A Fugitive Truth: An Emma Fielding Mystery - By Dana Cameron Page 0,2

was really taking his time; he could have guessed from looking at me that I claim to be five nine and then compared the rest of the information with that on the acceptance letter. I mean, no one’s license looks just like them, but he should have at least believed his own eyes. Something was going on here.

“Can I have my key, please?” I asked, a little miffed. I was tired and my magic word wasn’t opening Ali Baba’s cave.

Abruptly the guard, or whoever he was, handed me my license and a key on a fancy key chain. “No need to get testy. Here’s a key to the house—please don’t lose it. You’ll find a packet waiting for you there with all the information you’ll need. Please familiarize yourself with our security protocols. Stop by the main office in the library annex tomorrow morning to get your picture taken for your I.D. I’ll expect you at nine.” He looked at me shivering, then surveyed the dirt-and-salt-covered Civic and was similarly unimpressed. “Promptly. Ask for me, Mr. Constantino.”

“Thanks.” I rolled up my window with a hand I could barely feel. The striped barrier rose up hesitantly, as if reluctant to admit me. “Jerk,” I muttered, as I got the car into gear and drove up the hill.

I pulled up the long sloping drive, both sides lined with woods. The trees were huge stately things that gradually thinned out into a large, open area near the summit of the hill to reveal the house. “House” seemed too small and too warm a word to describe the structure. What I saw was a three-story stone mansion, built at the very height of the Gothic revival. The main part of the house had arched windows and was fronted by a tall rectangular tower with a castellated roof. It didn’t matter that the skinny towers that were on either side of the center-hall tower were only decorative, and it didn’t matter that this summer residence wasn’t truly on the scale of the Newport cottages: this place was designed to impress. I knew that I was blown away.

I pulled off the road to the small parking lot at the back of the house and could see fragments of the road twisting down and around a number of small rises, leading north to the library annex, I figured. It was clear that the house and other buildings were in the southwest corner of the enormous property, because I could see the fence following the stream to the west, and nothing but gently rolling hills, valleys, and woods to the east and south. I noted with some irony that Monroe was obscured, being behind the next hill to the south—nothing to obscure the views of sunrise and sunset, nothing to remind the former—or present—inhabitants of Shrewsbury of the world outside. The stream marked part of the western boundary, then cut across and down the slope on which the house sat, following the road for a while before it cut across that in a culvert and flowed off to the south.

I tried the door near the lot and found that my key opened the lock: at last. That led to a large eat-in kitchen that looked like it might have been scaled down for more limited use after the family and its staff had left. Contrary to the medieval-looking exterior, it was modern with a stainless steel gas range and refrigerator. It was the sort of setup that Brian and I drooled over but could never think of affording; at this point, I was glad to have walls where they were called for in the kitchen, never mind gourmet accoutrements. A small staircase, presumably for the servants, led up from the kitchen. Leaving that room, I passed a small dining room opposite the kitchen on the central hall, and farther down, there was a monstrous staircase suitable for descending debutantes, epic sword fights, and banister sliding. At the bottom of the stairs, a parlor was off to the right, and to the left was a study. Right in front of me was the foyer and front entryway.

In the front hall was a small table with discreet notices left for residents, and I found my packet there. There was also a Victorian coat stand, the sort with a seat, hooks, and an umbrella rack, just like Grandpa Oscar and Grandma Ida used to have in Cambridge. On the table I found a room key marked 3, and so began the