Blood Will Tell

by Mary Bowers

  Across the table, Kip was next to Linda Small, and they looked like a couple. It relieved me a little to see that. Kip had a way of making you think he was falling in love with you from the first moment you met, that over-attentiveness that makes you wonder if you’re unconsciously sending out the wrong signals. It’s nice to have an attractive man pay attention to you, but his attention could be a little intense. I was glad to see him leaning in and murmuring to Linda. She looked significantly classier that night than she had out in Santorini Drive the first time I’d seen her. She looked cool and light in a silky, claret-colored dress, and with hair and make-up done, she had the look of a socialite.

  Carr, poor man, was seated opposite Trixie and next to Kip, who was giving all his attention to Linda, on his other side.

  The other odd man out was Dan, who was on Linda’s other side. She was constantly engaged with Kip, and his only other choice was Harriet, unless he wanted to yell across the table. Dan never yells, unless, presumably, he wants to warn somebody about incoming.

  Since Ed was doing his best to ignore Trixie, she battened onto Carr and almost made his hair stand on end with lavish attention. In the general murmur, I couldn’t pick up the threads of any conversation, but since they were at the end of the table nearest the kitchen, I could pick up the satiny flow of drawl from Trixie, punctuated by nervous yips from Carr.

  Once the seating was done, Lorenzo came toward the kitchen, giving me an exaggerated eyebrow-lift as he passed me. He usually stands at the foot of the table and describes the gastronomic delights to come. The guests didn’t know that, but I considered the fact that he neglected this to be an outright mutiny.

  Grady had agreed with our menu, which, while being very expensive, was one of the less labor-intensive ones, and he had outdone himself. He took it personally when Carr’s plate came back with one of the three lovely sea scallops untouched. He quickly ate a slice of it to see if anything was wrong with it, gave me a hard look and muttered, “It’s perfect.”

  “He has trouble eating,” I said quietly. “Some kind of health problem.”

  I didn’t know if it was true, but it mollified Grady. Lorenzo didn’t seem to care. He usually hovers over diners who haven’t finished their food and murmurs to them like a worried mother. Not this time, which was probably for the best. Carr might have burst into tears.

  I signaled to Ed that he could gather them up and take them out to the seawall in front of the house. Several interesting things had happened there; I left it to him to take his pick which story to tell. As he was getting everyone’s attention, Harriet shattered his nerves by insisting that now was the time for the tour of the house.

  “If you please,” she said, standing. She was staring into the kitchen at me. “I believe we’ve waited long enough. The house tour. Now.”

  Lorenzo, muttering in Italian, walked off toward the mudroom, no doubt to weep in solitude.

  I had been assigned to help clear and reset the table once they were out of the house, but we had been aware that this could happen, and that we had a rogue guest who might upset our rhythm, so I just nodded to Myrtle and she squared her elderly shoulders and got ready to take over, with help from Grady’s wife, Cindy.

  Myrtle and I had come to behave like blood relatives, I think. When we were alone in the house, we argued. When outsiders were around, we stood together. She knew all about Harriet Harvey Strawbridge, and what I had to tell her only added to what she already knew. She’d been with the Cadburys a long time, and had been there for one of Harriet’s social visits, back in the day. Myrtle had old-fashioned ideas as to how the quality should behave, and Harriet’s rudeness to servants had ironically made Myrtle look down on her.

  “We are waiting,” Harriet said as I paused to wash my hands.

  I gave the group and collective teasing look. “I like to let the anticipation build.”

  That got a good-natured laugh from everybody except Harriet.

  I strode the length of the great hall, beginning my usual monologue as I walked.

  “Welcome to Cadbury House. The year is 1935. Gilded Age tycoon Kingsley Danvers Cadbury, affectionately known to his friends as ‘Waffles,’ has just completed elaborate renovations and moved his family in for the winter season. Although the house is in an isolated location in Florida, the family immediately begins to issue invitations to their elite friends, who are wintering in St. Augustine. Cadbury House becomes a social magnet for the idle rich.”

