The scent of cinnamon rolls drifted through the open window of Maeve Higgins’s ten-year-old Subaru Forester as she pulled into a parking space on the Town Square. She cut the engine and sat for a moment, rehearsing the cover story. A grant application. The Virginia Heritage Trust. It was thin, but Clara Bellweather loved a good research project.
The Oakhaven Historical Society occupied the old train depot, a red-brick building with a cupola and an original ticket window that now displayed sepia photographs of the town’s 1920s streetcar line. Maeve pushed open the heavy oak door and found Clara at her desk, peering over reading glasses at a scrapbook.
“Maeve! What a lovely surprise. I thought you’d still be recovering from Monday.”
“Clara, I’m sorry to drop in without calling. I need your help.” Maeve set her bag on a chair.
“For you, always. What’s the project?”
“A grant from the Virginia Heritage Trust. They require a full chain of title for the property as part of the application, and I was hoping you might have some of the older records here.”
Clara’s face brightened. “The Claggett Collection! This way.” She led Maeve past glass cases of arrowheads and Civil War buttons to a back room lined with steel shelving. “It has copies of nearly every land transfer in Oakhaven since 1910. Dorothy Claggett was a meticulous woman. She paid a law firm in Woodstock to duplicate the county records in the 1970s. Twenty-five cents a page, if you can imagine.”
Maeve couldn’t, but she smiled anyway.
Clara pulled three heavy black binders from a shelf and opened the first on a long oak table. “Now. The Gardens’ original parcel was deeded in 1924. Here’s the plat map.” She turned the binder so Maeve could see.
Maeve traced the lines with her finger. The five-acre back parcel was clearly marked, separate from the formal gardens. “Is there any language attached to this section? Restrictions, covenants?”
Clara flipped through several laminated pages. “Not a word. The formal gardens are protected by the historical preservation easement, recorded in 1987. But the back acreage?” She shook her head. “It’s just land. Julian knows that, I’m sure.”
“I was afraid of that.” Maeve kept her voice neutral.
“Is this about the board meeting next week? I heard Julian and David Chen have been—well, I hear things.” Clara’s tone was gentle.
“I need every scrap of documentation I can get.”
Clara nodded and turned to a different shelf. “I was compiling some old Gazette clippings last week. Your mention of 1924 reminded me. I found the strangest little notice.” She retrieved a scrapbook bound in green cloth and flipped it open near the back. “Here. From August of 1937.”
She cleared her throat and read aloud. “Estate of Elspeth Thorne. Notice is hereby given that the estate of Elspeth Thorne, deceased, late of the Maryland State Hospital, remains unclaimed. Any persons having knowledge of heirs are requested to contact the Register of Wills, Baltimore City.” Clara looked up. “Can you imagine? Another Elspeth Thorne. Right here in Oakhaven.”
Maeve’s mouth went dry. She reached for the scrapbook. “May I see?”
Clara slid it over. “A coincidence, surely. It was a common enough name at the turn of the century. Elspeth was the seventh most popular girl’s name in Virginia in 1896, according to a census analysis I read. I almost didn’t keep the clipping.”
Maeve stared at the tiny square of newsprint, yellowed and brittle. The real Elspeth. Dead in a state hospital, her estate unclaimed, and no one had come looking. She forced herself to close the scrapbook. “Strange the things that get forgotten.”
“Oh, history is ninety percent things that get forgotten.” Clara pulled the scrapbook back, unbothered. “Now, let’s look at the 1925 survey. That might have some boundary notes.”
They spent the next twenty minutes bent over plats and transfer documents. Maeve absorbed every detail she could about the back acreage’s legal status, but the clipping kept surfacing in her mind. She was here to research deeds, not to chase ghosts, and yet the ghost had found her.
The front door of the depot opened with a soft click. Footsteps crossed the old floorboards, unhurried.
“Clara? Oh, I’m interrupting.”
Maeve turned. Beatrice Thorne stood in the doorway of the back room, one hand resting on the frame. She wore a cream silk blouse and a single strand of pearls. For a woman of seventy-eight, she took up a great deal of space.
“Ms. Higgins.” Her voice was quiet, pleasant, and entirely unreadable.
“Ms. Thorne.” Maeve found her own voice steady.
Beatrice stepped inside. “What brings you to our little archive?”
“A grant application. The Virginia Heritage Trust wants documentation of the property’s history.” The lie came smoothly now.
Beatrice nodded slowly. “The Gardens are fortunate to have such a diligent director.” Her gaze moved to the binders on the table, then back to Maeve’s face. “I trust you’re finding everything in order.”
“Clara’s been wonderfully thorough.”
“Good.” The word hung in the air. Beatrice’s eyes, sharp and intelligent, gave Maeve a long, cold, assessing look that had nothing to do with small talk. “I wouldn’t want anything overlooked.”
Maeve held the gaze. “Neither would I.”
A pause. Then Beatrice turned to Clara. “When you have a moment, I’d like to see the photograph collection of the 1950s Founder’s Day picnics. My father appears in quite a few, and I’m having them reproduced for the family album.”
“Of course, right this way.” Clara glanced at Maeve. “Will you be all right?”
“I should be going. The grant application won’t write itself.” Maeve gathered her bag.
Clara walked her to the front door while Beatrice waited by the photograph cabinets. The morning sun had burned off the last of the overnight chill, and the Town Square smelled of warm sugar from the Sweet Magnolia Bakery. Maeve spotted a handwritten sign in the bakery window: *Apple cider donuts — $3.50.*
At the door, Clara touched her arm. “Before you go—did I ever tell you about Beatrice’s father?”
Maeve turned.
“Arthur Thorne. He had a peculiar habit.” Clara’s voice was cheerful, as if sharing a piece of harmless gossip. “Every year on the anniversary of the Gardens’ founding, the sixth of May, he used to hold a bonfire out behind the mansion. He said it was to clear out old, unimportant family papers. Isn’t that a charming tradition?”
Maeve felt the chill run down her back before she could stop it. The sixth of May had been two days ago.
“Charming,” she said.
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