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Fisherman’s Creek

Excerpt From A Novel By

Tina Appleton Bishop

Chapter One

Harry and Laura Bell disliked each other, but loved the house. How much better it would have ended had they loved each other and disliked the house. Then Harry and Laura would never have become part of the strange history of the Perkins house on Fisherman’s Creek.

The tall young couple from California had seen the house at high tide. If they had come later, they might have spotted the water rat peeking out of his hole on the opposite bank, and they might not have bought the house, or if they had known that their real estate agent, Jessie Turner, would later win a special award from the Real Estate Board for unloading the whitest of white elephants, they might have looked further.

“Fisherman’s Creek.” They liked the sound of it. Perhaps it reminded them of San Francisco. In California, Harry had enjoyed a moderately successful career as a masseur and personal trainer, and he had resisted the move at first. (Bodies are very important in California.) In her native England, Laura had become a very well-known designer of needlepoint knits. New York, with its art galleries and fine museums, had entranced Laura, and it was she who persuaded Harry to go east. And it was she who paid the money for the down payment on the house. Harry, with his tanned athlete’s body looked powerful, but Laura had the power.

They loved the Perkins house for differing reasons. Laura loved the Victorian look of the house, with its mansard roof and high ceilings; its touch of stained glass over the entrance door; its rich, walnut paneling and the carved details of its moldings.

Harry loved the price. Boastfully, he said to Jessie when the deal was made, “I may not be an artist like my wife, but I know value.”

Laura had winced. There were times when her husband seemed so boorish and flat-footed. To think, that when she met him, on the singles tour in Italy, he had seemed so debonair and romantic. It must have been that Italian air that laid an aura of glamour on the most mundane things, even men, she thought.

That was six years ago. The frosting on the cake had melted. Perhaps a change of scene would put new spark into their marriage. Connecticut was certainly a real change from their years in California: bikinis, babes, and beach balls, and not a needlepoint in sight. Perhaps, in a region called New England, she could get a decent cup of tea.

To her surprise, she did get a decent cup of tea right next door, at Jessie Turner’s, after the sale. She never knew how nervous Jessie had been in her kitchen as she tried to brew a perfect cup of English tea. “Warm the tea pot first and make sure the water’s on the full boil,” an English friend had told Jessie. She was so pleased when Laura said, “Now that’s a real cup of tea. And Earl Gray too. How lovely.”

The sale to the Bells had been Jessie’s first. It may have been the reason why she, a tyro, had succeeded in selling the Perkins house when others had failed. She just didn’t know what a challenge it was supposed to be. But she did know enough to show it at high tide.

Fisherman’s Creek was not a town in itself, but part of the township of Clarksville, a commuter suburb of New York. The Creek, as it was called, was never considered a chic neighborhood. One had to go north into the backcountry of Greenfield Hill for that. Nobody in 1896 could figure out why James Forsythe Perkins, a fairly wealthy man from New York, should have chosen the Creek as the place to build his large new house. The area was full of much finer land, fertile acres of potato, and farmers made good money selling off their land. Why not buy from them? Nobody had lived on the banks of the narrow, twisting creek since the Indians, 300 years ago. Their traces remained, in middens of oyster shells, and little boys’ joyfully found arrowheads along the banks.

Perkins evidently saw something rustic and picturesque in that swampy landscape or was simply attracted by its very low price. Perhaps it was as close to owning waterfront property as he could get. In any case, the home so lovingly planned was doomed, almost from the start. The parquetry floors had been laid, and the finest copper plumbing installed. Italian tiles lined the kitchen walls. Then suddenly James Perkins went broke. Perhaps it was a stock market crash, but some called it simply poor judgment, “like building a fine house on that creek, of all places.”

Through the years, a number of families lived in the house, some happily, others not, but from the beginning, the place was always known as “The Perkins House, the bad luck house.”

After the war, in 1946, young families began to build modest, ranch style houses along the Creek. Gradually, the neighborhood became more upscale, as larger Colonial style homes were added. Above them all loomed the Perkins House, not exactly an eyesore, but an architectural curiosity, an eccentric, aristocratic presence.

Laura, with her English background, enjoyed eccentricity, particularly in architecture. In fact, what she disliked most about America’s average towns was their lack of eccentricity, their sameness. As a young woman in a woman’s college at Cambridge, she had toyed with the idea of becoming an architect, but gave up when a friend told her “to be a successful architect, you need to be three things: an artist, an engineer, and a diplomat. Perhaps the most successful are the diplomats. Pleasing your client is the key.”

Of the three elements, Laura could only qualify as an artist. Engineers are mathematicians, who she was not, and people-pleasing did not come naturally to her. She had a talent for design and took her degree in Fine Arts. It was that interest in art that led her to sign up for the Italian tour. Or was it the phrase, “tour for singles” that really attracted her? Laura, at 30, was unmarried and with no serious prospects, when she met Harry. She had joined the tour in New York, rather than London, as she had heard that “Americans are more fun.”

