Dead End Street by Sheila Connolly Page B

was of the correct period and was gleaming with the kind of polish that only time and care could provide. It was, without question, lovely.
    We ended the tour downstairs in the dining room,where a sumptuous tea was laid out on a mahogany table that could have seated a dozen people. Another elderly woman, clearly related to Phoebe, stood behind the spread, beaming. “I’m so glad you could come! I’m Phoebe’s sister, Penelope. I’m sorry I didn’t join you on the tour, but I was engaged in the kitchen, and I do have trouble with the stairs these days. Please sit down and serve yourselves.”
    The teapot was indeed silver, as were the matching sugar bowl and creamer. The plates, laden with goodies—yes, including finger sandwiches and small cakes, as Marty had predicted—were, to my semi-experienced eye, English bone china; the teacups were almost thin enough to see through, with handles the size of large spaghetti. I felt as though I had stepped back into another time, and I was glad I had worn my grandmother’s pearls.
    We made chitchat about people we all knew, about the county and the region, about the history that surrounded us, and it was all very pleasant. Then Phoebe, who was clearly the spokesperson for the duo, carefully set down her cup in its saucer and said, “now, shall we talk business?”

CHAPTER 10
    Marty and I looked at each other, but I had the feeling the ball was in my court. “Phoebe, Penelope, what is it you’re hoping to do with this house?”
    â€œKeep it standing, and as close to its current, and, may I add, historical state as possible,” Phoebe said quickly. Penelope nodded her agreement.
    â€œAnd what do you think your options are?”
    Phoebe regarded me steadily. “Ms. Pratt, we are neither stupid nor feeble-minded, even though we are women who grew up in a very different world, and we are unquestionably old. We were raised in this house, and we treated it as a house, rather than a museum. We scuffed the floors with our Mary Janes, and, yes, we even slid down the staircase railing a time or two. We knew the place was centuries old, but that didn’t mean a lot to us then.
    â€œNeither have we been shuttered in this place all ourlives, though we never married. I attended college and graduated, and we traveled to Europe together. Penelope lived in Boston for a time, and was once engaged. Yet somehow we always ended up back here. It was not exactly a deliberate choice, but we have not been unhappy. We were blessed with enough money to live out our days, with a bit left over. We’ve been lucky.
    â€œNow we know we won’t last much longer, and we accept that. Patience, Nell—I
am
going to answer your question. We are well aware that this is a valuable piece of real estate. We could, no doubt, find a private purchaser for it, one who would pay a lot of money for a place of this size, with a good deal of privacy. Movie stars, titans of industry, and the like.”
    I wondered if I saw a twinkle in Phoebe’s eye. She seemed to be enjoying this.
    â€œBut there is no guarantee that such a buyer would keep the house as it is, or even keep it at all. He might tear it down and build what I believe they call a McMansion, or he might give it to some fringe church or sect, or turn it into a private medical clinic for substance abusers who can afford expensive treatment. We selfishly don’t want that, and since it is ours to dispose of as we choose, we want to set the terms—terms that will survive even our deaths. A lot has happened in this house over two centuries. We want to honor that long history. Can you understand that?”
    I nodded. “I can and do. After all, you know what I do: I manage a library and museum that seeks to preserve the past, so that later generations can enjoy it. I realize that this is not always a popular thing to do, and that manyordinary people think we’re obsolete. So I