The Death in the Drink

by Shéa MacLeod

  “Besides,” Marie continued, “this weekend was planned a long time ago. Cancelling now? Well, that just wouldn’t be fair to the rest of us, would it?”

  Just then, a parade of “maids” in little black dresses and white aprons strode through the doorway carrying steaming tea pots. One of the pots was placed at our table. Then the maids disappeared.

  “Did you know Tabitha well?” I asked as Lin poured tea for the four of us with the elegant ease of practice.

  “Only within the confines of the costuming group,” Marie explained.

  “And that was quite enough, if you ask me.” Lin’s tone was tart.

  I dropped a lump of brown sugar into the tea along with a dollop of cream. I much prefer coffee, but when in Rome. Or the Regency. “Was she always so rude?”

  “Always,” Marie confirmed. “She complained about everything. Pointed out every fault in someone’s gown, no matter how hard they worked on it. Nothing was ever good enough for her.”

  Lin nodded. “You see, we’re a group that gets together to enjoy our passion for the Regency era. We try to dress as accurately as possible, but some folks can’t afford to go all-out, and we don’t judge them. Our aim is to have fun, not tear each other apart because someone can only afford a cotton poly blend fabric instead of something more accurate to the period.”

  “Indeed, sister. And to judge a person because their bonnet isn’t the same period as their gown, well, that’s just malicious,” Marie agreed.

  “It would be marginally understandable if we were a reenactment group,” Lin explained. “Then we’d have a responsibility to educate. But we’re not. We’re a costuming group for personal fun and pleasure. To steal that joy from someone else… well, that’s just mean.”

  “And that’s what Tabitha did?” Cheryl asked.

  The sisters nodded in unison.

  “Why did you put up with her?” I asked. I’d heard Mary’s version. I wanted to know if the sisters would confirm it.

  “She and Anthony donate a lot of money to the group,” Lin said, thus confirming what Mary had told us. “Nobody wanted that to stop. Mercenary, aren’t we?” She gave an unrepentant grin.

  “Plus, Anthony is a nice man,” Marie added. “We didn’t want to hurt his feelings by kicking his wife out. I have no idea how a man like that ended up with such a shrew.”

  “Love is blind, deaf, and stupid,” her sister said.

  The more I learned of Tabitha Yates, the more I realized she was a truly terrible person. Which sort of left the field wide open for murder suspects.

  The maids returned holding aloft three-tiered tea trays filled with all sorts of goodies. Two were set at our table. The top tier was crammed with all sorts of delicious looking sweets from berry tarts to chocolate-drenched petit fours. Scones with pots of clotted cream and jam took up the middle tier. The bottom tier held four different kinds of crustless finger sandwiches: egg and watercress, cucumber, chicken salad, and smoked salmon. I gave Cheryl my salmon in exchange for her cucumber.

  “I bet it was shocking to hear about Tabitha’s accident,” I said around a mouthful of egg and cress.

  Lin snorted as she selected a scone and slathered it with clotted cream. “Accident my foot. Let me tell you, that was no accident.”

  “My sister is right. There is no way Tabitha just fell overboard. The very idea is laughable,” Marie said around a mouthful of petit four.

  “Why is that?” Cheryl asked, smoked salmon sandwich halfway to her mouth.

  “She wouldn’t have gotten close enough to the edge to do so,” Lin said. “Because Tabitha Yates was afraid of water.”

  Chapter 6

  Booze and Threats

  “WHAT DO YOU THINK?” Cheryl asked in a hushed tone as we followed behind the group. Tea had left us feeling overstuffed, so we’d decided to join the tour and walk it off, despite having explored Flavel House dozens of times over the years.

  “I think the sisters may be on to something,” I said. “They’re right. Tabitha never went near the side of the ship. The rest of us were half hanging overboard. She just stood there in the middle of the deck sucking a lemon. If she was afraid of water, she’d have never gone close enough to the rail to fall.”

  “But if she was so afraid, why go on the ship at all?” Cheryl pointed out.

