.”

“Men like Ambrose’s father, I suppose. It’s sad what happened to the natives.”

“I think so, Henry. I wish more people did. They were here first.”

“Yes, this country belongs to them. You have a big heart, Skip.”

“Thanks, but so do you.”

“Well, right now my stomach is feeling big and empty. Come on, let’s get something to eat.”

They declined the Big Chief burger, both deciding instead on the grilled cheese sandwich with a tomato slice and a pickle for forty-five cents, along with two large Cokes. While they waited for their food, seated across from each other in a red vinyl booth, Skip filled Henry in on more of the history of Oshkosh and Ann Arbor.

When they had finished eating, the bill was paid, and they were back in the car, Henry turned the wheel out onto Highway 12 again, stopping only briefly for gas just up the road. With the tank full, the windows washed, and the oil checked, they started once more, listening to the Perry Como hour on the radio as they chatted back and forth about the news of the day, roadside attractions they passed, and who they thought was going to win the World Series.

After about two hours, they crossed into the city limits of Ann Arbor, ending up on Huron Street.

“Your pencil line ends here,” Skip said. “What’s the address of your uncle’s house?”

“It’s 1117 Woodlawn. Check the Ann Arbor map. It should be in the glove box, too.”

Skip found it beneath a battered old flashlight and a pair of blue woolen mittens with holes in them. “Okay, got it.” He scanned it, using the river to orient himself. “Keep going on Huron to State Street. Then take that to Packard, then turn left on Woodlawn Avenue.”

“Perfect, thanks,” Henry said.

They drove slowly through the neighborhoods, arriving in front of a faded beauty of an era not so long ago, badly in need of a paint job and repairs. A porch ran across the center third of the house, with four large marble columns supporting an ornate balustraded balcony. Four sets of windows, two up and two down, stood on either side of the center portion.

“This must be it,” Henry said, turning off the ignition and setting the brake. “Quite a place.”

“Big, if a bit run down,” Skip said. “What exactly does Ambrose Booth Rutherford do, anyway? I don’t think you ever said.”

“Do?”

“For a living. You mentioned his father was a lumber baron, but what does he do?”

“Oh, well, I don’t think he does much of anything. He lives on his investments and a fat bank account, I guess.”

“Gee, doesn’t that get boring?”

Henry laughed. “I’d like to be bored like that.”

“You know what I mean. How does he pass the time, day in and day out?”

“I know he likes to golf and play tennis. He’s a premier member of the Barton Hills Country Club. I’m sure he’ll be happy to tell you about it.”

“I’m sure we can find other things to discuss,” Skip said. “Like why doesn’t he fix the place up a little if he has so much money?”

“It does look like it could use a little tender loving care.”

Skip gazed out the car window. “Yes. And it looks like there was a fire in that outbuilding.”

Henry saw an old two-story carriage house set back from the street, now probably used as a garage. The left side had been burned and the walls charred and blackened, like scars and bruises on a boxer’s face. “Good thing it didn’t spread to the main house. And speaking of, I suppose we should go in.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Glum-looking place, though.”

“Maybe it’s cheerier on the inside,” Henry said as they got out. Skip stepped onto the boulevard, his raincoat over his arm and his umbrella under it, and took another look at the house. From behind a pink lace drapery in one of the second-story windows, he glimpsed a wisp of a woman staring down at them. Skip gave a little wave to her, as it seemed the polite thing to do, but the old lady retreated hastily behind the curtain.

“Did you see that woman in the upstairs window?” Skip asked as Henry wrestled the suitcases out of the trunk of the Ford coupe.

“What woman?” Henry said, slamming the trunk down and catching the edge of his thumb. “Son of a motherless goat,” he said, his face contorted in a combination of anger and pain.

Skip stifled a laugh. “Ouch, are you hurt?”

He stuck his thumb in his mouth, looking for all the world like a wounded little boy. “I’m fine,” he mumbled, removing his thumb and shaking his hand back and forth.

“Nothing broken? Not bleeding?”

“No and no. I’m fine.”

“Good. If we weren’t in public, I’d kiss it to make it all better.”

“That would definitely make it all better. Thanks, Valentine.”

“Don’t mention it, Finch,” Skip said as he picked up one of his suitcases.

“So, what were you saying about a woman?” Henry said, still nursing his thumb.

