“Her?” I asked. “You mean his mother?”

  “Mr. Julian’s second wife. Rosemary was her name. She . . . struggled to find her place in this household.” Helen sat down. Ready, as I’d hoped, to forget about her work and settle into a good gossip session.

  And we were all ears.

  Kimberly, by my estimation, had been in her midthirties, and Rachel was probably forty. If Rachel had been three when her father died and her mother married Julian, then Rosemary had lived here for about thirty-six years. A heck of a long time to “struggle” to find her place.

  “As did Rosemary’s daughter by her first marriage,” Helen went on. “Her name’s Rachel. Rachel Morrison. She never changed her last name for all Mr. Julian was like a father to her. Rosemary was a widow when she married Mr. Julian. Mr. Julian loved that girl as much as he did his own children, but she was a troubled one. Always up to no good. When she was little, Kimberly adored her older half sister. More than I thought wise, but it wasn’t my place to say.” She sniffed. “As the years passed, Rachel got angrier and angrier. At everyone and everything. When Kimberly became a teenager, she and Rachel fell out, once and for all. Their fights were something to behold, let me tell you. Very stressful to Rosemary, as I recall. Her nerves were never good, although I thought she enjoyed playing that up more than she should have. Mr. Julian spent a lot of time in his study in those years, with the door firmly shut. The entire family, even her own mother, breathed a sigh of relief when Rachel went off to college and then stayed in New York.”

  “Have you . . . uh . . . seen Rachel in the last couple of days?” I asked.

  “No, and I can tell you the police are looking for her. I had a call from a detective in North Augusta, and then the Chatham police themselves came around. They asked me if I knew where Rachel might be. Make of that what you will. Goodness, where are my manners? Can I get you ladies a coffee or a soft drink?”

  I opened my mouth to decline, but Rose beat me to it. “That would be splendid, thank you. Please don’t go to any trouble.”

  “No trouble. Coffee’s already made. I was about to take some out to the gardeners.” She leapt from her chair and bustled out of the living room.

  Bernie jerked her head at me.

  “What?” I mouthed.

  Another jerk. I finally got the hint. I also bustled out of the living room, calling, “Let me give you a hand.”

  The kitchen was large and as immaculate as the rest of the house, although slightly dated. Black and white tiles on the floor, glistening white cabinets, some with glass doors, granite island, leather-topped stools, inset microwave and oven, countertop stove, and a large white fridge. The wide windows behind the double farmhouse sink provided a view of the landscaped garden leading into a patch of perfectly maintained woodland.

  “You mentioned Rachel lives in New York,” I said, hoping I wasn’t sounding too nosy, “and her brother in California. Do you think they’ll want to keep this house?”

  “Therein lies a tale.” Helen got four mugs out of a cabinet and laid them on a tray, along with a bowl of sugar. “The children are fighting over Rosemary’s will.” She took a cream jug out of the cavernous fridge, affording me a quick peek inside. Not much other than beer cans, pizza boxes, and the usual half-full bottles of ketchup and condiments. Unless Helen ordered in pizza for her lunch, someone was living here. “Spoons are in that drawer.”

  I found the needed items. “How awful. That must be so stressful for everyone.”

  “It is. Rosemary was ill for a long time before she passed. At the end, her mind was as sharp as it had always been, but she had her good days and her bad days and, I’m sorry to say, Rachel took advantage of that.”

  “Rachel? What did she do?”

  Helen glanced toward the hallway, as if fearing someone was eavesdropping. She lowered her voice. “They’re not my children, of course. So I’m allowed to have favorites, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Rachel was only three when her mother married Mr. Julian, but she was resentful from the moment she arrived in this house. She was rude to Mr. Julian, as hard as he tried to be a good father to her. She resented Kimberly when she was born and then Stephen. Only children can be upset when they think they’ve been replaced by a new baby, but Rachel never got over it. She always hated Kimberly, and all Kimmy every wanted was to be loved by her big sister. I’ve always believed it was Rachel who set Stephen on a bad course. He was a boy, and a lot younger than her—eight years difference—so not competition the way the prettier, more popular Kimmy was. It was Rachel who encouraged his music; she told him only losers worked hard at school, and she introduced him to a bad crowd.”

