by Maia Chance
Jeepers creepers. Why were Lem and Eloise doing business on the sly?
I gobbled up the rest of my sandwich, licked the mustard off my fingers, balled up the waxed paper, and stuffed it down my sweater. I pulled a spare golf ball from my pocket and marched victoriously out of the reeds.
9
After golf, I dragged myself upstairs to my room, looking forward to a hot bath and a cool highball.
I encountered Hibbers in the corridor.
“You mother has telephoned three times, madam.”
“How does she know I’m—? Oh, wait. Chisholm. The sneaky prig!”
“Indeed, madam. Mrs. DuFey indicated that Mr. Woodby had alerted her to your presence at Dune House, after he encountered you at the country club.”
“Tell her I’m not available.”
“Very well, madam.”
“By the way, Hibbers, do you know why the previous butler was fired? Hisakawa, I think his name was.”
Hibbers straightened a picture frame. “I was led to believe that Mr. Hisakawa was let go in order to free up the position for me, madam. At the risk of sounding conceited.”
“That’s not what Auntie Arbuckle said. She suggested that Hisakawa was fired over something to do with the pork and beans recipe.”
“If you refer to Miss Clara, madam, I would take her utterances with a substantial grain of salt. They say she was dropped on her head as an infant.”
“I thought her parents were first cousins.”
“Something to that effect, madam.”
* * *
I took a steamy bath and dressed for dinner. I chose a black crepe dinner dress edged with gold lamé, and my favorite Pinet heels. Tasteful and chic. Not a speck of argyle in sight. I painted on my munitions, waved my bob with the curling iron, and went downstairs to meet Horace in his study.
He sat at his mahogany desk, back to the door, cradling a drink and staring at a wall of books.
“Hi, Horace,” I said. “Why so glum?”
He swiveled. His face had a hunted-rhino look. “Lola. You look lovely. Come in. Nothing’s the matter—oh, well, someone’s made a whole mess of snickerdoodle cookies, and Billy and Theo got into them.”
Snickerdoodles? Berta again.
“The boys ate themselves silly,” Horace said. “Olive’s up in the nursery helping Nanny Potter tend to them.”
“Poor squirts,” I said. “Although they do seem to be in … efficient hands with Nanny Potter.”
“True, true.” Horace’s shoulders tensed.
Something about Nanny Potter bugged him. Oh, well. None of my beeswax.
I’d already made up my mind to go the Dumb Bunny route. I widened my eyes and said, “I wanted to see you about safes.”
“Safes?”
“Like the one you’ve got there.” I pointed. “I’ve gotten one for storing my valuables, see, now that Alfie’s gone. But I simply can’t figure out how to work the darn thing.”
“It didn’t come with an instruction manual?”
“Sure it did, but it might as well have been in Russian.”
“All right, then. I’ll give you a little demonstration.”
Bingo.
Horace went over to his safe, which sat on a sideboard against a wall. I pulled up next to him.
“You turn the dial clockwise, see,” he said, twiddling, “and then you stop the little arrow at the right number, and then turn it counterclockwise, and then clockwise again.”
“Wait,” I said. “Clockwise first?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Gee. I still don’t quite understand. Could you do a little demonstration, maybe?”
“Fine. Look. Like this.” He twirled the dial.
“Twelve … three … seven,” I said, to help myself commit the combination to memory.
“Shh,” Horace whispered.
Pop! The safe door bumped open. Horace slammed it shut again.
But not before I’d glimpsed something round, flat, and metal in there.
“Thanks, Horace!” I threw my arms around him and gave him a big squeeze. Mid-hug, my eyes flew to the open study door. I’d caught the briefest flash of motion as somebody retreated.
Somebody had been spying on us. Ralph Oliver, I’d bet.
But who cared? I knew the combination to Horace’s safe! The film reel was inside! Thad Parker had nothing on me.
* * *
The plan was to sneak into Horace’s safe in the wee hours, and leave with Berta, Cedric, and the film reel at the crack of dawn. I careened through another boozy evening and made it back upstairs with only two highballs under my belt.
