The gate was locked.
Which was not a surprise. Miles had told himself that if he couldn’t get in, it would be fine. He could wait until Monday when M. Thibault was back in his office and could supply the keys. It would be enough just to see the house from the outside.
But of course, when the moment came, when he was gazing through the ornate wrought iron fence at the red ivy-covered Jacobean stone mansion with its distinctive turquoise oxidized copper roof, it was not enough to be stuck gawking on the outside like a tourist.
Because he was not a tourist. Not this time. This was not a visit. The house at 13 Place Braeside in Westmount was his.
He had arrived at his hotel in Montreal only two hours earlier. He had not even waited to unpack. The excitement that had driven him since learning of “Aunt” Capucine’s will had made it impossible to relax and wait like a—well, grown-up. Encouraged by dim memories of the first season of Downton Abbey, he had assured himself that someone was bound to be there to let him in.
But no. As the grand old house, half-hidden in the surrounding gold and red foliage, faded into the twilight, every single window remained dark.
No one was home. 
So Miles did what any red-blooded American male would do. Praying that he would not begin his tenure as a Canadian immigrant by getting busted for trespassing, he scaled the gate.
At twenty-six, he was a little old for climbing over fences, but this one was not that tall and he was in good shape. He grabbed for the top rail, swung himself up, and scrabbled for a foothold in the inner curves of the black curlicues. He found a toehold—barely—and climbed clumsily over the top, then dropped to the damp bricks of the exterior courtyard.
He wiped the wet from the gate on his jeans and gazed around himself. The evening shadows were deepening, the natural wood doors of the long garage to his left and the white balustrades lining flowerbeds to his right were blurred and increasingly indistinguishable in the gloom.
Hopefully, he had not just tripped an alarm.
He did not see any security cameras. There had not been any in the old days, but the old days were a long time ago. A decade ago. He had been sixteen the last time he had visited the house.
It was so quiet.
He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of a rainy autumn evening. The fragrance of wet stone and woodsmoke and dripping leaves. The more distant city smells. This was how home would smell from now on.
He smiled, but then a feeling of unease crept over him. He opened his eyes.
Quiet was one thing. This was an almost deathly stillness. So weird. The garden and surrounding trees seemed to swallow all sounds of the nearby city. There were houses all around, but the size of the grounds and the dense trees created the illusion of being on a country estate in the middle of nowhere.
In the old days, one of the boys had always been coming or going—Miles recalled the purr of sport cars zipping in and out through the gates at all hours of day and night. He could hear the ghostly echo of voices: Oliver’s deep and measured tones, Linley’s lighter more sarcastic commentary, Capucine’s affected but charming Grand Dame accents. Oh, and music. Music had always been playing. Capucine had been a great fan of musicals of the 50s. The grand halls had echoed with the strains of kooky things like “I Love Paris” and “Que Sera, Sera.”
Capucine claimed to have given up her career as a showgirl to marry Gordon Beauleigh, but Miles’ mother had told him that the closest Capucine had come to being a showgirl was her unsuccessful audition for South Pacific in college.
Miles shook off the memories. This was not the time for looking back. This was a new beginning. This was a chance to have the life he had dreamed of—hell, this was way beyond anything he had dreamed of.
He crossed the wide courtyard, passing the benignly smiling stone lions, sooty-colored with the recent rain, and a bronze lamppost with its five round globes looking like white balloons. The bricks gave way to squares of black slate. He went up the narrow, curved steps, past the stone urns overflowing with ivy, and stepped under the carved stone archway. The whisper of his rubber soled tennis shoes sounded like thunderclaps in that profound and watchful hush.
He stopped before the massive double set of carved wood and smoked glass doors. He drew a deep breath, let it slowly out, and pressed the doorbell.
He heard the deep and sonorous chime roll through the house.
No one answered.
Of course not. Because no one was home.
Capucine was dead and her sons had left home years before.
He waited, hesitantly rang the bell again–impatient with himself for that hesitation. Who did he think he was disturbing? Anyway, for all he knew there were servants in the house. He couldn’t see if there were lights in the back of the house from here. He was just assuming—
But no.
No one answered the bell.
He sighed.
Okay, he would have to wait until Monday. After all, it wasn’t like the house was going anywhere. It was still his, whether he could get inside or not. Every inch of the 43,000 square feet of land the building sat on belonged to him now. Every sliver of artisan-carved wood, every pane of leaded glass, every gritty bit of brick and paver and marble. His. All his. No strings attached.
Five days later, he was still trying to absorb it.
The house alone was worth over nine million dollars. Nine. Million. When Miles had first received M. Thibault’s letter, he had read that as nine hundred thousand dollars–and been thrilled to death. A million-dollar inheritance was a dream come true for a high school art teacher earning just over eighty grand a year.
It was his friend Robin who, over lunch, had pointed out those three extra zeroes. In the space of a grilled cheese special, Miles had gone from delightedly planning to build a home art studio and invest heavily in his 401K, to planning out the rest of his life.
