2020-01-13 - Family Matters

Rebecca rolls up in her brand-new Lexus and frowns at the sight of the place. The run down nature has her feeling suspicious, but she nevertheless pulls into the drive and parks, waiting to see who else shows. She is wrapped up in a pale blue wool coat over black slacks and a navy blue, ribbed turtleneck sweater.

Alexander and Isabella arrive in Isabella's Jeep, after a bewildering series of turns and switchbacks. "If I were going to try and kidnap or kill us all, this is definitely where I'd have us meet," Alexander mutters to his lover as they pull up to the house. He gives the Tudor a suspicious once over. In deference to the odd nature of the invitation, he's dressed up. He's wearing a hand-me-down but still quite nice jacket, over a burgundy shirt that actually looks tailored to his frame. The slacks, too, are hemmed and fitted, and he actually looks quite nice. Just...nervous and a little paranoid as he studies the figure of the woman. Then approaches the door. A strong triple knock, a pause, then three more.

Grant doesn't have a car. He doesn't call for an Uber. He doesn't work on putting the change together to get a cab either. That shit is expensive and he blew thirty bucks at the bar last night clinging Mai Tai's and arguing art theory. Which means? Christ on a Crabcake did he go home yet? Well there's no one here he'd have seen yesterday so it doesn't count!

Eventually he shows, wearing rainbow glitter Doc Martens a heavy winter coat, his jeans and what looks like an Avengers version of the classic Ramones t-shirt under some layers, and a black collar around his neck hides what looks like a bright pink line like a scratch or something. It's hard to tell with all the hemp string and found object jewelry the violet haired skate punk is wearing.

Tired, but making it happen, the sound of clattering wheels of his skateboard are eventually heard. Yeah. He rolled here on his own.

When Alexander and Isabella arrive, Rebecca gets out of the car and climbs the stairs with the pair. "You were invited too?" she asks quietly, eyes shifting around to look for any signs of bad things. Gray Harbor has done much to make her paranoid, and this situation is no different.

"My one and only question is how she found out you were a Baxter," Isabella murmurs to Alexander softly, though not without an appreciative glance at the way he's dressed, a hand coming up to toy with the black threads of the coat that he decided to wear. "This looks familiar," she says with absent affection, before pressing a quiet kiss on his cheek.

She's dressed casually in jeans, a blouse under a winter coat - she is mostly healed from her ordeals and while she isn't the fashion icon Rebecca is, she is presentable enough. A hand lifts to push her hair from her eyes, her long, dark hair left loose from its usual bind to keep her warmer over the winter. Addressed by said stylish blonde, she turns to her with a blink. "Miss Carr! You, too?"

And Grant. There's a wiggle of her fingers, followed by a small smile. "Grant, right?" She has a good memory for names and faces at least.

"Miss Carr." Alexander offers her a brief smile as she approaches. "It seems that we were." And then there's Grant. Alexander doesn't stare too much at the skateboard - if not for Isabella, he would have walked, after all. "And Mister Baxter, as well. Aren't we a merry group?" He shakes his head at Isabella. "I'm not sure it's much of a secret, if you know where to look. And there was the eulogy." Where he pretty much admitted it to anyone who cared to hear.

It's not the woman who answers the door after a small pause, but a man. Younger than Alexander, though older than Isabella; he's probably somewhere around thirty or so. Average height and build, dusky skinned with a full, neatly maintained beard and goatee. His hair is night black, a few inches long, thick and brushed back. He's Indian, maybe, or Pakistani; his heritage is somewhere from the Asian subcontinent for sure. A modest shine of Glimmer to him, not so much as Alexander and Isabella.

"Hey," he says. "Thanks for coming, I'm Tim." His accent is all West Coast US. He looks from Alexander and Isabella to Rebecca to...Grant. Grant he looks at the longest, then clears his throat. "Ah, yeah, come on in. Rhoda's made some tea and coffee."

The interior that's revealed as Tim steps clear to let them in is nowhere near so ill-kept. Lovely wood floors, golden brown with a darker inlay border lead into a large living room with a brick fireplace, divan, sofa, and tall, wingback chairs, all upholstered in velvet. There's an ornate, oriental rug on the floor, with an equally ornate, ebony wood coffee table on top of it. A large, fat black cat is dozing in front of the fireplace. He cracks open one golden eye to peer at the group as they're let in, then promptly falls back to sleep. The entire house is full of eccentric furniture, rugs, and paintings; none of it matches per se, and still somehow, it all comes together. The owner is 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.

