“Who lived on this land before the commune bought up all the property?” I asked.
“It belonged to my grandfather and his brothers. As they died off, their children inherited the land. Two of them returned to France and another one died, until Trudy and my father were the only ones left. When my family moved to the city, Trudy stayed and leased the land to a few local farmers, until I came back years later and asked to take it on. She was more than happy to relinquish all that responsibility, and the commune continues to pay her a monthly dividend.”
“Then we’ll talk to Trudy,” I said.
Derek told Guru Bob that he planned to take pictures of the objets d’art and send them to his contacts at Interpol in case they’d been reported stolen by their owners.
“If more damage was done, it is best to find out sooner than later,” Guru Bob said, agreeing with Derek’s plan. “There has been too much secrecy. Even Trudy has never been willing to share stories of what happened to her during the war, but I have a feeling she will open up to Derek if she knows that it is part of a bigger mystery.”
“I’m sure she will,” I said, confident of Derek’s powers of persuasion.
Guru Bob’s frown softened into a smile. “My cousin does love her mysteries. And she has always had a soft spot for the British.”
*
“Trudy is so excited to meet you,” Mom said to Derek the next day as he drove across town to meet Guru Bob’s cousin—or first cousin once removed, to be precise. “And you’ll love her. She’s a sweetie pie.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting her, too,” he said.
I’d given Mom the front seat while I sat in back with a pretty pink bakery box on my lap.
Trudy lived a half mile on the opposite side of the Lane from us, on a pretty, hilly street lined with sycamore trees and California bungalows of every color and size. Hers was painted pale blue with white trim, and the wide front porch held a set of cheerful white wicker chairs, perfect for relaxing on warm fall afternoons.
Trudy was smiling as she greeted us at the door, wearing chic slim jeans and a pretty green sweatshirt over a preppy blue-collared shirt. She was as tall as I was, about five feet eight, and her hair was a beautiful shade of light reddish brown.
I introduced her to Derek, and she took his arm, pulling him into the house. “I’ve heard all about you. You saved our Brooklyn’s life.”
“She’s saved my life as well, on more than one occasion.”
“Isn’t that sweet? I like you so much already.” She turned and beckoned me and Mom to follow. “Come in, come in. Amelia, is the tea ready?”
“Yes, yes,” groused Trudy’s companion, Amelia, as she fluffed up the pillows on the sofa in Trudy’s living room. “What do you think I’ve been doing?”
I had never seen Amelia in a good mood, but Trudy seemed to take her companion’s curmudgeonly attitude in stride. The woman was in her forties and wore a drab blue plaid dress that hung down to her calves, with a gray cardigan buttoned all the way up. Her hair was dirty blond tinged with gray and it hung in straggly clumps to her shoulders. She was a complete contrast to Trudy’s brightness, cheery attire, and attitude.
I vaguely recalled that the two of them had met in the hospital when Trudy was laid up with a broken leg—or was it a fractured hip? Amelia needed a job, and Trudy hired her to be her cook, housekeeper, and general companion. Or something like that. I would have to get the complete story from my mother later.
“Wonderful,” Trudy said, clapping her hands. “We’ll have tea momentarily. And, Amelia, will you look at what Brooklyn brought? Our favorite cookies from Sweet Nothings.”
“Sugar cookies?” Amelia asked, entrenched frown lines digging across her forehead.
“Yes, sugar cookies,” I said. “They’re my favorite, too. Melt in your mouth.” I handed her the box, and as she grabbed it, she almost grinned. That is, she bared her teeth at me, and I was willing to take that as a smile.
“Can I help you with anything?” I asked, following her into Trudy’s charming country kitchen.
“No,” Amelia said curtly, pointing toward the living room. “Go sit down, and I’ll bring everything out shortly.”
“Okeydokey.” I could take the hint. I headed back to the front room, where Trudy was clutching Derek’s arm as she led him around the frilly room and showed off some of her favorite tchotchkes. The room was full of them: a glass hummingbird hanging off a lampshade; a Belleek porcelain bell; a tiny cloisonné pillbox in the shape of a lady’s handbag; and lots of books, along with dozens of framed photographs on every surface.