2019-11-09 - Marine Among the Nerds

The rain can be heard pounding down on the roof of this old building, but it's actually pretty comfortable inside and rather clean considering the boxes that are piled here and there. Clarissa is puttering around with a bookcase, making sure the old volumes line up just so and according to date then height. Or maybe color. It's possible this is the seventeenth time she's rearranged these particular selves considering the pensive way she's looking at them. The front door is unlocked since anything otherwise would just be unwelcoming!

Oh, Pacific Northwest. What would we do without you? Have fewer flus, to be certain. Alexander slouches his way in through the door, looking like a drowned rat. He's called Easton to suggest meeting at the Historical Society to discuss the findings and see what the next steps for dealing with the creepy ghost girl might be. He also probably called Clarissa and asked for access to Blackwood files. But didn't mention the creepy ghost girl. Some news really should be delivered in person, to be best enjoyed.

Clarissa glances over to Alexander when he comes in giving him an aggrieved look as if he is to blame for the rain rather than the rain making him wet, "Please try not to drip on the hardwood floors, they're antique," she says airily, leaving her reorganization of the bookcase to walk over to a table that has a couple of boxes he might recognize on it, "I pulled the documents you said you wanted to go through again. Granny didn't have any more flashes of insight into the past for you, hm?"

Coming in a couple minutes after Alexander is a zombie. Well an Easton really who happens to look like a zombie and shuffle an awful lot like one, a zombie with a slight limp. He has thin rainjacket over his usual gray teeshirt and jeans that are still quite wet from the rain. He raises an extra large coffee cup in greeting to the two but doesn't offer any verbal greeting yet. He looks like he hasn't gone to sleep yet after closing down his bar and possibly others last night. He has at least showered though, so be thankful for that.

"Then they've probably experienced water before," Alexander points out, blandly. He does stop to scrape his boots off on the mat inside the door; rain means mud, after all. He pushes his fingers through his hair, slicking it back so that, at least, the water is trickling down the back of his neck rather than in his face. "Got a few ideas, actually, Mrs. Robbins. Thank you for making time for us." He pats through his heavy army jacket, and pulls out a rolled up plastic bag that's got a digital recorder and a notebook inside, protected from the rain. When Easton comes in, Alexander gives the other man a surprised look. "...wow, you're making me look good. I appreciate the support, but you don't have to. Really." Despite the lightness of his tone, there's a hefty bit of concern in his study. He steps inside, waves between the two of them. "Clarissa Robbins, Easton Marshall. He's not dead." A pause. "Probably." Then he makes his way towards the table, dripping just a bit on those lovely floors.

"Oh good, you've brought a friend," Clarissa eyes Easton and the way she says 'friend' sounds more like 'another homeless person.' She does nod to him when she's introduced, "I should hope not, I don't really want to give the police in this city any more excuses to waste my time. Was there something particular you were looking for today, Mister Clayton, or did you just want to read through everything again?"

Looking at Alexander with an expression that clearly calls for more coffee, Easton smiles and says, "Wouldn't want to miss any of this fun." He looks over at Clarissa, looks her up and down as she 'greets' him. He just nods and says, "Ma'am." with his best polite tone. He follows after Alexander and flops down in the nearest seat. He lets Alexander lead the conversation in terms of what they are here to look for, he's just here to avoid other things.

"Technically, he brought himself. I just invited him. I'm glad you're happy, though." Alexander smiles at Clarissa like that was a relevant and useful clarification. Or like he's just fucking with her. Either way, he glances towards Easton, and the smile falters a bit. A question is there on his face, but he doesn't ask it. He takes a seat (squelch on the antique chair) and starts removing the notebook and recorder from the bag. "So, we need to try and find any sort of secret children that the Blackwood family might have had. And if there's any earlier drafts of the will that was eventually executed. Those papers we found last time suggested it'd been changed, so I'm curious to see what the original form was. And anything we might find on a construction of a hidden room within the mansion. That might be hidden in the boring household receipts."

Clarissa lets out an annoyed breath when wet Alexander sits down in the nice chair, but tries to shake it off as she pulls out a couple of folders to slide over the table towards him. She is impeccably dressed in heels and a blouse/skirt outfit that probably cost more than most of the furniture in this room, "Secret children? How exciting, like a Nancy Drew novel here in our own little town." She doesn't really sound that excited though, "Did you check with that law firm to see if they kept old records like that? Or city hall to see if the records department had blue prints of the house from when it was built?"

Alexander takes the offered folders. "No. I don't like talking to lawyers if I don't have to. Thought I'd see what I could find here, first." He does nod at the 'sounds exciting', though, with a smile flickering to life. He finds it terribly exciting. He tells Clarissa, with every appearance of being serious, "There's a ghost girl who feels that someone took something from her. She's a bit salty about it. Need to find out what, and why." He starts going through the papers she's offered. "Can you find me anything on the brothers, too? Charles and Edward. And let's look at birth certificates. If the girl was a bastard, I doubt she'd have a Blackwood name on the birth certificate, but let's see if we can find both someone named 'Anne', and Catherine's."

The look Clarissa gives Alexander turns very flat when he mentions a ghost girl, "You're having me dig up old files for a hallucination?" She shakes her head with a resigned sign, thumbing through a couple of the older folders, "Is it yours or has the old lady that's informing you about all of this just gone completely senile in her old age? I've heard that once you read a certain age and your mind starts to go you relive your past in little glimpses that can be disconnected and terrifying."

