by Laura Briggs
"She's busy worrying about Mr. Trelawney's meeting," I answered, as a surge of petrol put the car in motion again.
"Mr. Trelawney's back?" I detected panic in Riley's voice.
"Since this morning."
"Brilliant. Lovely. And if he catches me, I'm dead." There was a scuffle in the back seat as Riley wrestled with his garments. "I've been late three times in the past weeks — if there's a fourth, he told me I'm sacked."
And here I was, the illegal alien on staff, now working as Riley's wheelman in crime. "What about me?" I said. "What if he catches me sneaking you in?" I glanced towards the back seat, not caring anymore in what state of undress I might catch Riley.
"Then you're sacked, too, I suppose."
"Thanks a lot. I'm already on thin ice, Riley —"
His uniform coat was unbuttoned over his vest as he lurched up from the car's floor. "Will you watch the road?" he yelled. With a grunt, he darted over the back seat and seized the steering wheel with one hand, jerking it sharply to the right, so that we narrowly avoided a stalled lorry and caravan I had failed to observe just ahead of us in our lane.
"Sorry."
"Never mind." He began frantically buttoning his uniform jacket. "Now, give this tin pail of bolts some welly. Look at the time — Mr. Trelawney's probably casting a fish eye around the place and seeing it's a porter short." He released a dramatic groan. "Brigette's been dying to see me get the sack."
"We'll make it," I answered, as I turned away from the coastal road leading to the warm south beach, beginning the climb up the steepest hill in western Cornwall — in my opinion — which led to the cliffside hotel Penmarrrow. I had no more desire to be late than Riley, imagining what the manager would think of the two of us dashing through the doors together. It was goodbye Maisie Clark, alias Marjorie Kinnan, if I didn't make a better impression than the slight shambles of my first few weeks of employment.
The Penmarrow faced the coast with a serene expression, its rosy brick and limestone facade accented by two beautiful fall harvest displays of jeweled ears of corn bundled in dried stalks, baskets of bright-cheeked apples, and dried greenish-brown gourds with swan-like necks. Despite the cool day, guests who surfed and devoted sea bathers were trickling down the stone path to the beach below.
Riley dove to the bottom of the car. "Are you all right?" I tried not to turn my head away from the road.
"I can't be seen, remember?" he said. "I hope that blasted lazybones Norm is taking a nap in the shed again instead of raking the gravel or some other nonsense."
I pulled into the car's yard and hopped out, scanning for sight of anyone. I rapped on the passenger door and it popped open, Riley quickly ducking out with a bundle of clothes under his arm. "I'd be quick, if I were you," I said, glancing towards the side entrance of the hotel. "Just in case Mr. Trelawney is downstairs."
"It's my middle name — next to Patrick," he answered, in a thicker Irish brogue than usual. "Thanks again, Marjorie." With a devilish wink and grin, he disappeared through the back gate leading to the kitchen — a wise entrance, given the manager was far more likely to be patrolling the hotel's foyer at this hour.
With a quick glance to make sure no one was watching from the windows above, I entered the side door as casually as possible.
The staff meeting was held in the room closest to the stair to Mr. Trelawney's private office, a little sitting room with a row of chairs still set up for a recent lecture and luncheon on Arthurian lore — which, due to my work as a maid and a huge pile of hotel laundry, I hadn't been able to sneak into and attend. As I slipped into one of the seats, I noticed Riley had beat me here, lounging in the middle row in the chair beside his fellow porter Gomez's. Brigette the desk clerk was seated in the very front with her clipboard, while the maids Molly and Katy, and the rest of the staff was scattered around me, along with Ligeia, the kitchen's spiky headed chef. Norm the gardener, of course, was half-asleep in the very back row.
The hotel's manager stood at the lectern which had also been left in place after the luncheon. Despite the somewhat portly figure of the hotel manager, and his slow and careful speed when approaching the head of the room, it was the keen gaze that held power over us — giving us the message that Mr. Trelawney was not someone to be challenged on the subject of the hotel's reputation.
He cleared his throat, a deep, rumbling sound. The room fell silent.
