The Marsh Madness

Wanted it bad.

When the first call came, I wondered if it was a mistake. We had an invitation to a very special luncheon at Summerlea, a famous and usually inaccessible grand summer estate that was nothing if not worthy of daydreams. This chance to peek inside a robber baron’s extravagant country home would be a treat. And it would be a first for me aside from seeing it in photo spreads in Elle Decor and Vanity Fair. I was revved up about the invitation to the traditional getaway of the Kauffman family. The family was down to the last member: Chadwick Kauffman, heir to whatever was left. Even if the Kauffman name didn’t conjure up what it once had, it still screamed A-list in our part of the world. I was way beyond intrigued, imagining the treasures, art, books and antiquities. I hoped I’d manage to snoop around.

Full disclosure: The invitation was to Vera Van Alst, the curmudgeonly book collector and allegedly wealthy recluse I work for. I had merely handled the details with Chadwick Kauffman’s staff.

Although Vera wouldn’t admit this, an invitation of any sort was very good news. She continued to be the most hated woman in Harrison Falls, New York, and surrounding communities, although you’d think that people would be getting over that now. It definitely limited our collective social life.

Now Vera was invited to inspect and purchase a collection of Ngaio Marsh very fine first editions. I’d be there to assist her, while perusing and drooling over yet unknown items. I launched into my Web research immediately after the first call and learned that Summerlea was a massive and rambling building with groomed lawns that sloped down to a sparkling lake. This would be the kind of country home full of family retainers—and monograms on the ornate silverware. Would the Kennedys stop by? Would we have champagne? Probably not at noon. I wasn’t really clear on the rules for that. Did I need a petticoat? I almost hoped so.

The deckle-edged invitation came in the third week of March. We were summoned for the beginning of April, the first slot that Chadwick Kauffman would have time for us. So there’d be no strawberries in the gardens and no stroll on manicured lawns through the leafy grounds. Not here in upstate New York anyway.

The big question: What to wear?

I’d popped over to Betty’s Boutique, my favorite funky vintage shop in Harrison Falls, and scored a raspberry wool day dress, a perfectly preserved prize from nineteen sixty-three. That was one good reason to enjoy spring’s slow arrival. Jackie O would have worn this little number with white gloves. I might not be able to resist wearing a pair. There weren’t a lot of opportunities to sport those.

Summerlea was getting closer. I pictured the new spring grass, peppered with early blooming crocus.

Only two more sleeps to go.

I was interrupted in my happy thoughts by Vera, who rolled her wheelchair into our own grand foyer looking even grumpier than usual. Good Cat and Bad Cat (not their real names), her identical Siamese, sidled along beside her. I kept clear of Bad Cat, although it was always hard to know which one that was.

“Are you excited?” I chirped.

Vera had a voice like crunching gravel. “Miss Bingham, I expect that by now you would be aware that I do not get excited. And is it really necessary for you to sound quite so much like a budgie?”

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.