by Kirby Larson
“So all I need is a diversion,” Bimmy repeated to the triplets.
“Like a sudden scream?” suggested Lilac.
Bimmy held back a sigh. “Well, in that vein of course, but something longer lasting. You have to keep Divinity occupied for at least an hour.” Pedaling as fast as she could, to town and back, would take Bimmy a solid hour. It would be brutal but there wasn’t much choice. Divinity was a pill but she was not simple; much more than an hour and she would guess that Bimmy was up to something.
“We’ll think of the perfect diversion, Bimmy dear. Don’t you worry.” Violet patted their pal on the back. “Have you figured out the telegram?”
Bimmy recited the missive from memory: “Madame Volta and Igor stop Need a catcher pronto for my friend Audacity Jones Ardmore Hotel Washington DC stop Love Bimmy.”
“Catcher?” Lavender’s forehead wrinkled.
“They’ll know what it means.” Bimmy smiled. “Never you fear.”
“So, sisters. Bimmy has her plan. What is ours?” Violet first looked at Lilac and then at Lavender. “A diversion that lasts at least one hour.”
“Hmm.” Lavender twirled a blonde curl around her finger. “What if we hide her buttonhook so she can’t do up her boots?”
Violet patted her sister’s hand. “That’s the spirit. The thing is, what would keep her from borrowing someone else’s buttonhook?”
Lavender looked downcast. “Oh, I didn’t think of that.”
“Lock her in her room?” suggested Lilac.
“She could climb out the window,” Violet said.
“A sleeping draught in her milk?” Lavender threw in hopefully.
“Where would we get such a thing?” Violet shook her head. She put the kibosh on every one of her sisters’ next dozen suggestions.
“I give up.” Lavender plopped to the floor, her knees tucked under her chin. “I can’t think of another thing. And now all of this scheming has made me starving.”
“Go see if Cook can give you a sandwich,” Lilac suggested absently.
“Cook.” Violet stood a little taller. “Good old Cook.” She began to hum. “That’s it.” She conferred with her sisters and, amidst much giggling and hand waving, they settled on their diversion.
It had been ages since the Waywards had held a taffy pull. And Divinity had not one sweet tooth but twenty-eight. There was nothing she could resist less than taffy. And there was nothing Cook could resist less than the smallest of the triplets batting her blue eyes, begging for a taffy pull.
As everyone knows, it takes at least one hour to pull taffy. At least.
The triplets offered to save Bimmy several pieces to enjoy upon completion of her mission. With lightning speed, she pedaled the bicycle into Swayzee, and placed her telegram order at the Western Union office. Within fifteen minutes came a reply. Consider your friend caught stop Madame Volta.
With a light heart, Bimmy cycled home, right on time to help Cook and her fellow Waywards snip the ropes of taffy into bite-sized bits and wrap them up in waxed paper, twisting the ends to keep them fresh.
“Delicious,” Divinity mumbled with her mouth full.
“Yes,” Bimmy agreed wholeheartedly. “This day has certainly been delicious.”
“There, there.” A woman with a Canadian accent ran a cool cloth over Audie’s forehead. “Ah, good. The pink’s coming back to your cheeks.”
Audie struggled to sit, trying to orient herself to her surroundings. Where was the kitchen? Mrs. Finch? Had she deserted her post twice in one day? What was the Commodore going to think of her?
“Like to have caused a goodly mess, if it hadn’t been for Mr. Zastrow. He dropped his coffee and caught you the moment your head was about to connect with the floor.” The woman reached behind her for a glass of water and brought it to Audie’s lips. “Take a sip.”
Audie did. “Where am I?”
“My office,” the woman answered. “I’m Mrs. Jaffray. Head housekeeper. We’re around the corner from the kitchen. When you’re feeling up to it, I can escort you back.”
“The turtles.” Audie groaned, remembering. “They had faces!”
Mrs. Jaffray clucked her tongue, stroking Audie’s forehead again. “That’s over and done now. Best not to think on it much.”
Audie blinked her eyelids furiously as if that action might sweep away the image of those poor turtles. “How can he eat such a thing?”
Mrs. Jaffray shrugged. “I imagine you eat all sorts of food without giving much thought to its origins, wouldn’t you say?”
