swirly Benedict
B
. Laurel turned her attention to the drawers instead.
The right side of the room must have been Dalton's. There were drawers full of men's socks that had been folded into neat little bundles and laid out in straight rows. Other drawers held stacks of men's underwear, also neatly folded. In his closet, several pairs of identical brown-and-white ventilated wing tips were impaled on racks that climbed up one wall, and at least a dozen identical lightweight summer suits hung on nice-smelling wooden hangers, along with pants, jackets, shirts, and sweaters. Old Mr. Dalt had been a natty but not very adventurous dresser.
Peggy's side of the room was empty. This made sense, since Peggy had moved herself to the little bedroom downstairs after Dalt's death. But to Laurel it felt like a sad summary of Peggy's life in the house. She wanted to lock the bedroom door and walk away, leaving it the way it was. But this house was already too full of memorials to the dead. She found some black plastic garbage bags in the kitchen, brought them back to the bedroom, and began filling them with the clothes that had belonged to Peggy's husband.
It was late in the afternoon by the time she was done. In spite of the air-conditioning she'd turned on, she was sweaty, tired, and covered with about three decades of undisturbed dust. It was time to quit. Tomorrow she'd call the ever-helpful resort staff and request that someone haul the bags down to the rescue mission. But before she left, she looked around the room one last time, to make sure she'd gotten everything. That was when she noticed that part of the window seat's top was actually a lid, evidently opening to a storage compartment. Curiosity trumped weariness, and she lifted it up. The area was much larger than she expected. Its farthest corners were dark, and the wood was raw and unpainted. At first she thought the entire space was empty, but as she was about to close the top, she saw a glint of something that looked like gold in the corner. Hoping the tetanus shot she'd gotten in grammar school was still active, she reached in, dodging rusty nails, and found the handle of an old-fashioned suitcase. It was good sized, made of leather that had once been beautiful and very expensive, with a handsome brass latch. Laurel brushed off cobwebs and a layer of grit. The leather was cracked and water stained, and it smelled moldy. Obviously it had been in the window seat for some time. But why had Peggy put it there? Laurel turned it over and found the swirling
B
for Benedict on the front. The suitcase hadn't belonged to Peggy. Like everything else in the house, it had been the property of Miss Myrtis. Who, for some reason, had wanted to hide it.
It took Laurel forty minutes and a trip to the gardener's shed for a toolbox before she finally managed to pop the rusty lock on the suitcase. Inside, she found an old-fashioned pinafore and dress. Laurel pulled them out gingerly. The pinafore was a lacy ruffled affair that had once been white but now had yellow fold lines. Threaded through the lace ruffles was a faded pink ribbon, and there was a pink sash with a big squashed pink silk rose on it. The dress, which was also liberally supplied with white lace ruffles, had probably been bright green at one time, with more roses printed on it. Both the dress and the pinafore looked like something out of a picture book of Victorian children. The getup wasn't garish, but the girl who'd worn it would have stood out in a crowd. She must have been over five feet tall and hard on her clothes. The apron had been torn and mended several times, as had the dress. The seams of the dress had been let out, and there were inserts of pink fabric on the sides—obviously, its owner had worn it long past childhood.
Laurel looked back in the suitcase to see if there was anything else. On the bottom of the case was a yellowed paper. She pulled it out carefully and found herself staring at a page of sheet music for
B
. Laurel turned her attention to the drawers instead.
The right side of the room must have been Dalton's. There were drawers full of men's socks that had been folded into neat little bundles and laid out in straight rows. Other drawers held stacks of men's underwear, also neatly folded. In his closet, several pairs of identical brown-and-white ventilated wing tips were impaled on racks that climbed up one wall, and at least a dozen identical lightweight summer suits hung on nice-smelling wooden hangers, along with pants, jackets, shirts, and sweaters. Old Mr. Dalt had been a natty but not very adventurous dresser.
Peggy's side of the room was empty. This made sense, since Peggy had moved herself to the little bedroom downstairs after Dalt's death. But to Laurel it felt like a sad summary of Peggy's life in the house. She wanted to lock the bedroom door and walk away, leaving it the way it was. But this house was already too full of memorials to the dead. She found some black plastic garbage bags in the kitchen, brought them back to the bedroom, and began filling them with the clothes that had belonged to Peggy's husband.
It was late in the afternoon by the time she was done. In spite of the air-conditioning she'd turned on, she was sweaty, tired, and covered with about three decades of undisturbed dust. It was time to quit. Tomorrow she'd call the ever-helpful resort staff and request that someone haul the bags down to the rescue mission. But before she left, she looked around the room one last time, to make sure she'd gotten everything. That was when she noticed that part of the window seat's top was actually a lid, evidently opening to a storage compartment. Curiosity trumped weariness, and she lifted it up. The area was much larger than she expected. Its farthest corners were dark, and the wood was raw and unpainted. At first she thought the entire space was empty, but as she was about to close the top, she saw a glint of something that looked like gold in the corner. Hoping the tetanus shot she'd gotten in grammar school was still active, she reached in, dodging rusty nails, and found the handle of an old-fashioned suitcase. It was good sized, made of leather that had once been beautiful and very expensive, with a handsome brass latch. Laurel brushed off cobwebs and a layer of grit. The leather was cracked and water stained, and it smelled moldy. Obviously it had been in the window seat for some time. But why had Peggy put it there? Laurel turned it over and found the swirling
B
for Benedict on the front. The suitcase hadn't belonged to Peggy. Like everything else in the house, it had been the property of Miss Myrtis. Who, for some reason, had wanted to hide it.
It took Laurel forty minutes and a trip to the gardener's shed for a toolbox before she finally managed to pop the rusty lock on the suitcase. Inside, she found an old-fashioned pinafore and dress. Laurel pulled them out gingerly. The pinafore was a lacy ruffled affair that had once been white but now had yellow fold lines. Threaded through the lace ruffles was a faded pink ribbon, and there was a pink sash with a big squashed pink silk rose on it. The dress, which was also liberally supplied with white lace ruffles, had probably been bright green at one time, with more roses printed on it. Both the dress and the pinafore looked like something out of a picture book of Victorian children. The getup wasn't garish, but the girl who'd worn it would have stood out in a crowd. She must have been over five feet tall and hard on her clothes. The apron had been torn and mended several times, as had the dress. The seams of the dress had been let out, and there were inserts of pink fabric on the sides—obviously, its owner had worn it long past childhood.
Laurel looked back in the suitcase to see if there was anything else. On the bottom of the case was a yellowed paper. She pulled it out carefully and found herself staring at a page of sheet music for
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