Part 2 – In Which Bridie’s House is Filled with Posts

If only Grandpa was there to greet me as I entered the kitchen. I nearly began looking for him sitting on the stools by the counter, grinning warmly at me. But the only other people in the kitchen were the cook and the gardener.

“Mr. Post, how many times have I told you not to slam the kitchen door?” Mrs. Post’s hearty voice rang throughout the dining room.

I took in the familiar scene.

Mrs. Post’s face was getting redder by the second, and she held a spatula with a death grip like she was liable to kill someone.

Mr. Post held a box of vegetables with face like he wanted to drop it on the large woman’s toes.

I wouldn’t have put it past either of them to do exactly those things.

“That stained glass window has been there for generations, and I intend to keep it that way!”

The gardener stomped his foot. “I don’t care how long it’s been there. A door’s a door and doors are made for using. I’m gonna use this one the way I choose.”

“Over my dead body!”

“You really mean it?” He growled, and I’m afraid he really meant it.

Then, like I didn’t know better, I walked right up to them and said: (not at all impolitely.) “Mr. Post, please do be careful with the door.”  and only then remembered something much to late as Mr. Post’s face went several shades darker.

Then he did drop the crate, (Only inches from Mrs. Post’s toes) storm out the kitchen door with a huff.

Both Mrs. Post and I dove to save the door.

“That man!” She said in a way one might say a really bad cuss word. Then she said: “Now, Miss Baxter, let’s get on with you breakfast.” as though nothing had happened at all.

I doused my German pancakes in maple syrup, scarfed them down and left the kitchen as soon as I possibly could.

I began walking through the mansion, refreshing my memory. The display case in the hall still showed off the random items it had when I was little: Shiny rocks, a lamp, a golden apple christmas ornament. In the study, the knight suit still wielded its curtain rod. A bucket that stank of weed killer sat in its usual place next to the computer. Then I came to the sitting room.

The piano was no long by the bookshelf and the bookshelf was no longer where it should be. The piano was next to the fire place and the fireplace no longer had a tv above it.

I began moving the furniture back to it’s proper places. The bookshelf in the corner, the piano next to the bookshelf, the couch in front of the fireplace. The tv itself was nowhere to be seen. I set off to find Darcy.

She stood in the study, dusting a large globe in the middle of the room. “Hallo, Birdy!” She dusted my nose with her feather duster. “How are you settling in?”

I sneezed. “Rather well, I suppose.” I brushed the dust off my nose with my black sweater sleeve. “Do you know where the tv from the main sitting room went?”

Darcy though a little then laughed. “I believe Mrs. Post moved it as soon as you left three years ago, but Mr. Baxter made her put it back. I’ll bet she moved it again.”

In some far part of my mind I remembered Grandpa yelling at Mrs. Post to ‘leave the damn piano alone.’ I smiled sadly. “I remember now. Where do you think she put it?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

Without replying, I left and went to the kitchen.

In front of the stove, holding a a soup ladle like a weapon, stood Mrs. Post. The large cook looked up as I entered.

“Mrs. Post, have you seen the tv that used to be in the main sitting room?” I warily eyed the produce bin, praying that Mr. Post hadn’t brought tomorrows vegetables today.

Mrs. Post turned back to her work and stirred a pot of stew. “Probably the attic. No one should waste time infront of a screen — especially with such beautiful weather like this.” She motioned towards the window.

As if on cue, it started to pour.

The cook frowned.

I laughed.

She waved it off. “Rain, rain, go away. Come again another day.”

Sopping Mr. Post entered the kitchen with a grunt.

I lunged to save the door.

The gardener wrung out his hat. “I hope it rains a long, long while. And as it rains I’ll sing and smile.”

Both Posts frowned, eyes narrowed with challenge.

I backed out of the room hurriedly. “Thank you Mrs. Post. If you need me, I’ll be in the attic.”

Neither paid me any heed so I ran.

Part 1 – In Which Bridie Inherits the Baxter Mansion

How many times can one say: “I’ve inherited my dead relative’s possessions.”

I, Bridie Baxter, have said this not once — not twice — but three times in my short sixteen years.