Audie had to admit that had been so in the past. But she could see herself changing her ways in the future. She took another sip of water. “I’m feeling much better. Mrs. Finch will be so cross.”
“Not so cross.” Mrs. Jaffray winked. “I poured her a lovely glass of sherry. You’re sure you’re up to getting back at it?”
Audie nodded.
Mrs. Jaffray escorted Audie to the kitchen, sniffing at the soup simmering away in the copper kettle, looking for all the world like any other stew. There was not a trace of turtle—shell, foot, or flipper—anywhere in the kitchen. Mrs. Finch had that much kindness in her, at least.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” said Mrs. Jaffray. “The First Lady will be in a dither that I’ve been gone so long.” In a symphony of rustling skirts, she hurried away.
Audie found a huge pile of carrots waiting to be peeled and chopped and she undertook that task with only the tiniest of glances from Mrs. Finch.
Finally, the woman rummaged in her pocket to pull out a tablet. “Here, chew on this.” She handed it to Audie, who took it and, seeing no other option, put it in her mouth and began to chew. Her mouth brimmed with ginger and, right away, she felt put to rights.
“Thank you,” Audie said, and sincerely.
“Ginger’s the ticket for a squirrelly tummy.” Mrs. Finch whacked a head of garlic into smithereens. Garlic did not affect Audie as did turtles.
Mrs. Finch reached for a bunch of parsley and began to chop chop chop away. “Might you run to the cooler? I will need another bunch of parsley. This one’s far too small.” She consulted a hand-drawn map thumbtacked to the wall next to the range. “It appears to be around the corner and down the hall.”
Audie started in the direction Mrs. Finch indicated with her finger. For such a fancy house, the hall behind the kitchen was awfully dark. Not a window to be seen. The hall narrowed and split into two even narrower, even darker hallways that jigged this way and that. Old furniture hunched weary and sad in each nook and cranny. And many of the rooms in this damp and dreary space seemed to serve no useful purpose at all.
Finally, Audie opened a door and was lapped with a wave of cool air. She stepped into a room that smelled earthy and raw, like Cook’s root cellar at Miss Maisie’s. Audie scolded herself for not thinking ahead to bring her Reliable flashlight or at least a box of matches to light her way. She felt along the clammy walls, hands bumping over mason jars that she imagined were filled with peaches and green beans and mincemeat. She kept feeling, intent on finding the cool green sprigs of parsley Mrs. Finch required.
Her fingers moved from smooth glass to something soft and hairy. Something that moved.
The thing screamed.
And so did Audie.
Stanley, one of the Ardmore Hotel bellmen, hurried to assist the most recently arrived guests. The pair was laden with bags, all stenciled with CIRCUS KARDOS, but the young man—with hands as large as loaves of bread—fended off any help. Stanley tried not to stare, but the man carried three suitcases under one arm and four under the other and all with great ease. He had never seen such impressive biceps in his life. In contrast to the young man’s massiveness, his traveling companion was a diminutive young woman in a stunning emerald velvet dress. Despite her petite appearance, she commanded attention as she made her way to the front desk.
“We have a reservation,” she said, her clear English edged with a mere hint of her native Hungarian. “M
adame Volta and Igor.”
The front desk clerk smiled. “And what is Mr. Igor’s surname?” he inquired, pen poised to complete the registration book.
“We would like that bellman to show us to our rooms.” Madame Volta pointed at Stanley, who by no small coincidence happened to be Elva Finch’s brother. This was the same bellman with whom the Commodore had carried on those many whispered conversations.
“But I need Mr. Igor’s full name for our register,” the clerk protested.
Madame Volta leaned across the counter, peering intently into the clerk’s pupils. “It is of no significance,” she purred.
The clerk blankly batted his eyes. The pen dropped to the countertop and rolled onto the floor. He didn’t pick it up. “It is of no significance,” he repeated, his voice devoid of emotion. Then he rang for the bellman. “Show Madame Volta and Igor to their rooms.”
As Stanley led the guests to the elevator, the clerk shook his head. How did his pen end up on the floor? It was his favorite Swan fountain pen, too. He picked it up, feeling pleasantly refreshed and renewed. He greeted the next guests with extra warmth and verve before efficiently signing them in.
