The Legend of Peg Powler
(A Sewing Box Mystery)
Chapter 1: Friday, November 1, 1991, 1:51 am
Chapter 2: Saturday October 29, 2011, 11:37 am
Chapter 3: Sunday October 30, 2011, 10:30 am
Chapter 4, Monday, October 31, 2012, 8:01 am, Halloween
Chapter 13: Monday, October 31, 2011, 11:02 am
Chapter 17 - Monday, October 31, 2011, 12:43 pm
Chapter 22 - Monday, October 31, 2011, 3:01 pm
After a brief, rather intense, side discussion, wherein Jeanette reminded Missy that she’d promised they’d be back to Minneapolis in time for the party and Missy pointing out what an exceptional opportunity this promised to be in order to get more information about the town and in particular, the case that brought them there, Peg Powler, it was decided that they should accept the invitation, provided certain terms were met.
The chauffeur stood stoically by. If he was listening to their conversation, his face never betrayed it. After being assured that they would be allowed to stop at their vehicle to retrieve some of their things and that, after tea, the driver would bring them back to their car, the two women, much to Jeanette’s chagrin, got in the back of the finely-appointed automobile and were whisked away.
Once at their car, Missy and Jeanette raided the trunk and grabbed their respective bags. It was their intention to freshen up a bit in the back of the limo ride over to the Oswig mansion. Both had the foresight to bring an extra top, though both were much too casual for such an event - they thought - neither had ever attended a formal tea, so, while visions of Bronte heroines filled their minds, they were not sure what was expected or what to expect.
With the window between the driver and passengers slid shut, Missy and Jeanette did what they could with wet wipes, deodorant, and whatever cosmetics they happened to have in their respective bags. Missy cautioned Jeanette against too much perfume, as she feared, if too overpowering, it might lend a less than favorable impression. After brushing their hair, they hastily scooped their things back into their bags and assessed the other’s work. Jeanette handed Missy a tissue, telling her to blot the lipstick she’d applied, in order to achieve a more natural look, while Missy brushed Jeanette’s hair back, away from her face so that her cheek bones came into focus.
From the main road they caught sight of the expansive mansion’s profile. It seemed impossibly long, with one ornate section lined up next to another, different widths, different heights, like a row of Gothic tenements all squeezed together; seven, in all, and yet, even from that great distance, something seemed a bit off.
After passing through a gateway quite similar to the one which had designated the city limits when they first arrived, they began to travel the lengthy tree-lined drive. Missy was awed by the thickness of the forest on either side; legacy trees, at least one hundred years old, lined up one after another, their branches entwining, forming a formidable canopy, blocking all light. The driver had to turn on the headlights in a matter of yards, lighting up the narrow road, its only distinguishable characteristic being that of the deep, well-worn tire grooves.
After a few tense minutes, there was a light at the end of the tunnel, an opening which gave way to the the bright autumn light, revealing before them the most bewildering sight; the mansion was in a horrible state, decaying, it’s various foundations having shifted and twisted, leaving portions of each section of the home pitching this way and that. Sections of roofing had come undone, ornate windows askew in their frames, doorways which either bulged or whose square corners had long ago lost all sense of regularity were in abundance. While its exterior’s embellishments were still evident, their surfaces had given way to peeling paint, revealing a drab, colorless veneer. That anyone could eke out a life within such a decomposing structure seemed entirely impossible.
Missy and Jeanette both held their breath out of fear, as the chauffeur steered the vehicle through a porte cochure wedged between two of the less stable looking sections of the house. Fortunately, the driver did not stop under the structure, but continued to the rear of one the more sturdy-looking edifices, where the remnants of a once grand garden led to a rather shabby backdoor.
As they made their way from the car to the entryway, stepping over and through the mottle of dried weeds and foliage, Missy took note of the house’s dry-rotted window panes, loosened siding, along with the bits of roof slate dotting their path. This was hardly the stately manor she’d imagined.