  “Bad crowd?”

  “You know what I mean. Drugs and the like. Petty theft, just for the fun of it. More than once Mr. Julian had to go down to the police station and bail that boy out.”

  “That’s what you meant by a dispute over the will, then? They’re fighting over it?”

  “Oh, yes. When Mr. Julian died he left everything to Rosemary, as he should have. Her will originally left everything to her children, again as was proper. Rachel was in Europe when her mother took ill. Couldn’t be bothered to cut short her vacation to come home when her mother needed her the most. And then she continued to stay away under the pretext of pressure of work.

  “With Rachel not bothering to visit her dying mother, Stephen galivanting in California, only Kimberly at her side, Rosemary changed her mind and rewrote her will, leaving the bulk of the estate to Kimberly.”

  “I can see that would have upset Rachel and Stephen.”

  “Naturally. Then Rachel showed up. All sweetness and light, playing loving daughter once again, and Rosemary had a change of heart.”

  “She wrote another will?”

  “I blame myself.”

  “For what?”

  “I should have advised her against it, but I try not to intervene in the family’s affairs.” Helen glanced to one side and patted her hair. “This was in Rosemary’s final days, you understand. She asked me to call her lawyer. I did so, but he was away on vacation, and she declared she couldn’t wait and she’d do it on her own. She was ill and on drugs, but her mind was still good, as anyone could tell you. She asked me to find her two witnesses. I did so, and we gathered in her room to watch her write a new will in her own hand. It was duly signed and sealed and returned to her.”

  “You did what you were asked to do. Nothing wrong with that. It sounds aboveboard to me.”

  “I foolishly told Rachel about the new will. A few days later, Rosemary died.”

  “You’re not implying . . .”

  “That Rachel killed her mother? I have no proof of that. Nothing but my knowledge of the girl’s character. I tried telling the police what I suspect, but they dismissed me. And now, dear Kimmy . . .”

  Chapter 15

  Helen carried the coffee things into the living room, and while she arranged the contents of the tray on the low table, I gave Bernie and Rose a quick nod, telling them to drink up—I’d learned what I needed to know.

  “How are you feeling?” Helen asked Rose.

  “Feeling?”

  “After your dizzy spell?”

  “Oh, that.” Rose waved her hand in the air. “Perfectly fine. These things come and go. More come than go when you get to be my age. As you young things will discover soon enough.” She added a splash of cream and a hefty spoonful of sugar to her coffee.

  “Is there a chance that Kimberly’s husband will inherit a share of the house in her place?” I asked Helen.

  “Now that would be a wonderful turn of events.” Helen’s polite smile turned radiant, and a touch of color came into her cheeks. “Such a darling man. And absolutely gorgeous to boot. I was thrilled when Kimberly and he married. It was a quick marriage, but coming so soon after her mother’s death she didn’t want a fuss or any sort of formal affair. It was Rachel who introduced them. Isn’t that ironic? The one nice thing Rachel ever did for her younger sister. He’s wanting to open a chain of restaurants here on Cape Cod. I hope he doesn’t abandon those plans in his grief.”

  “No chance of that,” Bernie muttered.

  I threw her a sharp look, but Helen’s attention had been caught by the sound of the front door opening and then slamming shut.

  “Helen! Whose car’s that? Do you have company?” A man came into the living room. I knew immediately this must be Stephen Smithfield. He looked very much like Kimberly, short and slim, with a small chin and widely spaced brown eyes. He glanced around the room, taking in the coffee things, the seated housekeeper, the three smiling guests. “Looks like you’re entertaining, Helen. I didn’t realize you’d moved in.”

