The Greenleaf Murders

  R. J. Koreto

  THE GREENLEAF MURDERS

  A Historic Homes Mystery

  First published by Level Best Books 2022

  Copyright © 2022 by R. J. Koreto

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  R. J. Koreto asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Author Photo Credit: Dutch Doscher

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-68512-209-6

  Cover art by Level Best Designs

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Once again, to Liz, who made our house into a home.

  Praise for The Greenleaf Murders

  “A delightful who-done-it in which the house is as engaging as the wonderful heroine. Readers will want to get lost in these rooms and these pages.”—Cate Holahan, USA Today bestselling author of Her Three Lives

  “If you love houses and puzzles - which I do - you will be captivated by The Greenleaf Murders, the first in Richard Koreto’s new series. Equally sure-footed in the gilded age of the mansion’s heyday and the contemporary world of its decline, Koreto has woven a pretzel of a plot, introduced a charming new heroine, and whetted appetites for more grave deeds and grandeur.”—Catriona McPherson, multi-award-winning author of the Dandy Gilver series

  “I believe I was secretly born to be an architect, which is probably why I so enjoyed this mystery of a stately NYC mansion and its role in murders both past and present.”—Lisa Black, NYT bestselling author of Every Kind of Wicked

  “The Greenleaf Murders mixes a modern suspense mystery with the love of old-world mansions and iconic High Society. Buried secrets threaten a family clinging to their former glory as two murders surface, a century apart. Koreto weaves a story that creates the perfect tension between the beauty of the golden era and the fear of a killer in plain sight.”—L.A. Chandlar, national bestselling author of the Art Deco Mystery Series

  “One would think that a murder mystery featuring old homes, architecture, and rich blue bloods would be a dull read, but that’s not the case with R.J. Koreto’s finely-written “The Greenleaf Murders.” Filled with twists and turns and sharply-drawn characters, this well-done novel is very much recommended.” —Brendan DuBois, award-winning and New York Times bestselling author

  “Set firmly in the 21st-century but glancing back toward The Gilded Age, The Greenleaf Murders explores twinned stories of manners, morals, and mystery across more than a century—with a grand family mansion as the cornerstone for each. Like his engaging new heroine—architect Wren Fontaine—R.J. Koreto proves himself a master craftsman throughout, with a keen eye for all the right details.”—Art Taylor, Edgar® Award winner, author of The Boy Detective & The Summer of ’74

  “Koreto weaves past and present into an engrossing tale of old and new New York. Fans of Fiona Davis will delight in this blending of history with present-day issues, proving that the more things change, the more they stay the same. An engaging heroine uses her knowledge of history to unravel a century-old family secret and solve a very recent murder as she restores a landmark home in Manhattan.”—Victoria Thompson, USA Today bestselling author of Murder on Pleasant Avenue

  Chapter One

  Last night, Wren had dreamt she went to Manderley again.

  When she was fifteen, her mother had given her a copy of Rebecca, saying it was one of her favorites. A voracious reader, Wren finished it in a few days, but her reaction was not what her mother had hoped for.

  “Rebecca was horrible, but Maxim was no prize either. And the second Mrs. De Winter—kind of wimpy.”

  “You didn’t like anyone in that book?” asked her exasperated mother.

  “I liked Mrs. Danvers. I know she was insane, but she really appreciated the house. If people had been nicer to her, maybe she wouldn’t have burned it down. The best part of the book was Manderley. I’d have liked to live there, in splendid isolation, and Mrs. Danvers would take care of things. She was the only one in the book who knew how to do something.”

  Her mother just stared. What teenaged girl talked about living by herself in an ivy-covered British mansion? She kissed her daughter on her forehead. “Wren, you really are an old soul.”

  But although Manderley was her first love, Wren proved fickle, and also fell in love with Holyrood House, Blenheim Palace, and Versailles.

  A succession of guidance counselors worried about Wren, although she gradually learned to make friends, and even go on dates. However, nothing could replace her love for houses, and it was a foregone conclusion by college that she would become an architect like her father and spend as much time as possible working with houses and not people. And not just any houses, but the kind no one had lived in for a long time.

  As Wren approached 30, her father made her a junior partner and told her if he could close the deal with Stephen Greenleaf, he’d let her take full responsibility for Greenleaf House. Once the proposal they had worked on so hard had been completed, Wren couldn’t think about anything beyond spending her days in that Gilded Age gem, one of the largest private residences ever built in New York City. Over the years, like the second Mrs. De Winter, she dreamed of Manderley, never more than when she was hoping for the Greenleaf job.

  She came home late one evening after visiting a job site and found her father in the study of the home they still shared. Living at home had become a temporary convenience while she was at graduate school, which turned into a habit, as they liked each other’s company. Not that either would admit it.