Easton doesn't seem phased at all when Alexander mentions a salty little ghost girl, though it does cause his lips to pull back into a slight smirk. She was a little salty. He however coughs out a laugh when Clarissa calls it a hallucination. His head turns slowly to her, again looking her up and down, this time with an air of incredulity. "You don't believe in ghosts Miss Robbins?" He nods in mock approval, "Good for you." He turns to Alexander and says, "Can we just get permission to sledgehammer our way into the little room? I'm sure it's there."

Alexander laughs, softly, at Clarissa's look. "Let's call it mine." He fiddles with the recorder, checking a timestamp in his notebook, before clicking it on to replay. The tinny voice of what might be a child shrieks, "GIVE IT BACK! GIVE IT BACK! GIVE IT BACK!" Of course, this is a recording of a recording, and like apparently every ghost recording in the world, it's a bit distorted and indistinct. Besides, whose to say Alexander didn't just steal candy from a small child then record the subsequent temper tantrum? "At any rate," he says once the recording has played, "the notable areas appear to be Catherine's bedroom, the hidden room beside her bedroom, and the maids' quarters. At least right now. The main players may be Charles and Edward Blackwood, and Charles' wife. I just can't figure out the shape of what's going on, exactly. So I need more data." He frowns. "Why would an old, wealthy family keep a child locked up in a sealed room? They were feeding her, because the dumbwaiter went there. But was she an inconvenient bastard? Seems easier to just pay off the mother. A kidnap victim? Why? Was it a forgetting room for a trueborn child with an embarrassing mental illness? It was the forties and earlier - not uncommon."

A glance at Easton. "The owner of the home is consulting with architects to figure out how to get in with the least amount of damage to the building. For some reason, she's not overly enthused about the sledgehammer option."

"Of course not," Clarissa replies haughtily to Easton as she digs through more paperwork, "I also don't believe in the Easter Bunny or the tooth fairy." When Alexander plays the recording she appears to remain unimpressed, "That sounds like you got someone's neighbor's child having a bad moment with a friend or a sibling. Is that supposed to be a ghost?" She lays out a couple pieces of paper and then shrugs, "Maybe someone had a child with the maid. It wouldn't be unheard of, but if they didn't want to fire her for some reason they'd keep the child close and hidden away. Though if it was a room connected to this Catherine, maybe it was her child. You said she died young, right? Was there no record of the death?"

Of course not Easton nods as if this is a perfectly reasonable response, because outside of this town it would be, and there was a time he would have subscribed to such beliefs. It doesn't stop him from saying as an aside to Alexander, "Yea the Easter Bunny's super fucked up by the way. Steer clear of that." He doesn't try to persuade Clarissa of anything in regards to either ghosts or spring time mammal mascots. "My guess?" He again says this more to Alexander, having apparently decided Clarissa isn't going to be receptive to his theory already, "She stood out. Maybe a little dangerous? A little unstable? So they lock her up, seal her in and do their best to get on with life."

Alexander blinks a couple of times at Easton. Then says, deadpan, "I never trusted that rabbit. Shifty bastard." He settles back in his chair and hums. "That's not a bad theory. But then why the obsession with getting something 'back'? Why not 'let me out' or something? And why attack Catherine, and not one of the adults who would have actually have locked her up?" He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, frowns at the papers before them. "Mmm, no, Mrs. Robbins, I don't think that Catherine would have been her mother. Pretty sure she would have remembered that. The ghost appeared to be fairly young, so she would have died early." He goes back through his notes, pulls out the scrap from Edward's diary. "Here. 1935, Edward writes part of regrets to someone named 'Anne'. What have I done, he asks, and implies some sort of accident. In '35, Catherine would have only been about ten or so herself, I think." He frowns.

"Then Catherine was probably her sister, or a close enough friend that they'd fight over things. Objects. Dolls," Clarissa shrugs a shoulder and continues flipping through an old ledger, studiously ignoring people pretending the easter bunny is a real life thing, "It doesn't sound to me like anyone wanted the girl dead if they went to the trouble of giving her a room and letting her live all those years. Wait, is Catherine alive today? She's the old lady you're getting the information from?"

With a serious nod Easton agrees with Alexander as to the shifty nature of the bunny. He nods and says, "That's fair. Be awful nice if she were a bit less stingy with her nouns. It, isn't all that helpful." He tries to follow along with the genealogy and ages of the players but he's still drunk from last night and he never really bothered to get caught up in the first place. He adds, "She had a direct call line to the maid so she wasn't exactly a complete secret. I'd bet on the confinement being more a safety precaution than a secret keeper if it were me. Maybe the kidnapping thing has some wheels, the sense of keeping her locked up, but hard to say without a purpose behind it."

"Either way, there has to be documentation," Alexander mutters. "No one's that good at making sure no one mentions 'my employers have a kid locked up in a secret room', even if they think it's somehow justified." He sets to with a will on the boxes, looking for any sort of collected material that might have come from family staff and servants from around 1930-1950, as well as any receipts that might have come from local architects. "If we don't find anything here, I'll have to," his shoulders hunch a little, "try the lawyers." A pause. "Or the groundskeeper's father. He's in a nursing home. I could talk with him."

"I don't know, rich people will do all sorts of things to keep dirty laundry from being aired," Clarissa comments mildly, not like she'd know anything about that no sir! "And people that worked for them might have had a sense of loyalty to go along with it. Household staff used to be taken care of back in the day so that they'd feel they had a stake in how the family fared. But, and I may be misremembering, are you sure she was locked up? Or was the room just covered over later on to make it a secret?"