Skip looked up again, but the windows were now all empty as they stared back at him like soulless eyes. “An old lady was watching us from that upstairs window on the right. I waved to her, and she vanished.”

“Probably Uncle Ambrose’s mother. Or maybe a ghost. Who knows?” Henry said. “It looks like an ancient house, probably a few people have died here. Anyway, I think I can manage mine and one of your two suitcases, plus my tackle box,” he said, “if you can carry the peach cobbler and your other case.”

“Why don’t you leave the tackle box in the car?”

“There are valuable supplies in there, Skip. Lures I hand tied, lead sinkers, all kinds of stuff. You clearly don’t understand the art of fishing.”

Skip sighed but didn’t respond as he retrieved the tin from the floor of the car and carried the peach cobbler and his suitcase across the wide, sagging porch, Henry trailing behind.

Skip pressed the doorbell, and they waited. Presently the resplendently carved wooden door creaked open, and they were face-to-face with a slender woman wearing a black skirt, white blouse, and a green cardigan sweater. She wore her curly, light blond hair, kissed ever so slightly with silver, fairly short. Just a hint of lipstick on her lips, nothing else in the way of makeup, and she didn’t need it, Skip thought.

“May I help you?” the woman said flatly.

Henry set the bags down on the porch. “Good day. I’m Mr. Finch, and this is my friend, Mr. Valentine. We’re here from Chicago. Are you Mrs. Rutherford?”

The woman looked them up and down, one to the other. “No, I am not. Mrs. Rutherford is over twice my age and in ill health. I’m Jane Grant, the housekeeper.”

“Oh,” Henry said. “My apologies, of course. How stupid of me. How do you do? I mean, er, what should we call you? I’m afraid I don’t have much experience with domestics. I thought they wore uniforms, or at least an apron.”

The woman drew her sweater closed and stared at him scornfully. “Miss Grant will do. I don’t see the need for a uniform. I wear what I want, and the Rutherfords are fine with it.” She frowned ever so slightly. “A bit of work getting ready for you, and not much time to do it. I wasn’t exactly sure what time today you’d be arriving.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Henry said.

“Last-minute house guests are difficult. I had to get your rooms prepared and aired out, menus planned, groceries bought, linens washed, mattresses flipped and turned, and a cake baked. You’ve no idea.”

“I do apologize, but we were under the impression you were expecting us. I sent a letter and Mrs. Rutherford responded over a week ago,” Henry said.

“Mrs. Rutherford,” the housekeeper said, clicking her tongue. “That’s the crux of the problem right there. Come inside.”

The two of them stepped into the entryway, which was dark and dull, much like the outside of the house. In the center of the back wall, opposite the front door, was a set of double doors with stained glass windows set into the upper halves. Beneath their feet, the tile inlay was chipped and worn.

“This way,” Miss Grant said, pushing open the stained glass doors and leading them into the formidable main hall. The floor was dark walnut, worn down and rutted in spots from years of footsteps. Above their heads, a heavy old glass and iron chandelier hugged the fourteen-foot-high plaster ceiling. At the far end of the hall, a wide staircase rose gracefully up to a landing, turned left, and climbed to another landing before continuing a short distance toward the front of the house. Three matching stained glass windows, centered on the back wall, filtered in the murky light. So much for being cheerier on the inside, Skip thought.

“The necessary room and door to the backyard and basement are through that door under the landing. The kitchen is just beyond, not that you’ll need to go in there. Should you require anything, you’ve only to ring,” Miss Grant said. “Did you want to freshen up after your drive?”

“I’m fine for now. We stopped for lunch, and I used the men’s room at the restaurant. Henry?”

“I’m fine, too, thanks for asking.”

“It’s my job. Set your bags by the doors. Jake will take them up to your rooms. Put yours on the right, Mr. Valentine, and yours on the left, Mr. Finch, so I can tell him whose is whose,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Henry said. “I’ll leave my tackle box here, too, if that’s all right.”

“Your what?”

“My tackle box. I brought it in case there was any time to do some fishing.”

“I see. Yes, of course, put it with the other bags. Mr. Valentine, you can leave your raincoat and umbrella as well. What’s that?” Miss Grant said, pointing toward the tin container Skip held.