  She watched him sketch. Although the firm had an office in midtown Manhattan, her father preferred to work in the study of their Brooklyn townhouse. For normal work, she knew it was safe to interrupt him, but not while he did the sketches—his avocation, his passion, just him and his pencils, creating columns and cornices, chair railings, and gargoyles. The only light poured from the desk lamp, illuminating the fine paper and her father’s high-domed forehead. She wanted to know if he had heard anything—but had to wait patiently.

  Eventually, the scratching stopped, and he put his pencil down.

  “If you haven’t eaten yet, Ada left her spaghetti and meat sauce in the refrigerator. She’s a fine housekeeper, but that particular dish is a little common.”

  “Only you would describe a dish of pasta as ‘common.’”

  “You know what I mean. And if you don’t understand the context, you shouldn’t be an architect.”

  “Fine. But I think it’s delicious.”

  “Yes,” he said, with a touch of impatience. “I didn’t say it wasn’t delicious. I said it was common.” He swiveled in his chair and smiled. “But you’re really here to ask if I’ve heard from Greenleaf? I told him today that we couldn’t put aside our other projects indefinitely. And that Bobby Fiore was the only contractor we could trust, and we couldn’t ask him to postpone other jobs, so with a few arguments about the price, he agreed.”

  Wren laughed, did a little dance, and punched the air. Then she ran and hugged her father, which he tolerated. “I knew you’d convince him. You are the most wonderful father.”

  “Wren. Take a seat.” He said it in his even, measured tone, the one he used for serious discussions. Wren wiped the smile from her face, pulled up a chair, and tucked a rebellious lock of hair behind her ear. In the half-dark room, he took her hands in his.

  “I have no doubt that you have the technical skills for this job. My concern is the personal skills. These are the Greenleafs. They were a force in this city when it was still New Amsterdam. We see their house merely as an architectural jewel. The family sees it as a symbol of how tightly they are tied to the history of this city. They are different from other people.”

  “People are people,” she said.

  “First of all, no. People are different. And even if you were right, people are not your strong suit.”

  “I’ve worked well with our clients,” she said defensively.

  “You referred to one of our clients as ‘a pompous bourgeois vulgarian.’”

  Wren rolled her eyes. “Let’s not go there again. I didn’t say it to his face, just to you.”

  “Do you think you hid your feelings?”

  “You’ve said worse,” she countered. Then realized she had lost the argument when his eyes went up to the framed certificate on the wall—the Pritzker Prize, often called the Nobel Prize of architecture. I’ve earned my right to arrogance. You have a long way to go.

  “Just remember that these people pay our bills. I know we often work to protect them from their own worse instincts, but let’s try to be a little more politic. Your mother used to say you lived in your own special world. But you have to join the rest of humanity every now and then. And that brings me back to Greenleaf House. This is the very important symbol of what was once one of the most important families in this city. Keep that in mind when dealing with Stephen Greenleaf.”

  “We’ve already had several meetings, don’t forget. He didn’t
seem that unusual to me—runs his own asset management firm. I’ve dealt with Wall Street types before. It won’t be a problem.”

  “Wren.” Again, heavy on her name—all her life, this had been the sign of a serious conversation. “The Greenleafs made their money before there was a Wall Street. People like this are unusually touchy about their families and histories. Now that you’re actually starting, his behavior may change. There could be some emotional repercussions. To make this a success, you will have to watch out for those feelings and manage them.”

  “And you’re about to say—again—that I understand houses but not people.”

  “Let’s just say it’s more of an effort for you. You can work with people. You just don’t like to. But I made you a partner. So you can’t just do the fun parts of your job. You have to do it all.”

  “Yes, father,” she said. He was serious, so there could be no more pushback from her. No verbal fencing. He wanted her to live up to his expectations.

  “It isn’t your father who’s asking you, Wren. It’s the senior partner of this firm, Ms. Fontaine.”

  She nodded. “I understand, Ezra.”

  And then he lightened his face with a smile. “But before we move on to the particulars, there is one more piece of advice, this time from your father. It may be hard to remember in any residence we work on, but especially in one with more than 70 rooms, it is not just a house. It’s someone’s home. It was Mr. Greenleaf’s childhood home, in fact, and his aunt has lived there her entire life. You’re not very sentimental Wren—and that’s fine. Neither am I. But please remember that—it’s not just a building. It’s a home.”

  He let go of her hand. Her father was done on that topic, at least for now. “To the job at hand. Like most rich men, now that Stephen has made up his mind, he wants to start immediately. I told him you’d be there at 9:00 tomorrow. Bobby will come later that morning—he was almost as excited as you are. Good luck,” he said. “And by the way—this will take up a lot of time. I trust you won’t let your ‘group’ activities interfere.” His tone always managed to add the quotation marks around “group.”

  “Be fair. We raise a lot for charity. But I have my priorities in order. Anyway, before I begin tomorrow, do you have any further hints into what he plans to do with that house?”

  “You were there with me, Wren. He said he wants a residence and that ‘future plans are uncertain.’ Some of the smaller rooms merged—people expect larger bedrooms now. More bathrooms. But still a residence.”