  “I got on board,” I pointed out. “I am not a fan of deep water, plus there’s the whole motion sickness thing, but my issue is mostly solved with pharmaceuticals. Maybe she had a point to prove? Or she didn’t want anyone to see her as weak. Plus, I can’t see her sitting it out and maybe missing out on something. Tabitha clearly loved being the center of attention.”

  Cheryl nodded. “I can see that. But then if she was pushed, how did someone get her close enough to the rail to get the job done?”

  “That, my friend, is an excellent question.” I mulled it over as the Flavel House volunteer stopped at a Victorian hair wreath hanging in the hallway and began a lecture on memento mori.

  I recalled from previous excursions to the museum that memento mori was Latin for “remember death.” The Victorians particularly were mad about creating artistic reminders of death. In a time when there were no videos and few, if any, photos of loved ones that had died, special pieces of jewelry or art might be all there was to remind them of those that had passed beyond the veil.

  “What if someone was talking to her?” I kept my voice low so as not to disturb the lecture. “Distracting her somehow, all the while maneuvering her toward the side. Then, when they were close enough, up and over.”

  “But wouldn’t her husband have noticed?”

  “Not if he was distracted, too. Or maybe he’s the one that did it.” I was liking that idea. The downtrodden spouse doing away with his tormentor. It was rather gothic and romantic. I reminded myself that a human being was dead, and no matter how unlikeable she was, murder was flat-out wrong.

  “Come on,” I said, tugging on Cheryl’s sleeve. “Let’s get out of here. Hair wreaths wig me out.” Besides it was four thirty and I wanted to relax a bit before the party.

  I’d noticed that Bryon LeMott and Kieran Knightly weren’t with the rest of the group. Probably out on the porch nipping from Bryon’s flask. I’d seen him tipping it into his cup during tea.

  We found the two of them on the porch. Mr. Knightly had an unlit cigar clamped between his lips. Bryon, sure enough, was hitting the flask. Hard. His were flushed bright red and his gaze a bit glassy.

  “Hey, ladies!” He slurred, staggering toward us, eyes a little unfocused. “How’s it hangin’?”

  “Hey, Bryon,” Cheryl said, keeping herself just out of reach.

  “Bryon, I had a question for you,” I said.

  Bryon turned bleary eyes on me. “Sure thing, gorgeous.” He gave what he no doubt considered a charming smile, but it made him look like a lunatic.

  I barely refrained myself from an eye roll. “I saw you and Jayne over near the Yateses before Tabitha fell overboard.”

  “So what? Jayne liked Tabitha. God knows why. She’s a harpy, and her husband’s boring as f— er, heck. But whatever.” He slugged back another mouthful of booze. I could have got drunk just from the fumes wafting off him.

  “So, I was wondering if you happened to see anyone else near Tabitha Yates? Maybe someone stopped to speak to her?”

  He shrugged. “Naw. I was kinda high. Wasn’t paying any attention.”

  No surprise there. Clearly Bryon was on more than just booze. It was disappointing, though. I’d hoped he could help.

  “You think someone pushed her, don’t you?” Kieran Knightly spoke up.

  “Yes, I do,” I admitted. “It doesn’t seem likely that with her fear of water she got close enough to the side to fall over accidentally.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Fair point. I didn’t realize she was afraid of water, though it would explain it.”

  “Explain what?” Cheryl asked.

  He took the cigar out of his mouth. A c
loud of fragrant smoke drifted toward the porch roof. “When they were headed up the gangway, Tabitha was louder and more obnoxious than usual, but I noticed she was clutching Anthony like she thought he might bolt. Makes more sense if she was scared and not wanting anyone to notice.”

  “It would indeed,” I murmured.

  Just then, a man stormed up the front walk, his face flushed and angry. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt and, at first, I didn’t recognize him.

  Cheryl clutched my arm. “That’s Anthony Yates.”

  Anthony stopped on the first step of Flavel House and pointed one finger straight at Bryon. “You!”

  “Me what?” Bryon slurred drunkenly.

  “You killed my wife!”

  We all gaped at him.

  “Don’t be daft, man,” Kieran said soothingly.

  “Yeah, don’t be an idiot. Why would I kill your bitchy wife?” Bryon slurred.

