The Family Jewels

By Roxanne Hunter

Divorce is never pretty and when the wife comes from a wealthy family and the husband is flat out broke, it’s easy to figure out who will win the legal battles. So when Suzanne Price and her parents ask Colman Price to leave Caumsett House, the Janssons’ luxurious summer estate on Long Island’s Gold Coast, everyone assumes he will go quietly and surrender custody of his young daughter to his wife and her family, as requested. Col leaves willingly enough, he’s had enough of Suzanne and her domineering mother, but he makes it clear that he is not happy giving up his parental rights.

Nothing happens for several days. Then Mary Jansson’s famous and priceless jewelry collection is stolen on a night the family and staff are all away. Not wishing to involve the police, the Janssons hire a private detective agency to investigate and recover the jewels. Soon Sam Jansson learns the detectives share his worst suspicions, that Suzanne has stolen her mother’s jewelry. Not wishing to burden his wife, Sam and the detectives keep that theory to themselves. Mrs. Jansson, unaware that her daughter is the prime suspect and dissatisfied with the progress of the investigation, asks her attorneys to quietly open a second investigation. Suzanne also has some suspicions and she decides to quietly retain her own detective to launch a third investigation.

Into this mix comes Molly Babbitt, an undercover operative assigned to pose as a governess for little Bibiana. Molly is not the usual private eye, she usually works as an office receptionist or switchboard operator, but on occasion she has been asked by her employer, the powerful law firm of Whitney and Whitney, to blend into an investigation and use her sharp intelligence and keen intuition to solve a troubling case.

Molly hasn’t gotten far in finding the missing gems or the thief before the family’s attention is diverted to a far greater loss. Bibiana is kidnapped and everyone believes that Colman Price has made good on his threats to get revenge for the way he has been treated.

With the stakes higher than ever, Molly must use all her detecting skills and common sense to find the missing child as well as the no longer important thief and missing jewels. To do so she needs to unravel the odd relationship between Jenna Maitland and Col Price. Was Jenna part of a plot to kidnap Bibiana? Was she part of a plot to steal the jewels? Where is the little girl? Could Col Price sink so low as to steal his daughter just to get back at his wife and her parents? Or is everyone looking in the wrong directions?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roxanne Hunter
• Release date: Jun 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311102676

Roxanne Hunter

Roxanne Hunter lives on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. After spending way too many, many years working at a job she didn’t really like, she realized she could do what so many other people her age have done – retire on Cape Cod. She now spends her days taking long walks on beaches, riding her bike, traveling to warmer climates during the winter and searching for enjoyable but forgotten old stories. Best of all, it’s not work!

Book preview

Colman Price was moving out of Caumsett House. Events had been rapidly advancing to that point for the last three months, slowly advancing for the last three years. Everybody who knew the Prices and the Janssons said it was inevitable, and even people who only read about them in the society columns could quite glibly list the reasons why Suzanne Price was divorcing her husband.

His friends said it was her fault. Suzanne Price was enough to drive any man away. She was selfish, demanding, bad tempered, the spoiled child of vast wealth. Col had been a first-rate fellow before he married her and she had nagged and tormented him past any man’s endurance. And don’t even mention her overbearing, domineering mother.

Her friends told a different story. Colman Price was no good, he neglected her; he was a freeloader and a spendthrift. Hadn't her parents set him up in businesses over and over and found him a hopeless cause? He wanted her money, and everyone told her so, especially her parents. Her mother had begged her to give him up, but she insisted on marrying him and now she had learned her lesson, poor girl. Those in the Jansson inner circle said there would have been a divorce long before if it hadn't been for the child. She had held them together, kept them in a sort of hostile, embattled partnership for years. And then, finally, that link broke and Colman Price had to go.

There had been a final family caucus in the library that final morning, with Mrs. Jansson, as might be expected, presiding. Then they had separated, each silent and gloomy. A family for eight years, even an uncongenial one, isn't broken up without the sense of finality weighing on its members. Colman had gone to his rooms and flung about clothing in an effort to pack his belongings and Suzanne had gone to her suite, thrown herself on the sofa and sipped herbal tea with her eyes shut while listening to soothing CDs of yoga music.