My bedroom was dark. I made out the sweet-potato shape of Berta on the bed. Cedric snuffled in his sleep.
I changed into my nightie and collapsed on the sofa with an extra pillow and blanket. I’d have a little shut-eye until it was safe to go down to the study.
But I couldn’t sleep; I was too hungry. Salad and crab legs weren’t cutting it. I tossed and turned for an hour, visions of snickerdoodles dancing in my head. I got up and switched on a lamp.
“Berta!” I prodded her. “Wake up. I’m starving.”
She cracked an eye. “Do you expect me to prepare you something to eat at this ungodly hour? Turn off that dreadful light and go to sleep.”
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“No. I made dinner for all the staff and the children. Dessert, too.”
“Oh, right. I heard about the snickerdoodle debacle. Come down with me to the kitchen. Please?” The truth was, I didn’t want to be all by my lonesome if I got caught red-handed, stuffing my cake hole. At least if Berta were with me, I could claim she was sleepwalking.
“Oh, all right.” Berta threw off the coverlet.
We belted ourselves into our robes and tiptoed downstairs.
We entered the service wing of the house through a door concealed in the dining room wainscoting. This wing housed the kitchen and pantries on the main floor, and the servants’ quarters on the upper floors.
We passed the servants’ staircase. We made it halfway down a hallway that led to the kitchen. Suddenly, a bang! rang out behind the kitchen door.
Berta clutched her locket. I smacked a palm over my mouth.
I’d been dragged along on enough pheasant hunts to know that sound. “That was a gun,” I whispered.
“Of course it was!”
“Should we … go see?”
“You have got bats in the belfry. Mr. Chisholm was right.”
“He said that?”
“If that was a gun, we could be in danger.”
We stared down the long, dim hallway at the kitchen door.
“If that was a gun,” I said, “someone might be hurt.” Bile burned my throat. I forced myself forward.
Berta followed.
We reached the kitchen door. I nudged it open.
Moonlight poured through the kitchen windows. The tile floors gleamed, and the white cabinetry and steel cookstove shone. All was clean, silvery, and peaceful.
Except for the person-shaped mound on the floor. And the dark fluid pooling on the tiles beside it.
“It’s Horace!” I dashed forward. “He’s been shot!”
As soon as I knelt beside him, I knew he was a goner. His eyes were wide, and his bulky body seemed to take up less space than it had in life. Blood seeped across his pajama stripes. An unbitten snickerdoodle lay near his hand.
Berta mouthed a silent prayer.
“Go get help!” I said. “Call the police—there’s a telephone in the entry hall.”
“The murderer is here,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “This man was killed not one minute ago. I do not go anywhere by myself.”
Voices hummed out in the hallway. The door flew open, and Hibbers stood in the doorway in white pajamas. The pale faces of several of the household staff—I saw the cook and a parlor maid—rubbernecked around his shoulders.
“Oh dear Lord,” Hibbers said. “I shall telephone the pol
ice at once.”
* * *
I had, over the course of the last thirty-odd hours, drunk as much liquor as I usually drank in two weeks. Yet suddenly, I had the same clarity of thought that Thad Parker might’ve enjoyed during a daring rescue in the back streets of Buenos Aires. As soon as the police arrived on the scene, I’d lose my chance to get the film reel.
No one noticed as I backed away from the melee in the kitchen and headed to Horace’s study.
My legs quaked as I went. A murderer was afoot. Yet my desperation to get the reel—and three thousand smackeroos—was more potent than fear.
I shut myself into the study and cracked the drapes. I bent close to the safe and spun the dial.
12 … 3 … 7. Click.
I pulled the safe door open.
Empty.
10
I cornered Berta outside the dining room, where the servants were congregating. Hibbers had gone to rouse the rest of the household.
“Gone?” Berta whispered.
“Afraid so.” I glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “Horace must’ve moved the reel for some reason.”
“No.” Berta’s mouth was grim. “Someone stole it. Think, Mrs. Woodby.”