"An announcement, before we review the details of our upcoming party," Mr. Trelawney began. "As you know, Mrs. Charles the chief housekeeper has taken a holiday for the past two weeks in Ireland. It is my understanding as of yesterday, however, that at the end of her holiday she will be leaving employment at the hotel."
A murmur of surprise followed. "What?" said someone. "Why?"
The manager lifted his gaze to the offending commenter. "She has eloped, it would seem," he said. "And so she has chosen not to return to her duties."
The shock which followed this statement didn't lead to any direct questions, so the manager continued speaking after his pause. "Until further arrangements can be made, the duties of the chief housekeeper will be managed by Brigette, and by myself. To that end, I have already assigned the duties of those who will be waiting upon the guests for the earl's centenarian celebration, and you will find them posted in the former chief housekeeper's office. Note in particular those of you who are assigned to serve after dinner drinks and hors d'oeuvres to the earl's party — formal wait staff dress code will apply."
We exchanged glances among ourselves. The manager reviewed a small note card in his hand, presumably one containing the rest of his thoughts for this meeting.
"As those of you who attended previous staff discussions are aware —" here, the manager's eye fell on a guilty, squirming Riley, "— the Earl of Middlewhite and his guests will have full use of the hotel for the duration of their stay, including a formal dinner marking his one hundredth birthday, to be held in the tableau dining room instead of the public dining hall. The gold parlor will be used for Miss Norridge's ... performance." After this slight hesitation, Mr. Trelawney pocketed his card. "You may return to your duties now."
Meeting over, we rose to concern ourselves with the 'elevenses' tea spread for guests in the dining room and, in my case, the laundry awaiting stain treatment. "It's going to be a bit exciting with the earl's visit," said Molly, in a half whisper. "Imagine — a real psychic reading the auras in the hotel, or whatever it's called."
"I always said this place was haunted," said Katy, checking her iris-blue eye shadow in a discreet click of her compact mirror. "Never thought the guests would volunteer to bring their own ghosts — or their own ghost hunter."
"He's not a ghost hunter — he's a paranormal investigator," said Riley, who was now adjusting the buttons on his uniform coat, which had a noticeable gap thanks to his last-minute dressing exercise. "That's what they call them on telly."
Katy made a derisive noise in the back of her throat — her usual for one of Riley's comments — and drifted away. I felt the porter's hand on my arm before I could leave, too.
"Listen — quick thanks for helping me. And ... don't mention to anybody where I was this morning, okay?" He glanced around, nervously. "I don't want anyone breathing a word where Mr. Trelawney might hear of it."
"I won't," I said. "You made me promise, and I said I'd keep it. I'm not a snitch, Riley." I didn't want to be, even if picking me for his rescuer had threatened to put me in an even-tighter spot in the hotel. After all, my real work permit had yet to be approved — and the very fake Marjorie Kinnan's papers would never materialize. That was something only myself and Mr. Trelawney knew about, however, since the hotel manager had been gracious enough to give me a second chance to join the staff at the Penmarrow without revealing my circumstances to anyone else.
"I knew I could depend on you," he said. "Since I kept your secret, too. I guess this makes us even." He gave me a relieved smile, with a touch of his usual roguishness. Unlike Riley, I knew h
e had no idea what the meaning of my secret was, since he had mistaken my presence at the literary foundation's ball this past summer for that of an employee sneaking into a hotel event ... not that of a would-be writer in search of a professional author’s advice. Or that of a wealthy guest's ex-girlfriend having to prop up a fragile masculine ego before a father figure made of stone. But that part of the secret was just between me and Ronnie, my ex, and I was planning to keep it that way.
"You need to listen to the constable and stay out of trouble," I said to him. "I think you should spend your time somewhere else than the pub for awhile, until Mrs. Pendlegraft cools off."
"If it were only that easy," said Riley, with a groan. "Don't remind me. She's insane — she'll probably show up here in search of me." He looked uneasy over this thought. "Gomez, lad! Wait for me, aye?" He pasted on his usual cheeky facade as he hurried away, putting on a jocular pretense again.
