a lamp harp, old newspapers, and a rusted plant stand – all junk. But Holly suspected some of this stuff might be of value; that Victrola, for instance, or the lamp – Tiffany, if she wasn’t mistaken – standing in the corner. She spotted a charming wicker settee; with a bit of cleanup and re-caning, it’d be perfect for the entryway. Her father really needed to take a look at this stuff. He knew a lot more about antiques than she did.
After noting the items on Coco’s inventory list – Victrola, Tiffany lamp, wicker settee – Holly straightened up to leave. She glanced down at her skirt in dismay. Cobwebs clung to her fingers as she brushed the dust and dirt from her knees, and she sneezed again. Damn Coco, anyway.
As she made her way around the jumble of boxes and junk and headed to the door, Holly felt a cool breeze drift past her face. She came to an abrupt stop. Was one of the windows open? Her glance strayed to the tiny windows at either end of the attic but they were both firmly shut, and looked as if they hadn’t been opened in years.
Holly shrugged, feeling just a little spooked, and turned to go. There must be an explanation for the breeze; she just didn’t have a clue what it might be.
Again, a slight stirring of the air rooted her once more to the spot. She smelled, very faintly, the scent of lavender and citrus, with just a hint of vanilla, and she swore she felt the brush of a silk glove against her hand. Panicked, Holly stumbled backwards as goose bumps rose on her arms. She had the oddest feeling that something – no, someone – was in the attic with her.
Yet she wasn’t afraid. Whatever – whoever – it was meant no harm; she knew that, somehow. Suddenly she noticed the fire escape. How had she missed it? It was nothing more than a short ladder leading to a narrow iron door; it opened out onto the roof, and was hidden behind the pile of boxes she’d just finished investigating.
Feeling herself compelled forward, Holly retraced her steps and came to stand before the fire escape. She hesitated, then climbed the short ladder to the door and tried the handle, but it was rusted firmly shut.
Sirens wailed nearby, and Holly glanced down at her watch, surprised to see it was nearly lunchtime. She turned to climb back down the ladder, more than ready to get out of this creepy attic and go grab a ham and cheese sandwich. Halfway down she felt the sticky, persistent strands of a spider’s web against her face. Holly let out a gasp of disgust and frantically brushed the web away. Coco would so pay for this...
It was then that she saw it. Wrapped in a blanket, wedged under one of the eaves, the object was large and oblong. It looked almost like...a picture of some sort.
Curious, Holly leaned forward as far as she could, still clutching the ladder with one hand, and closed her fingers over one corner of the object. She tugged, it didn’t budge. She tugged again, harder, and this time, with a shower of dirt and a cloud of dust, it dislodged and slid forward.
She caught it with both hands, hoping to hell she didn’t fall off the ladder. It was heavier than she’d thought, and covered in a thick layer of dust. She sneezed, and sneezed again. Staggering slightly under the bulk of it, she backed the rest of the way down the ladder, relieved when she reached the floor. She slid the thing – whatever it was – down her legs to the ground, her heart racing with exertion.
What was it? How had it ended up here? And why was it shoved under the eaves?
Despite her growling stomach and her strong desire to leave, Holly’s curiosity got the better of her. She leaned the mysterious object against a stack of boxes and reached out to pull the blanket off.
She let out a soft breath as the blanket fell away. It was a portrait...a painting of a young woman.
She wore a glittery black evening gown and leaned back, one hand resting on the edge of a piano, the other holding a champagne glass. Her dark hair was cut in a stylish bob; her smiling, cupid’s-bow lips were rouged, and her eyes – dark, like her hair – were kohled. An ornate art deco necklace of onyx and diamonds circled her throat. Her shoulders were bare.
She was a flapper, Holly realized with a thrill of excitement, and she was breathtakingly beautiful.
Again the scent of lavender and vanilla drifted on the air, and Holly thought she heard the faint sound of laughter, light and musical. She frowned. “Who’s there?” she demanded, her eyes searching the shadowy corners uneasily. “Hello?”
But as quickly as it came, the laughter and the scent of perfume adrift on the air vanished.
Holly turned back to the painting. What to do with it? She hated to leave it up here, but there was no way she could drag it down the stairs. And – she didn’t know why, exactly – but she definitely didn’t want Coco to know about this portrait.
She reached into her pocket and withdrew her cell phone. “Dad?” she said breathlessly as soon as he picked up. “I found something in the attic. You should come up and take a look.”
“Holly, I’m terribly busy. Ask Coco to look at it, she’s in charge of the attic inventory and the disposal of all the bric-a-brac—”
“This isn’t ‘bric-a-brac,’ Dad,” she said firmly. “It’s an old portrait I found stuck under one of the eaves. It might...it might be valuable. Please come up and see it. It won’t take long, I promise.”
He let out a long, aggrieved sigh. “Very well, I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
Holly thanked him and clicked “end call,” then slid the phone back in her pocket.
The breeze returned, carrying the scent of lavender and vanilla once again, and this time, it was stronger than ever. Holly froze.
“Who’s there?” she demanded again, louder this time. “Who are you? You can come out,” she added cautiously. “You won’t get in trouble, I promise.”
She waited, half expecting to see a homeless person dart out and scurry across the floor to the stairs, or maybe a customer who’d crept upstairs to snoop around, or an antiques dealer who wanted to get a first look at the stuff up here.
But there was no one.
“I’m here,” Alastair said a moment later, as he appeared in the doorway and made his way across the attic to join her. “Where’s this painting you insisted I come and see?”
“It’s over here.”
He followed her to the portrait propped up against the boxes. He studied it without speaking, his brow knitted in a frown. “Where did you find this?”
“It was stuck under the eaves, over there,” she said, and pointed in the general direction of the fire escape. “Isn’t it something?”
He nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “It is, indeed. She’s beautiful.” He glanced at Holly. “The question is – who is she? And why is her painting hidden away up here?”
“I don’t know,” Holly admitted, “but I’d love to find out. How much do you know about this brownstone, Dad?”
He shrugged. “Not much. I bought it through an estate broker in London. I didn’t set foot in the place until after Sir Richard signed the deed. It was built at the turn of the last century,