The woman is setting up a silver service tray in the kitchen, which has newer appliances and lovely granite countertops. She's tall and wiry, with wavy, chin-length white hair frosted in a sheen of its former gold brilliance, and dressed against the winter cold in a black, wool sweater, dark red wool cardigan, and dark gray, velvet pants. A moderate note of Glimmer to her as well; stronger than Tim, but still not so strong as Alexander or Isabella.

Grant arches his eyebrow and holds a finger up to Alexander to dispense with the forms of address. Hand goes into his pocket and he pulls out his phone to stop Spotify from chirping at him and then readjusts his hearing aids with the app for conversation move. "Sorry? Oh brother you gonna call everyone by their last names we're going to be here all damn day." As if to accentuate the point he references the old comedy routine, "Doctor? Doctor. Doctor. Doctor! Doctor." There's a pause and he says "Bax is... fine. Or Grant." Isabella gets a grin for remembering. He pauses looking back at Time, "My dad and sister couldn't... make it." Ah. That explains why the Lawyer's not here. Stamping on the tail he pops the board up into his hand and follows curiously in that way if there was a monster he might run up the stairs and invite the monster along so he doesn't get scared or feel left out. No monsters in here, just cool shit.

Rebecca doesn't give the customary shouted greeting of CROTCHBITER to Grant, though she does give him a small smile. When the door opens she gives Tim a once over, trying to judge if he's lured them into a terrible trap. She decides that isn't the case, and steps inside. The scrimshaw collection catches her eye, and she looks over it curiously, waiting for their host to explain why she has called them all here. Her hands stay stuffed in her coat pockets, but her eyes move constantly, trying to take in everything at once.

Alexander studies Tim. "Hello. Timothy." He doesn't offer a hand. "Alexander Clayton. This is Isabella Reede. Nice to meet you." He slinks into the room, and gives the place a look around like he's casing it. Certainly memorizing everything that might be helpful in unraveling the mystery." When Grant offers a nickname, first, he makes a grunting sound. The only thing that lightens his expression is the sight of the cat. He sidles in that direction and crouches, smiling a little as he offers his fingers to the sleepy feline.

"Hi, I'm Isabella," she says, reaching out to shake Tim's hand, if he allows. "This is Rebecca Carr and Grant Baxter." She also introduces the others, and when they're invited inside, curious eyes take in the collections - the art catches her eye first, and the seashells and glass, forever drawn by things that remind her of the ocean. Even as she looks on, however, her attention returns now and then to Tim, open curiosity on her features and wondering how he's connected to everything else.

To the woman in the cardigan, sporting the same faint shine, she turns her next address there-wards. "Missus Menhir?" she identifies, though there's a faint uncertainty there. "Good afternoon."

Tim gives Alexander a look that's half consternation, half amusement when he refers to him as 'Timothy'. "Ah, yeah. Alexander. Isabella." He pauses, glancing at Rebecca, but doesn't press. Fortunately, Isabella is there to save the day. He returns her handshake, firm and friendly. His eyes shift to Grant. "...Bax. Okay. Right." He gestures at the couch, divans, and chairs, shuts the door.

The cat, who's wearing a woven collar with a small, dark blue bell, opens his eyes and sniffs curiously at Alexander's fingers. Eventually he shoves his head into Alexander's hand, demanding tribute for being allowed into the house. The collar has the name NICODEMUS sewn into it.

"Ms. Menhir," Rhoda says from the kitchen, her correction gently. "And thank you, dear, I'll be right out."

Tim hovers, hand in his pockets, at the threshold to the living room until Rhoda enters with the tray. Two pots, one ceramic and one silver; cups and saucers for all; honey, sugar, and cream. "Thank you very much for agreeing to meet us," she says to everyone, carefully setting the tray down on the coffee table. "Coffee in the silver, Darjeeling in the ceramic." She moves to seat herself on one corner of the divan. "Tim, sweetheart, when the timer goes off, the cookies will be done."