While the two actual researchers go through the documents, Easton lends his moral support by sipping coffee and pulling out his phone. He only looks up when Clarissa talks about covering over the room later. He furrows his brow and asks, "But why go to all that trouble? Just redecorate it and call it a study. It's not like the walls are going to keep a ghost in." He then adds, almost unwillingly, "If such a thing were real." As if he's trying, very poorly, to play along with the idea that there's no such thing as ghosts.

"Well, we couldn't find a way in," Alexander says with a shrug, "and I think if there was an easily accessed one, so that someone could go in and out on the regular, Easton would have found it. Just the dumbwaiter. Which could have been used to carry a fair amount of material in and out - or even a child, if she was small." He's going through papers, and stops. Double checks a couple of things, then says, "Here. 1939. A Miss...Waters. It looks like the head maid, name of Martha, might have been the one to primarily attend to the hidden room." He flips through a few more things, trying to get a sense of a full name for Martha. "Easton's right. I don't think it was done to cover it up after the fact. Catherine had no idea the room existed, and while she might have been young, that kind of construction right next to her room probably would have stuck in her mind."

Clarissa pulls a couple of larger ledgers out of one of the boxes and then a piece of paper that's bulky, having been folded up a few times. She starts unfolding it and then lays it out on the table, "Blueprints! Looks like they're from 1939, but I don't recognize the architectural firm. Johnson and Sterling?" She very carefully slides her hands over the paper to smooth it out, picking up a smaller sheet that clearly was attached with some sort of tape that's stickiness has rotted away, "Is Charles Blackwood an actor in this little mystery you've uncovered?" She asks, holding out the piece of paper to either gentleman that might be interested in it, "Because this is an order from him asking that a room near the master bedroom be quietly sealed up." There might be a little triumphant tone to that. Take that, Junior Investigators! Easton gets a look concerning his comment about keeping a ghost in and it is not amused, "I doubt that the concern was about a ghost, it was likely more about concealing a crime."

Easton shrugs at Alexander, "Easy enough to fool a kid though. Go on vacation, come back and the door is gone, convince her she was just playing make believe?" Not that Easton has spent a lot of time thinking about gaslighting children, it just seems very doable. He nods at Clarissa though, "Fair enough. But all the furniture is still there. Dolls. Seems like those are easier to dispose of than it is to seal up a room like it never was there. Pretty ass backwards coverup." He doesn't push the issue on ghosts, it will be way more enjoyable to let her figure that out for herself.

"He is," Alexander murmurs, looking excited when Clarissa brandishes her find. "Nice job, Mrs. Robbins." He is DEFINITELY interested in that piece of paper, and takes it to look it over. "So this was 1939 as well?" He gives a slow nod to Easton. "And Catherine was sickly as a child, so perhaps she was just too ill to remember this going...hhmm. Wait, no. I remember that she mentioned that she was sent away to Europe for treatments at some point. This could have happened in that time period. Might even play into this jealous fixation the ghost," he's not trying to dance around it, "had on retrieving something. Maybe while Catherine was gone, this girl was treated better, but when it was announced that Catherine was getting better or coming home, they...sealed her away?" This is where his brow furrows. "But I still don't know why."

"Is she sickly now?" Clarissa asks, then waves a hand, "Besides being very old and from the sounds of it not in charge of her faculties. You've got two girls and you seem to only be able to find reference to one of them. What if they were both the same girl only one got killed and someone wanted to cover it up? Replace the heir with the maid's daughter who was too young to question it? Hm," Clarissa looks pretty pleased with herself, "Maybe I ought to write mystery novels. That's probably too complicated. What's that saying, when the impossible is stuff about ghosts the better answer is always the simple one that follows the money or something." She is thankfully interrupted from continuing by her phone ringing, "Ah, sorry, I need to take this. Michael! Tell me you've solved the problem of the swan's breaking necks? No one is going to want to eat a headless swan, Michael."

Easton barely follows that something of importance has happened but he can at least start to follow the conversation about Catherine and the other little ghoul. He looks at Clarissa and gives a 'why not' half shrug to her theory about swapping in little girls. "If you hear hooves, think horses not zebras. Usually." He offers for and idiom around Occam's razor. "Around here though? I'd think nightmares." In the sense of demonic spirits meant to scare the crap out of people in their sleep, not just bad dreams. He watches her go take a phone call and pointedly returns to his own phone, ostensibly so Alexander can focus on the work.

Alexander doesn't look dismayed at the idea that child murder might be involved here. In fact, he looks intrigued. "We do go back to that 1935 entry by Edward where he mentions someone named Anne, and it seems like he did something that he regrets. I'd say a car accident, based on 'it was dark and I couldn't see' and evidence elsewhere of a drinking habit. And no, Catherine isn't sickly now." He taps at his chin. "I probably should make arrangements to talk to the groundskeeper's father. Or see if this Martha person is still alive."

He goes silent as Clarissa's phone goes off, and waits until she's moved off to take the call for a bit before turning his attention to Easton. The phone is noted. And ignored. "So you look like shit. What happened?"

Looking up with only his eyes at Alexander, giving him some solid side-eye, Easton shrugs and says, "Didn't sleep yet." He knows that the 'explanation' won't hold up under Alexander's scrutiny so he adds, "Had a shitty dream yesterday. Still trying to figure out some shit about it." He puts the phone down and then asks, seemingly randomly, "Did you know Bennie's brother at all? Judd?" With another sip of coffee and a barely suppressed grimace he admits, "He's dead. I met him. Or some version of him. And now I'm trying to figure out how much of what he said was something fucking with me versus something I need to track down."

