Finders Keepers (Mill Brook Book 1) Read online

  Finders Keepers

  Mill Brook Trilogy, Book 1

  Carla Neggers

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Excerpt: Within Reason

  Books by Carla Neggers

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 by Carla Neggers

  2nd Edition

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  DISCOVERY OF PAUL REVERE GOBLETS STIRS

  UP CENTURY-OLD SCANDAL

  Mill Brook, Vermont: Scandal revisited this picturesque New England village today when a member of one of its oldest and most respected families announced his discovery of a pair of sterling-silver goblets crafted by Paul Revere and reported missing a hundred years ago.

  Julian Danvers Stiles, vice president of Mill Brook Post and Beam, manufacturers of high-quality housing kits, made the discovery in the dirt cellar of the Danvers House, the former president’s house of the now-defunct Mill Brook Preparatory Academy. The Stiles family recently purchased the buildings and hundred acres of the prestigious former boys’ school.

  “I have no idea how the goblets got there,” Stiles said.

  Himself an alumnus of the academy, Stiles admitted the discovery of the goblets did challenge the town’s long-cherished version of the events of that cold winter night in 1889 when Zachariah Wingate and the Revere goblets disappeared.

  “He was from an impoverished family up on the river,” Stiles explained, “but he’d been given a scholarship to attend the academy. In his senior year, he decided to ‘repay’ the scholarship by presenting the school with the prized pair of goblets.”

  Zachariah Wingate’s schoolmasters—including two of Julian Stiles’ own ancestors—accused the boy of having stolen the goblets out of misguided pride. He was promptly expelled.

  Two nights later, Zachariah left town. In the morning, the goblets were discovered gone from the academy safe located in the Danvers House.

  “People just assumed Zachariah stole them back,” Stiles said.

  Does the discovery of the disputed goblets exonerate Zachariah Wingate? “Absolutely not,” Stiles said. “There’s no way a family as poor as his was could have gotten its hands on a valuable pair of goblets.”

  One of Zachariah‘s descendants might argue with his conclusion, he admitted. “But no one knows what happened to him after he left Mill Brook, and a Wingate hasn’t stepped foot in this part of Vermont in a century.”

  Chapter One

  Holly Wingate Paynter leaned her crowbar against the paint-chipped doorjamb and warily eyed the floor of the cold, dark master bedroom. A leaky ceiling and years of abandonment and neglect had left their mark. It didn’t look good. Holly considered skipping the bedroom, but she’d prowled through every other room in the woefully dilapidated Danvers House, soaking up its creepy atmosphere.

  She scanned the room with her powerful flashlight and frowned as she considered possible routes. She wasn’t particularly worried, just didn’t want to accidentally leave her footprints in the rotten wood. Being a Wingate, she wasn’t exactly at the Danvers House by invitation. Best to avoid any careless mistakes.

  Since crossing the town line into Mill Brook, Vermont, an hour ago, she had been uncharacteristically cautious. She simply didn’t know what to expect. Still, lightning hadn’t struck at the arrival of a Wingate in town. Her van tires hadn’t started smoking. Her stomach hadn’t rebelled on her. And neither Grandpa Zachariah Wingate nor Great-grandpa Zachariah Wingate had come back to life to choke her for not heeding their advice that Vermont was no place for a Wingate.

  In fact, nothing had happened. As Holly had driven out to the defunct Mill Brook Preparatory Academy for Boys, the winter afternoon had remained startlingly bright and clear, the rolling hills of the Green Mountains outlined against as blue a sky as she’d ever seen. No question, it was beautiful country. Nevertheless, she’d be shed of it just as soon as she was finished with the business that had brought her there.

  The Wingate goblets. Crafted by Paul Revere and presented by him, in gratitude, to the first Zachariah Wingate two hundred years ago. They’d been in the family until Great-grandpa Wingate’s foolish pride had gotten in the way—and elitist Jonathan Stiles and Edward Danvers had assumed the worst about an impoverished Wingate.

  Holly meant to restore the goblets to their intended place as a Wingate family heirloom. Since she was the last of Zachariah’s direct descendants, the duty fell to her. There was no one else to do the job.

  She shivered and slowly stepped onto the precarious floorboards, then carefully made her way into the drafty, unheated room. It was forty degrees in southern Vermont. That seemed to delight the folks on the local radio station Holly had listened to in her van, but she was used to a balmier climate. She had been in central Florida when she’d read the article on the discovery of the goblets in the Danvers House cellar. She’d memorized every word. Had cursed Julian Danvers Stiles on her mad three-day trip north. A Wingate hasn’t stepped foot in this part of Vermont in a century. As if one wouldn’t dare.

  ‘‘Well, here I am, buster.”

  But her words sounded hollow and not particularly convincing in the big, empty wreck of a house. It had done her soul good to find the once elegant Danvers House so hopelessly deteriorated. She wondered what kind of incorrigible optimist Julian Danvers Stiles was to think he could convert such a dump into a decent restaurant—or anything.

  She stopped suddenly, certain she’d heard something. A growl almost. A guard dog? No, she’d been sneaking around for a good forty minutes; a guard dog would have tracked her down by now. But she was sure she’d heard something.

