CHAPTER SIX

I finally meet Paolo the next morning at breakfast. I head downstairs at six a.m. as always to prepare myself coffee but find a swarthy, barrel-chested gentleman with long hair gathered in a bun in the kitchen.

He looks at me and nods very formally. "You must be Mary Wilcox."

I blush a little. Given his exotic look, I expected him to speak with an accent, but his tone is that of a perfectly average New Yorker.

"I am," I reply. "And you are the elusive Paolo."

He chuckles softly and turns back to the coffee. I notice with gratitude that he's measuring whole beans into a burr grinder so he can make the coffee in a French press. "We're not used to new people here."

"I can understand that. How long have you been with the family?"

"Eighteen years. Ever since Johnathan married Cecilia."

"Ah. Were you recommended by her?"

"No."

He offers no further explanation. It seems that, as usual, I must be the one to carry the conversation. "I suppose Johnathan simply wanted to impress Cecilia."

"He cared for her. He wanted her to have the best. I am a classically trained chef. It takes a lifetime of training to cook like me." His frown deepened. "Though it is wasted on the children." He gives me a dry look and says, "I gave up a job serving duck confit to billionaires to serve macaroni and cheese to the children of a billionaire. I wonder sometimes what I am doing with my life."

"I'm sure it's the most delicious macaroni and cheese any child has ever tasted."

He guffaws briefly and says, "Well, I tried. But they prefer the stuff that comes out of a box."

"Good God." My reaction isn't entirely feigned.

He shrugs theatrically. "What can I do? They grow up watching their television and it tells them to eat what the children on the shows they watch eat. Never mind that it is not fit for swine."

"Well, we can't allow that. Miss Cecilia has entrusted the care of these children to me, and I won't have them eating that swill. I insist that you make them roast duck tonight and serve it in a manner that befits a chef of your caliber. They must not live life eating only swill."

He looks at me as though I am a goddess, and I must admit, I blush a little. Then he grins widely. "Madam Wilcox, I apologize for not meeting you sooner. I shall make these children such a dinner that they will never want macaroni and cheese again."

We chat as he brews the coffee. I learn that despite his fairly youthful appearance, he is even older than I am. He will turn sixty next month. He spent twenty-seven years working in fine dining, twelve as chef of the two-Michelin-star rated Chateau Montpelier in San Francisco.

I feel genuine sympathy knowing that he had to cook such horrific swill when I hear that. Not that I blame the children, of course. When I was a child, my favorite meal was a cheese sandwich and a hard-boiled egg. How strange that such simple pleasures lose their power when we reach adulthood.

The children arrive to a breakfast of poached eggs on toast garnished with arugula and seasoned with a butter and cream sauce that amazes me for its simplicity and deliciousness. Samuel and Elijah—typical boys—devour it with gusto. Isabella takes a moment to warm up to it, but she cleans her plate.

Paolo, of course, deserves the lion's share of the credit, but I feel a great deal of pride in this accomplishment. Good food can heal a multitude of wounds, and I have inspired him to give them good food.

After breakfast, I send the children outside to play once more. I need to talk to Cecilia about the clothing and jewelry I found the night before, and I don't want to accuse another member of the staff of theft in front of them.

You don't know that Theresa stole those things , I remind myself. There could be…

Well, there really couldn't be a perfectly acceptable explanation for them, could there? I mean, why would a half million dollars in clothing and jewelry be stored in a closet in the north wing? But perhaps Theresa isn't a thief. I shouldn't make that assumption simply because I don't like the woman.

"Where are you going?"

I jump at that voice and turn to see Theresa staring at me with her typical sour frown. I recover quickly. "I need to speak to Cecilia."

Theresa frowns. "Mrs. Ashford is away on business."

I hesitate a moment. I don't want to take Theresa at her word, but I don't want her to know I don't trust her, either.

"This is about the dresses and jewelry you found?" She sees my look of shock and adds, "I know you've been snooping around the house, poking your nose into places it doesn't belong."

At her arrogance, I recover some of my dignity. I lift my eyebrow archly and say, "It would seem that the clothing and jewelry I found are in a place they don't belong."

Theresa's lip curls upward in contempt, and I feel an unpleasantly strong urge to slap her. "They were intended for charity," she informs me. "They belonged to Mr. Ashford's mother. He held onto them for many years for sentimental value, but he came to feel it was wrong to let them sit uselessly in his closet. He intended to sell them on consignment and donate the proceeds to the American Cancer Society. It was a favorite charity of his mother's."

"Oh."

I leave that somewhat lame reply as it stands. Theresa's explanation makes sense, but I don't know that I believe it. I don't have a good reason not to believe her. It's just a sense I get that she's not telling me the truth. But is that unfounded suspicion enough for me to act on?

"If you don't believe me that Mrs. Ashford is out, you can feel free to check," Theresa says, "but if I were you, I would ask myself if bothering her with a bit of old clothing and jewels is right. She has a lot on her mind right now without the suspicions of a nosy governess to worry about."

She storms off, leaving me stunned and confused. Part of me wishes to tell Cecilia about what I find simply to spite Theresa. Part of me wants to tell her because that part of me still believes it's the right thing to do.

But as annoying as Theresa is, she does have a point. Cecilia has enough to worry about without concerning herself with some old clothing and jewelry. And if Theresa stole them, then why hasn't she sold them herself? Why are they just sitting in the closet?