  * * * * *

  I wanted to get them away from the great hall so the table could be reset invisibly, so I brought them upstairs, taking them through the bedrooms and box rooms – enormous, to accommodate the steamer trunks of another age – and explaining any modernizations.

  “The bathrooms have been updated, but the fact that they are there at all is original to the house, once Waffles did his overhaul. He believed in luxury for his guests, and he insisted on en-suite bathrooms for every bedroom, which required a lot of structural work up here. The original hunting lodge had been a no-frills affair, with no partition walls in the upstairs sleeping space. The hunters would just bunk up together.

  “The double verandas, which run around the entire house on the first and second floors, have no partitions. It was a place to gather, to enjoy views of the night sky, the sunrise, the river and the virgin acreage that surrounds the house.”

  Around the rooms and around the veranda we went, and then I led them all downstairs and back to the table. By then, the steaks were on. I hoped there would be no Round 2 on the ground floor; it was much more interesting outside Cadbury House, especially at night, when you could evoke all kinds of magic. It was a dark night, there was a new moon, and the only light source would be artfully distributed landscape illumination and a few motion-sensor security lights for when Ed took them along the paths. Note that: when Ed took them along the paths.

  Also, I didn’t want Harriet to get nosy in my office. It had been the owner’s bedroom suite in the days of the Cadburys, and Harriet was showing a suspicious determination to get in there. The lady of the house, Vesta Cadbury Huntington, had been a friend of mine, and I didn’t want Harriet going off on the story of her death, which was probably what she was planning to do. With relish.

  The guests commented on the tempting aromas of the food and moved quickly toward their places. I’m a vegetarian, myself. I haven’t had red meat since I was 25, so the smells didn’t tempt me.

  Lorenzo was nowhere to be found, but my first priority was to dig him out and mop him up. He had little essential work to do, but he was a presence and a safety net between the table and the kitchen. Once the guests were down in their places, I took a deep breath and went looking for him. I found him smoking on the back veranda between the house and the old kitchen.

  “I thought you quit smoking,” I said.

  “I’m having a relapse. Do you mind? Cindy took pity on me and gave me three. This is the second. With someone like her in the house, who can blame me?” he said, writing a circle in smoke as he gestured toward the great room.

  “Well, smoke it up and get back in there. Save the third one for later. We need you.”

  I got myself back into the kitchen, and Lorenzo came in a few minutes later, looking martyr-ish. He didn’t cheer up much during the course of dinner, but Harriet wasn’t our only guest, after all, and a little back-and-forth with the others helped him get through it.

  While the diners were finishing up, Grady went into the great room to ask how they had liked their steaks. Ahead of time, he had made a point of asking each guest how they wanted theirs cooked, and Myrtle and Cindy had been careful about getting the right plates to the right places. People gushed, as they should have, all except for Harriet. Of course.

  “I asked for mine rare,” she said. “Of course, once the meat is overdone, it can’t be uncooked, and I make it a rule never to send food back. It leaves one eating alone after all the others have finished. Still, it was edible, and the chargrilled vege
tables were very well prepared.”

  “Now you just hush, Harriet,” Trixie called down the table. “Just stop it. You know it was fabulous. Grady, you can cook for me any time.”

  She got laughter and applause, while Harriet was frozen with disdain.

  Delighted with the reaction she got, Trixie called into the kitchen to Grady’s wife, “Honey, if you ever want to get rid of him, send him over to my house. He can park his spatula in my kitchen any time.”

  “I think I’ll keep him,” Cindy said. “Even though he does put the whole family to work.”

  “I’m just keeping y’all out of trouble,” Grady told her.

  Fun stuff. Naturally, Harriet put a stop to it immediately.

  She arose regally and impaled me with her eyes.

  “Shall we continue the tour?”

  Lorenzo, sad-eyed, unconsciously brushed his hand across the pocket where the third cigarettes was.