  Feeling uneasy in the strange building, she glanced back longingly at her crowbar; all she had for immediate protection was her flashlight. And her mouth, she supposed. Grandpa Wingate would have told her to trust her powers of persuasion. ‘There isn’t any trouble,” he used to tell everyone, “my granddaughter can’t talk herself out of.”

  Or get herself into, he’d add privately, to her alone.

  But first she had to have someone to persuade, and Holly had no idea what was downstairs.

  “Hell, look at this mess,” a distinctly solid male voice snarled in disgust. “Beth? Are you in here?”

  Sweat poured down Holly’s back, despite the cold. She wondered if she wouldn’t rather deal with a guard dog than whatever none-too-pleased individual was downstairs.

  “Abby, David?” he hollered. “You in here? Who made this mess?”

  Oh, sure, Holly thought. I’ll just yell down, “Hey, it was me, a nice lady from Texas who couldn’t resist using her trusty crowbar to peel a couple of boards off that window there and crawling in for a look around.”

  Breaking and entering, it was called. All in a good cause, but this was Mill Brook, she was a Wingate and whoever was downstairs was in no mood. Holly kept her mouth shut and didn’t move.

  “Kids?”

  Nope. Holly was thirty-three. Even as a kid she hadn’t been much of a kid.

  She heard a creak and took hope, thinking he might just leave. All she had to do was hang in there another few minutes, not move, not scratch,
not make a sound. But her hope faded when the creak was followed by the sound of a hammer expertly tackling one nail and then another.

  “All right.” he said, obviously pleased with himself. “Whoever you are, you’d better come out now. I’ve nailed you in. Only way out is through the front door, with me.”

  Ha! She’d jump out the window first! All she had to do was lunge for her crowbar, smash through a window and jump. The snow would cushion her fall. Even if she broke an ankle, she could threaten to sue the bastard for provoking such an act of desperation. But she wouldn’t break anything. She’d scramble to her feet, beat a path to her van and screech out of town. No one would be the wiser.

  She could almost hear Grandpa Wingate saying, “I told you so.”

  Maybe she should have ignored the item about the goblets and continued her winter wanderings in Florida.

  Not sure what the intruder downstairs was up to now, Holly gritted her teeth and switched off her flashlight. A thin shaft of light angled into the dark room through a crack in two boards over one tall window.

  “You wouldn’t by any chance be driving a dark green van,” the voice said under her feet. “Texas license plate?”

  Startled, Holly had trouble keeping her precarious footing on the pine-board floor, which was in horrendous shape from years of neglect, leaks and vandalism. If she moved, the man downstairs would hear her. Who was he? Her only consolation was that he couldn’t be the owner. Men like Julian Danvers Stiles stayed out of crumbling old houses, even if they owned them.

  But that bit in the newspaper indicated he’d found the goblets himself. If he’d dig around down in a dirt cellar, why wouldn’t he check out a trespasser?

  It wasn’t the sort of question she wanted to answer, so she didn’t.

  Inexpert snoop that she was, she’d made a halfhearted attempt to hide her van, parking alongside a snowbank and a stand of pines. Obviously she could have saved herself the trek across the blustery football field. While trying to keep herself from freezing in that “balmy” forty-degree air, she’d entertained herself imagining generations of preppy boys out there mucking it up. She’d wondered if the sparkling white in their blue-and-white football uniforms had ever gotten dirty.

  “Vermont’s a long way from Texas.”

  Don’t you know it, Holly thought. She concentrated on keeping still—and her mouth shut, which was against her nature. Imagining comebacks wasn’t nearly

  as satisfying as saying them out loud. She always preferred to say her piece.

  “Okay, have it your way. I know every inch of this house. Wherever you’re hiding, I’ll find you.”

  Who was hiding?

  Holly’s notion of self-preservation didn’t include standing in the middle of a dark, unheated bedroom on the second floor of an abandoned house built by a Danvers while waiting for some strange man to come fetch her.

  Hoping his movement underneath her would cover any noise she made, she bit her lip and started gingerly from her position over a thick beam out onto a wide circle of rotting, weakened pine floorboards. It was the quickest route to her crowbar. Since speed was of the essence, she had to chance it.

  Snow had gotten into her brand-new gum shoes; her feet were cold and wet, a little numb. But she could feel the floor begin to give way under them.

  “Oh, no,” she groaned softly, even as one foot sank into the rotten wood.

  She tried yanking it free, but shifted her weight onto her other foot, sinking it. Her flashlight went flying, and she frantically reached for something to grab.

  There was nothing.

  Underneath her the floor swayed like a hammock. Then the rotted laths collapsed and the ceiling plaster gave way, and she plunged into thin air.

  She yelled, not caring who heard her.

  An instant later she landed hard on her left side. Her ski jacket—white with rose accents, purchased at an outlet sale less than twenty-four hours earlier—cushioned her fall to some degree, but not enough. The impact knocked the wind out of her. Cursing and groaning, she fought to catch her breath and made a quick check of various body parts. Her left hip ached. Her behind ached. Her right wrist ached. Her functional kelly-green gloves—they were the only ones left on sale—had spared her hands cuts and scratches. Her hat, bright red with a multicolored pom-pom, another sale-bin castoff, was no longer atop her strawberry-colored curls.