  “But what is he going to do with it? Not live in it himself. No one lives like that anymore, even wealthy people. He just has his elderly aunt in a little apartment. What is going to happen to that house?”

  “The house isn’t our client. Stephen Greenleaf is. And for reasons of his own, he doesn’t want to share the house’s fate.”

  “He didn’t say anything? Come on, Ezra. You, me, and Stephen—all of us Columbia University graduates. You’re an adjunct professor. He’s a former member of the Board of Trustees, and the Greenleafs have been donors to the school since before they built that house. You teach in Greenleaf Hall. You’re telling me that after a couple of drinks in the faculty club, he didn’t drop some hints on what he plans to do once we’re done with it?”

  He smiled blandly and spread out his hands.

  “Wren, please don’t press him. If you get off on a good first step, he may share his plans with you. Now, I’m going to wish you good luck. You no doubt have things to organize tonight.” She was being dismissed. Her father turned away to resume his sketching without another word, and Wren quietly left.

  She had kept the Greenleaf file in her bedroom, wistfully thumbing through the photos and the specs, and spent the next few hours reviewing it and furiously making notes on her tablet. Even as a teen, when the boys and girls she had known were poring over pictures of musicians and sports stars, she was comparing the relative merits of Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian columns and admiring the beauty of a fan vault. She had sulked when her parents had said they were not going to install mullioned windows in her bedroom. Even as a child, I wanted my room perfect, for a splendid isolation.

  Wren had fantasized about making Greenleaf House perfect again, just like it was when gentlemen in top hats and ladies in long skirts walked the halls, and the house was scented with cigars, port, and lavender water.

  At 9:30, she suddenly realized she was starving. Nothing new there—simply forgetting to eat. Ahh…but there was Ada’s spaghetti and meat sauce in the fridge! A few minutes in the microwave, and Wren was savoring the filling starch and meat. Restored and renewed, she dove back into the Greenleaf file and didn’t even hear her father pass by on the way to his own bedroom.

  “Really?” he said. “It’s come to this?”

  Wren’s face flamed. Seeing herself as others saw her was not her strong suit, but even she realized what a sight she must’ve made, sitting in bed and dressed in her plaid pajamas, surrounded by the Greenleaf papers, with a plate balanced on her knee, and the tomato and meat spread around her mouth as if she were six.

  Don’t show weakness, she told herself. “I don’t really think it’s right for the senior partner to comment on the junior partner’s dining habits, Mr. Fontaine,” she said.

  “It isn’t the senior partner of this firm who’s disappointed. It’s your father, Wren.” He gave her his half smile and headed off to bed. She sighed and began cleaning up.

  * * *

  It was spring—no need for a coat, but not yet so warm that she risked arriving sweaty to Greenleaf House on her first day. Because she was an architect, she knew people assumed she’d wear something black and cutting edge, but she had no interest in looking like an avant-garde artist. She kept it simple by having a closet full of pants suits, professional and practical, and a generous leather bag. It had been a present from her father when she had received her license to practice. It was large, useful, and appallingly expensive.

  “How can you convince our clients you will make their residences both functional and elegant if you don’t look functional and elegant yourself?” her father had said.

  Still feeling a little guilty over last night’s spaghetti binge, she had only buttered toast and coffee for breakfast. She wondered if the senior partner might’ve given her a soulful, fatherly farewell to the junior partner as he sent her off to her first big job. But she didn’t expect it, and in fact, he didn’t. As he had said, they were not sentimental.

  She arrived as planned a little after 9:00. “Make them wait for you,” her father had advised. No doubt Stephen Greenleaf would already be there, eager to get her started. She was curious about the elderly aunt who still lived there, with a companion. In previous tours of the house, there had always been a reason not to meet them. “She’s sleeping now…at a doctor’s appointment.” He had seemed hesitant about it, and Wren wondered what the full story was. Well, he’d have to introduce them eventually.

  She hoped they weren’t going to be difficult, but remembered what her father had said about being accommodating.

  She rang the bell, and while waiting, looked again at the façade, the red and grey patterns, the elegant arches, the columns and balconies, and the magnificent bay windows. Her childhood dreams came back. Greenleaf House was one of the few grand Gilded Age homes in private hands, and perhaps the last still owned by its original family. Imagine being all alone in one of the grand rooms with its perfect proportions—marble and brass and hardwood.

  Stephen broke into her dreams by opening the door. He wore a well-tailored suit—clearly he was planning to go downtown after the introductions. “Wren—so glad you could start on such short notice. Do come in. We have coffee going in the kitchen, and I understand the contractor, Mr. Fiore, will be coming later?”

  “Yes. He’s eager to begin. And I can assure you again—Bobby Fiore has worked on many of our jobs. He’s well-versed in unique houses like this.”

  “Unique. Well said,” said Greenleaf. All right, she was off to a good start.