  Ed made a dive for his briefcase, where he had probably kept his notes, but I figured he wasn’t going to need them. Still, he rummaged around and made sure they were there and in a place where he could grab them quickly.

  “Is that a sandwich?” Trixie asked him, gazing into the partially open briefcase. “Who brings a sandwich to a dinner party? You’re just like an insecure little puppy sometimes, Eddie, honey.”

  “I had been called upon to perform,” he said with whatever dignity he could gather. “I didn’t know the circumstances, and when I forget to eat, I have been known to hallucinate. A peanut butter sandwich would have been sustaining, and could have been eaten discretely.”

  “I am violently allergic to nuts,” Harriet intoned. “How dare you endanger my health this way?”

  Ed looked aghast, but Trixie handled her. “It’s in his briefcase, Hattie. He’s not gonna throw it in your face like a banana cream pie. Just pipe down over there.”

  “The tour . . . ?” I said a little desperately.

  “We’ll begin in the master suite, I think,” Harriet said, indicating my office. “Where my friend Vesta Cadbury Huntington died. I’m sure you will all be interested to hear about her death.”

  Chapter 11

  “No doubt that is where you first encountered Vesta’s ghost, Miss Verone,” Harriet said placidly. “I’m interested to see if I can sense her too. I have no fear of ghosts myself. I’ve seen Aunt Freida in the Santorini house many times since I arrived in it, you know.” That caused a sensation, as she had intended, and she chuckled. “We’ve become sparring partners, Aunt Frieda and I. She tried to keep me from using her bed by the simple device of appearing in it. As if I’d settle for a guest room! I made a point of getting in on top of her and falling sound asleep. I expect she’ll give up eventually.”

  Horrified, Willa staggered and braced herself on the tabletop. Ed was standing next to her and he put his arm around her, murmuring, while Trixie moved into position on the other side – putting herself between Harriet and Willa – and murmured into the other ear. It was kindness, not competition; she could have shoved herself in between Ed and Willa if she’d wanted to.

  Pleased with the drama she was stirring up, Harriet gazed at her cousin and said, “Oh, she tried to intimidate me at first. Didn’t I tell you? Well, it’s a small matter. Frieda always was domineering. This time I can’t help but feel she’s gone beyond the limits of good taste.”

  I had noticed Dan watching Harriet with a kind of fascination. Now, for almost the first time since he’d walked into the house, I heard his voice.

  “You’ve never forgiven her, have you?” he said.

  Harriet stopped enjoying herself and stared at him. “What do you mean, sir?” she said.

  “For her kindness,” he said. “Taking in a maid who was in trouble. How un-Strawbridge-like of her. You must really enjoy turning your nose up at her now.”

  I didn’t know why Dan was needling her, but I was grateful. It put her off her game and I took advantage of it to call the group to order.

  “Yes, let’s have a look at the ground-floor rooms. We can start with my office, if Harriet likes, but I assure you,” I added with a smile, “Miss Vesta has better things to do than hang around here, popping out at people and saying boo.”

  “An excellent point,” Ed said. “Early criticism of séances made just the same point, Taylor, did you know that? If there is an afterlife, would the spirits waste their time regurgitating ectoplasm and making bugles go toot toot toot?” He looked around as if he expected to begin a serious discussion.

  “Miss Verone,” Harriet brayed, staring Ed down and re-assuming control, “will begin the tour now, if you’re quite finished, Mr. Darrow-Dicky.”

  “Darby-Deaver,” he said.

  “Whatever.”

  I gave Ed a quick glance and shrugged my shoulders. He closed the briefcase and put it back down on the floor. Unless they wanted to go on after coffee and dessert, which we usually didn’t, he wasn’t going to be telling any ghost stories that night after all. He looked relieved.

  “It’s the room is behind you, on your left,” I said, collecting myself. “If you’ll all just move that way.”

  I made a point of staying behind them and getting close to Harriet. “By the way,” I whispered in her ear, “you’re not getting out of the house tonight without somehow paying for all of this. I told you right up front we like payment in advance. If you don’t have your checkbook, I’ll take a credit card. You’ve got a lot of nerve – ”

  Ed, blast him, managed to get between us and start gabbling about whether or not he should captain a free-ranging discussion of séances, perhaps in Vesta’s former bedroom, since I, having solved her murder, would wish to be self-effacing about my talents as a detective and psychic.

  I glared at him and said I’d handle it.

  Willa, who had been walking with Ed, had apparently been close enough to catch some of what I’d said to Harriet.

  “She hasn’t paid you?” she whispered, horrified. “I had no idea. Of course, I’ll make it right. I’m so ashamed!”

  Harriet, smirking, proceeded to my office.

  “You don’t have to do that, Willa,” I whispered back. “I’ll get it out of her.”

  “Two thousand dollars, is that right?” she said, firmly nodding. “You mentioned that amount when we were talking on the phone that day.”

  By that time the assembled guests were waiting near Harriet and they were all looking at us, so I could only whisper that we’d talk about it later and proceed into the room where my friend Vesta had died.

  * * * * *

  “These were the private rooms of the lady of the house,” I began. “As you can see, the main room of the suite is situated in the corner of the house, with views to the east and the north through French doors that lead onto the veranda. The view is the main reason I chose this room for my office. It’s dark outside now, but during the day there’s a sweeping view of the river and the shoreline. I see a lot of waterfowl, and the coastal atmospherics are always dramatic.

  “You’ll also have to use your imaginations to see it as Vesta’s bedroom.” I went over the layout of her furniture, its style and placement. As I spoke, a warmth came over me, like the shadow of my old friend, bringing the comfort of familiarity, settling herself between me and Harriet and enjoying her memories as mistress of the house. Of raising her only child and living in quiet grandeur next to the primitive beauty of an estuary.

  Vesta had known Harriet in life, so I also had a feeling of solidarity, of being supported while having to be polite to a disagreeable guest. Vesta had been just a little thing, but she’d had a strong-willed presence and fierce loyalty to her friends. And I had been her friend. I suppose that’s why I always felt comfortable – and comforted – in my office.

  I could hear my own voice softening as I talked about her, and in the dimmed light of shaded lamps, I saw my audience looking around thoughtfully and then looking back at me. The office seemed smaller now. The wide world outside, usually a part o
f the room beyond thin panes of glass, was walled off from us. The windows had become black barriers that only reflected back the lamplight, and not much of that. There were too many of us for the room, and we were contained by it as it began to seem smaller and smaller.

  From time to time the listeners shared glances, as if I was somehow making them uneasy, but they said nothing. I could see them reacting to changes in me, but I didn’t mind. I didn’t care. I was going away to a far-ago place, among long-dead people who had done interesting things. Ed quickened, I noticed, watching me closely, but again, I didn’t care.

  “It was here,” I said, walking toward the place her bed had been and making my guests part before me, looking startled. Maybe looking a little spooked.

  “She lay here quietly, unable to speak, unable to move, knowing she was dying, knowing she’d been killed, only able to call out in her mind. Her father had been an Egyptologist; he had brought back stories and artifacts from an archaeological dig, and when she was a little girl, he had told her about the goddess Bastet.”

  I had had no intention of going into that story when I had taken them into that room. It was too personal, too involved, and too long. But somehow, now that I was telling it, it just flowed out of me in a quiet stream. It was the story of how Vesta had become the woman she’d been. I wanted them to know about her. It seemed important that they should know about her.

  “So as she lay dying, she did the only thing she could do,” I said, my voice beginning to trail off to the point where someone whispered for me to speak up.

  “She called on Bastet,” I heard Ed tell them. I felt comfortably quiet, and I let him take up the tale. “Bastet answered, and Taylor, here, was guided to find the murderer.”