  Helen stood up. “I have not moved in. These ladies knew your sister and are paying a condolence call.”

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hi,” Bernie said.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Rose said.

  His lip curled up. “Thanks, but you might be mistaken, ladies. This woman isn’t my mother. She’s nothing but my housekeeper. I know you don’t have a lot of work to do these days, Helen, so if you’re finished for the day, you can be going. I won’t need you any more today.”

  Regardless of the circumstances, it was a shockingly rude thing to say. Color flooded Helen’s face, and her hands clenched at her sides.

  Bernie leapt to her feet, and I followed. Rose rested her own hands on the top of her cane. “Mrs. Chambers was explaining to us how like family you’ve always been to her.” Rose’s tone was sharp. “Is that not true, young man?”

  This time it was Stephen’s turn to flush. He gave Rose a small bow. “Helen’s worked for my family for a long time. She came here not long after my father married his first wife. I suppose some allowances can be made for so many years of . . . occasionally loyal service. Nevertheless, work is what she does, and she’s always been paid well in exchange. She’s not paid to throw a coffee party in my living room.”

  “Speaking of work,” Bernie said. “What do you do?”

  “Me? A bit of this. A bit of that.” He gave her a long, appraising look. Judging by the expression on his face, he liked what he saw, despite the fact that she was a good foot taller than him.

  She tilted her chin down and blinked from under her lashes. “Sounds intriguing.”

  “I’ve been living in California for a couple of years, but I might be moving back here. If things pan out. My mother died not long ago, and her affairs . . . have to be settled.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. And then the death of your sister so soon after.” Bernie’s green eyes were wide, overflowing with sympathy.

  “Thanks. It was tough, losing my mom. As for Kimmy . . . I can’t say we were close, not over the last few years, anyway, but it’s been a hard blow.”

  Helen scoffed.

  He turned to her. “Sorry, what was that? I missed it.”

  She began collecting cups and putting them on the tray. I hadn’t finished my coffee yet, but I wasn’t about to protest.

  “Thank you for coming,” Helen said. “It was kind of you. Stephen, I’ll leave you to show our guests out. If you can find your way to the front door.” Helen left the room. Bernie gave Rose an arm to help her to her feet.

  “Sorry about that,” Stephen said. “Miserable old bat. There’s going to be some changes around here, and soon.”

  Rose gave him a furious glare. “Your housekeeper has been employed by your family for many years. Are you suggesting you’re going to toss her into the street?”

  Stephen lifted his hands in protest. “Whoa! Don’t be so quick to jump to her defense. She’s never approved of me, and I never much cared. Her future, and that of this house, isn’t up to me. All I mean is, my mom’s dead, one sister’s dead, the other’s goodness knows where and not answering her phone. My mother never cared for my lifestyle, and she might have been right about that. I was written out of the will a long time ago, and I’ve gotten over it. If my father’s house goes to my late sister’s slimy husband, I’ll get over that, too.” He grinned at Bernie. “I’ve always been an optimist. I hope I run into you again someday.”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  * * *

  “It seems to me,” I said once we were on the road heading north toward North Augusta, “that I read about that family somewhere.”

  “You mean in the paper?” Bernie asked.

  “No, it reminds me of Rebecca, the novel by Daphne du Maurier.”

  She fell back laughing. “Oh, yeah. I can see it. I haven’t read the book, but I’ve seen a couple of movie versions. The loyal housekeeper, the constant haunting memory of the late first wife, divided loyalties. Did you notice how Helen kept calling Stephen and Kimberly’s father Mr. Julian, but their mother was just plain Rosemary. And wow, does Helen have some opinions on the kids in that family.”

  “Not fond of Stephen to put it mildly.”

  “No, and as for Stephen . . . There’s something really off with him,” Bernie said.

  “Other than being an obnoxious jerk?”

  “That was about the most ham-handed attempt at flirting I’ve ever encountered and, as you well know, I spent a good part of my college years participating in the Manhattan club scene. It was as though he was onstage, and not doing a very good job of it. Playing a part, but he didn’t have his heart in it.”