  Anthony gave a scream of outrage. Before anyone could move, he stormed around the yard and headbutted Bryon. The two of them went down on the lawn in a tangle of arms and legs. There was a lot of yelling, a few punches, and enough cussing to turn the air blue.

  With a heavy sigh, Kieran stubbed out his cigar, got up from his chair, and strode down the front porch steps. Wading into the fray, he grabbed Anthony by the collar and yanked him off Bryan who lay on his back, dazed. Or maybe drunk. Probably a little of both.

  “Chill, man,” Kieran ordered, giving the smaller, skinnier Anthony a little shake. “This is a matter for the cops.”

  But Anthony was spitting mad. Literally. He pointed a finger at Bryon and screeched, “You’re dead! Hear me? Dead!” Then he stormed away, got into his car, and took off with a screech.

  “Holy cow, what was that about?” Cheryl asked, sounding a little dazed.

  “You okay?” Kieran asked, helping Bryon to his feet.

  Bryon swayed a little but managed to keep upright. “That dude is insane. Somebody oughta lock him up.”

  “Pretty sure it’s just grief talking,” Kieran soothed, brushing grass off Bryon’s tailcoat.

  I grabbed Cheryl’s arm. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  Kieran might think it was Anthony’s grief talking, but I wasn’t so sure. After all, Bryon had been closest to the Yateses before Tabitha went overboard. Now he’d moved to the top of my suspect list.

  Chapter 7

  No Accounting For Love

  “What did you think of Anthony accusing Bryon of pushing Tabitha overboard?” I asked as we drove back to my house.

  Cheryl shook her head. “I think it’s silly. Why would he?”

  “Because she was a holy terror,” I suggested.

  “I doubt Bryon would care about that. Most of the time he’s either high as a kite, three sheets to the wind, or both.”

  “That was certainly my impression,” I admitted. “But Anthony seemed very sure.”

  “Anthony is grieving. The rest of us may not have liked Tabitha, but she was his wife. I think he actually loved her, strange as that may sound.”

  “Idiot. He could have done better.” I was completely convinced of it. I may not know Anthony from Adam, but I knew nobody deserved to be treated the way Tabitha treated everyone around her.

  “Maybe. But there’s no accounting for love.”

  “True.” Just look at me. I’d sworn off men for life until I met Lucas.

  “Besides, Bryon might have been the closest to Tabitha, but he wasn’t close enough to push her, was he?”

  I pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine. “Not that I saw. And not that anyone else saw, either.” Nobody claimed to have seen anything. Even I hadn’t seen anything. And I’d been keeping an eye on Tabitha, if only to make sure I stayed far away from her. “The only person close enough to have done anything was Anthony.”

  “And even then, no one saw them near the rail.”

  I opened the front door and we stepped into the dim vestibule. I snapped on the light in the living room which had turned into our temporary Regency closet. “That brings us back to the question of why did Anthony accuse Bryon?”

  Cheryl shrugged as she removed her bonnet. “Like I said, Anthony is just out of his mind with grief. Accusing anyone and everyone.”

  “Except he isn’t. He very specifically pointed to Bryon as the killer.”

  “Oh, yeah.” She frowned. “Then I don’t know. Maybe he just hates Bryon and wants him to suffer?”

  I let out a frustrated groan. “This is getting us nowhere. Where on earth did you get all these gowns?” I asked, eyeballing the numerous Regency outfits Cheryl had hung around the room earlier that day. She’d brought only one gown for herself, a pale peach cotton silk confection. The rest were, presumably, for me to choose from.

  “The costumers have a sort of lending library of dresses,” she explained as she sorted through a pile of chemises and petticoats. “Ella let me borrow all the ones in our sizes.”

  “Apparently, she has enough to open her own costume store,” I mumbled. There were six different dresses in all colors of the rainbow. Some were simple, like the one I’d worn on the ship, with low bodices and a whole lot of draw strings to pull things snugly into place. Cheryl called them round gowns. Others were somewhat more intricate, requiring pins to hold things together. All of them had the empire waists classic of the Regency era. And flattering to the fuller figure. Heck, any figure, if you ask me.