The entire elevator ride to the sixth floor, and then down the hall, Igor retained a firm grip on all of the bags. Stanley surmised that there would be no tip coming from this duo. He could scarcely contain his irritation at this fact as he unlocked room 627. “There you are, miss.”
The gorilla man carried the bags inside, and set them down before closing the drapes.
Madame Volta unclasped her crocodile-skin handbag. Stanley lingered. Perhaps there would be a tip after all.
“May I show you around the room?” he offered.
“I am interested in a different sort of information.” Madame Volta removed a large bill from her bag.
The hairs prickled on the back of Stanley’s neck. Elva had warned him not to shoot his mouth off. “I’ll answer if I can, miss.”
“Of course.” She smiled and something loosened in Stanley’s knees. He had never seen eyes that shade of blue before. They were almost violet, really. “There is a girl staying here, an Audacity Jones, is there not?”
“Oh, I’m not allowed to talk about the guests.” Stanley stepped back. Those eyes. They weren’t really violet, either. Maybe storm-cloud gray?
The young woman waved the bill. “We are old friends of hers.”
“I can’t—”
Madame Volta peered intently into his eyes. “Tell us about Audacity Jones,” she purred. Stanley saw stars.
“Audacity Jones,” he began, his voice as flat as the lobby’s marble floor.
A few minutes later, Stanley boarded the elevator, on his way back to the bellmen’s station. There was no large bill in his pocket. There was no memory of his conversation with Madame Volta, either. For some odd reason, he felt sweetly refreshed and rested. He even whistled merrily as he assisted a crotchety elderly couple with their numerous and weighty steamer trunks.
Up in room 627, Madame Volta and Igor discussed the information Stanley had unwittingly provided them. It was a goodly bit of knowledge indeed, but they weren’t certain yet how they would use it to help Bimmy’s friend, Audacity Jones.
The dark room crackled with the sound of shattering glass and the smell of sugary syrup and cinnamon.
Someone let out a sharp cry of pain.
It wasn’t a rat after all.
Nor was it parsley.
“Are you all right?” Audie stumbled backward, fumbling for a light switch. Perhaps this room had electric lights, as did the main kitchen.
“Yes.” A pause and a sharp intake of breath between teeth. “No. No. I’m afraid I’m cut.”
Desperately, Audie scrabbled at the wall and through sheer blind luck found the switch plate. She wrenched the knob on.
The light revealed a girl. A girl slightly older than Audie, whose hand was bleeding onto a delicate blue voile dress.
“Bees and bonnets. Let’s get some help.” Audie whipped off her apron and employed it in binding up the girl’s wound. “This way.” She led the girl to the kitchen, from whence Mrs. Finch summoned Mrs. Jaffray. Again.
Mrs. Jaffray turned white at the sight of the wounded young girl. “Miss Dorothy!”
Dorothy! Audie flinched. She should have instantly recognized her from the newspaper photograph. In her wildest dreams, Audie never could have imagined causing grievous injury to the President’s niece. What a mess she was making of things.
Mrs. Jaffray led Dorothy to a chair and sat her right down. “Go fetch some water and soap and rags,” she ordered Audie. Audie fetched as quickly as she could, hoping to make some small amends.
Mrs. Finch stepped away from the simmering soup long enough to inspect the wound and announce, “It will heal nice and clean.”
“What on earth were you doing in the pantry?” Mrs. Jaffray asked.
Dorothy sighed. “Waiting to be found. But I’ve realized that was part of his evil plan.”
“Evil plan?” Mrs. Jaffray froze in the middle of administering first aid.
“She’s talking nonsense.” Mrs. Finch grabbed the basin of pink water. “Go empty this and bring fresh,” she ordered Audie.
“Charlie.” The girl rubbed at the stain on her skirt with her free hand. “I should have known there was a catch when he suggested a game of hide-and-seek.”
Audie set down the basin of fresh water, glimpsing tears in Dorothy’s eyes. “The catch was that he had no plans to come seek,” she guessed.
Dorothy nodded.