"Got it," he says, and takes up a spot in the archway leading into the dining room beyond. Rhoda pulls a book out from the lower shelf of the coffee table: a rather large book that appears to be a photo album. On the front, in elegant script, it reads BAXTER.

Alexander barely notices Tim's consternation. There is a cat to make friends with, and he gives a warmer smile to the animal as it he shoves his head into his hand than he did to either of the human occupants. Ears and chin are scritched with enthusiasm. "Hello, Nicodemus," he murmurs to the creature. "You're beautiful." Eventually, of course, he does turn back to the human members of the room, and moves to go sit wherever Isabella situates herself. The photo album is given a frown. "What is it that you would like from us?" he says, at last, willing to be blunt up until the point where someone (likely Isabella) feels the need to cover his mouth.

Rebecca gives Tim a faint nod when Isabella introduces her. Then Rhoda is there with drinks. "Ms. Menhir," Rebecca greets tonelessly. She is clearly still suspicious of all this. The last time she was gathered over something Baxter, it was to bury Gohl, who murdered her sister. "Thank you for your hospitality, but I know I'd feel better if you explained what this is all about." She looks to the others, who are better at the niceties today. Normally she's stellar at them, but this has her on edge.

There's a curious glance at Nicodemus - and an appreciation for the name. "The cat's name in Prince of Thieves was Nicodemus," Isabella murmurs; Alexander might not like fiction, but her love for cinema is not exactly a secret. She takes up the end of one couch, her negligible weight settling in, shifting once her lover joins her there. She doesn't pet the cat, she's more of a dog person, and so her eyes are drawn up to wherever the older woman moves and pulls out a book that says BAXTER on it. Curiosity sharpens the lines on her affable mien.

"From which branch are you from, Miss Mehnir?" she asks. It doesn't take her long to put two and two together, considering who is present in the room and the photo album in her hand.

"Naw, Nicodemus was the leader of the Rats of NIMH. Super smart. Collect jewelry. Move blocks. Big time stuff." He doesn't sit though but eyes the room quizzically, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck and the irritated pink line under his collar he's been covering up. Look at allathestuff! Curious he looks to the book and tilts his head but doesn't move to touch it. "So what's with the deal with the meeting of the Benevolent Order of Antelopes and all?"

Nicodemus nips at Alexander's fingers in the 'I am way over-enjoying this, continue at your peril, visitor-in-my-home' way of overly stimulated cats.

"Bakers," Rhoda corrects Grant, with the same gentleness she used with Isabella. "Benevolent Order of Bakers. Baxter is the feminine form of the Anglo-Saxon term 'baker'. And," she looks to Alexander, "It's not what I want from you. But what I wish to give you." She opens the photo album towards the center. Here there aren't pictures, but a large pedigree that folds out. Their pedigree--the Baxters, going clear back to Adam Baxter.

"Clayton," she says, glancing up at Alexander and drawing a finger down the left-most side, from Elizabeth and William Gohl, terminating at himself. "Carr." She doesn't harass Rebecca with a look, instead just traces the path from Adam through to Kenneth Baxter, whose son was given the name Carr; Rebecca's great grandfather Daniel. She flicks a look up at Isabella. "Reede." The same segment as Rebecca, but a different great-great-grandfather, this one ending with Isabella and her brother's names in boxes. "Baxter." She looks to Grant, taps his name scribbled just below his father's. And then, to the right of that, another branch, from the third of Adam Baxter's sons, Reginald. At the very bottom, Rhoda Menhir, with no issue, and another woman, Joanna, whose surname is listed as Bakshi, with a single child: Tim.

Tim bobs his eyebrows at the assembled scions of Adam Baxter. Rhoda sits back on the divan. "I was given this family tree by my Great Aunt, herself a Baxter. The last in our line to carry that surname, for Victor and Madline had no sons who survived to pass it on." She leaves it open so it can be looked over, but doesn't offer the album to anyone.

Alexander doesn't seem to mind the nip. But he does stop petting, especially as he moves to settle back with Isabella, putting his arm around her. Rhoda is considered suspiciously, and more than a little skeptically when she says about wanting to give something to them. He watches her trace the lines, his lips pressed thinly together. "And what does it mean? Why concern oneself with Baxters any more than one might consider...Smiths. Or Joneses." It's wary and cautious.