Ruefully she looked at Harry, six years later, and wondered where the fun had gone.

Moving from a laid-back life in California to a more stressful climate in the East had been as much of a change for Harry as California had been to his wife.

Their choice of a suburb on the fringe of Manhattan had been a compromise. New York was exciting, but noisy and expensive. Clarksville was peaceful and pretty, though expensive, too. Driving through all sections of the town, from the waterfront villas, past the gated mansions of the back country, the Bells had given up all hope of settling in Clarksville. Then Jessie Turner showed them the Perkins house on Fisherman’s Creek.

They had already looked at other Victorian houses in the older, central part of town. Nice, but nothing special, and the prices were ridiculous, even by California standards.

When they heard the price of the Perkins house they were stunned. “Did you say $450,000? What’s the catch? Termites?” At times Harry thought he was funny.

“No, as you can see, the house is in very good condition. It’s an estate sale,” said the agent earnestly. No need to tell them that the estate belonged to mobster Joe Grasso, who had died in the Danbury Prison of AIDS. It looked as if both Bells seemed really keen about the house, and Jessie sensed she was about to make her first sale. Not, at that price, a big sale, but a sale nonetheless. She felt a surge of excitement, but told herself, “Play it cool.”

Jokingly, Laura said to Jessie, “This house doesn’t have a ghost, does it? You know, in England, we’re quite fond of our ghosts. It’s almost a status symbol to live in a haunted house.”

Jessie did not think this was funny, but that was Jessie.

Laura continued, “Why, in some of the Great Houses they have famous ghosts.”

“There she goes again about the Great Houses. You have to stop her, or she’ll go on forever,” said Harry sourly.

What a cruel man, thought Jessie. Her late husband, Lee, would never have been so rude.

“Some day you’ll have to come over to my house and tell me more about England, said Jessie soothingly.

“Don’t worry, she will.” There was a nasty edge in Harry’s voice.

Glad though she was to have made the sale, Jessie had some reservations about Harry Bell as a neighbor. The man was extremely handsome; dark hair touched with gray at the temples, very blue eyes, strong jaw, but something about him made her uneasy. Perhaps his heavy brows were a bit intimidating. She would be afraid to cross him.

Chapter Two

The sale to the Bells brought good luck to Jessie, for within days she made a second sale, a big one, when the George Stetsons bought a large house in the back country. They had lived in an even larger place, but now with their children married and scattered about, they were “downsizing,” Three million dollars is hardly downsizing, thought Jessie. The Stetsons new house was actually more compact, but the grounds were larger, with perhaps the finest landscaping in the area. Rock gardens, a little stream, a putting green, and a famous topiary garden had been pictured in a full-page advertisement of the house. Jessie had planned to make a handsome photo montage of the scenes and present them as a gift to the Stetsons.

When she heard that Laura was a needlepoint designer, she asked rather hesitantly, “Tell me right away if you don’t want to do it, but could you design — and I’ll pay you of course — a portrait in needlepoint of the Stetson house?” She suggested a price that was far lower than Laura’s usual fee, but Laura accepted, thinking she could build up a new clientele in the area.

She did not have much time, Laura said. There was so much to do getting settled. They had sold most of their California furniture and now had to find things that would look well in their interesting new house. Laura would have to work on the Stetson design at night. One of the four bedrooms had been set up as a studio, and Harry planned to use another room as an exercise and massage center for future clients. Nothing very elaborate, just the basics. He could not compete with the big outfits, but, as he said, “There are lots of people who aren’t too keen on showing off their flab in front of others. They’ll pay for privacy.”

Jessie had given Laura a good color photograph of the Stetson house to work with, and was delighted with the completed needlepoint design.

“Laura, this is amazing. And you did it so fast. Perhaps we could go together and pick out a frame.”

This woman could become a pest, Laura thought, but she could also be a big help. All her life, Laura had not hesitated to be helped by others, and why stop now?

Chapter Three

Jessie had already proved her usefulness by introducing Laura to the Stitchery in the Eastern part of town. Started ten years ago by two imaginative divorcees, the Stitchery was ahead of its time. Long before Borders and Starbucks lured their customers by providing an intimate, relaxing ambiance, the Stitchery had become a cozy, welcoming spot with comfortable chairs and free tea and cookies. There the knitters and needlewomen gathered to work, gossip, and buy. And buy they did, even though their hobbies were very expensive.

For Laura, the Stitchery was an ideal escape from the daily strain of picking out wallpaper, choosing fabrics, and furniture, and bickering with Harry.

It was easy to see why the place had become so successful, Laura thought, when she met its two owners. Augusta Prince and Myra Adler were a curious pair, a testament to the theory of opposite’s attracting. “Gussie,” as the chunky, freckled-face woman was nicknamed, operated the needlepoint section of the business. It had been her idea to make the Stitchery a cozy place, a kind of clubhouse, although her lissome, dark-haired partner, Myra, sometimes tried to take the credit. Looking at Augusta Prince, a customer would mistakenly have gone to “Gussie” for her knitting advice, but this dumpy, comfortably padded, smiling woman, was no knitter. It was Myra, the slender sophisticate, who with infinite patience steered her clients through the intricate knitting patterns.

