Page 15 of The Lost Heiress
The young man waiting for her in the foyer couldn’t possibly be the detective, Florence thought. He looked too young to be in charge of a case like this. He was practically a child.
“Detective Church?” she asked tentatively, and the man turned to face her.
“Mrs. Talbot,” he said warmly, reaching out a hand.
Florence shook it. “Senator Towers informed me you’d like a tour of the house,” she said.
“Yes, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” Church said.
“It’s no trouble at all,” Florence said. “We can begin with the ballroom, if you like? It’s right down the hall here.”
“Lead the way,” Church said.
Florence turned, and Church followed her down the foyer and to the left.
“May I ask, Mrs. Talbot,” Detective Church said as they walked, “how long have you been the housekeeper here?”
Florence had to think a moment. “Let’s see,” she said. “I believe Nixon was president.”
“You’ve been with the family since the 1970s?” Church asked, sounding shocked.
Florence laughed. “Detective, I’ve been with the family since 1941. I was born here,” Florence went on quickly. “Quite literally. My mother was a scullery maid; she was hired on during the war. Nobody knew she was pregnant with me until she went into labor while stacking peach preserves in the cellar. Gave the cook quite the scare.”
“I can imagine,” Church said. “Did your father work here as well?”
“No,” Florence said wistfully. When she was a little girl, her mother used to show her a picture of a man in uniform that she wore in a locket around her neck. Blond hair, bearded face, a steady gaze. John Talbot was his name. Florence used to look at that photograph and try to puzzle out which parts of her belonged to him, but she never could settle on a likeness.
“He died in the war,” Florence said, which is what she always said when someone asked about her father, though no one had asked about her father in a very long time. The truth was Florence didn’t know if he died in the war, or if his name was John Talbot, or if he really was her father. The only thing she knew definitively was that he never came back.
“I’m sorry,” Detective Church said.
Florence paused in front of a set of large wrought iron doors with glass inserts. She fiddled with the key ring she wore hooked to her belt until she found the right one.
“Here we are, then,” she said, inserting the key into the lock and turning it. “The ballroom.”
“Let me get that for you, Mrs. Talbot,” Detective Church said, stepping forward to open and hold the door for her. “It looks heavy.”
“Thank you,” Florence said, a little taken aback. It had been ages since someone had held open a door for her. Once a routine gesture but nowadays a rare one, and it meant something to Florence.
The room was dark, and when Florence flicked on the lights, it took them a minute to come on—they sputtered and flickered across the space, as if they had been asleep for a long time and were slow to wake.
The room was long—at least a third of a football field in length, with a ceiling soaring over thirty feet high above them. It was empty, save for a stray round table scattered here and there, unadorned, and stacks of chairs. There was a chandelier in the center, at least twenty feet in circumference, lowered for cleaning so that it hovered just inches from the floor. A step stool and a bucket sat absently next to it. Across the room were floor-to-ceiling windows and two sets of large French doors leading out onto the terrace.
“I’ll get the handyman to take a look at that,” Florence said, glancing up at the one light directly above them that still refused to come on, leaving them standing partially in shadow. “It’s been a while since the room has seen any use.”
A whilewas a generous statement—the last time the room had been used was for a charity ball when the senator was still a congressman. There was so much dust in the air that it made Florence’s eyes water, her nose itch.
“Do you mind if I take a few pictures?” Detective Church asked.
Florence shook her head. “By all means.”
She watched the detective intently as he meandered around the room, stepping back into this corner or that to take a wide shot.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Florence said, “how long have you been with the sheriff’s office, Detective?”
Church clicked his camera and then glanced down to examine the shot on the digital screen. “Oh, about ten years now,” he said.
“Ten years, my,” Florence said.