“A peach cobbler from Mrs. Finch, for Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford,” Skip said.

“I’ll take it to the kitchen,” she said, reaching for it.

“No, thank you. We’ll give it to them ourselves,” Henry said. “My mother insisted.”

Jane stared at Henry for just a moment before withdrawing her outstretched hands. “Very well, this way.” She walked to an oversized door on the left side of the hall, stepped inside, and held it open for Henry and Skip. “Wait here in the blue drawing room. I’ll let Mr. Rutherford and the sister know you’ve arrived.” She turned and left without another word, closing the door behind her.

“Jeepers,” Skip said.

“Yeah, she sure is something.”

“Who’s this sister?”

“I’m not sure. As far as I know, Uncle Ambrose didn’t have a sister. I guess we’ll find out. Seems kind of dark in here—oppressive.”

“I noticed that.” Skip, still carrying the peach cobbler, walked over to one of the windows facing Woodlawn Street and peered out. “I don’t think these have been washed, inside or out, in years. There’s a film over them, and it’s filtering the light. Gloomy.”

“Miss Grant’s not doing her job,” Henry said.

“Don’t let her hear you say that.”

“She probably does have good ears. Those types usually do.”

“Yes,” Skip said. “She called this the blue drawing room, and I can see why. Blue wallpaper, blue furnishings, blue rug, yet it’s all dull and flat.”

“Yes, the woodwork has a gray cast to it, darkened by years of coal fires and gas lights before electricity came to Ann Arbor, I suspect. It’s an old house.”

Skip sniffed the stale air. “It smells old. I imagine that scent is embedded deep into the brick and mortar.” He surveyed the rest of the room. The back wall held a fireplace similar to one that was in the hall. To the right of it stood a forlorn upright piano, and to the left a solid-looking door. “I wonder where that goes.”

Almost as if in answer, a woman emerged. She wore a long-sleeved black tunic that kissed the floor and hid her feet, with a white apron over that in the front and back. She swayed from side to side when she walked, giving her the appearance of a penguin, which Henry found amusing. The tunic was secured about her waist by a woolen belt, from which hung a set of rosary beads. Upon her head and shoulders was a plain white wimple that exposed only her pale face, with a black veil at the back that flowed down to her shoulders. Her complexion was smooth and pale, free of makeup, and her eyes, set behind a pair of thick horn-rimmed glasses, were a brilliant blue beneath bushy eyebrows. She wore no jewelry except for a heavy gold cross about her neck and a small, simple silver band on the ring finger of her left hand.

“You’re Mr. Valentine and Mr. Finch,” she said. Her voice was strong, but her words were slightly garbled as if she had marbles in her mouth.

“Yes, that’s right,” Skip said. “I’m Skip Valentine. And you are?”

The nun peered at them over the top of her glasses. “I’m Sister Barnabas. Jane told me and Mr. Rutherford that you’d arrived. I was in the dining room having tea. You shouldn’t have come.”

“I beg your pardon?” Henry said.

“This is not a good time for a visit. We’re caring for Mrs. Rutherford. I’m a nurse. She told us only yesterday that you were coming as if she’d just remembered. She’s forgetful lately,” the sister said. Her teeth, Skip thought, seemed too big for her mouth. “Mrs. Rutherford is not well. She hasn’t been for many months. You shouldn’t have come without speaking to her son first.”

“I’m terribly sorry. We don’t mean to impose. I did write my uncle a letter asking if it would be all right to visit, but his mother is the one who replied and said it would be okay. I suppose I should have telephoned to confirm, but it’s long-distance, and I’m a bit short of funds at the moment. I didn’t want to reverse the charges.”

“I see. Well, you’re here now. Mr. Rutherford would say it’s God’s will.”

“What would you say, Sister?” Skip said. He was annoyed at being told once more they weren’t welcome in this dreary, ancient, soulless house.

The nun looked at him. “I would say God works in mysterious ways. He’ll be down shortly.”

“God will be down shortly?” Skip said.

“Don’t be cheeky, Mr. Valentine. It’s not becoming a gentleman. Mr. Rutherford will be down shortly. Good day.” The nun turned and left through the same door, closing it firmly behind her.

Skip looked at Henry, who was standing next to him, mouth agape. “Close your mouth, Henry.”

“What was that all about?”