The doorbell rings and pulls my thoughts away from that particular mystery. I sigh and head for the door. I'll let our visitor know that he or she can leave a message but will have to return later to speak to Cecilia.

"You may head to the family room, children," I reply. "I'll be along in a moment to read to you."

The children leave silently. Isabella gives me a worried look, to which I return a smile that I hope appears reassuring.

I answer the door to reveal a well-dressed man in his early forties. He is of average height with thinning brown hair, and a much thicker and better-groomed beard. He wears a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and speaks with a gentle tenor. In short, he fits nearly every stereotype of the psychologist, and I'm not surprised when he introduces himself as such.

"Good morning. I'm Doctor Alexander Harrow, Mr. Ashford's mental health counselor. Is Mrs. Ashford available?"

"No, I'm sorry," I reply. "She's away on business today. I'd be happy to tell her you've stopped by."

"Ah. How unfortunate. I assume you're the new governess?"

"Yes. Mary Wilcox."

He smiles. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Wilcox. I'm glad to see that Mrs. Ashford has followed my advice and found help."

"I'm happy to be here."

We lapse into an awkward silence. I can tell he's waiting for me to invite him in. I am about to remind him that Mrs. Ashford isn't home, and he should call later, but it occurs to me that I may have an opportunity to learn more about Johnathan's death. Of course, Dr Harrow can't share intimate details with me, but if I can gain a general understanding of Johnathan's relationships with Theresa Godwin and Elena Serrano, I might be able to determine if one of them truly was likely to murder him.

So, I smile and say, "Won't you come inside for some tea? I'm sure Mrs. Ashford won't mind."

"Oh yes, thank you. I appreciate it."

I lead him to the dining room and realize that I haven't cleared the breakfast dishes yet. I start to gather them up, and Dr. Harrow asks, "How are the children?"

"They're wonderful," I reply.

"Are they? That's surprising."

What he says is logical—and to be fair, I am stretching the truth by saying they're doing wonderfully—but the way he says it concerns me. He sounds almost flat, as though he were pointing out a strange weather phenomenon and not discussing the mental health of his dead clients' children.

Then again, it is his job to remain objective when discussing such things. Perhaps I'm reading too much into his tone.

"They're grieving, of course," I tell him, "but they've made great strides of late. Samuel is playing, and Isabella is talking through her grief."

"And Elijah?"

I hesitate. It's not my place to share my concerns with him, and anyway, I was hoping to ask him questions, not the other way around.

Then again, I do feel at a loss to know how to reach him. He's closed himself off, and breaking through his defenses to help him is a task I fear I might not be equal to. Perhaps Doctor Harrow can offer some advice.

"He is… struggling. He spends a lot of time alone. I've been attempting to get him to be more present, but I've met with resistance so far."

"Hmmm. Does he talk about his father often?"

"No." I frown. "Come to think of it, none of them do. Isabella's been the most talkative, and all she focuses on is how his loss has impacted them."

"So, he's mentioned nothing?"

Doctor Harrow is a trained psychologist and skilled in hiding his emotions, but he can't quite soften the tension at the corners of his eyes. He's nervous. What could Elijah possibly know that Doctor Harrow would want him to keep to himself?

"Nothing about what?" I ask innocently.

Doctor Harrow hesitates, as though deciding how much to tell me. Then, he says, "Johnathan was on a decline before his death. He was convinced that people were after him."

"After him?"

"Yes. I'm afraid I can't be more specific."

I smile. "I understand."

"Oh, I don't mean that I am bound by confidentiality. I mean that he was not more specific."

"He never mentioned anyone? Perhaps someone who worked for him?"

He lifts an eyebrow, and I confess, "I overheard a brief portion of a conversation between Mrs. Ashford and a Miss Serrano from Ashford Capital."

"Oh yes. Yes, he felt that Miss Serrano was trying to take his company from him. To be fair, he wasn't wrong. But in his paranoia, he seemed to feel she would threaten his person."

Now I lift an eyebrow. "So, he was specific."

He doesn't appear discomfited at being caught in a lie. "He would have moments of specificity but none that lasted long enough that I could consider them reliable. I was weighing a recommendation that he spend some time in professional care when he unfortunately passed. But now, I have said too much."

He stands. "I'll have to take you up on your offer of tea another time, Miss Wilcox. I believe I have intruded on your duties enough. If you have the chance, though, do speak to Mrs. Ashford about scheduling some sessions between me and the children. I'm anxious to be of any help I can."

I smile. "Of course. Thank you, Dr. Harrow."

He returns my smile, but he doesn't reach his eyes.

I escort him to the door and note how his eyes move toward the parlor, behind which is the family room where the children wait for their story. I catch a brief glimpse of his expression when he does that. He's not smiling. In place of that smile is a hard look as cold and flat as his voice when I answer the door.

When he leaves, it's as though the atmosphere in the room lightens considerably. I think I understand now why the children are so wary of visitors. Elena was after their father's company, and as for Doctor Harrow… I'm not sure what he's after, but his interest in Elijah didn't seem that of a concerned psychologist.

"Mary!" Isabella's voice calls. "Samuel wants to know if we watch a movie tonight!"

"Of course, dear!" I call back. "I'll have Paolo prepare soup for dinner, and we can enjoy it while watching a movie of his choice."

"Okay!"

I head to the kitchen to speak to Paolo. On the way, I crumple up Doctor Harrow's card and throw it into the wastebin.