  “It’s been many a long year since any young man attempted to flirt with me,” Rose said. “So long, I’ve completely forgotten what it’s like, but I’ll take your word for it. One day you must tell me about this Manhattan club scene, Bernadette. Perhaps Stephen’s behavior was a part of his dominance display over Helen.”

  “Could be,” I said. “She’s got no love lost for Rachel, either. Kimberly was clearly her favorite, whether that was deserved or not we’ll never know.” I told them what I’d learned in the kitchen. “Much the same story as Rachel told me about the third will, although Helen put an entirely different slant on it, implying Rachel manipulated her dying mother into rewriting the will, yet again.”

  “I don’t suppose she happened to mention where this third will is now?” Rose asked.

  “Unfortunately not.”

  “Stephen said he didn’t care what happens to the family estate,” Bernie said. “Can we believe him?”

  “In that, I detected a note of sincerity, for what that’s worth,” I replied. “He’s been away from the family for a long time. Did you notice he called Wesley slimy? Makes me think he’s a good judge of character.”

  “Helen was impressed by him. Wes, I mean.”

  “Exactly. Which makes me wonder about the value of her judgment. She implied, strongly, without coming out and saying so, that Rachel killed her mother, or at least contributed to her death, once Rosemary had rewritten the will.”

  “That’s a heck of a thing to say.” Bernie leaned farther forward. “Do you think it has any merit?”

  “I don’t know. The police didn’t, according to Helen, give it much consideration.”

  “They don’t always say out loud what they’re thinking.”

  “As we well know.” I had a sudden thought, and I pulled off to the side of the road. I turned in my seat so I could face Rose and Bernie. “I’m curious about the tea chest. The one that contained the will. Didn’t that antique dealer tell us she has a store in Chatham? As long as we’re here, I’d like to pay a call on her. Bernie, can you look her up and see what the store hours are? D. McIntosh, Fine Antiques, her sign said, as I recall.”

  “On it.” Bernie pushed buttons and scrolled. “Got it. Address isn’t far from here, and as it’s a Wednesday, she should be open.”

  I pulled back into traffic. Bernie read the directions off her phone, and we arrived in less than five minutes. The antique shop occupied space in a tired-looking strip mall. A dollar store at one end, a fast-food joint at the other, nail bars and convenience stores in between. Not many cars were in the parking lot, but the sign in the window of D. McIntosh, Fine Antiques was turned to OPEN.

  The chimes over the door tinkled cheerfully when we went in. The woman we’d met at the antique fair was behind the sales counter, flicking idly through a magazine. When she heard the bells, she looked up with a smile of anticipation.

  The shop put me in mind of a scene out of Dickens. Small, dark, dusty nooks and crannies stuffed with long-forgotten items, cobwebs clinging to the corners. Almost every inch of space was filled with what to my eye looked like nothing but junk. Wooden furniture badly in need of refurbishing, chairs and sofas covered with fabric so sun-faded it was impossible to tell what color they’d originally been. Wobbly-legged tables piled high with yellowing magazines and posters, torn and broken toys, rusting watering cans, milk-glass jugs and dishes, ancient toasters, rotary dial black telephones, tarnished and dusty military and service medals. A tallboy, one of the few pieces of furniture that had received a proper dusting and a layer of furniture polish, displayed a nice arrangement of good china and silver. A Wedgwood tea service caught my eye, and I took a step in that direction. Bernie grabbed my arm and said, “Concentrate.”

  “Hello,” Ms. McIntosh said. “Welcome. We’ve met before, haven’t we? Sorry, I don’t remember where.”

  “We were at the North Augusta community hall a week ago,” Bernie said.

  She broke into a huge smile and hurried out from behind the counter. “I remember. The people from the tearoom. You were interested in tea settings.” She indicated the tallboy. “I’ve got a few more items in since then. Feel free to have a look.”