Her parents, Sam and Mary Jansson, repaired to the wide shaded patio and talked it over in low voices. They were immensely relieved it was at last settled, although of course there would be the unpleasantness of a divorce and the attending gossip. Mr. Jansson hated gossip, but his wife, who had risen from a middle-class suburb to her present proud eminence, was too battle-scarred a veteran of New York society wars to mind a little thing like that.

As they talked, their eyes wandered over a delightful view. First, they saw a strip of velvet lawn, then a terrace and balustraded walkway, and beyond that the enameled brilliance of long gardens where flowers grew in masses in thick borders and delicate edges, bright against the green grass. After the flower gardens were more lawns, dappled with tree shadows, then the woods, all shimmering with a light, salt-tinged breeze. Caumsett House was on the northern coast of Long Island a half a mile from the Sound, seen through the seclusion of its own woods.

It was a showplace; the house was a great, rambling, gray dwelling with slanting, shingled roofs and flanking rims of the patio. Behind it were the greenhouses and garage, stables, tennis courts and outbuildings that rose above concealing shrubberies and trellises draped with the pink mantle of rambler roses. Mrs. Jansson had purchased the estate after her position was assured, paying a price that made all Long Island real estate agents glad at heart.

Mrs. Jansson had been born into humble circumstances in the mid-west and had made a good marriage the first time. In fairness, it should be said that her late first husband had also married well, for together they built a large business conglomerate and invested their profits wisely and well. The premature death of her first husband had left a very wealthy widow and a single daughter, Suzanne.

Sam Jansson’s fortune was far greater and more established than Mrs. Jansson’s, dating back to colonial days and tremendously increased by his successes in industry. It was through her marriage to Sam Jansson that Mary Jansson cemented her predominate position in New York Society.

Sitting in a wicker chair, she looked the proper head for Caumsett House. She was fifty-four, a tall woman, which helped with the increasing stoutness that was proving to be one of life’s minor trials, but she was still an attractive woman who took care of herself with the aid of personal trainers, cosmetic surgery, and Botox. Her dress of white linen had been made expressly to her measurements. Her gray hair, colored to a youthful blonde, was artfully styled to conceal any errant creases and sags. She was too naturally endowed with good taste to indicate her wealth by vulgar displays, and her hands showed few rings, the modest necklace of amethysts around her neck was her sole ornament. And this was all the more commendable, as Mrs. Jansson had many wonderful jewels of which she was very proud.

Ten years before, she had married Samuel Jansson, who now sat with her looking painfully distressed. He was a small, thin, older man with a general air of cool dryness. No one had ever thought old Sam Jansson would marry again. He had lost his first wife ages ago and had been a sort of historic fixture for the last twenty years, living desolately at his club and knowing everybody who was worth knowing. So his marriage to the much younger widow had come as a shock, and then his friends had said, Oh, well, the old boy wants some company in his dotage and to keep his home and he's going to get it. He had several homes, in fact. In rapid succession, the newly minted Mrs. Jansson acquired the co-op on upper Fifth Avenue, the place in West Palm Beach and Caumsett House on the north shore of Long Island.

It had been a very happy marriage, for Sam Jansson, with his traditions and his conventions, was a man of infinite tact, and he truly loved and admired his wife. The only matter upon which they ever disagreed was Suzanne. For years she had been foolishly indulged by her mother. Her caprices and extravagances were maddening and her manners on occasions could be extremely poor. Mr. Jansson, who had beautiful manners, deplored her behavior, as well as the amount of money her mother gave her; for Suzanne was supported solely from a fortune that was all Mrs. Jansson's, Suzanne’s father having left her totally dependent upon her mother’s wealth and generosity.

His wife, who managed everything else so well, resented any criticism of what should have been the best example of her competence. She also resented the criticism because she knew it was true. For all her cleverness and capability, she had not succeeded with her daughter. The girl was beyond her control, and the unfortunate marriage to Colman Price had been the climax of youthful willfulness and insubordination. Suzanne's affairs, Suzanne's future, Suzanne herself, all were subjects the husband and wife avoided, except, as in the present instance, when they were the only subjects on both their minds.

Presently their murmurings were interrupted by the appearance of Dixon, the house manager, announcing that lunch was served.

Mrs. Price, he said, will not be down. She has a headache.

Mrs. Jansson rose, looking at the man. He had been in her service for years, had been one of the first visible signs of her growth in affluence. She was sure that he knew exactly what had happened, but his face was as unrevealing as a mask.

