Dark Corner

Chapter 3

A Blood Relative

Tangledwood Estate, Biltmore Forest

I accompanied Mrs. Twiggs to Mrs. Tangledwood’s. I knew it would be a difficult day for her. Mrs. Tangledwood had been her dear, dear friend. We rode up the long driveway in Mrs. Twiggs’s Volvo. Inspired by the nearby Biltmore Estate, Mrs. Tangledwood’s brick-and-stucco French chateau style rose up to greet us. Adorning its rooftop were six peaked gables. Over the massive door hung a gargoyle. Mrs. Twiggs politely knocked with the heavy brass doorknocker. The ten-foot-high hand-carved wooden door opened slowly with a creak. The young housekeeper, donned in ripped jeans and T-shirt, curtsied. This attire would not have been acceptable if Mrs. Tangledwood were still here. “Mrs. Twiggs, Miss Hartwell is expecting you,” she said, pointing in the direction of the library.

Mrs. Twiggs’s practical heels clicked on the Italian marble of the great foyer as we went to the library, which was adjacent to the winding staircase. The room was circular, lined with mahogany bookshelves. Mrs. Tangledwood had shared Mrs. Twiggs’s love of books and delighted in collecting old, rare editions, especially those on mysticism, magic, and mayhem.

Unlike the housekeeper, Miss Hartwell maintained her professional appearance, dressed in a smart pantsuit of navy-blue silk with a white blouse. Her brown hair was kept short and neat. She was not unattractive for a woman of nearly sixty. She was—had been—Mrs. Tangledwood’s personal assistant, confidante, and in the waning years, her nurse. Mrs. Tangledwood’s will had named her executor, so she stayed on to help with the estate sale. She sat in a red leather chair by the fireplace, which did not please Mr. Tangledwood. I had seen him several times before sitting in that very chair—it was his favorite. He gave her a disgusted look and then disappeared into the wall.

“Miss Hartwell.” Mrs. Twiggs stepped across the Persian rug to greet the woman.

“Mrs. Twiggs, so good of you to come.”

Mrs. Twiggs went to sit in the leather chair next to Miss Hartwell in the chair Mr. Tangledwood was about to sit in. He jumped up with another disgruntled look on his face and disappeared back into the wall, leaving the faint smell of cloves. Mrs. Twiggs sniffed. She had not seen him, but I’m sure she felt him.

“I think we have everything organized for the sale. I’ve had the staff inventorying and tagging items,” Miss Hartwell said.

“Thank you, Miss Hartwell, it will make it a lot easier for us the day of the sale. Preparation is always appreciated.” Mrs. Twiggs smiled.

“There are some items, however, that Mrs. Tangledwood left for her friends and family.”

“Family?”

“Yes, of course. Her great-niece Charlotte arrived yesterday.”

“Oh?” Mrs. Twiggs appeared confused. “Emma never talked much about her family, a sore subject she would say.”

“Let me go get Charlotte.” Miss Hartwell left the room.

Mrs. Twiggs turned to me. “Terra, Emma’s bloodline.”

Before I could answer, Miss Hartwell came back with a young twenty-something girl who shared Mrs. Tangledwood’s auburn hair. I had only known Mrs. Tangledwood the elder, but I could see the resemblance and imagined a young Mrs. Tangledwood. Charlotte’s features were pleasant; her stature was slight, no more than five feet I’d say. She seemed fit and healthy. She wore a proper yellow cashmere sweater set and pencil skirt, almost too proper for a girl of her age, but then I was used to seeing Abigail wearing tattered jeans, biker boots, and leather coats. The girls of this era lay no claim to style. “Mrs. Twiggs, this is Charlotte Tangledwood.”

Charlotte smiled and extended her hand. Mrs. Twiggs grasped it, giving her a warm smile. “Oh, my dear, you are a young Emma, aren’t you? I can’t begin to tell you how pleased I am to meet you.”

“U-uh,” Charlotte stuttered, shifting from foot to foot. “I… only met my great-aunt once when I was very young. I didn’t know her. I didn’t even know of her death until Miss Hartwell contacted me.”

Still holding her hand, Mrs. Twiggs said, “Please come sit down. Tell me everything about yourself.”

Charlotte glanced back at Miss Hartwell, who guided them back to the chairs by the fireplace. “There’s not much to tell, Mrs. Twiggs,” Charlotte said.

“Please, dear, call me Beatrice. Start with your family.”

“My parents died when I was little. I was raised by a foster family. I was told that DCFS reached out to my aunt but never heard back.”

“Oh, my dear, that’s terrible. It doesn’t sound like Emma. She was very compassionate.”

“From what I understand, there was a lot of family fighting and they weren’t very close—my parents and her. I came to pay my respects and put closure on it, you know.”

“You’re Emma’s family, which means you’re our family now and you’re most welcome.”

I smelled the clove and turned to see Mr. Tangledwood in the far corner behind the rosewood writing desk, puffing away on his imaginary pipe. He had only passed some twenty years ago, and as many young ghosts, he didn’t realize he had crossed over and was continuing his human habits despite a lengthy battle with lung cancer. He saw me staring at him, snuffed out his imaginary pipe, and disappeared out the window.

“Miss Hartwell had a room made up for me. I’m going to stay for the estate sale and the closing of the will,” Charlotte said.

“The Ladies of the Biltmore Society, a garden club you might say that your great-aunt chaired, will be anxious to meet you. We’ll have to throw a party,” Mrs. Twiggs said.

Charlotte smiled.