The House in the Cul-De-Sac

By Bernice Gottlieb

Chuck Ellison has gone missing! Theres no sign of him anywhere, and the police are baffled and fearful of ending up with a cold case. Maggie Mitty, a realtor in the upscale village of Hudson Hills, seems to know more about his whereabouts than anyone else, and she quickly becomes a suspect in his disappearance because of it. George MacDuffie, the owner of a historical house, and his sister Bernadette, who just emigrated from Scotland to take care of her aging older brother, are Maggies next-door neighbors, and they have just hired a mysterious young man named Tavis Connor from Edinburgh to be the caretaker of their property. Everyone seems to have a motive for murder!

Maggie, a history buff, is obsessed with the MacDuffies mansion because it was once a station in the Underground Railroad and had a tunnel that helped slaves take refuge in while waiting for ships to take them to Canada and to freedom. She offers to help Chief Betsy, the new police chief in Hudson Hills, and shares the first important clue in the investigation with her.

The suspense is riveting, and the book is hard to put down until Chuck is finally found.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532046872

Bernice Gottlieb

Bernice Gottlieb is a former representative to the United Nations and a recipient of the Ellis Island Medal of Honor. She is the author of Take My Children, a Love Story and The Dove in the Tea Room. Bernice has lived in the Hudson Valley for more than fifty years. Havoc-on-Hudson is her first novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER

1

MAGGIE

I HAD CONFIRMED MY APPOINTMENT with Chuck earlier in the day, so where was he? I finally stopped pacing and sat down on a wooden bench under a charming loggia covered with flowering honeysuckle vines. While I waited, I studied the façade of Chuck’s studio, a treasure trove of deeply-set rounded stones dug from the very site on which the building now stood. It had been constructed generations ago by Calabrian masons, exceptional craftsmen from Italy invited to America to build New York’s Croton Aqueduct and the Saw Mill River Parkway. It was the perfect place for Chuck, a designer of rare woods, to build his commissions.

Chuck was almost forty minutes late. I’d had a really long day showing houses to a demanding client and I was running low on patience. Perhaps, if I had a nice glass of Australian Shiraz in hand while enjoying this lovely setting, it would make the waiting a bit easier, but that scenario wasn’t likely to materialize any time soon.

Chuck was building elaborate latticed panels of African wood for the garden entrance of one of my important clients, and since time was of the essence, I had been visiting his workshop regularly to be sure he was on schedule. Mrs. Moore’s exquisite rock garden in Hastings-on-Hudson was shortly going on annual tour with the Garden Conservancy and well-placed latticed walls were expected to add a dramatic and exciting new touch. I couldn’t wait to see them in place.

I called my assistant Claire to see if she was still at the office.

I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to call it a day, I complained, catching Claire just as she was preparing to leave. Hey, did Chuck ever call the office today? I’m waiting at his studio and he hasn’t shown up.

Nope! Never heard from him, Claire reported. Sorry you have to wait, Maggie. Why don’t you just go home? You’ve had a busy day!

Well, since I’m already sitting here, I’ll give it a few more minutes. I hate having to return again tomorrow. I tried his cell three times and it went directly to voice mail. Something important must have come up. He’s never been late before or ever missed an appointment with me in all the years we’ve worked together.

It was a delightful early evening in September. As expected after Labor Day, the summer’s heat and humidity started morphing into more inhalable and invigorating air. I took some deep breaths and the perfume of the honeysuckle brought forth a dreamy nostalgia for other times and places.

I decided to wait for ten more minutes, just in case, but there were no calls or any sign of my friend and I finally left.

Hudson Hills, my beautiful hometown, is defined by the majestic river that partners with the villages of the lower Hudson Valley. My company, Maggie Mitty Real Estate, a fixture in town for more than twenty years, is ideally located halfway down Main Street, and the ever-changing seasonal views of the Hudson River never fails to delight me as I steer my vintage Mercedes down the steep hill from Route 9 to my office. It doesn’t get better than this has become my mantra.

When I hadn’t heard from Chuck by mid-afternoon the following day, I began to worry. I had a gut feeling that something was terribly wrong. I discussed my concern with some of my colleagues following our Wednesday office meeting, and several of my agents, who had worked with Chuck in the past, sympathized with my concern and agreed his silence was unusual.

Maybe the poor guy collapsed in his studio and can’t get to a telephone, or worse, I suggested to Claire afterwards. I rang his bell and called out to him a few times while I waited for him yesterday. All was quiet.

Look, Maggie, Claire said, instead of driving yourself crazy with worry, why not call the police? They may know something we don’t know, like if he’s had an accident or is in the hospital. My mother always reminds me that I should worry only if I enjoy it, as it serves no useful purpose.