The Stitchery was located in a section of town that was once known as Indian Head, and old timers still referred to it as “The Head.” According to the story, early settlers like those of Manhattan, had traded the property (more than 150 acres) from the Indians for a shamefully low price — a few jackets, it was said. Of course, since then, the Indians had rebounded from that long ago con job, and were doing very nicely, thank you, operating incredibly successful casinos in Connecticut.

When Laura had first visited the shop to buy some yarns and canvas for the Stetson job, Augusta had not known of Laura’s reputation in England, but sensed that the British newcomer knew her stuff.

When Laura and Jessie left, Myra remarked to her partner, “What did you make of that English woman? Do you think she’d be a good addition to our group?”

“Oh, definitely. She’s very attractive, with a lovely complexion and hair, but she doesn’t look the type to have that low, throaty voice. Intriguing. She certainly didn’t need any advice from me about yarns and colors. Did you notice the photograph she had with her? A spectacular house!” said Gussie. “I think that was a picture of a house that Jessie just sold. I’m glad for Jessie. She really needed that sale.” Myra seemed to know about everybody’s business, but was not a busybody

Chapter Four

While his wife was shopping at The Stitchery, Harry was busy on the phone. Fred Johnson’s small insurance agency had been suggested to him by Jessie. He needed his advice about certain valuables.

When the Bells were shown the Perkins house, Jessie had pointed out a wall safe in the living room.

“Wow, what a great spot for our crown jewels,” he said.

Again, Laura flinched. It wasn’t as if it were “ours.” The jewels, old family pieces from England, were hers, not his. At her mother’s death, Laura, an only child, had inherited from her mother, a surprisingly valuable collection of necklaces, earrings, rings, and bracelets. She had never considered her family as rich. Reginald Heathcote, her father, whom she adored, was a bank president in a small North Midlands town. Her mother, Louise, had fancy antecedents, but they had always lived modestly in a red brick house on the edge of town.

On her 21st birthday, Laura received a special gift from her father, a diamond bracelet, which he was proud to have bought with his own money. Perhaps he knew that, within months, he would die of cancer. It was not a flashy bracelet, with only two rows of rather small diamonds and was not very valuable, but Laura loved it, and wore if often.

“We haven’t much furniture yet,” Harry was told the insurance man, “but we’re concerned about some jewelry and I guess we’ll need special coverage.”

“Well, for that, you’d need a professional appraisal. Bill Hayworth’s a third generation jeweler. Discreet and totally honest. I use him all the time.”

Chapter Five

Hayworth’s was the oldest, most prestigious jewelry store in town. Recently, four or five new jewelers had set up shop in Clarksville, drawn by the town’s fame as a mecca for the rich and would-be-rich. Newcomers might be attracted to those new, flashier, establishments, but the “old money” went to Hayworth’s, with its old-fashioned show windows and counters. Bill Hayworth had an aristocratic bearing and the suave manners of a diplomat, but in the eyes of the upper crust of Greenfield Hill, he was not country club material. He was a townie, a tradesman, and probably the most honest man in town.

When Harry Bell came into Hayworth’s with a briefcase filled with jewels, the jeweler was amazed. His experienced eye looked over the collection. This was first class stuff. Where had this man acquired this group of valuable antique jewelry? Always discreet, Hayworth knew enough not to ask.

“These are my wife’s things. She inherited them from her family in England,” Harry explained.

“You have some really fine things here, a lot of interesting pieces of heirloom jewelry. These are much in demand now. Would your wife consider selling any of these?” He was fingering an elaborate necklace of diamonds and pearls.

“I don’t think so. Not now, anyway. But we would like a figure from you for an appraisal. Fred Johnson said you were the man to see.”

“Of course, as you know, it may take some time to study this collection. If you wanted to sell, I wouldn’t charge a fee.”

“Oh sure, I know what you mean. Of course we’ll pay for your time,” said Harry.

A fee was agreed upon and Bill Hayworth made a detailed list of all the items and gave it to Harry, before locking the jewels in the store’s large safe. “I’ll call you in a day or two, and I’ll take pictures of each item,” he said, as he showed Harry to the door.

Then he phoned Fred Johnson at his office.

“This guy Bell you sent to me, he has an amazing jewel collection. Is he on the up and up? Says it’s his English wife’s property. Don’t know why, but I have a funny feeling about this man. He gave an address on Fisherman’s Creek. Don’t tell me he’s the new owner of the Perkins house.

Gossiping was unusual for him and Hayworth felt guilty, but only for a moment.

To discover how it all turns out in Fisherman’s Creek the book is available from Amazon by clicking on this link: