A Bite of Blueberry

by Melissa Monroe

  Emily had stayed home one morning with a severe headache. By the time Arthur had clocked off that night, she’d been dead for hours. Priscilla constantly wished she’d done something to stop it. Perhaps if Emily had called, Priscilla could have gotten her to a hospital. Failing that, she could have changed Emily before the aneurysm killed her. She’d never actually created children before, but surely it wouldn’t have been so awful to have the first be a friend and confidante?

  “It’s fine, Arthur. Really. You don’t have to go with me. Forget I said anything.”

  He let out a low chuckle. “Unlikely, Priscilla. What time do you need me there?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. What time is the ball? You’re right. Until we narrow down our suspect pool, it’s foolish to assume that Benedict is the only Montgomery being targeted. It will be best if I, or one of the boys, accompany you. And since I’m the only one who looks even close to your age—”

  “Dad,” Anna interjected. “Priscilla is physically still twenty-two. The only one in the department close to her age is Jamie.”

  Arthur fixed his daughter with a glare. “I’m already unhappy that you’re dating him, Anna. I’m not sending him on a date with Priscilla. Do you want that drama?”

  “No,” Anna grumbled. “I don’t.”

  “Good. The rest of the guys can’t go, because they’re married. Jamie and I are the only two bachelors in the police force, and I’m not sending Jamie in with Priscilla. That leaves me as the only logical choice to accompany her.”

  There was a stretch of incredibly long, awkward silence while he waited for anyone to disagree with him. Finally, he looked back up at her. “What time do I need to be here to pick you up?”

  “The Debutante ball is scheduled to take place at Markinswell Manor at seven, but I’ll need to be there at least an hour early. It’s the only place in town that the temporary head of the society, Catherine Quentin, could get in town that suited the occasion. The Historical Society won’t let them rent out Robshaw Inn if I’m involved in the event at all.”

  Arthur’s mouth twisted down into a grimace. “Those ladies really hate you, don’t they?”

  “Heaven forbid I catch a murderer.” Priscilla rolled her eyes. “I’m just surprised that they’re letting the society use the Markinswell Madhouse. It’s also a historical site, according to all the brochures.”

  “Maybe they’re hoping the ghosts will scare everyone away,” Arthur suggested

  Markinswell Madhouse was another popular destination for ghost-hunting shows. It had once been a very nice manor house, owned by an oil baron as a country home during the off-season. Some very lucky maids—Priscilla had once counted herself among their number—had been hired and paid handsomely to clean the house when the man had been gallivanting along the East Coast, spending his fortune. He’d met an untimely end in New York City’s Draft Riots and, because he’d died without heirs, the house had fallen into the hands his cousin, Dr. Maximus Markinswell.

  Dr. Markinswell had moved to Bellmare in 1864 and had turned the manor into a halfway house for recovering drug addicts and psychotics. He’d been arrested only six short years later, in 1870, when it was discovered he’d strangled eight women under his care and buried them beneath the floorboards. According to some accounts, the women still lived within the manor’s walls, haunting the living.

  “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Priscilla muttered, more to herself than him.

  He snorted. “You’re an undead creature, Priscilla. No offense, but haven’t you sort of given up the right to be skeptical at this point? If you can live beyond death, couldn’t other people?”

  “Scientists are finding more and more evidence that vampirism can be explained. What on earth would explain a spirit being trapped between the physical world and an afterlife?”

  Anna sighed. “Don’t get her started, Dad. Priscilla doesn’t believe in ghosts. Period. I think it’s a reaction to the way she was raised.”

  Priscilla didn’t want to go down that road. It was all too easy to make Puritan jokes at her expense, and Anna had been known to go at it for hours.

  “I’ll need to use your shower,” she interjected, before Anna could really get going.

  “What?” Arthur asked.

  “I need to use your shower. Mine’s broken, and I won’t have the time to get a plumber in to fix it until the end of the week.”

  Arthur’s face turned an odd shade of pink and he muttered something even she couldn’t make out. Finally, he said, “Fine, fine. Pack a bag. Once you’re done here, you can come to my house and spend the night.”

  “Let me do the packing,” Anna said. “Priscilla has to get the turnovers out of the oven anyway.”

  Priscilla’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Nothing trashy, Anna. I have a reputation to maintain.”

