2019-09-15 - Building a Mystery

Edison's car is a solid black 1970s Mercedes. He keeps it in excellent condition, though the old girl has been through a lot. Still, it manages to navigate those hills reasonably well. He exits the car, extinguishing his cigarette and slowly approaching the front door. He's in a black suit today, with white shirt and tie, and dark sunglasses. It gives him an official sort of look, like he's some tall, dark government agent come to check on things. Rather than ring any doorbell, he simply raps on the doorframe as he stares inside at the woman beyond. He knocks three times, and waits.

"Feel free to come in, Mr. Baxter," a rich and pleasent voice calls from the kitchen. "And have a seat here in the living room, I'm just getting the tea finished." On the coffee table, next to the sterling silver tray and porceline tea set (minus the pot itself) is a large photo album. The name MENHIR graces the cover in brilliant calligraphy.

Rhoda emerges from the kitchen with said pot. She's tall for a woman, almost six feet even in her advanced age. Her hair is frosty white with only a hint of its former gold brilliance remaining, kept about chin length and bolstered by broad waves. She's wiry, and dressed against the impending damp of fall in a dark red, cable knit cardigan over a cream colored turtleneck and some soft, black velvet pants. Comfort clothes.

She looks him over, arches an eyebrow. "Ah yes...definitely a relation of Grandmother's." She smiles, watery blue eyes crinkling.

"Thank you very much, Ms. Menhir." Edison opens the door, removing his sunglasses, and freely observes his surroundings. It's his way to try and take in as much as possible in as short amount of time as possible. "Can I give you a hand with that?" His lip quirks up as she remarks on his appearance. "Is that right?" Rather than making himself immediately comfortable, he hovers in the hallway as if ready to help her at any moment.

"Oh, I'm fine, but thank you." Rhoda gestures at a second wingback chair that matches the one currently occupied by the cat. "Please." She seats herself on the fainting couch that's between the two chairs. The entire house is full of eccentric furniture, rugs, and paintings; none of it matches per se, and still somehow, it all comes together. She's a collector, clearly: there's a china cabinet full of scrimshaw pieces on one shelf and glass art on another; a shelf filled with seashells and sea glass, locally gathered if their condition is any indication; and in another cabinet, bird's nests, feathers, and eggs.

She pours out the tea. Darjeeling, from the scent. There's cream, honey, and sugar; she applies the first two to her own cup.

"It is," she says, of his looks. She opens the photo album to an early page. The photo is of a woman and a man, an old tin type. The man, it must be said, looks more than a little like Edison; the shape of his face, the way he looks into the camera. "Reginald Baxter. Son of Adam and Joan. His wife, there, Lilibeth, is the namesake of my own great-grandmother, though she looked far more like him." She sits back with her tea cup, allowing Edison to examine the photo and prepare his cup.

Thus ushered, Edison makes his way to the other chair. He looks to the cat, smirks a little, and then returns his attention fully to the other woman -- not yet the tea, he hasn't gotten there yet -- and then, to the photo she shows him. His eyes, gray and showing little, take in the figure of Reginald with little change to his facial expression. "Yes, I suppose I can see a resemblance." He takes his tea black, and tells her so. "What do you know about them?"

The cat cracks open its eyes to survey Edison; shrewd and bright yellow, they study him for a time, then close again. It yawns, curls up into a ball.

Rhoda leans back, stirs her tea. A gentle glow of Glimmer surrounds her. Not so strong as Edison's, but unmistakeable. "A fair amount. My great-grandfather's family, the Menhirs, have been in the area as long as the Addingtons and Baxters." She has a sip of her tea. "We were never part of the town proper, though. We watched, we recorded. And then David Menhir married a Baxter, and we became inexorably tied to them."

She's quiet a moment, studying him not unlike her cat. There's a hint of Glimmer, the sense of fingers running over some intangible part of himself. "Ah," Rhoda says, thoughtful. "I wonder if it's the nature of our family, to be strong with the powers of the mind. I've seen so few who work with life force."