Skip shrugged. “I’ve no idea. But I’m sure we’ll find out.”

“I’m not certain I want to find out.”

“I know exactly what you mean. This house, these people. It’s rather unsettling and not very welcoming.”

“And a talking penguin. Granted, one with some kind of a speech impediment, but nonetheless…”

“Henry Finch, that’s not polite.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right. I guess I wasn’t expecting a royal welcome, but I wasn’t exactly expecting this, either.”

“Nor me.”

“Do you think we should leave?”

Henry shrugged. “I don’t know. Let’s wait and see what Uncle Ambrose has to say first. I certainly don’t want to intrude if this is a bad time.”

“I agree. At least we now know who the sister was that Miss Grant referred to.”

“Right,” Henry said.

The door from the hall opened and a gentleman stepped in, closing the door behind him. He was in his middle or early forties, dressed in a double-breasted navy suit with a red tie and white pocket square. He had a kind face, with a deep crease across his forehead, his brownish blond hair receding and thin. When he smiled at them, it seemed as though his entire face smiled. He strode toward Henry and Skip with an easy gait, hand outstretched. Henry grasped it firmly.

“Henry, how delightful to see you. My goodness, it’s been years. You’re looking well,” the man said and then looked over to Skip.

“And you’re Mr. Valentine, I presume. Such a pleasure to meet you.” He shook Skip’s hand also before turning back to Henry. “I’m so glad you both decided to visit.”

“Thank you, Uncle Ambrose,” Henry said. “It’s good of you to put us up for the weekend. However, the sister was just in here, and she mentioned this may not be an opportune time for a visit. We can certainly come back another weekend.”

“Nonsense, I wouldn’t think of it. You came all that way from Chicago. Don’t listen to Sister Barnabas. Your visit just caught us by surprise, that’s all. You see, my mother intercepted your letter and responded to it without consulting me. We were only made aware of your impending arrival late yesterday when Mother made an offhand remark. We weren’t entirely sure we believed you were coming until I telephoned your mother this morning. I tried to reach you, but you’d left already.”

“I’m so sorry about that, Uncle. I assumed you were expecting us.”

Ambrose held up a hand. “Think nothing of it, please. All’s well that ends well. Jane has prepared the two guest rooms for you, so everything’s in order.”

“Thank you, you’re too kind. Speaking of my mother, your aunt sent her a letter not long ago. She mentioned your mother not being well, and Sister Barnabas brought it up too, just now,” Henry said.

Ambrose’s expression turned softer, almost melancholy. “Dear Aunt Lillian. Always sticking her nose in where it doesn’t belong. It’s a wonder she has a nose left. She’s also coming sometime this weekend, God help us all. Her plan is to move Mother into a nursing home first thing Monday morning.”

“Well, er, yes, I didn’t know that, but she did mention I should sign some papers at the lawyer’s office while I’m here.”

“Collier, Cole, and Karbouski.”

“Sorry?”

“The family lawyers. No doubt Aunt Lillian wants you to sign some letter of intent or some other legal nonsense since you’re my heir.”

“She did mention something along those lines.”

“Well, don’t get too excited, my good boy. I don’t plan on going anywhere for some time.”

“Oh no, I didn’t mean to imply—”

Mr. Rutherford held up a hand again and smiled. “It’s all right. I’m only joshing with you. Their office is nearby on the corner of Wells and Packard.” He consulted his watch. “You may wish to go this afternoon. They’re closed on the weekend.”

“I will. Anyway, I was sorry to hear about your mother.”

“Thank you. She hasn’t been well for several months. She has moments of lucidity, of course, but then there are times…well, you’ll meet her. I think she’ll like you both. It may do her some good to have some new people about. She hasn’t left the house in weeks.”

“If you’re certain we’re not imposing, Mr. Rutherford,” Skip said.

He smiled once more, and his brown eyes sparkled. “Not at all, Mr. Valentine. If two young men like yourselves would be considered an imposition, I should want to be imposed upon every day.”

Perhaps this weekend will be okay after all, Skip thought.

“Why don’t we all sit down and visit for a bit? We have so much to catch up on,” Mr. Rutherford said. “I can have Jane bring us some refreshments.”

“We’d like that, Uncle, but it’s been a long drive, and I think Skip and I would like to get settled first. And I suppose I should get to the lawyers’ office.”