I know you’re right, Claire, but I hate involving the police. What if they think I’m overreacting? It’s been less than twenty-four hours since he missed our appointment, and he’s not considered a missing person in their playbook at this juncture, I replied. Truthfully, I expect him to call me any moment now with a legitimate explanation, and then I’ll feel like an idiot for fearing the worst.

Adding to my sense of unease was the fact that while waiting for Chuck the day before, I’d noticed that his Ford pickup wasn’t in the driveway. When Chuck was home, he usually parked the Ford in the garage with the garage door open. To me, it was a signal that he was working in his studio. At night Chuck always locked the garage door with the Ford parked inside. Curious, I’d tried to lift the garage door, but it was solidly locked, so there was no way to find out if the truck was inside.

Chuck was an old, dear friend and I was in a quandary about what to do. At the same time, I was also anxious to find out about the lattice work he was fashioning for Mrs. Moore. It was all too much, so I finally decided to take Claire’s advice and call the Hudson Hills Police Department.

As soon as Betsy Colwell, the chief of police, answered the phone, my words came out in a rush. "I have a very bad feeling that something has happened to Chuck. He was a no show for our meeting yesterday, and he hasn’t returned any of my calls or texts. This isn’t like him. I’ve seen enough episodes of Law and Order to know we have to wait 48 hours before filing a missing person report. But I know something terrible has happened. I can feel it."

Luckily, Chief Betsy felt my concern merited attention. Friends look after friends, she said. Tell you what. Let’s meet at Chuck’s place in about an hour. Okay? I just have to finish a report I’m working on. If he’s home by then, you and I will be able to rest easy. Otherwise we’ll go on from there.

In the meantime, I returned home, thinking I’d sort through my mail and pay some bills to distract me from worrying about Chuck. As I pulled into the driveway of the shingled Victorian that once belonged to my maternal grandparents, I had a rare spotting of my neighbor, George MacDuffie, owner of a pre-Revolutionary Colonial with a rusted cannon on its front lawn that dominates the landscape. I’d been obsessed for years with getting inside the historical treasure, linked to the Underground Railroad. I had been asked to give a lecture at the Hudson Hills library about the area houses which were linked to that period of our history and I was really hoping to get the inside scoop about the MacDuffie mansion. The elderly Scotsman bought the historic mansion about forty years ago, but it remained empty until he emigrated from Scotland after divorcing his second wife. A flamboyant local character, he used to be a regular at all the Hudson Hills’ social events, but had become increasingly reclusive of late. His only foray on foot these days was a lone walk every evening on the old Aqueduct trail at precisely nine p.m. I could set my watch by it….

CHAPTER

2

BERNADETTE

A YEAR EARLIER, MY BROTHER George had written an impassioned letter to me, the youngest of his twelve siblings, asking if I would be willing to relocate from Edinburgh to look after him. He was feeling his advanced age and was less able to manage on his own. I was the only one of his siblings who’d never married, and I supported myself by working as a bartender in an Edinburgh pub. I had never met George, since he’d gone off on his own by the time I was born. I never had two dimes to rub together, while George had become a wealthy man, according to what I’d heard from one of our brothers back home. George thought I was the only sibling who might be willing to come to America.

You’re flesh and blood, he wrote, and I think my housekeeping staff is stealing me blind! I was family, after all, and George didn’t have anyone in America he felt he could trust with his many valuables.

While I hesitated leaving Scotland and my pub buddies behind, as this was the only life that I had ever known, George became obsessed with the idea of having me come live with him, and didn’t fancy being rebuffed. The more he pleaded, the more I resisted, and the more I resisted, the more he wanted to win me over. I did not use a computer or email for communication and so he decided that speaking directly to me might be more persuasive. He finally called the pub, where I lived in an attic apartment, and was able to reach me. It was the first time he’d heard my voice.

Mind, Bernadette, if you take care of this auld brither of yours, you’ll never have to worry about money again, he said, implying that if I agreed to come to America, he would leave his entire fortune to me when he passed on. It was a shocking pledge coming from someone who had been unwilling to help any of his impoverished siblings in the past or give a dime of his money to a worthy charity. When I eventually moved in, I found letters held together by thick rubber bands asking for emergency financial assistance from members of our family gathering dust in the lower drawer of his massive desk. I was certain they had never been answered.

Knowing of my brother’s financial success and celebrity, and keeping his tantalizing offer in mind with justified skepticism, I finally succumbed. There’s nothing to lose, and everything to gain, I thought. I could always go home again if I didn’t like working for my wealthy kin.