“I am!”
“You saw the film, snug in the safe—”
“I didn’t say snug. You make everything sound like it’s taking place inside an elf’s cottage.”
Berta drew herself up. “No, I do not. Focus, Mrs. Woodby. You have the shock. Do you wish for me to slap you?”
“No! And gee whiz, don’t look so disappointed.”
“Listen. Mr. Arbuckle is shot to death and the film reel disappears, both in the same evening? Too much of a coincidence for my blood. The killer—loose, roaming the halls of this house!—stole the reel. Mark my words.”
“You’ve been reading too many Frank B. Jones, Jr., novels.”
“The reel is dangerous. We do not know what terrible secrets it contains.” Berta lowered her voice even more. “If the killer knows that we are looking for the reel—bang! They kill us, too, Mrs. Woodby. I am afraid.”
“I’d bet my bottom dollar it was Olive who shot him. She probably saw that snickerdoodle heading for his chops and finally snapped.”
“Mrs. Woodby! Are you not sorry about that poor man?”
“Of course I am.” In fact, I felt really wobbly and on the verge of giggling. Maybe Berta was right; maybe I was in shock. “We’ve got to face it, Berta. We’ve failed.” I couldn’t bring myself to say aloud that I was little bit afraid, too. “Forget the film reel and the dough. It’s off to work in the luncheonette for both of us.”
* * *
The police from Hare’s Hollow arrived, and then everyone took turns giving statements in the drawing room. George, Sadie, Eloise, Lem, and Bruno, all of them hollow-eyed and stunned, hid their brandy in coffee cups. Not that the cops would care about bootleg at a time like this.
Olive was still in the nursery with her boys and the nurserymaid. I imagined she’d be distraught, but not terribly so. Her marriage to Horace hadn’t been exactly a love match. And now she was going to be independently, fabulously in the clover. I was heartsick for young Theo and Billy, though.
And where was Ralph Oliver? It was pretty darn iffy how he’d evaporated on the night of a murder. Not to mention on the night the reel was stolen.
I approached Hibbers as he poured fresh brandies in the dining room. He had somehow found the time to change into his butler’s livery and pomade his hair.
“Hibbers,” I whispered, “could I ask a favor of you?”
“Madam?”
“You can’t mention it to the police.”
Hibbers furrowed his brows.
“Hey!” I said. “You don’t think I—?”
“By no means.”
“Only checking. Listen, would you let me know if you happen to see a film reel in the house?”
“Film reel, madam?”
I explained what it looked like.
“Very well.” Hibbers went back to pouring brandy.
* * *
“Mrs. Woodby,” Police Inspector Digton said when I was up for the third degree, “you’re a widow of only a week or so yourself.” He was about forty, with a boneless build and a push broom mustache. He wore a linty suit the color of weak tea.
“True.” I tried to look dignified. Tough when you’re wearing a pink chiffon robe. I sat on a sofa, and Digton paced around like a fellow who’s desperate to go to the lav. “No connection.”
Digton’s bushy brows shot up. “I don’t get your meaning.”
“Oh. Well. It sounded as though you were trying to make me confess to being a compulsive killer of rich husbands.”
“But Alfred Woodby wasn’t rich.”
“Could we stick to the topic?”
“Sure. How about that the nurserymaid, Vera Potter, told me you were seen seducing Horace Arbuckle in his study about six hours before he was shot?”
“Seducing? Zowie, are you ever mistaken.” That’s who had been spying on Horace and me, then. Nanny Potter.
“Yeah?” Digton glanced down to the V of my robe, which had gone a little loose.
I pinched it shut.
“Seems to me,” Digton said, “you’re a lady who knows how to get what she wants.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Seems to me, a lady who’s used to having things her way might get a little, say, hot-headed when her plans are loused up.”
“Plans?” Had this monkey-man learned about my plan to crack into Horace’s safe? Berta was the only one who knew. After she’d been questioned earlier, she told me that she’d kept her lips zipped about the film reel, and about Alfie’s love nest, too. “What plans?”
