Mum's the Word

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Hell fire and damnation! Wicked are the ways of woman! The serpent has taken her to its bosom and the Beezlebub put his thumb upon her brow. She takes up drunkards and pleasure seekers in the house of the grape!”

  The eyes of the speaker would burn holes in the carpet. His white hair flowed back from a domed forehead; he carried a black book and was dressed to match. And I recognized him. He was the fanatic who had crashed into me at the petrol station—the Reverend Enoch, Diethelogian minister. That wasn’t the Bible he was carrying, it was the Book of Salvation Through Starvation. “Retribution shall seek out the vixen, she shall be thrust to her knees, and the sound of her wailing …”

  Returning his gun to its holster, Sheriff Dougherty stood scratching his head. Jimmy lit up a cigar and Theola Faith rested a hand on her hip, the feather fans trailing alongside her still unzipped silk skirt; her smile bright as lipstick could make it.

  “You talking to me, sweet darling?”

  The face of vengeance darkened to hell-fire red. But the minister had taken no more than two steps forward before we had another disruption. A woman in a beige raincoat broke through the crowd by the jukebox and burst upon centre stage. Laverne of the faded auburn hair and washed-out face, wife of Enoch. The same woman … but different. She was tearing at her raincoat belt, eyes on Theola Faith, as she screamed—“Better the company of sinners, than life with you, Enoch! I won’t live another day standing to heel like a dog. I won’t pretend anymore as how I don’t see the looks in people’s eyes when you rant at them about punishment and starvation and the glory of misery!”

  Theola Faith held her silken arms out toward Laverne. The Reverend dropped to his knees, wringing his hands and thanking the Lord for bringing him to this den of iniquity where he might suffer the torment (“praise His name”) in order that the brand should be snatched from the flames.

  “Where’s the hope? Where’s the love?” yelled his doubting wife, who now stood on the ramp with Theola Faith. “God didn’t appoint you second in command! I shouldn’t have left that note saying I was coming here for to get drunk.” She was unbuttoning her raincoat. “I should have written I was casting off the shackles by coming here to strip naked before the whole town.”

  An “Ooooh!” rose from the mob.

  Laverne flung the raincoat toward the bar. Neat catch by the sheriff. Having shifted the neckline of her own dress back into place and zipped up her side, Theola Faith studied the competition. Everyone else seemed in shock. Certainly no one at my table moved a muscle.

  “I haven’t a daughter to write a bestseller about how often I change my underwear”—Laverne had half the buttons of her blouse undone—“but seems to me if I do a real good job of letting it all hang out, I could make one of the smut sheets. Who knows—even the one for people with perspiring minds!” The blouse went sailing into the crowd. The Reverend Enoch’s rantings reached a crescendo. Theola Faith seemed to be trying to shield Laverne with a fan. Jealousy? Finally Sheriff Dougherty took action.

  He strode over to Laverne as she got busy with her slip, and clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Why not sit awhile, Mrs. Gibbons. Take things easy. Mebbe go upstairs with Jimmy and talk things out.”

  The crowd went wild. Theola Faith and the unhappy Laverne disappeared from view.

  I stared down at the table, amazed to discover I had finished my hamburger, all the fries, and half a pickle.

  “So big a tragedy!” Solange said.

  Ernestine shuddered. “That horrible man!”

  “He’s affiliated with the Diethelogians,” I contributed. “A group which is opposed to eating.”

  Henderson gripped the arms of his chair.

  “Wrong, Ellie!” Ernestine responded smugly. “They are not opposed to eating per se. Bingo wrote an article, “The Danger of Dietheology,” for the magazine Dining Out at Home. What they oppose is eating for pleasure. You may eat as much as you like of anything you dislike.”

  “Same old basic diet,” I said.

  “My Lois should never have gotten involved!”

  “Monsieur Brown, you are a royal pain in the donkey! You are as bad as that man, seeing the evil everywhere!” Solange gathered up her bags. “Paradonez moi! I wish to visit the toilette.”

  Ernestine and I immediately jumped up to join her.

  “Women!” Henderson curled his lip. “If a man says he’s going to the gentlemen’s room, his companions don’t leap to their feet with ‘I’ll come too!’ ”

  Did the poor man suspect us of holding a private party in the ladies room? There wasn’t the time, Solange reminded me, when Ernestine vanished into the one stall. We were due to meet Pepys at the dock in ten minutes. In a whisper, she said, jerking a thumb towards Ernestine’s feet, “I saw her.”

  “Saw her what?” I mouthed back.

  “Coming out of your room thees morning when you was at breakfast.”

  No time for more. Ernestine came out tugging at her skirt, her froggy beads askew. How could I suspect this woman of being up to tricks? The rivalry which had sprung up between her and Solange had twisted the Frenchwoman’s thinking. Besides, who was I to criticize anyone for snooping, especially after my encounter with the medicine chest? We found Henderson waiting as though we women were children who had defied parental curfew. Jimmy, back behind the bar, fed us a fly catcher smile and we walked out the door … bang into Mary Faith. Her complexion matched her prison grey dress and her Richard III bob didn’t go with the wing-tipped glasses.

  “Hello, dear ones!” Her enthusiasm was touching. She held onto my hand as though it were a prized toy and whispered “I pulled myself together and decided a public figure must stay public. I had Pepys bring me over; he was coming for you anyway. Usually I don’t go to Jimmy’s. Too many people. I prefer the Mexican place a few doors down—Martin’s Mexican Café. Marvelous food. So hot, you’d think your mouth’s on fire. But they close between lunch and dinner. And all I want is a Coke.”

  How to stop her from going in there? The other three stood like statues. “I’m so pleased to see you!” I gabbled. “Nosy of me, but I didn’t get to ask you earlier if you took Jim Grogg and Divonne off the island this morning. No one else seems to know when or how they left.”

  “A mystery! How intriguing!” She still held my hand, but her smile included the others. “No, I was not their pilot, although I am quite a whizz with boats! Mustn’t put Pepys’ nose out of joint! Now you don’t all have to rush off, do you? I so much hope we can all be dearest friends. Yes, that sort of thing takes time, but you’ll come back into Jimmy’s with me. We’ll sit down and all pour out our hearts.”

  “Honey”—Ernestine met her eyes unflinchingly—“There’s no easy way to say this. Your mother’s there. Inside.”

  “No!” Mary fell back. “Even Theola cannot be so great a monster as to deny me this one small corner of the earth!” Clutching her middle, mouth sagging, she looked the way I had felt in the throes of morning sickness.

  I had to get her out of there, away from the mother whose acclaimed antics now made her daughter the darling of the talk show circuit and the Publishers Weekly bestseller list. Taking charge of our little group, I led them back to Pepys and the boat.

  When we reached Mendenhall, we were met by the news that Bingo was missing.

  The entire household, inclusive of my husband and the infamous Valicia X, was gathered in the great hall. But no one gasped at the sight of Mary’s wan face or rushed forward with a stretcher. Ernestine was the one who finally offered her a seat.

  Mary was obviously looking forward to being laid out on the sofa, damp cloth pressed to her brow. A servile scurry of footsteps would answer the frantic pulling of the bellrope. An order would go forth for a double brandy, on the double! The mistress of the house had suffered a frightful shock. Monster Mommy was in town. And none could tell what evil would befall.

  Ms. X stood under the pawnbroker chandelier, a stunning authority figure in spotless cream linen. Ben maintained a
discreet distance—about three feet—from her. I ground his smile underfoot. His companion in slime was informing Ernestine there was absolutely no reason for alarm. None whatsoever. Bingo had participated in the morning session, had eaten lunch with his fellow candidates and had departed the dining room, but had failed to reappear for the afternoon session.

  “I was all for scratching his name and proceeding without him, but Mr. Haskell”—Ms. X shone her golden smile on Ben—“made an eloquent plea on young Mr. Hoffman’s behalf. I therefore requested that Jeffries try and locate the boy. Her efforts coming up shorthanded, I have decided the Mangé Society will be best served by everyone present assisting in a search of the house and grounds.”

  Ben was still trying to catch my eye. But this seemed neither the time nor place to ask for a divorce.

  Hair spiking, eyes blank, Ernestine turned helplessly toward the Mangé candidacy. “Late for a meeting! That’s not in my Bingo’s nature. An A for punctuality on every one of his report cards since he entered kindergarten at eighteen months of age. I tell you he’d never do anything to jeopardize becoming a Mangé. No! Someone has it in for my boy. Someone who’s afraid to compete fair and square with genius. A cowardly grown-up picking on a poor little boy—”

  “Madame”—the comte juggled plastic fruit without missing a beat—“your son is a damned—pardon my English—pain in the bottom. But there is honour among chefs!”

  Lois Brown, a comfy figure in beige silk, rustled over to put her arms round Ernestine. “Hush now, your Bingo is somewhere safe and sound. Perhaps shut in the bathroom. Didn’t you get stuck there last night?”

  Ernestine’s face turned the sickly yellow of her frock. She shook the other woman off. “A mother has a seventh sense! I knew someone was trying to frighten Bingo off last night.” Her voice broke down into splutters. “Someone playing at ghosts.”

  Miss Rumpson, wearing a black hat with a multi-coloured fish on the brim, looked vastly worried. Henderson stood by, mute. On the sofa, Mary moaned. The sherry-coloured eyes of Ms. X, so like those of my cousin Vanessa, missed nothing. I pictured her mind as a score pad. Points added or discounted according to the candidate’s performance during this break in official procedure. Suddenly everyone was putting in their twopenny worth, while Jeffries jockeyed from group to group, her white cap low on her forehead, face scrunched up like a thirsty sponge. Where, by the way, was Pepys?

  “How long are we going to stand here?” Ben inquired. “The boy isn’t lost on some mountain. He’s in this house. Or on the grounds. He’s not in the bathroom, Jeffries checked. But could he be locked in a cupboard or a shed?”

  Whatever our differences, I mentally applauded my husband for not mentioning the river. Was Ernestine already battling the fear that Bingo might have taken out one of the rowing boats? My heart began thumping wildly. Surely if he were trapped somewhere close we would have heard him. Remembering the coffin, my blood chilled. What if Bingo had indulged a whim to play Dracula and the lid had jammed?

  The hall was emptying. The comte and Solange volunteered to search the grounds. Henderson and Lois said they would take the lift up to the attics. Were the husbands unwilling to have their wives go unaccompanied?

  Someone gripped my arm and I jumped. Mary! Rouge glared like welts on her pasty cheeks. “I know you are concerned about the coffin,” she whispered. “I’m going to check it out. But I don’t think …” On a trail of unspoken words she was gone.

  “Listen up, real good!” Ernestine was saying to those of us remaining. “If one hair of Bingo’s head is hurt, the person responsible will have to answer to my husband Frank.” Her anger reassured me, at least on her account. She wasn’t cursed with my overactive imagination. She wasn’t fearing the worst. Jeffries marched her away, and now it was just the three of us, Ben, Valicia X and me. My spouse was smiling at me in a perplexed sort of way. Was he having trouble placing my face? She was talking to him in the for-your-ears-only manner. Cutting a wide swath around them, I headed for the Red Room where we had congregated last night.

  “Mrs. Haskell,” the throaty voice said, laced with concern, “I was saying to your husband that this sort of commotion can’t be what the doctor ordered. Why don’t you go upstairs and rest?”

  Was Ben to be kept from my clutches lest I make the ignoble attempt to get him back? Fat chance! Wrong word choice. Never had I been more certain that pregnancy was no excuse for gaining weight.

  “Sweetheart”—Ben broke from her and reached my side—“Ms. X is right. You should go up and rest.”

  “No! I won’t be sent to bed like a naughty child.” Oh, how I hated everything about myself. My plaid smock with the bumble bee pockets. My country-and-western hair which was regrowing split ends even as I pouted. The glance Ben sent his Valicia spoke louder than words. Remember her condition, my sweet! We have to pander to her. Should I bite the bullet and give them my blessing?

  “Whatever you say, sweetheart.” Ben touched my face as if I were a mare to be gentled. “We’ll look for Bingo together.”

  Pulling away from him, I said, “Thank you, but we will find him three times quicker if we go our three separate ways.”

  “You’re right there.” Valicia glided up the stairs.

  Arm around me, Ben walked me in a circle, ridding the mare of colic, “Ellie, Valicia was doing her damndest to show concern and you were ungracious.”

  “Thank you, I work at it.”

  “This isn’t like you. You know that woman means the world to me. Professionally speaking.”

  “When she smiles, you haven’t noticed the signs of early gum disease?”

  “My God, you don’t sound well.” He was rooting around in his pockets for a copy of Parenting for Pleasure and Profit. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t been feeling so great myself. No joke, I think I may have caught your morning sickness. I’m queasy. My head is fuzzy. And my limbs feel all of a jumble.”