Alexander and Easton are sitting at a table in the Society, and there are many many papers strewn out across the top. Clarissa is here, although she'd had to take a phone call. The rain is steady and dreary outside. "No, I didn't. I mean," he frowns, "I knew of him, in that way you tend to sort of know everyone. But only that he was in the military, and he died. I don't think we ever talked." He frowns. "I'd like to say that Dreams just lie. And they do. But I've gotten information from them that reflected a sort of truth. Usually twisted to be horrible and painful, tough."

The doors swing open and two familiar figures arrive - one will at least be familiar to all three individuals who are presently poring through boxes of documents in the Historical Society's converted post-office building.

Isabella takes an appreciative sweep of the brick facades and the old architecture as she enters, armed with a satchel and a portfolio tucked under her arm, bursting with paper. Bright-eyed and alert, she seems engrossed in animated and amicable chatter with Anne as they walk, her free hand gesturing sideways in a demonstrative fashion, that set of fingers curled around a cup of coffee. She's dressed in her usual way; jeans, boots, a loose top dyed a deep purple, her moonstone pendant glittering against it. Today's leather jacket is black and form-fitting, which seems to have seen plenty of action, but is still very serviceable. Her hair is pulled up in a loose knot behind her head.

"I've got a name in mind," she can be heard saying to her new friend as they walk. "Especially if we're going to be venturing in the outdoor areas. I think an initial assessment would probably be enough to at least determine whether a last resort is necessary." And there's a hint of resignation on her features. Whatever this last resort is, she really does not want to do it, because it's crazy and dangerous and god only knows what's down there - but she is never wanting of courage and if necessary, she will bring the equipment if she has to. But that apprehensive expression fades and her smile lights up her face again. "Thank you for sending me that Google doc, by the way, it was fascinating to read your thoughts on paper, as it were."

There's a pause when she realizes that the room is occupied. A blink, and her smile broadens into a grin. "I'll try not to be too hurt if you guys decided to form a brain trust without us. Anne Washburn, this is Easton Marshall, and you've met Alexander Clayton." Clarissa has stepped out for a phone call so the archaeologist has no idea she's here.

Anne seems to be just as bright as her companion as they come into the building, her smile warm and dimples showing. She's got a cup of coffee, too, which she cradles in either hand to keep them warm for the walk, an occasional sip taken out between chatter. Today, she's dressed in comfortable clothes - jean leggings (jeggings?), boots, and a long burgundy sweater, hair kept in loose waves and only slightly damp from the rain. They must've had an umbrella. And while there are appreciative glances about the building, Anne seems to be far more focused on those already inside, her smile brightening just a bit at Alexander's more familiar face. "Hello everyone! It's nice to see you again, Alexander," she says genuinely, before she tips her chin to Easton. "And nice to meet you, Mister Marshall. You're the bartender at the place down by the beach." It's not a question, just a statement of fact.

Nodding at Alexander's description of his vague awareness of Judd, Easton shakes his head and says, "Yea, figured." He shakes his head and says, "I got a feeling this one didn't need to twist it all that much to make it horrible and painful." He stops that line of thought when Isabella walks in with someone else. Easton is obviously barely awake right now, and possibly a little drunk still from the night before that still hasn't quite ended. But he has at least showered and so while he looks half-dead at least he doesn't smell it. He lifts a coffee cup in greeting at the newcomers and simply nods at Anne's greeting and career naming, "Yes, ma'am." He shakes his head at Isabella and says, "I count as negative brain points, so if that was our plan, it failed."

Alexander looks up at the sounds of people entering; he recognizes the first voice immediately, and he rises to his feet to offer Isabella a (rather damp) embrace, and a warm kiss. He is, for his part, looking less exhausted than he had been - sometimes a bit of time spend hiding in a hole is good for a person. "Isabella." Just that - the affection is all in the body language and warmth of the word itself. Anne gets a smile and a brief nod. "Miss Washburn. Tormenting anyone else with mountains of paperwork, today?" At least there's a bit of humor about it.

As he moves to start clearing off part of the table so that the newcomers can sit without scattering things about, he glances at Easton. "Since we're here...do you want to see if there are records available on any of it? Newspaper articles, death certificates, so forth?"

"You look wiped. You okay?" This to Easton, Isabella furrowing her brows as she catches the man in the state he's in. His hunched over form is blocked for just a moment by Alexander's approach, an arm coming up to drape over his shoulders and his kiss returned, warm and tasting of coffee and hazelnuts. She doesn't seem to mind the damp - that's what the jacket is for, and her knuckles slip down over one unshaven cheek in an affectionate touch. Green eyes meet his dark ones for a moment, the softening of her smile a subtle thing. "You look better," she murmurs. "Are you trying to balance out Easton?" Her encircled arm gives him a brief squeeze before releasing.

A playful swat on his arm. "Be nice to my new friend, I like her very much," she says with a laugh, before moving over to look at the boxes and documents stacked up. A curious stare falls on the blueprints on the table. "Don't tell me you're all trying to switch careers into construction," she says, drawing a very careful finger on the plans. "What's all this?"

Anne's brows hike upward with a faint glimmer of amusement in shock blue eyes as Alexander comes up to smooch on Isabella. The look is absolutely delighted, of course, her hand coming up to cover one side of her mouth so she can stage-whisper to Isabella once the kissing is through: "He certainly checks all the boxes." It's an inside joke. It makes her giggle. Then she finds a seat, perching on the edge of it with a grin to Alexander. "It wasn't that bad. And it's just a formality. You should count your blessings that I pushed the request through; sometimes, it takes weeks or months for someone to get their documents!"