Frankly, that kind of money was a little frightening. A million dollars was not out of reach with luck and the right investments and a hearty economic wind to fill the sails of his retirement strategy. He had fully planned on having a million dollars in his retirement fund by the time he quit teaching. Nine million dollars was beyond his imagination. People had committed murder for less.
But once he got over the shock, once he understood what this inheritance could mean—not just a comfortable retirement in the far distant future, but the ability to pursue his old, abandoned dream of becoming a painter—a real painter—
Okay, it was Canadian dollars. But still. No inheritance tax. For the love of God. No death duties. Nothing like that.
Oh, and that nine million was just the house! According to M. Thibault, the contents of the mansion had not yet been appraised. If the inside of 13 Place Braeside looked anything like it had when Miles and his mother used to visit Capucine, it would be stuffed to the rooftop with old furniture and objets d’art.
That was different though. He was uncomfortable with the idea of taking possession of Capucine’s belongings. He had to consider the feelings of Oliver and Linley. Losing the house was enough of a blow. He wouldn’t want to deny them anything of sentimental or personal value. What could have happened that Capucine had made such a decision? She had always doted on both boys. Especially Lin.
Miles frowned. He did not want to remember Linley. He could imagine what Linley would think of his plans.
Anyway, that was one of the things to be sorted out. And sorting out was why he had dropped everything to rush to Canada. To Quebec, Montreal…and finally to this old and exclusive enclave of Westmount.
He tipped his head back, studying the carved stone frieze above the massive double carved wood entrance doors. In between the symmetrical triglyphs were metopes featuring a raven, a thorny rose, and an upraised sword. As a kid he’d loved trying to figure out the significance of those emblems.
“Just décor, darling,” Capucine had told him.
Seven bedrooms. Five-point-five bathrooms. A four-car garage. A swimming pool. A wine cellar that wasn’t a repurposed coat closet. It was crazy that all this was now all his.
“You’ll want everything put on the market as soon as possible, no doubt,” M. Thibault had said during their single phone conversation. Capucine’s lawyer had been kind but had quickly tired of Miles’ babbling amazement—and anxious concern that there had perhaps been a mistake.
“There is no mistake, Mr. Tuesday. It was the clearly expressed wish of Madame Martel that the house and all its contents to go to you, her godson.”
Who was he to argue with Capucine’s wishes?
“Hold off on listing the house,” Miles had said. “Hold off on appraising the furnishings. I haven’t made up my mind yet. I might want to live there.”
He had surprised himself popping out with those words—and he had certainly surprised M. Thibault, but the lawyer had assured him nothing would be done until Miles had a chance to survey the property for himself.
Which…was going to have to wait until Monday.
Miles reluctantly turned from the grand entrance and went back down the steps and the slate walkway. As he headed back to the gated entrance, he caught motion in one of the windows on the second floor. He glanced upwards at the rectangular window behind the narrow, wrought iron balcony and thought—for an instant—he saw the pale blur of a face looking down at him.
He stopped in surprise.
The face was gone—if it had ever even been there—the window filled with the blank of colorless draperies…were those drapes moving?
He stared, unable to be sure. It was nearly dark by then. The silvery twilight had skipped over dusk and gone straight to indigo-edged night. The first faint stars, like moth holes in blue velvet, were dotted over the black silhouette of the roof and chimneys. He sucked in a breath at the outline of a figure sitting on the highest rooftop, then relaxed, recognizing the bronze statue—or more correctly grotesque—of a satyr playing a pan flute.
Okay, his nerves were getting the better of him, that was all.
He looked back at the window where he’d imagined he saw the face, but it was too dark to see anything now—even if there had been anything to see.
If there was someone home, they would have answered the door. If there was someone home, it would be a caretaker, and if they weren’t answering the door, they were probably on the phone right now summoning the police to deal with a trespasser.
That thought spurred Miles to action. He jogged back to the gate, clambered back over, and headed back to the main drive.
He was staying at Chateau Versailles Hotel on Sherbrooke Street. M. Thibault had suggested Hotel Gault in Old Montreal, but not only did the price per night make Miles feel queasy, it was too far to easily walk to Braeside Place.
By 9:30 he was back in his comfortable hotel room, thumbing through the tattered address book that had once been his mother’s. Sure enough, there was a listing for Capucine.
He thumbed the number into his cell and waited as the phone—someone’s phone at least—rang on the other end. He had no idea whether Capucine’s phone would already have been disconnected and the number recycled, but it was worth a try. He’d had time on his walk back to the hotel to realize that if there was a caretaker at the house on Braeside, he or she might be more likely to pick up the phone than answer the door to a stranger who had jumped the fence.
He listened hopefully as the phone rang a second time.
If he was right, he might get inside the house as early as tomorrow.
“Come on, pick up,” he muttered.
To his surprise, someone did. The phone came alive in his hand and a male voice asked cautiously, “Hello?”
“Hi!” Miles said. “Who am I speaking to?”
“This is Miles Tuesday,” the voice clipped back. “May I ask who’s calling?”