  Please, no! The man was telling me he was lovesick. Rage flared within me. “Nice knowing you.” His blank stare imprinted on my back, I dashed toward the Red Room.

  The sweltering atmosphere was not conducive to lifting my spirits. The Victorian bric-a-brac, the bobbled velour, the sandbag sofa, and especially the Cat Cadaver portrait over the mantel provided a stage readied for Machiavellian melodrama. Never the bravest of the brave, the sudden spatter of rain on the windows unnerved me. Silly of me even to bother in here. There were few places for Bingo to hide, and why would he pull such a stunt? I lifted the curtains at the library end of the room. What if he had become despondent during the Mangé morning session. Even an adult might crack under questions such as, What were the cakes Alfred The Great burnt? Were they Eccles cakes, rock buns, butterfly cakes, or an assortment of the above? Poor Bingo. Failure may require no particular skill, but it is never easy to learn. Especially for a prodigy.

  Wending my way between two maroon armchairs and several potted plants ready to bite the hand that tried to water them, I noticed a carpet stain next to one of the pots in the shape of Australia. A spill that had turned rusty.

  Keep moving, Ellie! Don’t listen for Ben’s footsteps. Don’t fume over his tame—nay, cowardly—acceptance of your demand to be left alone.

  The red velvet curtains at the north end of the room were closed, to block out the glare from the sun I supposed, but now, with the rain coming down I drew them back without any real suspicion that Bingo might be hiding on the broad ledge.

  Pepys lay there in his shirt sleeves—a smile branded on his waxen face, feet together, hands folded below the red stain surrounding the massive knife handle which protruded from his breast pocket.

  The room swayed like a hammock. Hanging onto the curtain with one hand, I bit down on the other to stop from screaming. Ghastly! If only I could take back all my unkind thoughts of this unpleasant man! A sob went down the wrong way when he sat up. Knife still in place, he swung his bandy legs over the sill and screeched, “April Fool!”

  I coul
d have cracked his bald head like an egg. “Correction,” I fumed. “This is the third of July.”

  “At my age,” he rolled his eyes until only the whites showed, “time ain’t of the essence.”

  “And the knife?” Arms folded, I tapped a foot.

  He touched it fondly, as if it were a rose pinned to his lapel by the woman of his dreams. “One of the props left behind when Melancholy Mansion was done finished being filmed. That boy disappearing went and reminded me.” The ice blue eyes looked directly into mine, but I got the shivery feeling no one was currently living behind that wrinkled face. “Ever see the film?”

  “Only an excerpt.”

  “People kept disappearing. First old Lady Farouche, then Herbaceous, the butler, found just as you found me.” Pepys tenderly smoothed out the wrinkles I had put into the curtain. “Getting worried, ain’t you?”

  “Life up to a bit of plagiarism, you mean?” I managed a laugh which didn’t ring true. That stain by the plant stand—was it still damp? “You’re trying to frighten me. Small wonder the Groggs decided to slip away unnoticed after being publicly humiliated over something as silly as baking powder!”

  Pepys, plainly delighted at having goaded me into indiscretion, sat swinging his legs like a child on a wall at the seaside. Remembering one of the few pieces of advice my mother gave me—do good to those who hate you, nothing infuriates them more—I smiled at him. “Do you often play practical jokes? Last night for instance, did you write, This house is going to get you! on the bath or prowl the hall dressed up as Dame Gloom?”

  “Wasn’t me.” Smirk.

  “I’m sure Bingo Hoffman has been found by now.”

  “Here’s hoping you’re right, kid, and that Mr. Grogg and his lady are alive and well.” Again he fondled the knife handle. “That scene when Herbaceous the butler was found, Theola Faith cried buckets all over him. She was fond of him even though he’d been blackmailing her since he found out Lady Farouche was really her father—the mobster King Fido, and the night club act—a front for tuna smuggling. But all ended happy because Malcolm Morrow who played Herbaceous also played Sir Roderick, the heir returned from the dead.” Pepys lay back down, feet together, hands folded as I had found him. “I remember Herbaceous’ last scene with her,” he mused. “ ‘Ain’t none to touch you, Bubbles. That merry kitten smile of yours. The way you talk wicked and still sound like an angel. My whole day shines just from opening the door for you. Ain’t nobody going to hurt you ever. I’m none so young as I once was and the armour’s kinda rusty, but surely and forever I’m your knight.’ ”