Speaking of documents, Anne's eyes sweep across the blueprints on the table, but Isabella steals away the question that's on her mind. So she'll just look up at Alexander expectantly. Yes, what is all this?

At the question about looking through documents Easton seems confused, as if Alexander just asked him if he wanted to stop drinking or something horrible. He shakes his head slowly and says, "Nope. I think I'm good." He does need to talk to Bennie about it but the idea of actually researching something? Weird. At Isabella's concern he shrugs and says, "Late night, and I should get home and crash, now that the cavalry has arrived." He stands and nods again to the group, "Have fun going through more of this." It's not a hundred percent sarcastic, as he realizes it is an enjoyable activity to Alexander, more bemused.

Alexander makes an agreeable noise at Isabella. "It's a new fashion philosophy. What do you think? Do we go together?" An amused look towards Easton as he takes a seat again. "And I am being nice. Aren't I being nice, Miss Washburn?" His eyebrows lift at the woman's giggles, a certain wariness to his expression, like he expects that he's the butt of a joke. But, after a moment, he relaxes, apparently deciding to take it as a good thing. Or at least neutral. "Well, thank you for sparing me from such a fate," he murmurs to the archivist, apparently sincerely. Easton gets a sidelong look and a, "If you want me to look into it, let me know? I'm happy to help, and there should be some public records involving it. In the mean time, don't die. Thanks for coming."

He'll watch the man for a moment more, brow furrowed, before turning his attention back to the table. "It's for a job. Research. Dark family secrets, secret rooms, vengeful ghosts, all the fun stuff." He's not being sarcastic. There's a smile. "What about you two? What are you up to?"

Anne's stage-whisper about the boxes occurs right as Isabella is taking a sip of her coffee and she ends up choking on it. She tilts her head back to keep herself from spraying it everywhere, and at the archivist's giggling, she points at her emphatically with a finger. "You're a menace," she tells her, though there's absolutely no heat and all amusement behind it. There's a surreptitious wink at her direction, before taking another swallow of her coffee and presses that same digit against her lips; whatever secret that is supposed to denote, it appears to be a mischievous one. This does fade, however, as she watches Easton leave the table, looking as ragged and worn as he is, but she doesn't address it out loud. Instead: "Seeya, E."

She doesn't sit. She hardly ever does when she's surrounded by old records and she flits from one end of the table to another to peer curiously at each box, letting the conversation between Alexander and Anne follow without comment, though there's a lift of her brows at how the man describes his new case. "You're actually getting paid for a cold case? Wow, you told me those are rare for you." She pulls out a journal very carefully and scrutinzes the careful label on the front sheet. "The Blackwoods, huh? I never heard of them."

As for what they're up to? "A possible expedition," she says with a smile. "Extremely worrisome and ridiculous exciting, which is honestly the best sorts, from my perspective." Her nose wrinkles faintly. "Though I might have to talk to Vivian before I venture off on that end."

"I don't care what you have to do or who you have to call we are not serving severed swan heads!" Clarissa tells her phone irritably as she steps back into the main room, pressing the red button to end the call as firmly as she can even though it is just a touch screen and doesn't matter. She blinks at seeing two more women here instead of the other man she left with Alexander, "Sorry about that, you know how assistants can be," she gives Anne and Isabella a smile as she moves over to the table once again, "You called in reinforcements, Mister Clayton?"

Anne's smile turns saucy as Isabella points fingers her way, only just barely covered up by her cup when she takes a long sip of the contents. Those eyes of hers are gleaming with mischief though, electric flashes in pools of clear blue. She says nothing of being a menace or otherwise, choosing instead to loft her cup to Easton in parting. "So long, Mister Marshall," she says, before her head cants back to Isabella and Alexander. "The Blackwoods? Hmmm," there's a thoughtful purse to her lips, consideration given, and maybe she'd have something to offer up - but Clarissa comes in with that sort of announcement, and she's covering up another giggle.

"Severed swan heads? That sounds like an .. interesting request," she offers Clarissa a smile, before she shifts to the edge of her seat. "The Blackwoods were a rather old family. Moved away in the.. 1940s," she nods to herself, a confirming sort of gesture. "What's your interest in the Blackwoods?"

Alexander opens his mouth to answer Isabella's question, but Anne's there with the save, so he gestures towards her. "That. And yeah, pretty rare, but I was approached and the money was good so I wasn't going to say no," he adds, a bit dryly. Then he falls silent as Clarissa storms back to the table. His lips quirk upwards. "I thinks severed swans' heads would be great fun." He would. "And no, just a happy coincidence."

A thoughtful look towards Anne. "Just a case I'm working on. Trying to find out about certain events that may have taken place in the thirties and forties."

The saucy look only broadens her smile, before her attention is pulled away by Clarissa's return. "Missus Robbins," Isabella greets, without comment on the swan heads, save for a curious: "Are those for the New Year's Eve benefit?" she wonders. But she gestures to the blue-eyed woman with a smile. "This is Anne Washburn, a friend of mine and the City Hall's archivist. She expressed some interest in joining the Society and she mentioned something to me that we could maybe work in on those fundraising plans. I'm sure paperwork will have to be submitted as a proposal, but I thought the task fits right in with the Society's mission."

She falls quiet after that, though, setting the journal carefully down in the box, if not just to listen to the three's conversation.