  Confident nothing was broken, she started coughing and spitting every manner of disgusting thing that might be trapped in a two-hundred-year-old ceiling. She had visions of discovering a bat or mouse skeleton lodged in her throat.

  The male voice that had caused all this trouble sounded from somewhere within the cloud of dust her fall had created. “What the hell’s going on here?”

  I fell, you idiot! Holly quickly checked her anger, frustration and delayed fear. The bastard had had no business goading her like that! She’d never have fallen if he’d just left her alone! But common sense warned her now wasn’t the time to argue those points.

  Now, she thought, was the time to come up with a good story.

  Picking bits of plaster from her hair, she sat up and blinked. Dust stung her eyes, but her vision was still a sharp twenty-twenty. As the dust settled, she had no trouble making out the tall, plaster-covered, unhappy male figure looming over her. He had thick dark hair, a straight nose and this morning’s beard on his square Yankee jaw. His eyes were vividly green against the white film of plaster covering his face. Strongly built, he wore torn jeans, a heavy black mock-turtleneck and battered boots. No coat was in evidence. Hell, Holly thought, it was forty outside. Who needed a coat?

  Just her luck to fall at the feet of a mountain man Yankee.

  Yet better him, she supposed, than a snot-nosed Danvers or Stiles—or Julian Danvers Stiles himself. He was two Wingate enemies rolled into one. She didn’t need that kind of aggravation right now. She’d have to deal with the owner of the Danvers House sooner or later, but preferably not in her present condition.

  “Well?” the troublemaker demanded again.

  He must be a carpenter, Holly concluded. His stake in the once-magnificent old house would be purely professional. Except he’d called out names, she recalled. Beth, Abby, David. Who were they? Rising slowly, Holly winced. She thought it prudent to look as if she were in more pain than she actually was. Scare the guy a little. Make him wonder, Lord, what will Julian Stiles do when he finds out I scared this poor tourist from Texas and made her fall through the ceiling?

  With a small, brave groan, she said, “I fell.”

  “So I see.”

  His tone was dry and not altogether sympathetic. He seemed unconcerned about her or even his own position. That didn’t suit Holly at all.

  “You’re all right?” he asked, disinterested, as he brushed plaster chips off his shoulder.

  “I think so.”

  Her hesitation had no effect. “Good.”

  Obviously he’d already assumed she was just fine. He wasn’t even remotely worried. Even when she stumbled a little, not making too big a deal, just enough for him to notice, he just stood there. Her general annoyance with him increased. “And you?” she asked sharply. “Are you all right?”

  He shrugged. “I got out of the way.”

  How chivalrous. “I guess that was smart.”

  “I had no idea what was coming down on top of me. If I’d known...” He paused, his vivid eyes taking in all one-hundred-fifteen pounds of her. “I guess I could have caught you.”

  “You might have broken your arms,” she said lightly, suddenly feeling quite warm, a first since her arrival in New England. A welcome gust of brisk air blew in from the open front door behind her in the entry. “Thanks for your concern. I’ll just be heading on out now—”

  “Whoa, there. How ‘bout telling me what you’re doing here?”

  She thought about her crowbar and flashlight upstairs and wondered if she should work them into her story. He’d find them at some point, but by then she coul
d be long gone from Mill Brook, Vermont. She didn’t plan to stay long. Wasn’t a lucky place for Wingates.

  “Oh—well, it’s a long story, actually.”

  “Give me a shortened version. Let’s start with how you got in.”

  “That’s obvious. Through the window.”

  “How’d you pry off the plywood?”

  She shrugged. “Crowbar.”

  “Ah-huh.”

  “My name’s Holly, by the way. Holly Paynter.” She’d have preferred using a fake name, but if he had her license plate number, he could get her name. And a good story always wove in elements of the truth.

  “I’m from Houston.” she went on cheerfully, peeling off her gloves and dusting herself here and there. “Down home an abandoned building’s fair game. Guess it’s the same up here, huh?”

  “No,” he replied without humor, “it’s not.”

  As far as she knew, it wasn’t in Houston, either. She affected good-natured surprise. “No kidding?”

  He didn’t smile back at her. “No kidding.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind next time I have call to slip inside an abandoned building in New England—”

  “This one’s posted with several dozen No Trespassing and Danger signs.”

  “So I noticed. Sorry. Live and learn, I guess. Look, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just be on my way. I’m not used to this cold weather. I’ve got to get back to my van and warm up my toes.”

  She spotted her hat hanging on a lath next to the gaping hole in the ceiling. What a mess he’d caused her to make. Holly didn’t look forward to crossing that bleak tundra of a football field with a bare head, but now wasn’t the time to be wimpish. And she wasn’t about to cross in front of him to retrieve her hat, such as it was.

  She began edging her way toward the front door. ‘Too bad we had to meet under such circumstances, but I guess that’s how it goes sometimes. Nice meeting you, Mr....”

  ‘‘Stiles. Julian Stiles.”