See that she gets something. Will Mr. Price take his lunch upstairs?

No, Madam, replied the man quietly. Mr. Price is coming down.

It was a ghastly meal, the three of them eating sumptuous food, waited on by staff hardly less silent than they were. It wouldn't have been so unbearable if Bibiana, Col and Suzanne's young daughter had been there to fill the room with her artless chatter, or Jenna Maitland, the social secretary, who had acquired a habit of talking with Mr. Jansson when the rest of family was stuck in the numbness of anger. But Bibiana was spending the morning at a play date and Ms. Maitland was lunching with a friend in the village.

Col Price, as if anxious to show how little he cared, ate everything that was set before him and prolonged the misery by taking second helpings. Mrs. Jansson could have slapped him, she was so angry. Once she glanced at him and met his eyes, as insolently defiant and full of hostility as her own. His were vital eyes, dark and bold and set in a handsome face. At the time of his marriage, he had been known as Worth the Price and it was his good looks that had caught the capricious fancy of Suzanne. In the eight years of their marriage his appearance had suffered. The firm contours had grown thin and soft, the mouth had set into an ugly line, the brows had creased into sulky resentment. But he was still an attractive man, six feet, lean and agile, with skin tanned by the sun and black hair brushed to a glossy smoothness. Women continued to describe Col Price as worth it.

Lunch finally over, they rose from the table and he stood aside to let his parents-in-law pass out of the dining room. They brushed by, feeling exceedingly uncomfortable and wanting to get away as quickly as their dignity would permit. They dreaded a final flare of his temper, notoriously violent and uncontrolled, indeed, one of the attributes that had made him so unacceptable. In the hall at the foot of the stairs they half turned to him, swept him with cold eyes and were mumbling vague sounds that might have been a dismissal or farewell, when he suddenly raised his voice, becoming loud and combative.

Oh, don't bother to be polite. There's no love lost between us and we can skip the hypocrisies. You want to be rid of me and I am happy to go. But before I leave, I have something to say. He moved a step closer, his face suddenly suffused in a dark flush, his eyes hard and narrowed. You've done one thing that you will regret. You have stolen my child. Yes, he continued before they protested, you have stolen her. That's what I said. You think you can hide behind your money and do whatever you like. Maybe you can nine times, but there's always a tenth time when things don't work out the way you expect. Watch for it, it's due now.

His voice was raised, loud, furious, threatening. The dining room door flew open and Dixon appeared on the threshold with alarmed concern. Mr. Jansson stepped forward belligerently.

Colman, now look here.

But Mrs. Jansson laid a hand on her husband's arm.

Don't waste your time on him, Sam, she said and then to Colman, her face stony with controlled passion, I have nothing to say to you. Our affairs are finished. Kindly leave our house as soon as possible. She turned to Dixon, who was staring at them with dropped jaw. Shut the door, Dixon. The sound of footsteps in the hallway caught her ear. The other servants are coming. We don’t need an audience for this unpleasant scene. We should go, Sam. Since Colman doesn't seem to have heard my request for him to leave, the only thing for us is to leave ourselves.

She swept her husband across the hall toward the patio. Behind them, the young man's voice rose.

Oh, don't worry, I'm going. But don’t be surprised when I come back. That's what you need to remember. I will come back to settle the score.

Then they heard his footsteps mounting the stairs in a long, leaping run.

Back in his own room, he found Willet closing the trunks. The door was open and he suspected the footsteps Mrs. Jansson had heard were probably Willet’s. He didn't care what Willet had heard. The man knew everything anyhow; they all knew. By tomorrow there wasn't a servant in the house or a soul in the village who wouldn't be telling how the Janssons had thrown him out and were planning to take custody of his daughter.

He strode about the room, tumbled the neat piles of ties and shirts on the bureau, yanked up the blinds. In his still seething passion he muttered curses at everything, the clothes that lay across chair backs, the boots that he kicked as he walked, and finally, he kicked the servant who got in his way. The man said nothing, did not appear to notice, but went on with his work, silent, unobtrusive, competent. Presently Colman became quieter; the raging storm was receding. He fell into a chair, sat sunk in moody reflection, and, after studying the toes of his shoes for some minutes, looked up at the man and said, Sorry, Willet. I was mad straight through.