  “You’ll look like a very classy lady, I swear,” Anna said, giving her a scout’s salute. “Nothing trashy whatsoever.”

  Priscilla took a deep breath, considered it for a second, and then finally nodded. Anna might have been mischievous, but she did have some sense of decorum. She wouldn’t force Priscilla into a dress that would be uncomfortable or inappropriate for the occasion, especially if she was attending said occasion in the company of her father, on what would appear to be a date to anyone not in the know.

  Anna squealed and rushed up the stairs, apparently forgetting her fear of the frog that dwelled on the floor above.

  “Eager, isn’t she?” Arthur commented as Priscilla checked the oven. The turnovers had browned a little earlier than she’d expected. She flicked the dial off and retrieved her oven mitts.

  The warm cinnamon-apple scent washed over her as she opened the oven and retrieved the trays from within. No matter how stressful things got, there was a certain solace she found in baking that she couldn’t replicate anywhere else.

  “She probably wants to stuff me in something that my well-meaning friends and clients have bought me for Christmases or birthdays. I have a whole slew of formal wear that people have tried to get me to wear.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  Priscilla shrugged. “There’s no call for it. I don’t go on dates, I’m not really invited out much, and during catering events they’re usually inappropriate. Who wants to get whipped cream on a silk dress?”

  “Point taken.”

  Priscilla was loading up a container with the turnovers when Anna bounded back down the stairs, beaming at both of them.

  “What did you do?” Priscilla asked, placing the last turnover with a little more force than necessary.

  “Nothing,” Anna said, a tad too innocently. “Can we go now?”

  “One more minute,” Priscilla said, reaching into the counter above. “I need to make sure these don’t dry out.”

  “Isn’t the container supposed to be airtight?” Anna asked.

  “It is, but here’s a little trick to extend the life of your desserts,” Priscilla said, and pulled out a loaf of plain white, store-bought bread.

  “Huh?”

  She untwisted the tie and pulled out a slice of bread. She brandished it at the pair, who stared at her incredulously.

  “This is a trick I learned in 1928,” she said, slicing the bread and placing the two halves in with the turnovers before sealing the lid. “The turnovers will absorb moisture from the bread, and it doesn’t leave a scent. You can do the same thing with apple slices, but they do leave an odor and I used them all in this recipe already.”

  She placed the container on the cooling racks, for lack of a better place to put it. Refrigeration was a no-go, and besides, Avalon had made her doubt the sanctity of her fridge a few days ago. She wasn’t going to store anything she didn’t have to in there for a while, until she could get it professionally cleaned.

  “Now we can go.”

  It was a rush to get around at Arthur’s house. In order to get to her shop and complete the order on time, Priscilla had to be up at five a
nd out of the house in a half hour. Arthur let her get in the shower first, and Priscilla borrowed some of his casual clothing because Anna hadn’t packed anything but pajamas and formal wear.

  She walked into her shop at 5:30, wearing a pair of baggy basketball shorts and a shirt that read “Get your head out of your bass,” complete with a large fish swallowing someone whole.

  “Charming,” Olivia greeted her with a smirk, holding open the door for her. “I had no idea you liked to fish.”

  “Laugh it up,” Priscilla said with a scowl. “Please tell me you have the salmon ready to go. I only have an hour to get everything finished, and another to get set up.”

  “It’s waiting in my shop when you’re ready,” Olivia said. “So, is it true? Are you really dating Arthur now?”

  Priscilla stared at her. “How do you know that?”

  She’d been counting on the rumor mill to work fast, but not this fast. They’d only made the decision that morning!

  “So it is true! I thought that Mrs. Landry must be joking. She said you went home with him last night.”

  Priscilla’s hands balled into fists, angry at the presumption being made. She wasn’t that sort of woman, and Arthur wasn’t that kind of man. Her anger must have shown on her face because Olivia took a step back and brought up her hands in a defensive gesture.

  “No judgement, Priscilla. He’s a very nice man. You could definitely do worse.”

  Priscilla wanted to snap that it wasn’t like that at all. She was staying with him until her place could be fixed. That was closer to the truth than anything else she could tell Olivia. She bit her tongue. This was exactly the sort of thing that would draw Avalon out and make her investigate. She wasn’t sure how long it would take news to travel out to Brown’s Bed and Breakfast, but at this rate, it couldn’t be long.