"Chocolate," Clarissa quickly clarifies, giving a nod and a smile to Isabella, "And yes. Better to be prepared before all the best places are booked up for the holidays." When Anne gets introduces she nods, "Miss Washburn was at the meeting I held on the casino and is a remarkable resource when it comes to the history of the town. And of course, we'd love to have you as a member, Miss Washburn," she gestures at all the boxes and documents on the table, "We've received so many documents from families around town that we'd love to get properly classified and archived. Thankfully even in their disarray it seems they've been of some service to Mister Clayton and his mystery hunt."

"A case?" Anne straightens with a hint of curiousity, regarding Alexander for a longer moment before the ah-ha hits her. "Oh, that's right. You're a private investigator. Very interesting," she purses her lips into a low 'hmm' before the conversation with Clarissa provides enough distraction. She perks, a smile fitting to her lips that displays the dimples in her cheeks. "I would very much love to be apart of the society. And surely, if you need someone to organize documents, I'm your gal," she laughs. "Do you have a document management system yet? If not, and it's in the budget, you and I can discuss some software that I think would be suitable.." There's another glance to Alexander, and she watches him for a moment before she offers calmly: "If you need help with your research, Mister Clayton, I promise that I only make people fill out forms when I'm on the clock."

Alexander makes a so-so gesture with one hand at Anne. "I'm not licensed. So I can't...really call myself a private investigator. But I investigate things." He gives an awkward sort of shrug. "Accuracy is important. And I rather...like doing the research. But maybe." A touch wary at Anne's offer, like there might be ambush forms involved. He falls silent as the three talk about membership in the historical society, and the classification of the various documents. His fingers twitch. He doesn't comment on that, not immediately, but does glance at Clarissa. "That's right. You're staging it at the...Addington House? It's a beautiful building."

"It's bound to be great. Roaring twenties for a theme, so lots of Jazz. Would you like to come with me?" The invitation extended to Alexander, and clearly the prospect of music she enjoys is one of the reasons why Isabella was all for the idea, on top of the fact that it's for a good cause and well within the areas she's passionate about. There's a supportive nod towards Anne. "Apparently City Hall desperately needs one also since paper is so fragile and at least this way, the information isn't lost and the originals themselves don't have to be at risk whenever someone tries to check them out or takes a look at them." She takes another sip of her coffee, and furrows her brow as she digs out her smartphone; it vibrates in her hand. Brows lift when she finds Detective Quintanilla on her Caller ID, before responding to a quick text.

"Addington House will be the perfect backdrop," Clarissa nods to Alexander, looking pleased that he's heard about it. If Alexander Clayton has heard about it surely the rest of Gray Harbor has too. She then turns her attention to Anne, "And we haven't even thought about document management software, although I have been interested in purchasing a scanner. Something that won't damage the documents but might be able to preserve what's written on them. Photographs can only do so much and they aren't searchable, so yes that's a long winded way of saying I'm most interested in discussing such a thing with you. And yes, lots of jazz. It's going to be a costume party so after Mister Clayton researches his...mystery, maybe he can look into some nice suits."

"Oh, you'd be surprised at how much technology is out there now for document management!" This makes Anne brings her hands together giddily, she's obviously a bit of a nerd. Probably more than just a bit. But she does read the room, which is why she brings her hands down to her lap and flashes Clarissa another smile. "But it's probably a conversation for a later time. I can send you some proposals, organized by cost and effectiveness." Then there's a smile for Alexander and Isabella, a quiet study on the two of them together. "I can already tell this will be a wonderful party. Have you thought about what you're going to wear? There are some gorgeous looks from the 20s," she sighs wistfully.

"A costume party. Will there be masks?" Alexander asks, looking slightly uncomfortable. But he glances at Isabella at the mention of jazz, and the unease softens. "...sure. I'll go, if you want. I don't really dance. But it might be fun." But then suits are mentioned again, and he sort of hunches his shoulders like he's a ten year old assigned to a spinach and brussel sprouts diet. "Document management software would certainly be more convenient. Not that I don't like going through these old boxes," again, not a hint of sarcasm, "but being able to do searches and indexing would be a godsend."

"No masks and it's not much of a costume, really - just wear a suit, and we can find you a bowler or a derby hat easily and honestly, I'm curious to see how you'd wear one. Hat wearing was at its height in those times, though honestly, I'm still somewhat sad that it fell out of men's fashion as it got later into the twentieth century." Anne's comment about the clothes back then gets a grin, Isabella discards her empty coffee cup in the nearby recycling bin, because she's not a philistine, passing behind Anne and Alexander to do it. "I'm not sure, I'm not big on wearing dresses, but I'm a Society member, so I'm going to see what I have to do in order to get creative. I think you joined us just in time, Anne - falling right into the fun stuff already." Her voice carries a teasing bent.

"I do like paper, too - I think it's a love quite a few of us share," she remarks, once the errand is done, her hand resting on Alexander's shoulder when she finds the space behind his chair and dropping her lips against his crown. "And you don't have to dance," she murmurs against those half-curls, a smile hinted at from the visible corners of her mouth. And then she's sliding away again to take another look at the blueprints, the look of her quietly thoughtful as she examines the clean, but faded lines on the page.

"No masks," Clarissa affirms Isabella's reply, "But plenty if flashy outfits! While I definitely did not mind the Venetian theme to all the Halloween escapades," and she pauses ever so briefly to look over her shoulder as if expecting something to be there, then smiles back to the group, "There's something to be said for the fashion of the 20's with the shorter hemlines and all that dazzle. People can of course wear whatever they'd like, but I have several costume places on retainer that will be offering discounts so everyone can get into the Great Gatsby spirit. And of course there will be champagne and--and it's months away, so I hope excitement stays at a peek the whole time until it arrives. Regardless, did I miss the discovery of any other documents or ah, phantom evidence?" She looks to Alexander at the last.