“Oh, of course, forgive me. Certainly, certainly. It’s an easy walk, but I suppose to save time you should drive,” Mr. Rutherford said. “Their office is only open until four thirty or five, I believe. When you get back, park in the drive on the left. That side isn’t used much since the accident.”

“Yes, we noticed there had been a fire,” Skip said.

“Horrible, dreadful, a little over a month ago, the end of August,” Mr. Rutherford said. “It killed our handyman. The smoke got to him, and he couldn’t get out in time. The heat was intense, and the fire a ravenous snake. The ancient, dry wood of the old carriage house was like a plump, dead rat, offering no resistance to the hungry snake’s jaws.”

“Goodness, that’s awful,” Henry said.

“Yes, a tragedy. A faulty heater was the cause. It started in his quarters. He was an amateur photographer and had his darkroom there. According to the fire department, his developing fluids fed the flames, and it spread rapidly.”

“It’s a wonder the whole building didn’t go up,” Henry said.

“A credit to the Ann Arbor Fire Department, no doubt. The area that burned is where he lived, on the upper left-hand side. The upper right side is the old hayloft from when it used to be a carriage house. My car is parked below that. Fortunately, the building is still structurally sound, and the roof on the right is intact. I’m hoping to get the repairs done soon.”

“Did the man have any family?” Skip said.

“A brother out in New York. We’ve sent word but haven’t heard back from him yet. Apparently, they were estranged. Most of his belongings were lost. There’s not much left, I’m afraid. His old dog died, too, right next to him.”

Skip felt a lump in his throat. “I’m so sorry to hear all of this, Mr. Rutherford. Are you sure this weekend is a good time for a visit? To have houseguests?”

“Absolutely. The distraction will do me good, do all of us good. Please stay.”

“All right, Uncle, thank you, but please let us know if we can do anything to help. Oh, and my mother sent along a peach cobbler.” Henry took the tin from Skip and handed it to him.

Mr. Rutherford broke into a happy grin, clearly delighted. “Your mother’s peach cobblers are a treasure. I haven’t had one in years. Please thank her for us. We’ll have it with dinner tonight, along with some vanilla ice cream.” He strode across the room and yanked a bell cord near the fireplace. “Have you ever had one of his mother’s peach cobblers, Mr. Valentine?”

“No, sir, not yet,” he said.

“Then you’re in for a treat, an absolute treat.”

The door from the hall opened again and Miss Grant stood there, framed within it, looking stoic. “You rang, sir?”

“Mr. Finch’s mother sent along a peach cobbler. Please take it to the kitchen and serve it tonight for dessert along with vanilla ice cream, Jane.”

She stared at him a moment, ignoring Skip and Henry, a blank expression on her face. “Yes, I know about the cobbler. I tried to take it from them earlier, but they insisted on presenting it to you personally. I’ve already prepared a chocolate cake for dessert this evening.”

“The cake can wait until tomorrow, can’t it?” he said.

“It won’t be as moist then, Mr. Rutherford. I can put the cobbler in the icebox. It will keep better than the cake would.”

“All right, Jane, you know best. Do we have ice cream?”

“I can have Jake grind some in the morning.”

“Excellent, thank you. You can leave the door open, we’re just about to go up.”

“Yes sir.” She took the cobbler from him and left without another word.

“You’ll like Jane’s chocolate cake,” Mr. Rutherford said. “And the peach cobbler tomorrow night will give us something delightful to look forward to.”

“Of course, Uncle. I very much enjoy chocolate cake, and Skip does, too.”

“Splendid. Well, let’s go up so the two of you can get settled in your rooms and then you can go downtown, Henry. There will be time to visit later. We dine at seven, in the dining room right next door. Jane will be serving fish this evening since it’s Friday.”

“Okay,” Henry said. “I like fish.”

“Good. The sister and I often sit in the yellow drawing room before dinner, around six,” he said as the three of them walked out of the blue drawing room. “Please join us this evening.”

“We’d be happy to. And where is that, Uncle?”

“Oh, through that door on the right,” he said, pointing across the spacious hall. “The door on the left, closest to the stairs, leads to the library. Feel free to explore the house as you wish. I’d stay out of the basement, though. Just a dirt floor down there, full of spiders and mice, and dark and dank. Anyway, I hope you’ll enjoy your stay.” He looked about wistfully. “She needs some repair and updating, but I’m sentimental about this place. I like her the way she is.”

