Manolos In Manhattan. Katie Oliver
“I’m sure you can, Holly, but—”
“Mr James, so sorry to interrupt, but you’re needed in receiving,” Coco informed him. “I’ve just had a call from Mr Baxter. There’s a problem with one of the shipments.”
Alastair sighed. “There’s always a problem, isn’t there? Very well – I’ll be right there.” He turned back to Holly, his expression grim. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“Holly,” Coco informed her as he left, “I need you to go up to the attic. The workmen have cleared everything out except for some odds and ends; probably junk, but I want you to go up and have a look, please. Here’s the key.”
“But I’m not dressed for rummaging around in the attic,” Holly objected.
“I only want you to look at what’s up there and report back to me. Here – take a pad and pencil with you. I’ll want a full inventory so Alastair and I can decide how to dispose of it all. Now go.”
Without another word, Holly took the key, and the pad and pen Coco held out, and turned to leave.
She took the lift up to the fourth floor and found the attic stairs. After unclipping the velvet rope, she climbed the steps to the attic door and unlocked it.
Holly pushed the door open and groped for the light switch. The place was crammed from one end to the other with boxes and junk and festooned with cobwebs and dust. She sneezed.
At least this attic was the kind you could stand up in, with a wooden floor and a small, diamond-shaped window at either end. It would make a nice office for her father eventually. She stepped through the door and wondered where to begin. A pair of dangling light bulbs illuminated an assortment of mismatched chairs, a dressmaker’s dummy, old lampshades, and boxes...
...dozens and dozens of boxes.
Grimly Holly set to work opening the nearest one. It contained a bottle with a model ship inside, stacks of old magazines, a jumble of jelly glasses and plates, most of them chipped or broken, and what looked like an old-fashioned bottle opener and several cocktail shakers.
It was the same story in the other boxes. She unearthed an old toaster, galoshes, stacks of dinner plates, 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