"You could always wear a very snappy suit, a gender-bending sort," Anne says to Isabella about her dislike of dresses. "The flapper dresses were only one of the styles from back then. The '20s are just a bit outside of my area of focus, but I think knickers were something of a gray area during that period. Though, that's a bit more sporty than gala-worthy. I bet you could do something super cute with a gangster-style suit though," It's a suggestion that she makes with a shrug of her shoulders, before she leans to look at the blue prints that have caught Isabella's focus. "What are these even of?" she tap taps the edge of the blueprint carefully.

Alexander relaxes at Isabella's reassurances. "You'll have to help me pick out a suit, I think. I doubt the black one would be appropriate for a festive occasion." And it's absolutely the only one he has. A smile warms his features as the gender-bending is suggested, and he gives Isabella an appreciative once over. "You'd look fantastic in that sort of thing, I think."

Clarissa's question gets a shake of the head. "Nothing further I can immediately pinpoint. I think I'll have to explore other avenues." A pause. "This is the house plan. There's a room that was sealed up in the 1930s." He taps the plan at the appropriate place. "A bedroom, although it retained a connection to the house through a dumbwaiter."

"Definitely leaning that way," Isabella tells Anne with an approving grin at the idea. "Or a pantsuit, I think they were starting to wear them then, too. Pinstripes, hat." Her mischief grows all the more prominent, the devil's own smile upon her lips. "Tommy gun. I can kick down Patrick's doors and have his tax lawyers and security personnel chase me out for added authenticity." She's probably just joking about the rest. Probably. "After setting him on fire, it might actually be the first museum I'll ever be banned from if I did that, though, so I'll try and refrain."

Alexander's remarks have her smiling. "I'd love to help," she says simply. "We'll stop by a place before the event and rent one out - and you're right, I mean, it is New Year's Eve. What about you, Anne? Where do your preferences lie?"

And then her interest reverts back to the blueprints, her eyes wide. "A secret room? Awesome!" She leans forward to peer at the place Alexander points out, her stare practically incandescent, because of course she'd be excited about it - who hasn't fantasized about finding secret passages as a child? "Ugh, I'm so jealous. I've been at this career for years and I've yet to actually come across one in the wild, and then this just drops on your lap?"

"Let's definitely not set anything in the historical building on fire," Clarissa glances between the three of them with a disapproving expression. Pant suits and fires! Hmph. "Is the dumbwaiter still working? Is that how you got in before to know about all the dolls and furniture that's still inside?" She asks Alexander curiously.

"Me? Oh, I prefer dresses and skirts. But that's mostly because I love stockings.." There's probably more to that, but Anne isn't going to divulge. Instead, she twists to study the blueprints a little more closely, shifting on the seat so she's got one knee up and is sitting on that leg. "Innnnteresting," she drawls out, intrigued. "Was this the bedroom where Melinda Blackwood died?" Her brows go up as she brings curious eyes to Alexander. "At least, that's what I recall reading. She died in her sleep, her heart just stopped," she bobs her head in a quick nod to herself, flashing a look right back to the blueprints. But something Clarissa says has her eyes widening. "The room has a bunch of freaky dolls in it? Oh!" There's a dramatic shudder that rolls from her shoulders down her spine. "Dolls are the worst."

Also, Anne adds to Isabella: "Knowing Patrick, he'd probably have his own goonies with their own Tommy guns, so be careful! Else there might be a shootout."

Alexander laughs outright at Isabella's enthusiasm, a low but joyful sort of sound. "Well, if you're going to find secret rooms anywhere, it'll be in Gray Harbor. So stick around for a bit more, and I'm sure you'll end up finding an underwater temple to some sort of dark cult." He's not entirely joking, even as he lifts a hand to brush it fondly along her arm. Then there's a nod to Clarissa. "Yeah. We couldn't get into it, because...well. Adult men. But we sent a ghost-hunting teddy bear up there to take pictures." Yes, he's absolutely watching Clarissa's face when he says that, even though his voice remains toneless. "Although...thinking about it. A weird thing - on top of other weird things - would be that there weren't any paintings in the room. Toys, dolls, furniture. But no paintings." He glances to Anne. "Maybe. Melinda - is that Catherine Blackwood's mother? Or is it another member of the family?"

Clarissa's disapproving expression has the archaeologist flashing her a quick, almost innocent grin.

She doesn't seem all that daunted about dolls, but that's probably understandable - Isabella has handled worse things on the field, but as always, it could be her false sense of bravado also. She has never been one to let anything see her sweat at the thick of it, though the last few months have sorely tested that. Gray Harbor has a way of pulling one's worst fears out of the body and make them manifest, after all. Alexander's laugh earns, pleasant and warm, earns him a wink and she finally occupies a chair next to him. "There are some, you know," she murmurs in a dreamy fashion. "Underwater temples, or rather temples that used to be above ground before they were submerged. When they were damming the Nile, an international coalition of scholars had to determine the best way to move so many temples away from where the flooding was going to be, including Abu Simbel, but they weren't able to get them all. So there are just these...large monoliths and ruins, perfectly preserved temples under so many feet of water. I have pictures...." Clearly a woman utterly besotted by her memories of the location.

Until Anne brings up Patrick's goons, which has her laughing. "This is my not surprised face," she tells the blue-eyed woman, tracing a circle over her visage.

Mention of the other Blackwoods has her tilting her head at Alexander, and then at Anne curiously.