Rebecca boggles at the family tree. She finally unfolds her arms and moves over to look more closely at it. "And we all descended from Baxters from here?" she asks. She takes out her phone so she can take a photo of the tree and close ups of various sections, if Rhoda permits.

Isabella leans over and studies the unfurled genealogical map with quiet interest. "I was able to trace my branch all the way to Adam Baxter," she tells the rest for their edification - Alexander already knows that, but Rebecca and Grant and Tim do not. "Through their eldest's son's line, Preacher Lindon Baxter. Alexander's born from Elizabeth's line, their eldest daughter. I was only able to confirm the existence of two children from the original Baxter couple who settled in Gray Harbor. I didn't know there were others."

Grant honestly missed a part of teh conversation. His focus being down at the book and a ways away. He blinks at Tim, "Holy shit I'm a Baxter? Why didn't anyone tell me?" He's either joking or possibly still buzzing from the previous evening. "So you all drew the short straw on your 23&Me and... we know how to bake? Why can't I even make a hot pocket then?" He sighs and makes some gestures signing, o himself really, and looking up as if the spirits of the house may commiserate.

"We are," Rhoda confirms, pushing the book towards Rebecca, careful of the meticulously maintained pedigree. She nods at Isabella. "And yet, these days, we're few and far between in Gray Harbor, and none of us has ever once married an Addington, despite our proximity." She arches an eyebrow. "And I happen to know this is the most complete family tree of its kind. Curious, hm?"

Tim coughs a laugh at Grant. "You and me both, man," he says. The timer in the kitchen beeps, and he goes to take the cookies out of the oven. Shortbread, by the smell that comes wafting out.

Now Rhoda gives Alexander a droll look. "Really, Mr. Clayton. You're no James Bond." She considers him, mmmmms under her breath. "This family is swimming with the Art, isn't it."

"So, have you figured out why the Baxters 'disappeared' from Gray Harbor way back when? Did they leave and namechange? Or were they killed?" Rebecca asks, wondering how many manipulations the Addingtons have done to the Baxter Family besides Gohl. "Some more than others," she murmurs, regarding the Art.

"The Addingtons have no desire to join their family with the Baxters," Alexander says, blandly. "A Baxter burned them, once." A pause. "He burned Baxters, too. But I think Addingtons hold a grudge." His eyes twitch to follow Tim as he goes to fetch the cookies, but Rhoda's scrutiny and comment draws him back. "I don't know what you mean by that."

"Research indicates that there might be a feud between the two families starting from the very period in which Gray Harbor itself was founded. What little historical sources say the Baxters were the first ones here, but there are hardly ever any records of Adam and Joan Baxter, and there are barely any mentions of the two children I managed to track down." Isabella leans back from her perusal of the family tree, bringing her into the confines of Alexander's draping arm. There's a small smile directed at him, confusion on her expression at the map unfurled before them, before focusing on Rhoda. "Do you have any stories about the Baxters that you've heard about from your great-aunt, Miss Mehnir?"

Grant pauses and looks focusing down. Looking back up he wonders out loud, "Wonder if that's why the didn't go out with me." On the front of the Addingtons. "They send any of them to that hospital that's upstate?" He pauses to judge the expressions of the lady with the- ooh cookies! Bad ass! and then the others. "Kids go missing all the time. Which... sucks but it's true. Why's being a Baxter important to that." He pauses and rolls his hand half signing and narrating, "Other than they're people so we should care."

"You asked why study the Baxters, as if this family isn't steeped in mystery and oddity," Rhoda says, "and as if their disappearance from the town isn't worth determining all on its own." For the question of intermarriage, she shrugs. "Our family's large, as is theirs. Two people from each could easily decide to marry without really being aware--and yet, in all this time, it's never happened. Why not? Even on accident?" A sidelong glance to Rebecca, whose family changed their name; she's a fine example of how it could have happened.

To that end, she shakes her head at Rebecca's question, nods towards Isabella. "No more than that--there was some manner of feud. But," a glance at Tim, who's bringing out the shortbreads on a plate, "it's time for me to pass this information on. To my nephew, and, to the rest of you. If there's a need to find these answers, it's going to take more than one of you. You'll need to work together." She taps at their arm of the family, with Reginald Baxter as the source from Adam. "With this information, you can perhaps find out more. It's possible my Great Aunt had more to impart that she never managed to, but might still be found somewhere in this area."