It may have been his capacity to make such amends that caused all the staff to like Colman Price. Willet, who had been employed by the Jansson family for nearly a year, was known to be devoted to him.

An hour later, as Price left, the house seemed deserted. The large lower hall, with vistas of stately rooms connected by arched doorways, was as silent as Sleeping Beauty's palace. Colman's glance took it all in, rich and still, gleams of parquet floor showing beyond the Persian rugs, draperies too heavily splendid for the breeze to stir, flowers in flowing masses, the big car, visible through the wide-flung front hall door, a finishing touch in the picture. It was the perfect portrait of carefully devised luxury, a luxury that for the last eight years had lapped him in indolent ease.

As he came out on the portico steps a voice hailed him and he stopped, the sullen bad humor of his face breaking into a smile. Across the lawn, running at top speed, came his daughter Bibiana. Laughing and bubbling with excitement, she was as fresh as a morning rose. Her barrettes barely contained the glistening gold of her hair blowing in ruffled curls; her dress rising up over her bare, sunburned knees, and her little feet in black-strapped shoes flew over the grass. Healthy, happy, and surrounded by a love she returned with a child's sweet fairness, she was enchanting and Colman adored her.

Where are you going, Daddy? she cried and dodging around the rear of the car, came panting up the steps. Colman sat down on the top step and drew her between his knees. Otto, the driver, and Willet with the bags watched them with covert interest, ready to avert their eyes if Colman should look their way. The girl’s nurse, an elderly woman, came slowly across the grass, also watching the tender scene unfold.

To the city, said her father, studying her lovely, rosy face with her deep blue eyes raised to his.

For how long? She was used to her father going to the city and not reappearing for several days.

Oh, I don't know; longer than usual this time, I guess. Going to miss me?

I always miss you, Daddy. Will you bring me something when you come back?

Yes, or maybe I'll send it. What do you want?

A sparkle light wand, one that shines a light. Kaitlyn's got one. Kaitlyn was the little friend she had been visiting. I want one just like Kaitlyn's.

All right. A sparkle light wand.

I'm going to get one, Annie, she cried triumphantly to her nurse. Daddy's going to send me one. Then turning back to her father, Take me to the station with you?

Willet and the driver exchanged a glance. The nurse made a quick forward step, suddenly becoming gently authoritative.

No, no, darling. You can't go this time. It's time to go in and take your nap.

Bibiana looked mutinous, but her father, drawing her to him and kissing her, stood up.

I can't take you this time, honey bunny. I'm in a hurry and it isn’t any fun just driving down to the village and back. You run along with Annie now and as soon as I get to the city I'll buy a light wand and send it to you.

The nurse mounted the steps, took the child's hand, and together they watched Colman as he got in the car. Willet took the seat beside the driver, adroitly arranging his legs among a pile of suitcases, golf bags, and sports gear. As the car pulled away, Colman looked back at his daughter. She was regarding him with intent grave interest, a little wistful; the way children watch the departure of a loved one. At the sight of his face, she smiled, pranced a little, and called out to him.

Goodbye, Daddy. Don't forget my light wand. Come home soon, she called as she waved her free hand.

Colman gave an answering wave and the big car rolled off with a cool crackle over the gravel driveway.

The spotless, prosperous village of Westbury, enriched by the tax dollars of the great estates surrounding it, was a half-mile from the wrought-iron gates of Caumsett House. The road passed through woods, opening here and there to afford glimpses of emerald lawns leading to large houses, with the slope of awnings above their patios. On either side of this roadway ran a shady path, worn hard by the feet of pedestrians and the wheels of bicycles.

As the Jansson car turned into the road, a young woman was walking along one of these paths, returning to Caumsett House. She appeared to be deep in thought, her step loitering, eyes downcast, a slight line showing between her brows. She wore no hat and her hair showed a glossy, burnished brown in the sunlight. It was beautiful hair, flowing from her forehead and waving backward in loose undulations to the thick knot at the nape of her neck. Her skin was pale, her eyes, under arched brows, lifted slightly at the outer ends, were deep-set, narrow and dark. She was beautiful, but when people noticed her, they wondered why they did, and then said she was ‘artistic-looking,’ or maybe it was just her personality. Whatever the reason, there was something about her that caught your eye. Dressed entirely in white, a slim, suntanned hand coiled around her purse, her throat left bare by her blouse collar, she was as trim, graceful and comely as if she had been painted onto the green canvas of the surrounding trees.