The first time, I received my great aunt Jessica’s sweater collection, consisting of three-hundred-plus articles ranging in fabric and color. (Which I use extensively.)

The second, it was my parents, who left me everything they owned. (But apparently they had a large amount of both debts and enemies who willed their poverty, as I ended up just as poor as before they died.)

But neither prepared me for what came next.

As soon as I could walk and speak, my parents dumped me into the unexpecting arms of Grandpa Baxter. Loving me dearly, but not fully knowing what to do with a child, he sent me off to boarding school for most of my short years. I stayed with him during vacation breaks until the age of thirteen, when my parents decided I had become old enough to accompany them on their eccentric world travels. After that, I never saw Grandpa Baxter ever again.

But now as I sat in the pews of the old Roseville church, surrounded by cranky relatives, I barely heard the balding preacher say:

“And to his granddaughter Bridie Baxter, his Roseville estate, his fortune, and belongings.”

Most girls might laugh, scream, or even cry. But I only sat in horrified silence as every head turned to me with a look of jealous hatred.

I was rich.

I was socially secure.

I was dead meat.

~*~

The mystery surrounding Grandpa Baxter’s death was, well… just that. A mystery.

No one knew how he died, much less why such a healthy man could suddenly drop dead. There were no wounds on the body. The police came to the conclusion of poison. Possibly suicide.

But I knew better. There  was no reason for his death except–possibly–

Murder.

~*~

Gazing out the window of a 50’s limo, I looked up at the welcoming sight before me.

Ivy climbed the walls of the old Baxter mansion, shadowing the red brick walls and caressing the peeling white trim and tacky evergreen shutters. The rounding driveway brought us up to the tall, dark doors, which immediately opened as I placed a sneakered foot on the gravel driveway. A familiar face greeted me in the doorway.

“Miss Baxter, it is a pleasure to see you again.” The old butler smiled. “My, you have grown in to a fine lass.”

Tucking a raven lock behind my ear I smiled back, though rather shyly. “Thank you, Sebastian. Though I’m afraid I haven’t grown much taller.”

“Beautiful all the same, lassie.” Sebastian bent to take my suitcases. “Right this way and I will show you to your room.”

Feeling a delightful sense of deja-vu, I pulled my hands even farther into the sleeves of my over-sized sweater and followed my old friend. (Not unlike the way I did when I was six.)

I smiled at the bedroom Sebastian placed my belongings in. Everything was the way I had left it: my stuffed kitty (Suzie) placed lovingly on the frilly, cream canopy bed; drawings littered the vintage wallpaper; two sweater-filled wardrobes stood on either side of the bay window seat; hardwood toy chest sat in the corner.

“I will leave you to get comfortable.” Sebastian said, bowed, and left.

The rest of my chests (mostly sweaters) had already been placed in the middle of my room.  All of the chests were the same: black, metal, paper lined, filled with three-hundred-plus sweaters.

All except one.

I knelt beside the wooden chest. Taking the key off the chain around my neck, I unlocked and lifted the lid. breathing in the scent of African sand, Mexican spices and English tea, I surveyed the treasures of my adventures. Atop the pile sat an album. I didn’t need to open it to know what lay inside: Pictures and keepsakes from Paris, London, Rome, Madagascar — You name it, me and my parents had been there. Each page was a collage of far off places. All but the last page, which was filled only with pictures of me and Grandpa Baxter.

“Breakfast is ready, Ma’am.” A familiar voice said.

“Darcy.” I turned with a smile, then frowned, confused. “You’re a maid?”

Some how Darcy looked like a supermodel, even in her classic maid uniform. She was much taller than I remembered, and not only because of her three inch heels. (Which were no doubt not part of the official uniform.)  One thing hadn’t changed though. I was still jealous as ever of her beautiful blonde hair.

Cocking a hip, Darcy smiled. “Of course. It runs in the family, remember?” (It did. Eighty-seven years, in fact.) “Now are you hungry or not?”

I was, and my stomach rumbled in response.

With a light laugh, Darcy turned on a black heel. “Come on, Birdy.”

Smiling, I didn’t argue.

As the smell of Mrs. Post’s famous German Pancakes wafted through the halls of Baxter Mansion, I began to feel more at home than I had in three long years.

There was only one thing missing.