Of particular interest, a tall stone fountain, its magnificence obscured by layers of moss and other vegetation. Its appearance, so forlorn, it caused Missy to stop in her tracks. Moved, she couldn’t help but reached out and touch one of the few visible bits of stone, as if to share its pain. As she did so, she felt something unfurl within her, a rush of the quietest energy, rolling out and infusing her being. It was enough for her to recoil, as if she’d encountered an electric shock. Shaking her head, she wrote it off as her imagination.
“I’m afraid that one hasn’t been functional for decades, Miss. It was sculpted by an Italian master, brought to this country by the old man, himself. It’s a pity. It was once a thing of great beauty,” volunteered the chauffeur.
As he hastened the ladies inside, the driver again apologized, “Since parts of the house are no longer accessible, I’m afraid this is our safest option. I do hope you’ll forgive. It’s the galley entrance, and I’m afraid your introduction to the house will be through what’s left of the kitchen. The ladies of the house will be entertaining in the north sitting room this afternoon. Please, follow me.”
With that, Missy and Jeanette were led through a well-managed galley kitchen, lovingly cared for; the counters shined, as did the copper bottom pans and stainless steel utensils. Still, upon closer inspection, one could see how dated and used-up things were - the massive, heavy wrought iron stove glazed with centuries worth of cooking, the rows of worn cupboard doors, a trio of old, stout refrigerators with rounded corners and large, rectangular handles which they wore like giant medals of honor.
Missy, unable to resist, trailed a finger along the edge of one of the stainless steel counters as she passed.
She jumped.
Something… a spark? Like static electricity, it shot through her. Suddenly, she felt her body rise out of itself, expanding, as the room began to spin.
“Miss?” It was the chauffeur.”We mustn’t dawdle. The ladies are waiting.”
Missy, mortified, composed herself in an instant. “Sorry,” she muttered, her focus returning, her body lumbering forward. Jeanette shot her niece a wary look, but Missy chose to ignore it.
Once through the kitchen, a door opened upon what had once been a grand dining room, dominated by a long table which easily could have sat two dozen. The chairs, save three at the far end, sat about the table covered in cloth, looking like ghosts waiting for dinner. The three that were visible were a rich, reddish wood with ornately-carved backs, featuring some sort of fruit entwined with a vine. Along the table’s surface, large candelabras with dangling crystals held white taper candles, though only the ones nearest the the three uncovered chairs had ever been lit.
It struck Missy as a scene poised to happen, as if life had simply halted. The large credenza which dominated the wall opposite the kitchen door, was carved with a motif similar to that of the chairs. On it’s wide marble top stood two larger candelabras which matched those lining the table and three silver chafing dishes with scrolling legs and handles, their mouths gaping open as if waiting to be fed. Above the credenza, a large panoramic painting of a white-bearded man standing stoically, one hand clasping a book, the other his lapel. At his feet, he was surrounded by three oval-faced beauties dressed in puff-sleeved gauzy gowns tied with a colored ribbon at the waist. The man’s eyes gazed skyward, while the three women stared directly at the viewer, their eyes like those of discovered, apprehensive deer, displaying more of a challenge than surprise or fear. The sky around them was threatening, but directly behind them, a light glowed as if from the heavens. They sat on a rocky terrain, with a dark river roiling in the background. In the painting’s distance, Missy could just make out a tiny cliff, similar to the one they had just discovered down at the river.
The chauffeur cleared his throat, startling Missy back to the present. Again, she was dawdling. “I’m so sorry.” Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she bowed her head and made her way to the door he held open. This led to a long hallway. On it’s papered walls hung a trail of maps and old documents, broken by the occasional formal painting of various dogs. Strings of amber glass beads decorated the wall sconces, their ancient flame-shaped bulbs lending a vintage shimmer and bringing to life the wall’s serpentine pattern. At the end of the hallway stood a set of double doors, which the chauffeur opened with a flourish.
The sitting room was large and expansive, with high ceilings. Three large windows populated the wall opposite the doorway, each covered in sheer fabric with heavy, gold brocade drapes acting as bookends. The light that poured through the curtain sheers bathed the room in a diaphanous luminescence, acting as a kind of filter, softening surfaces and shapes like Vaseline on the lens of a camera.