  “This one would look good,” Cheryl said, pointing to a simple royal blue round gown. “We could jazz it up with some jewelry and a turban.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “A turban? Really?”

  “Sure. They were all the rage for balls and parties for women of a mature age.”

  I snorted. “You calling me old?”

  “No, we’re both very young and hot, but you can’t deny we’re… mature-ish.”

  “Alas, it’s true. Okay, blue gown it is.”

  Cheryl held out two necklaces. “Pearls or coral?”

  “Coral.” I plopped into the purple velvet armchair that sat next to my fireplace. Now that spring was here, I’d need to clean out the ash. Not a favorite chore of mine. “Maybe we can find out more tonight. Somebody has got to have seen something.”

  “Maybe there wasn’t anything to see. Maybe Tabitha really did just lose her balance and fall overboard.” She didn’t sound convinced.

  I snorted. And maybe I was the ruddy Queen of England. Somebody murdered Tabitha Yates. I was sure of it. I just had to prove it.

  CAMELIA’S B & B SAT on a corner lot a couple of blocks north of Flavel House. There were two original Victorian buildings still standing on the property: the main house and the former carriage house. Both were painted white with magenta shutters and basil and gold accents. The yard between the two was one large flagstone patio edged in blue hydrangeas, white and purple lilacs, and pink foxglove. Yellow daffodils bobbed happily from clay pots while an assortment of windchimes edging the porch of the main house tinkled merrily in the light breeze off the bay.

  The house had been turned into a traditional bed and breakfast situation with half a dozen en suite rooms. The original living room was now a dining room for guest use, with the original dining room and kitchen being retained for behind-the-scenes employee use. What had once been the attic was now a small, one-bedroom apartment where the owners currently lived. I’d never been up there, but Cheryl’s mom was a friend of the couple.

  The carriage house had been converted into a guest house that could be rented out separately. Shutters had been added to the windows, and the wide carriage doors replaced with smaller French doors. There was an open concept living/dining area with a tiny kitchenette in the corner. The three bedrooms shared one-and-a-half bathrooms.

  The costumers had set up in the guest house, turning the living area into a sort of mini pub. The furniture was pushed up against the walls to make room for several gaming tables. The kitchenette had been converted into a self-serve bar for seve
ral varieties of port and an assortment of snacks. The sound system played music from the Pride and Prejudice miniseries with Colin Firth, and everyone was dressed in their finery. Several of the women even had ostrich feathers or rhinestone tiaras in their hair.

  The cards were reproductions of era playing cards, which meant they had the requisite number of diamonds or spades or whatnot, but they didn’t have actual numbers on the cards like modern ones. Which meant you were reduced to counting hearts. Dangerous after a few glasses of port. The betting chips were actually little carved faux ivory fish, again reproductions., According to Ella, fish counters were commonly used in the 18th and 19th centuries, and no Portland Costuming Guild event was complete without a few games of cards accompanied by the little fish. These people took their costuming shenanigans seriously.

  Cheryl and I ended up playing the first few rounds of whist with Marie and Lin. I found myself disappointed. Not because I didn’t enjoy their company—frankly, they were hilarious—but I wanted to nose around and have a chat with some of the other members of the group.

  Marie and Lin reminisced about previous Regency adventures. “This is all very staid,” Lin said, tapping each of her cards with a bright-red polished fingernail. I wasn’t sure that was authentic, but it gave her outfit flair. “Not all our Regency outings are this…”

  “Respectable,” Marie snickered.

  “That’s the word!” Lin laughed.

  “What do you mean?” Cheryl asked.

  Marie leaned forward, tone hushed. “Last year we had a Regency retreat. Five days at a lovely retreat center in the mountains. There was a seven-person hot tub.”

  “Okay,” I said, not sure where this was going.

  “We had an evening similar to this,” Marie continued. “Whist, port, music.”

  “A lot of port,” Lin clarified.

  “Half the company ended up in the hot tub,” Marie giggled.

  “So?” I was baffled by why they considered this not respectable. I’m not a fan of swimsuits, but I’ve been known to enjoy a hot soak.