“See, I told you. Nonsense.” Mrs. Finch looked oddly relieved. “All this fuss over a game.”
“Oh, that’s rotten.” Audie reflected on her initial positive impression of Charlie. All because he had a nice, friendly face. Once again, she was reminded that a book could not be judged by its cover.
“Never you mind about Charlie.” Mrs. Jaffray tended to Dorothy’s cut. “You sit here for a bit. Calm down. Catch your breath.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Mrs. Taft will likely have another stroke if I don’t get back up there …”
“We’ll keep an eye on her,” Audie offered.
“And brew her a spot of tea,” Mrs. Finch added, her voice chummy. “Right, Annie?”
“Nothing like a cuppa to cure all woes,” Mrs. Jaffray said.
“Just the ticket,” agreed Mrs. Finch. “You go on about your duties, Mrs. Jaffray. Miss Dorothy will soon be feeling put to rights.”
“Why ever do these things happen with so much going on?” Mrs. Jaffray wondered. She took one last glance around the kitchen. “You’re sure you can manage the soup and the girl?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Finch bustled about, setting a kettle to boil. “I’ve got my own favorite tea, right there in my bag.” She instructed Audie to slice up some cake while she took down a teapot and a cup.
Audie took note of the single cup. The morning had been trying; some tea would work wonders. But clearly she was not going to be offered any. She resumed her chopping and grinding.
“He thinks I’m a dreadful nuisance.” Dorothy picked a corner off one of the slices of Sally Lunn cake that Audie had set out.
“Of course he doesn’t,” Audie said, despite her personal preference for truthfulness. It must be said that there are occasions when nothing but a tiny white lie will suffice. This appeared to be one such occasion.
“Maybe I should get even with him.” Dorothy nibbled another bite of cake. “What if I didn’t show up at supper? I could pretend I was still hiding. I would hate to worry Aunt Nellie so, but Charlie would catch heck, wouldn’t he?”
Audie hesitated. Having been at the butt end of many of Divinity’s mischiefs, she well knew the sweet temptation of revenge. How delicious was that plan to exact punishment on someone who had treated you cruelly. And there was the rub: The plan itself might be delicious, but the second one took the first step toward putting it into place, one was no better, no different, than the person who had been th
e initial cause of one’s mistreatment. Audie long ago made the choice to follow the life advice she’d learned in one of Mr. Witherton’s books: Keeping score only works in baseball. “The fact that you were injured might be painful enough for him,” Audie said, blinking her eyes at the powerful fumes of the herbs she was crushing.
Dorothy held up her bandaged limb, studying it. “Of course, you’re right.” She let her hand drop. Gently. “Besides, no one would notice if I truly disappeared.” The wistful look on her face pained Audie.
“I’ll bet you’re ready for that tea now.” Mrs. Finch bustled around, filling the cup.
Dorothy glanced at Audie, then at her hand. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose I am.” She took the cup from Mrs. Finch, blew on it, taking a tentative sip. “It’s awfully sweet.”
“Drink up.” Mrs. Finch hovered over her like an owl over a mouse. “You’ll feel ever so much better in no time.” Then she sniffed the air. “Oh, that soup is smelling lovely.” She converged upon the copper kettle, taking up the tasting spoon to sample the simmering contents. “Fair, fair,” she pronounced, smacking her lips energetically. “But it still needs that parsley.” A jerk of her head was all the instruction she gave to Audie.
In all the excitement, Audie had forgotten her assigned task.
“I’ll keep you company,” Dorothy offered.
Before Audie could accept, Mrs. Finch held up her hand. “No, no, my dear. You are to rest. And finish your tea.”
Audie started once again down the dark, narrow hall, tapping at her left ear. That scream Dorothy had let out earlier had set her eardrums to tingling. She shook her head to clear them.
To save herself yet another trip, Audie wisely appropriated two bunches of parsley. The sharp, fresh scent instantly took her back to the kitchen at Miss Maisie’s. At the first hint of a Wayward sniffle, Cook would brew up a batch of chicken broth, fairly green with parsley. Cook insisted it was the next best thing to cure a cold. Her preferred remedy involved eating an entire raw onion, but that was a prescription few of the Girls could swallow.