Poor Riley. I felt sorry for him, for once in our short time as coworkers. He was in deep trouble if any of this got out, and it wouldn't be good for the hotel if this jealous ex-officer Pendlegraft spread the word through the village that one of its employees stole his wife. This affair had timed itself perfectly to be a disaster, given the earl's party in less than two weeks — it spelled certain doom for the Irish porter's career if it unraveled under the nose of such a prestigious guest.
The earl had booked the entire hotel for himself and his guests for that week. I had been informed by Molly that he was rumored to be a cranky, feeble invalid, which a one hundred year-old man has every right to be — and that he was eccentric, which was why he was celebrating his October the twenty-ninth birthday in conjunction with séances to communicate with the other side. The explanation for it generally given was that the earl himself, now so close to the other side, had expressed a desire to make contact and see exactly what was waiting for him after he expired. It was the plan for the medium to conduct private sessions for the earl and his party, and be the sort of 'guest of honor' among the crowd at his birthday supper.
The party included the Earl of Middlewhite's relations and several friends from his inner circle of wealth and fame. Like the 'paranormal investigator,' whom I pictured as a Noel Coward type in an elegant dinner suit — an English nobleman whose paranormal research was probably taken from the files that helped Houdini debunk famous mediums in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's time. And, of course, the celebrity psychic herself, who was making the tour of elite social circles right now. I had even seen her on the cover of a Celebrity Week magazine — Natalie Norridge, the 'spirit whisperer.'
A champagne and white tie dinner, a houseful of famous and interesting guests, and séance just before Halloween. The one thing which would make this month perfect, and the very reason I needed to be in Mr. Trelawney's good graces right now, was the rumor that among the guests invited was a certain favorite author of the Earl of Middlewhite, the famous Alistair Davies.
_________________
In the sunshine of a Port Hewer afternoon, I spent my half day off tracking down the elusive handyman of the local vicarage, who, true to character, wasn't in his garden shed when I stopped by — just his collection of stray dogs, who were piled on an antique sofa someone had less-than-thoughtfully donated to the rectory as of late. Kip the one-eyed terrier mix was curled up on a threadbare velvet pillow included in the gift, and beneath which Sidney had left a few spanners and a hand rake.
I found him two streets away in the midst of an errand, a shop's paper sack in his bicycle basket. His worn flannel shirt flapped in the breeze, the t-shirt beneath it ratty enough with grease and dirt stains that it probably shouldn't be seen in public anymore, having been less artfully repaired than his work boots, which were glued at the seams and had a sailor's knot holding together one lace.
But it's his smile that possesses the magic, not his sense of fashion. Sidney Daniels has an irresistible smile, and he bestowed it on me today as we met. Those hazel brown eyes with sparks of green and gold were alight with unquestionable good humor and playfulness ... maybe a little mystery also, if you looked closely ... and the unruly waves of sandy hair curled around his forehead in the breeze.
"Greetings, Miss Kinnan," he said. "What brings you into our village on this beautiful day?" Like everyone else, he was calling me by my fictitious last name, of course. But he did have a very good grasp on my real first name.
"As it happens, a certain handyman asked me if I would like to have a coffee with him this afternoon," I answered. I tucked my hands in the pockets of my burnt orange cardigan and waited. "It could be that I waited for twenty minutes at the local shop while he was a no-show."
An embarrassed smile, a flame of red crossing Sidney's cheeks. "I forgot, didn't I?" he said, sheepishly. "I'm sorry, Maisie. The vicar asked me to collect some purchases that arrived for the party, and between that and picking up a few packages I lost track of things. I wasn't riding the coast's lackluster surf, I swear." He added this with a grin.
"There's a party at the vicarage?" I asked.
"There is. A Halloween party," he answered. "He hosts one every year. Walnut cake, homemade taffy, scary masks — the complete package. Mostly local youth come and bob for apples and play party games, but a few grown-ups generally put in appearance. To play 'truth or dare,' if nothing else." He grinned at me.