Staggered throughout the faded wall-to-wall carpeting were three distinct sitting areas, each populated by pieces of furniture - a comfortable chair, two wooden side tables - one with a lamp, the other strewn with books and papers - a coffee table, also loaded with books, and a small shelf unit containing books and various personal totems. Two long, cream-colored French provincial sofas sat at the center of the room facing one another, a large coffee table filled with tiers of sweet treats and a silver platter upon which sat a fancy silver tea urn and a series of mismatched cups on saucers.
In each of the sitting areas stood or sat an elderly woman. In the one closest to them, stood a tall elegant woman with high cheek bones and perfect posture. Missy immediately recognized her as Mary Oswig, the woman she and Jeanette had seen briefly during their last visit when they’d shopped at the Bainbridge dress shop in downtown St. Petersburgh. Her silver hair sat in a poof high upon her head, a knit shawl draped around her shoulders. Otherwise she was dressed almost exactly as they had last seen her, in a three-quarters length skirt and a high-collared lace blouse, looking like someone from another era. With an air of regalness, she welcomed the two visitors.
“Than you for coming, my dears. We greatly appreciate it. And on such short notice.” She ushered Missy and Jeanette toward the couches in the center of the room. “Of course, we’d only just learned that you were here. Both Arthur and Nathan were so kind as to contact us and let us know of your visit.”
Missy and Jeanette glanced at one another. Oh, dear. They then looked back to their host with a sense of ill ease. The woman, sensing their discomfort, laughed, “Oh, you needn’t worry. I’ve already smoothed things over with both of them and asked, that should you need further assistance, they are to be of service.
“We’re sorry,” offered Jeanette.
“You needn’t be. Misunderstandings happen all the time. Think nothing of it.” Standing in front of the tea table, she faltered, momentarily losing her sense of propriety. Upon recognizing her social faux pas, her eyes grew large as she apologized. “My goodness, please forgive me. Introductions are in order. You must understand that, these days, we don’t entertain much and visitors are something of a rarity. My name is Mary, I am the middle child, a daughter of Gerald Oswig, founding father of St. Petersburgh.”
She then moved to the next sitting area. Books about baking and pastries crowded the coffee table, along with a baker’s whisk and a mixing bowl. In the worn wing back, with her feet up on a matching ottoman, sat a rather plump woman, with rounded cheeks on either side of a tiny mouth which formed a polite smile. Her eyes were like bright blue berries pushed into risen dough. Mary waved a graceful hand in her direction, “This our youngest, Agnes. Since cook left us, she’s been helping out in the kitchen, though, it seems she’s currently only able to make sweets and pastries.”
Removing her feet from the ottoman, she leaned forward, offering a hand with patches of baking flour around the wrist which Missy and Jeanette took turns shaking. “Pleased to meet you. And please forgive the way I look. I made everything for our tea this morning, from scratch, and have just this minute finished with the kitchen.” She was dressed in a simple cream and green patterned dress, the sort Donna Reed used to wear with great flare on her television program, which is something Missy remembered, having grown up watching reruns after school on a local station. Agnes, her lips sporting bright red lipstick, had her hair done up in pin curls, with a few of the pins still in place. She heaved herself up and waddled toward the couch. “I do hope you like what I’ve made. Most are family favorites, though I did try out a new Petit four recipe; coffee mocha. I am anxious to hear your opinion.” Plopping herself down in the center of the couch facing away from the window, she called for the other sister, “Alma, dear? We have guests. It’s time for tea. I’ve made those strawberry tartlets your so fond of.”
In the silence which followed, Missy and Jeanette maneuvered themselves until they were standing in front of the couch facing the window. When no answer seemed forthcoming, Agnes repeated herself. “Alma, dear? It’s time for tea…”
“I’m not coming,” came the reply. Missy stared at the old woman seated on the far side of the room. She appeared to be little more than a lump of a human being, so bent over in her seat, it appeared her chin almost touched her knees. Mary gestured for Missy and Jeanette to follow her. As they approached, Missy could clearly see that old woman was compromised; she had a large hump between her shoulder blades, covered with a yarn shawl. Her hands, which rested on her knees, were gnarled with arthritis.Yet, it was obvious she did not live a life of neglect, for her silver hair sat about her head in a perfectly neat braided crown and her eyes, which peered up at the new visitors were clear and lively.