“Your plans to have Horace Arbuckle for yourself.”
I laughed. “Horace? For myself? Don’t get me wrong, I liked the fellow. But we were only friends.”
“That so?”
“Listen here,” I said. “I don’t know if you’re trying to trick me into some kind of confession—a false confession, I might add—but why don’t we cut to the chase: If you’ve got evidence of anything, then go ahead, cuff me.” I thrust out my wrists.
Digton shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Maybe,” I said, “some lunatic sneaked into the house, shot Horace, and took off again.”
“Playing sleuth, huh? Matter of fact, the house was locked up tight, and there were no signs of intrusion. Nope, it was what we call an inside job. The killer never went outside.”
“You mean…?”
“Yeah. It was one of you lot.”
“But I found Horace in the kitchen, and I’d come down the servants’ hallway—”
“There’s another way out. Dodge into the pantry, and there’s another door leading out into that same servants’ corridor. Ever used a gun, Mrs. Woodby?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Arbuckle’s killer was a crack shot. Got him plumb in the heart.” Digton made a gun with thumb and forefinger. “Bang! In one go, and in the dark. Knew what he—or she—was doing, all right. So. How’s your aim?”
“I’ve gone pheasant hunting, but I’ve never even come close to hitting anything.” Not that I’d been trying. “Is there a reason you’ve adopted an especially accusatory tone with me, Inspector? Any person in this house could’ve shot Horace. I’m simply the unlucky one who found the body.”
“Rustling up a midnight snack, I’m told?” His gaze settled on my chiffon-encased thighs.
“A girl’s got to keep her strength up.”
“The butler told me that all the household staff were just behind him when he came down to investigate the gunshot. None of them would’ve had time to run back upstairs to the servants’ quarters. Which means that the murderer is one of you houseguests. Or the wife. Narrows it down real nice. And you know what, Mrs. Woodby? I have to say, I think it was you.”
I stopped breathing for a second. “I�
�m not so sure I like the direction you’re headed, Digton.” I stood. “I think I’ll cut this session short. If you’d like to put me on the rack at a later date, I’ll have my lawyer present.”
“Have it your way, Mrs. Woodby. Where will you be staying? Not, I guess, your old house down the road?”
“The Algonquin Hotel,” I lied.
“You can’t hide from the law,” Digton called after me as I swooshed out.
* * *
Of course, I couldn’t sleep a wink after all that. At the crack of dawn, Berta and I took turns in the bathroom. We dressed, stuffed our suitcases, and made a break for it.
We’d made it as far as the stairs when a maid stopped us. I was wanted on the telephone.
I didn’t have a good feeling about it.
I took the call by the main staircase, even though the entry hall was in commotion. Berta and I weren’t the only ones who’d had the idea to flee Dune House posthaste. The front door stood open, and motorcars, people, and luggage jumbled up the drive.
I lifted the telephone’s mouthpiece and put the receiver to my ear.
“Lola?” my mother shrilled. “Is that you? I hear rattling!”
“Hello, Mother.”
“My sainted aunt! What are you doing at that house party? Daphne St. Aubin telephoned and told me Horace Arbuckle’s been murdered! Didn’t I teach you anything about decorum?”
I almost kicked the wall, but decided my shoe wasn’t up to the strain. “How was Europe?”
“You’re forever trying to put me off the scent, Lola. How I ever raised such a dodgy daughter, I shall never understand. I raised you to be a lady, and your husband’s body hasn’t even gone cold before you’re off to one of your wild parties! And you didn’t have the decency to let me know where you’d gone off to—it took Chisholm telling me he’d seen you at the golf links. Golf! Chisholm, by the way, is dreadfully concerned about your behavior.”
Chisholm? My behavior? If he knew I was now an accused murderess, he’d probably spout steam from his hair follicles.
“I suppose,” Mother said, “you’re motoring yourself about in that masculine contraption, too?”
“Shall I come for a visit?” I asked, mock chipper.