She regards him again. "You're the only Baxter carrying that name right now. The others, they all have other names. Not without reason, in some cases, but it interests me none-the-less." She arches an eyebrow. "Have you determined anything about your relations thus far?"

Edison, of course, becomes quickly aware that Rhoda is studying him. He does the same in return, one eyebrow slowly raising. "The only one, eh? Yes, it is a little surprising, I suppose." Though he doesn't sound particularly surprised, or anything else. He briefly examines his nails -- on the long-side, and well-manicured -- then his cool gray gaze returns to her. "Rather little," he tells her, with that accent that's more British Isles than Gray Harbor. "I never knew my father, you see. Some of why I'm here is to try and understand him, and the family, too."

Rhoda ahs softly in understanding. She toys with her teacup, glances into the fire. "It's always frustrating, being the one to unearth the secrets, hm? Particularly when you don't have a map." She reaches under the photo album and pulls out a sheet of paper. It's a photocopy depicting a segment of a family tree. The Baxter family tree--specifically, Edison's branch, from Adam and Joan to Lindon Baxter, and from there clear down to Edison himself. Only parts of the rest of the branches are visible--there seems to be a great-uncle Roger, for example, and his great-grandfather was not the only child of George and Carol.

"This is your family's specific portion. I have the whole thing. As much as my mother, and her mother before her, were ever able to piece together." She waits to see what Edison makes of it before going on.

Edison leans forward juuuuust a little. It's enough to show more interest than in anything else today, thus far. If she allows him to, he'll reach over to take the piece of paper between his thin fingers and examine it...

"How'd you stumble upon this, then?" There's a glance over the top of the page in her direction, though it is not accusatory. Thoroughly neutral, almost casual.

"You can keep that, it's only a copy," Rhoda says, nodding and gesturing with her tea. "Not stumbled upon, Mr. Baxter. As I said--the Menhirs have been here as long as your family. We are record keepers, watchers, recorders. And one day, we married into the Baxters." She flips through the photo album to the back. This section has a family tree--Menhirs, though, not Baxters, save for one individual towards the bottom: Lilibeth Baxter, married to one David Menhir. He in turn had one son, Roger, who had two daughters: Rhoda, and a woman listed as Joanna. She's in turn married to 'Ravinder Bakshi', and they have a son, Timothy Bakshi.

She taps Lilibeth Baxter's name. "This is where our families joined. I kept the Baxter documents separate, though, as the concerns weren't the same." Her finger moves to rest on David's name. "The Menhir women have traditionally wielded the Art in our family, not the men. So David, and his son Roger, neither of them could use it. But," now she points at the bottom-most name, Timothy Bakshi. "He can. I suspect this might mean he's as much Baxter, as he is one of ours. At least," she gestures out a window, "as far as this place is concerned."

Another drink of tea, then, "I contacted you because I'll be bequeathing all Baxter records to my nephew. And if the family is going to ever determine the truths behind its relationship to this place, he will need help."

"Thank you." Edison watches her turning pages, his eyes falling over this. New information. The paper stays out. He nods very slowly, staring at Lilibeth Baxter's name when Rhoda touches it. His eyes narrow again. "This Timothy Bakshi...he lives here, then?" He's barely touched his own tea, though his long fingers do occasionally fondle the cup. But then he blinks, slowly. There is a pause. "Why bequeath the records to Tim?" Nothing accusatory there...idle curiosity.

"He does," Rhoda confirms. "As of somewhat recently." She watches Edison go through the Menhir records, smiles at the question. "Because he's a Menhir, as well as a Baxter, and it was our family who decided to keep track." An arch of her eyebrow; oh yes, she's judging those other Baxters. Not necessarily Edison, of course, but certainly his forebearers and their brethren. Her expression eases to one of neutrality. "But ultimately, we are joined now. So I feel Tim must work with the rest of you, rather than we keep our branch separate, as we have been through the years."

She finishes her tea, sets the cup down and pours more. "This Gohl situation is what finally changed my mind." She glances up from the preparations of her tea. "He's a Baxter too, you know." She says it casually, maybe to test if he did know.