“This is my elder sister, Alma. She has mobility issues which frequently means we have tea over here in her section of the room, when she’s feeling up to it.” She then bent at the waist to catch her sister’s eye, “Alma! These are the young ladies whom…”
Up shot a knotted hand. “I know who they are,” she croaked. Beaming at Missy and Jeanette, to whom she now reached out, she shared a close-mouthed smile. “It’s a pleasure to have you in our home. I… we’ve heard so much about you.”
Missy bent forward and gently took the twisted hand into her own, softly stroking the back of Alma’s hand with her free one. She had meant to thank the old woman for having them in her home, but never got the chance, for the moment their hands touched an electricity, something akin to the static shock she’d experienced earlier in the galley, shot between them. It was a small, and insignificant thing, yet again, she felt herself lift up from her body and open, as the room began to spin. However, she wasn’t dizzy, instead it felt as though she was soaring. The light in the room grew brighter the more open to the experience Missy became, until she felt herself stretching, as if wrapping herself protectively around Alma. Something… was happening, an exchange of some kind.
Jeanette, believing that her niece was suffering some type of seizure, moved to pull Missy back to an upright position, but stopped short when Mary, who never took her eyes off what was happening, signaled with her right hand to not interfere.
From the center of the room, came the voice of Agnes, “Ladies! The tea is getting cold.” This distraction broke through Missy’s consciousness, causing whatever was transpiring to cease almost immediately, as Missy found herself drawn back into her own body. She gasped as she let go of Alma’s hand, staggering back into the waiting arms of Jeanette, who held her niece in check firmly by the shoulders. Not that she needed to, for Missy felt a sudden rush of energy, akin to the elation a body experiences when a heavy emotional weight has been lifted. Patting Jeanette on the arm, she turned about and smiled radiantly at her aunt. She then moved toward the pair of sofas in the center of the room and took a seat opposite the waiting Agnes, who had lit a small votive candle beneath the silver teapot.
Mystified, Jeanette followed. As she sat next to her niece, she couldn’t help but notice the pleased expression gracing Mary’s face from the opposite couch. She tried to draw Missy’s attention as well, but she appeared far too blissed out to engage.
Miss was busy admiring the room. It seemed so much brighter now. Cleaner, too. Water stains she thought she’d noticed earlier seemed to have disappeared. Even the carpet seemed more vibrant. Her mind tried to search for the source of her sudden contentment, but that’s when she realized that what she really wanted was a cup of tea and several of Agnes’s delicious-looking cakes.
Just as Agnes was about to say something, a commotion arose from the side of the room where Alma was seated. A cane, which had sat propped against the side of her armchair, had fallen forward, striking the edge of the coffee table in front of the old woman, toppling a pile of books which hit the carpeted floor with a thud. Jeanette rose immediately to put the cane back in its place, but Mary, again, raised a hand, halting her in her tracks.
The four women then watched as Alma, who, without too much effort, rose from her chair and without use of the cane, which she gingerly stepped over, made her way slowly toward the center of the room. She stood taller than Missy had expected, and from the relaxed look upon the old woman’s face, Missy could tell she felt little to no pain. Alma sat on the couch opposite Missy, next to her sister, Mary. On Alma’s face shone a secretive smile, aimed in Missy’s direction. Missy smiled in kind.
“Well, now that we’re all here,” sang the portly Agnes, “Let’s have some tea!”
Cakes were placed on plates. Cups on saucers, no longer cracked or chipped, were passed about. The tea was Earl Grey, served with a wedge of lemon and two sugar cubes which Missy was only too happy to make use of. Everything seemed perfect.
Missy couldn’t possibly explain why, but… she was positively delighted.
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1 comment:
Is Missy psychic?
Is there a connection with this old, decrepit place we'll learn about later?
How come she was able to get up and walk without the cane?
I have QUESTIONS!
XOXO
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