At the sight of her, Colman, who had been lounging in the back seat of the car, sat up and his morose eyes brightened. As the car approached her, she looked up, saw its passenger, and in the moment of passing, inclined her head in grave salutation. Colman leaned forward and touched the driver on the shoulder.

Just stop for a minute, Otto. I want to speak to Ms. Maitland.

She did not see the car had stopped or hear the footstep on the grass behind her. Colman's voice was low.

Hold up, Jenna. Don't be in such a hurry. I'm going.

She wheeled around, evidently startled, her face disturbed and unsmiling.

Oh, do you mean you are really going?

Yes. A parting of the ways, this time for good.

He eyed her with a curious, watchful interest and she returned the look, her own eyes uneasily intent.

So why did you stop to tell me, she said. Everybody knew it was coming.

He shrugged and then smiled, a smile full of meaning.

I thought you'd like to hear it from me, first hand. I'll be a free man within a year.

She stood for a moment looking at the ground, and then said, If you're going to catch the three forty-five train you had better hurry.

His smile deepened, showed a roguish malice, and as he turned away from her he murmured just loud enough for her to hear him.

Thanks for reminding me. I wouldn't miss that train for anything. I'm very eager to get to the city.

He ran back to the waiting car and Jenna resumed her walk, her step even slower than before, her face sunk in sulking reverie.

There was no business car on the three forty-five and Colman had to travel in the coach car with Willet and the luggage crowded into the seat behind him. It was an hour and a half run to Penn Station and he spent the time thinking about his situation and contemplating his future. The business the Janssons purchased for him, Long Island Real Estate, had been allowed to go to the dogs. He would have to get busy in earnest, and with his friends and a large circle of acquaintances to throw business his way, he expected he would soon have it back on a paying basis. In the meantime, his expenses would have to be cut down to the bone. He would give up his bachelor apartment in the city, Willet could find him a cheap studio somewhere, and of course, he'd have to give up Willet. The faithful man had volunteered to help him move and stay with him until he found a new job. He would keep his car since it was necessary for his business, and he would store it in the garage in West Brook on Long Island, where he planned to spend his weekends with the Hartleys. Joe Hartley was one of his best friends; he knew all about his marriage and had counseled a separation, even a divorce, more than a year ago. Yes, he would probably spend a good deal of time in West Brook. It was a growing place with lots of development taking place. Unfortunately, it was the next train stop after Westbury, but it could not be helped. He was bound to run into members of the Jansson family once in a while, and he'd just have to get used to it.

The train was entering the tunnel when he gave Willet his instructions to go to the apartment and pack up his belongings, then see about finding a small studio. He himself would check out some places he knew of, and if he found anything suitable, he'd come back to the apartment and his things could be moved tomorrow. They separated in the station, Willet and the luggage in a taxi, Colman on foot. But the part of the city to which he headed, dingy, littered, and remote from where he usually dwelt, was not a neighborhood where Colman Price, newly evicted from his high estate though he might be, would have chosen to house himself.

CHAPTER II

It was Thursday morning, three days after her husband's unlamented departure, and Suzanne was sitting in the window seat of her bedroom suite looking across the green lawns to the roof of Rick Ferguson's place, Laurel Farm. Laurel Farm adjoined Caumsett House and there was a shortcut that connected them, a path through the woods. Before the Janssons bought Caumsett House the path had become overgrown, almost obliterated. When they took possession, the two households wore it bare again. The staff found it shortened the walk from kitchen to kitchen and Sam Jansson often walked its green windings. Rick Ferguson's father had been one of his cronies. Rick Ferguson himself was the most constant traveler of all.

Laurel Farm was a very old place; it had been in the Ferguson family since the days when British governors rolled over Long Island in their lumbering coaches. The Fergusons had kept the farmhouse, built after the Revolution, adding wings to it, until it now extended in a long sprawl of white buildings, with the original worn millstone as a step to its front door, and low, raftered ceilings, plank floors, and deep-mouthed fireplaces from its early times.

Rick Ferguson lived at Laurel Farm all summer, going to the city at frequent intervals to attend to the business of the Ferguson empire. The dead and gone Fergusons had been a canny and thrifty bunch. They had bought land far beyond the city limits, sat back, and waited until the towns and cities grew