The Marsh Madness

Vera sneered. “Still can’t imagine it.”


“When I spoke to Lisa Troy, his assistant, she mentioned that Mr. Kauffman liked Ngaio Marsh because of her New Zealand connection. Apparently, he had a thing for the place.”

“Then the man’s a fool. Marsh is a giant of the Golden Age, but it’s not because of New Zealand, even if she did hail from there. I think she’s the best of the British writers of that era.”

“Well,” I said, calmly. “This should all make an interesting discussion when we have our luncheon at Summerlea.”

Vera snorted. “I’ve met him more than once. Kauffman’s no prize, if you ask me. Anyway, I’ve heard that the old coot is practically gaga. Collecting only one author is probably a symptom.”

“Um, the old coot,” I said as tactfully as I could, “is dead.”

“Magnus Kauffman is dead?”

“As a doornail, apparently. That’s why the invitation came from Chadwick Kauffman. He’s the heir and the person we’ll be meeting.”

“So old Kauffman’s dead, is he? When did this happen?”

“Late this past year, Miss Troy, the assistant, told me. In the fall.”

She assumed her scowliest expression. “I thought I would have heard something.”

For sure Magnus Kauffman’s death would have made news, certainly the New York Times, but we’d been otherwise occupied.

“If you remember, we had a lot on our mind around Thanksgiving.”

Vera’s brow darkened. We never speak of the events of last November. I’ll say for the record that the weeks before Thanksgiving brought bad times to Van Alst House and a close call for Vera and her entire collection, as well as for my job and the life we all love. But that, as they say, is a story for another day.

I kept going. “Mr. Kauffman left everything to his nephew, Chadwick, his only close relative.”

“Really? You mean all those fine old families intermarrying are now reduced to one impoverished relative?”

“Um, hardly impoverished. I checked him out. He has a number of businesses, including the Country Club and Spa, an exclusive establishment over in Grandville. I’m pretty sure I’ve even seen coverage of his charity events in the New York Times Sunday Styles.”

“I must have missed that, Miss Bingham.” Vera glowered.

Silly of me. As if Vera—who took the New York Times every day for the crossword—would ever read the Sunday Styles section. What was I thinking?

I didn’t try to explain that it had been a charity event at the Country Club that had been covered, with women in gorgeous gowns and men in formal wear. “The point is that Chadwick has made a name for himself and he took an interest in the, um, elder Mr. Kauffman.”

“I bet he did. I guess it paid off for him, then. But why is he selling off the Marshes?”

“Not sure. His interests lie elsewhere, as I said. Maybe he wants the collection to go to a good home, say, for instance, here.”

“Maybe there’s not much left of the estate and he’s starting to sell it off. Anyway, not sure I want to meet him at all,” she sniffed. “He sounds like a drip. What kind of man finds himself in the Styles section? I am sure he doesn’t have any interest in us.”

Oh no. It would be just like Vera to turn her back on this wonderful opportunity and cancel the lunch. After all, she couldn’t care less about other people’s historic houses, and she’d only wear one of her hideous and bedraggled beige sweaters to the event, possibly a cardigan that had been donated to the Goodwill by a retiring goat herder. I clung to my dream of wearing my raspberry dress to Summerlea.

“Chadwick Kauffman is interested in you, Vera—”

I hate it when she harrumphs. It’s a sound that haunts my nightmares.