Clarissa looks down at the blueprints, particularly of the walled off room and says mildly, "Grief can make people do strange things," Alexander does get a look at the ghost hunting teddy bear, a very sour look, "I'm more interested in an intact room that hasn't been touched from the 1930's than any ghost stories you're trying to scare me with. It would be like a bit of a museum frozen in time. How small is this dumbwaiter? I'm rather petite, do you think I could fit in it?"

Anne shares easily into the laughter with Isabella, shaking her head in a bemused sort of way. But the focus drifts away from Patrick and his goons and back to the Blackwoods. "Mm, yes. Melinda was Catherine's mother. But I'm not so certain why it would be weird that this room didn't have any paintings in it, were there paintings in the rest of the house?" she looks at Alexander for a longer moment, brows hitching at 'ghost hunting teddy bear'. There's a question there, but it's not asked. "It sounds like a mystery. But I don't want anything to do with a house that's full of creepy dolls. I've seen Child's Play," she shudders again. No thank you.

Alexander watches Isabella's expression change, and his own smile takes on a wistful cast. "It sounds beautiful, Isabella. I doubt Gray Harbor has anything quite so grand," he admits, with a chuckle and shrug. Then Clarissa puts forward that suggestion, and he stops. And blinks. And grows thoughtful. "I'm not sure." She's give a clinical once over. "I don't mind trying, if you're interested in giving it a go. But," he clears his throat, "you understand that there is a ghost involved, and once you're in that room, I'm not sure anyone else could intervene quickly if it were necessary?"

To Anne, he nods. "Yeah, actually there were. And it's a child's bedroom. Surely there should be some art. Do you know when Melinda died, offhand?" He reaches for his notebook, jotting down a few notes with enthusiasm.

"Well, Gray Harbor keeps me busy and these days, I can't honestly ask for anything more," Isabella tells Alexander simply, though she blinks in surprise when Clarissa volunteers to squeeze into a dumbwaiter just so they can get to a secret room in a house that is purportedly haunted. By the expression on her face, she looks surprised...and very impressed. She also falls silent when the local historian is consulted about who Melinda Blackwood is.

Clarissa gives a very dramatic rolling of her eyes, "Mister Clayton, if there is a ghost in that room I assure you I'll be perfectly safe thanks to my friend Santa Claus. Surely even ghost children must answer to that delightfully rotund elf as to whether they've been good or bad or else they won't be allowed to possess anymore toys. Or whatever." She flicks a few fingers to show how little a deal it is. Because ghosts aren't real!

"It'd be far easier to break the wall down than climbing through the dumbwaiter," Anne points out. "Don't you know someone with a sledgehammer?" There's a momentary pause as she considers Alexander. "Or a someone very skilled in.. mm.. breaking things?" She taps her temple. She means with their brains. There's a look back to the blueprints as she considers something. "I'd go the sledgehammer route first. The other is far riskier. And Melinda Blackwood died in 1939." There's a beat as she smiles back to Alexander. "Right around Christmas. Who's ghost is it?" There's not even a blink.

Alexander raises a finger, points at Isabella and Anne, one by one. "Let the record show that I warned Mrs. Clarissa Robbins about the potential risks of this venture. And she mocked." He slumps back into his seat. "It's not my house, Ms. Washburn. I can't just go smashing the place up. My client is contacting architects, but it might take some time. In the meantime..." he scratches his beard along his jawline and considers Clarissa. "If you want to give it a go, then yeah. I'll take you out there, see if you can fit." Is he enjoying the thought of shoving Clarissa in a small, dark space where she might get horribly traumatized? Well. Maybe. Just a little. Something's got a gleam in his eyes, anyway.

Anne's new information makes him hum thoughtfully. "That slots into the timeline of events. And...we don't know. One of the things we're trying to find out."

The byplay between Alexander's long-suffering experience with Gray Harbor's weirdness and Clarissa's skepticism does nothing but intensify the growing aura of amusement around Isabella. With a shake of her head, she pushes back from her seat and rises. "It all sounds incredibly interesting," she says. "Especially with the excuse to pore through historical records. I should probably head out though, I need to get to Branch and Bole before it closes so I can order a few things." And speak to August about something. "It's nice to see you, Chairwoman, good luck with the experiment. Anne, I'll ring you later?"

Her hands shift, to frame the investigator's face and, if allowed, tilt his head back against the frame of his chair so she could deposit a quick kiss on his mouth. "Don't get into too much trouble," she murmurs, and with another friendly wave, she pivots to start heading out the door.

Clarissa just cannot get over the idea of Isabella and Alexander together and openly appears bemused by the display of affection. His shoes are so awful! "Of course," she waves a hand to wave to Isabella, "I ought to make a few calls myself. Are you two all right here?" She gestures to the general table area, "For a bit? So long as you keep your hands clean you can keep sorting through the documents if you want. Just no food or drinks in here. And watch the floorboards, they're antique."

Alexander raises his hand to catch her briefly around the back of her neck, turning that quick kiss into a more lingering one. "No promises in that regard," he murmurs against her lips, with amusement. Then lets his fingers slip away. "Be safe, Isabella." He smiles, and turns back to Clarissa. "I think I'm done here for the day, anyways. I'll go ahead and put everything back in the boxes. Unless there's a storage area I can take them to?" And if she allows, he will absolutely take them there and not go snooping in anything else! Right now.

All this smooching! Anne sips the contents of her coffee cup and looks askew, finally getting to her feet since everyone else does. Goose, meet gander. "I'll walk out with you both," she says happily, smiling to Alexander. "And see, Mister Clayton? I can share without having you fill out a hundred different forms," she notes with a playful wink.