"How very Agatha Christie it all sounds," I replied, jokingly. "I hope they play 'Murder' in the library, just to complete the title wordplay of this evening."
"Come and find out," said Sidney.
"Are you inviting me seriously?"
"Do I not have the face of an honest man?" he asked. "Be my guest on Halloween night. Come early and you can help put up a few decorations." His smile proved this last part was mostly a joke.
"Extra slave labor. I see," I said. "What sort of decorations are required at the party?"
"The usual assortment. Crepe streamers, folded paper black cats. Lots of carved pumpkins. Are you any good at jack-o'-lanterns?" he asked. "How about carving turnips?"
"I've had my fair share of pumpkins under the knife," I admitted. "But I've never carved an Irish turnip. Sorry. You'll have to ask Brigette or Riley about that." The two Irish staff at the hotel, although Brigette's name was French, unlike Riley with his cliché Irishman's moniker.
We passed a cottage adorned with bundled dried corn shucks, bright orange pumpkins without carved faces, and some pots of 'mums in orange and dusky pink, reminding me a little of the decorations I always loved as a kid in autumn. Not that I had ever lived in a house with one of those picture-perfect facades and gardens for decorating.
"So when are you going to tell me your secret?" Sidney asked.
His question startled me out of my skin — and I almost believed he uncannily knew the truth, except I could see the usual devilish glint in his eyes, and the hint of a smile gave it away completely.
"I don't know what you mean," I answered. "And I don't think we know each other well enough to spill secrets. It's only been a couple of months." A couple of months of coffees, afternoons swimming at the hidden cove, and one semi-botched surfing lesson that gave me the brief, thrilling taste of what Newquay's surfers must be enjoying in spades.
"I mean the real reason you're here," he said. "You've given lots of nice platitudes and similes behind your wandering steps, but I think the real story is still buried in secrecy."
"Does it matter?" I asked. "It's not like you told me how you ended up here." Sidney's vagabond ways were supposed to be explanation enough, apparently.
"I told you it was just in my nature to explore," he said. "But you — you are not an explorer by habit, Maisie Kinnan. I can tell the difference. Call it intuition."
I hadn't told anybody the real reason I was here. The cover of Marjorie Kinnan the maid had protected me from it, not that anybody was particularly interested in knowing why one more tourist was settling into a cove in Cornwall. But Sidney was different, and from the start I had told him things I had
meant to keep secret while I waited for my chance.
We were friends, or trying to be. That brush with a kiss just days after we met had been dangerously close to something more. That's why Sidney expected to hear something more than another vague line about my mysterious 'quest for answers' on Cornwall's shores.
"I came looking for Alistair Davies," I said, shrugging my shoulders as I uttered this half-jokingly. Beside me, Sidney paused, gazing at me with a funny expression.
"Who?" he said.
"Alistair Davies. The author," I answered. "You've heard of him, surely. Everyone from snobby English university grads to roving handymen have read his books, I'm sure."
All the crazy aspects of this statement had begun to creep into my thoughts as I imagined Sidney getting the impression that I was an obsessed fan stalking a famous author — his smile certainly suggested this was the most ludicrous reason on the planet for my being here. I switched tactics as I spoke again.
"The real reason is ... I'm ... writing a book," I said. "Trying to, that is. I came here to find inspiration because I heard some rumor that this place was where he wrote some of his novels. The great Cornish tradition of literature at work or something. So I thought I would give it a try, too."
"Novelist Maisie Kinnan," he said. He still looked as if he found my explanation a little bit startling — this last idea pricked my pride slightly. "I wouldn't have guessed it, although I suppose that bit about a writer's forum you once mentioned makes sense now. Your Mr. Scott — a writing professor, eh?"
"Correct," I said. "He was in charge of a workshop where I studied." My instructor Wallace Scott had probably given up any thoughts of his former student who had almost made the cut for the Tucker program, and had begged for a second chance should she find any professional author willing to mentor her. Maisie who? he might say, if I called him right now.
"But it suits you. The daydreamer, the writer — same thing," said Sidney.
I felt a little better after these words.