Rhoda gestures at Grant. "An excellent question, and I've wondered, from time to time, if that...place, whatever it is, is somehow involved in our family's near banishment." She looks between them, clearly not as up on the 'place upstate' as she'd like to be.

Tim, for the first time, says more than a few words. "Let me be honest with all of you--I don't know fuck all about any of this. The...Art, Glimmer...or whatever you want to call it. I'm just an art teacher from SoCal, okay? I got yanked into all of this because," he rolls his eyes, "that's apparently what shit's like around here. So I'm happy to help, but," he ends it with a helpless shrug. But, he's a Valley Guy without much clue as to wtf is going on, that expression says.

Rebecca arches a brow at Rhoda all but acknowledging she also suspects the Baxters' disappearance may have been a case of foul play. "Interesting. Well, thank you for letting us know about this. Our family is apparently MUCH better at sharing pertinent information than the Addingtons." She's talking bout YOU Margaret, you old hag.

"Have they actually disappeared?" Alexander gives a meaningful look around to the people in the room. "Those of Baxter descent are still here. Some have changed their names, but some haven't." He nods to Grant. "There's...oddity, sure enough. And a long-standing rivalry of some sort with the Addingtons. Although they seem to know more about it than any of us. But the Baxters may just have bad blood, so to speak." Alexander frowns. "I had a...a thought, one time. A memory, maybe. That the Gohls were fine until they bred with Baxters. And another, that implied that Baxters were supposed to be," he shrugs, "gifted in abilities. But why? That, I don't know."

"We might not want to open that box, when it's all said and done," Isabella murmurs quietly, when Rhoda posits why shouldn't they explore the mystery more. "Those answers might not even be found here, really, but some of us are trying. I have the Chairwoman of the Historical Society trying to see whether any of the original Baxter holdings still exist, or at least the places in which they've lived, and Alexander and I intend to look into the Carousel - a Baxter was one of its operators, once, during the 1970s, so we know at the very least that some Baxters were still here at the time. I also have another thought as to how to approach it, but I'm going to wait until the research on the Carousel is done before spinning out more ideas. As for our blood..." There's a glance towards the investigator sitting next to her. "That's a work in progress, also."

Grant stands up a bit straighter eating his cookie. SO proud! Hey, the guy is easy to please and every Scooby Gang needs an idiot savant. Let's hope he qualifies so much. Looking to Tim he says "Shit, cuz, I can like...I got you. I made a book that sort of explains it. My therapist was not impressed but it's kinda... comprehensive. Like legit. " That might even be helpful. Looking to Isabella, "That Carousel is great. Did you know it's ne of teh few in teh country to have a frog on it? Not a common feature."

"I didn't know that, actually," Isabella says, grinning at Grant. "I'm going to have to try and take a closer look at the frog once I'm poking at it."

"Until they interbred with the Baxters?" Tim asks, sounding more than a little put out by that. "Is this like how the British went on about Vikings being gross and nasty, and then we find out years later that was just because the Vikings actually bathed and dressed well and the British felt like gross cave men by comparison?" Rhoda gives him a look. Around a bite of shortbread he mumbles, "What? It's true." He swallows. "Just saying, that sounds like a smokescreen. Story made up so the Baxters look like 'bad seeds'. You know, what us historians like to call 'bullshit'."

"Not entirely disappeared," Rhoda nods at those assembled, "and yet, it's Addington Park, and Addington House. But," she gestures at Isabella, "it's true--what we find might not be something we want known." She sighs. "That's for most of you to decide. I'm a tired old woman, at this point." She miles; it's tinged with mingled regret and exhaustion. "I've gone about as far as I can with this. Younger people, with knew knowledge, have to move forward. Or not, as you choose. But at least now," she carefully folds up the pedigree, sets the book in her lap, "you'll have a bigger picture to work from, more names to look into."

She coughs a laugh at the comment about Margaret. "Still no love lost for our families, I see," she murmurs amused.

"I'll send out photocopies," Tim says between cookies. He and Grant are going to eat them all if no one else does. "Probably going to put the original here in a safety deposit box." He cuts a look at Grant. "Really? I'd love a look at that." Rhoda seems grateful for Grant's offer there. It's hard for a sixty-odd year old woman to deal with teaching her nephew these things.