“That chandelier is sure something,” Henry said, pointing up to the heavy iron and crystal fixture above the doors to the entranceway.

“Been hanging there since the house was built. It was originally gas, but we converted it to electric,” Mr. Rutherford said.

“How on earth do you ever get up there to change the bulbs?” Henry said.

“That chain the chandelier is hanging from goes across the ceiling and down the wall to a gearbox. We keep the gear handle on top of the clock,” Mr. Rutherford said, pointing to a large grandfather clock down the hall. “Once the handle is inserted into the gearbox, you remove the safety pin and crank it down, then back up again. It’s only lowered when Miss Grant or Jake cleans it occasionally or when a bulb needs to be changed. Fortunately, the bulbs last a fair amount of time.”

“Beats having to use a ladder, I suppose,” Skip said.

“Absolutely. Shall we go upstairs?” Mr. Rutherford motioned them toward the staircase and they obliged, climbing slowly toward the first landing.

“Those are magnificent, Uncle,” Henry said, pointing at the three stained glass windows that stood above the second riser of stairs.

“They’re original to the house, like the chandelier. Most everything is original. We haven’t changed much.”

That, Skip thought to himself, was obvious. He didn’t share Mr. Rutherford’s enthusiasm for the house or its condition. The three of them paused at the top, looking about the hall, which like the one below was eighteen feet wide and over nine feet deep from the railing to the back wall.

“My room is to the left, over the library,” Mr. Rutherford said. “Mother’s room is in front. Sister Barnabas is staying in the room over the entry hall, the old nursery. You’ll be there, Mr. Valentine, and Henry, you have the room just here.”

“Where does that go?” Henry said, pointing to a door on the second landing they had passed.

“To a small hall where the bathroom is located. My mother and I have a connecting bath, but you two will have to share that one with Sister Barnabas, I’m afraid. Also off that hall is the hall to the servants’ quarters above the kitchen wing. Best to stay out of there. Miss Grant is rather territorial.”

“You just have the one servant, Mr. Rutherford?”

“Plus her nephew, Jake. He’s this side of useless, I’m afraid. I haven’t replaced the handyman position yet, so he fills in as best he can.”

“Miss Grant mentioned Jake was going to bring our bags up,” Skip said.

“Hopefully he got them in the right rooms. Please let me know if he didn’t. I wouldn’t suggest confronting him yourself. He’s not all there mentally, you see, and every time I correct him, he gets upset. I don’t think he cares for me much.”

“Why is that?” Skip said. “Because you correct him when he makes a mistake?”

“No, not just that. He’s been here since he was a small child. His mother used to be the cook here, Miss Grant’s younger sister. For some reason, I think Jake blames me for his mother’s death. She died in the doctor’s office during a medical procedure for a female problem when he was only twelve, I believe.”

“It must have been difficult for him to lose his mother at such a young age,” Henry said.

“I suppose it was,” Mr. Rutherford said. “Jake struggled in school and was often suspended and finally dropped out. Besides being slow, he’s hot-tempered and easily frustrated.”

“Poor fellow,” Henry said.

“Yes. I do what I can for him. Anyway, I hope you like your rooms. They all connect, by the way. My room with my mother’s, her room with the sister’s, the sister’s with yours, Mr. Valentine, and yours with Henry’s, though that door is locked and the key for it was lost long ago, I’m afraid. Well, I have some work to do in the library, but I shall see you in the yellow drawing room an hour or so before dinner at seven. Remember, we don’t dress.”

Skip suppressed a giggle. “We’ll be there, Mr. Rutherford, thank you.”

“My pleasure. There’s a call bell in each room near the fireplace should you need anything. Good day.” He turned and retreated down the stairs to the second landing and then onto the main floor.

“What time is it, Skip?”

“Three thirty,” he said, consulting his gold pocket watch.

“Okay, time enough to unpack, freshen up, and go see the lawyers. Want to come with?”

“No, thank you. We can explore Ann Arbor tomorrow. Right now, I want to get comfortable and have a little nap. Meet here in the upstairs hall at six?”

Henry grinned. “It’s a date.”