  “I need to work, Olivia. Could you please move?”

  Olivia stepped out of her way at once, apparently not keen on being on the other end of Priscilla’s ire. Priscilla wasted no time in making her way to the kitchen. She still had twenty-four parfaits to make.

  Parfaits could be made in any tall glass, but she’d decided to make this evening’s desserts in the tulip sundae glasses she’d bought roughly at the same time she’d purchased chairs and tables, during an auction at a defunct 50s diner, five years ago. She’d purchased three dozen of them for $24. It had been a successful evening, in her book.

  If she’d had more notice, Priscilla would actually have made her own yogurt for the project. As it was, she’d barely had time to rush over to Landry’s before they closed to purchase their remaining stores of Greek yogurt and the rest of the ingredients she needed.

  She spooned yogurt into the glasses carefully, ignoring Olivia’s stare. Olivia was already dressed for the occasion, in a blue blouse and a pair of khaki dress pants. Priscilla could only hope that Anna had chosen something to match.

  Presentation was everything, even in food. If she’d been throwing together a parfait for someone’s lunch, she could have paid less attention to the striation and mixed together yogurt, fruit, and granola with abandon. Instead, she did her best to make every single glass look spectacular, piling freshly sliced bananas and blueberries on top in a delicate tower of fruit.

  “Tasty,” Olivia said. “Will there be any left over?”

  “Maybe. You’re welcome to help yourself to the ingredients when tonight is over.”

  “Please tell me that you aren’t attending in that,” Olivia said, and Priscilla could tell she was trying to hold back a laugh.

  “Of course, I’m not. Anna packed something in my bag for tonight. But whatever it is, I’m not getting it dirty before it’s time to go.”

  Priscilla checked the clock after putting the finishing touches on the last parfait. The hands announced the time as 6:15. Crap. She had forty-five minutes to get everything set up. Less, because she’d need to get into her clothing and apply her makeup, inexpertly, when she arrived.

  Priscilla piled the glasses, one at a time, into the specially made carrying cases she’d had commissioned before she’d opened Fangs in Fondant. They displayed the black lip print with dainty fangs that was the logo for her bakery.

  “Can you help me load these into the back of the van?” she asked Olivia, an unfamiliar pleading in her tone. She’d never actually run anything this close to a deadline before, and she found herself strangely apprehensive. Was that because she was afraid of failure, or afraid of the fake date? She wasn’t quite sure.

  “Sure,” Olivia said, taking a case full of parfaits. They rattled slightly against one another as they walked toward the door. It took another five minutes for Priscilla to get the cake, turnovers, and parfaits into the back of her van and strapped in to her satisfaction.

  “Please tell me you’re going to change now,” Olivia begged.

  Priscilla shook her head. “No time. I’ll sneak into the back and find a bathroom to change in.”

  “Erm, Priscilla, has it occurred to you that you won’t be able to see yourself in any of the mirrors at Markinswell Manor?”

  Priscilla let out an uncharacteristic curse. She hadn’t thought of that. She was used to her mirror at home, which had been manufactured with aluminum, not silver. If Markinswell had been outfitted with mirrors that had gone through silvering, which she suspected it had, then she was sunk. She buried her face in her hands.

  “What am I going to do?” she moaned.

  “Calm down, I’ll help you with your makeup. We’re going to make this work. Trust me.”

  At her friend’s insistence, she handed Olivia the keys to her van. Priscilla spent the fifteen- minute drive trying to ease herself down from panic. She had something presentable to wear in the bag next to her. Once Olivia had set out the breakfast spread, which she estimated would take about a half hour, she’d have five minutes to apply her makeup and put in an appearance. It could work. It would have to work.

  There were many cars already parked outside the Markinswell Madhouse by the time they arrived. Olivia insisted she put on a parka to cover the hideous clothing. It did help, somewhat, even if it did make her appear as if she wasn’t wearing pants.

  “Now find a way to sneak in,” Olivia hissed. “I know you can. Take your bag and get something decent on.”

  The Markinswell Madhouse was an imposing building, built entirely of yellow brick. Ivy clung to to its face, obscuring most of the natural features that had once made it look so grand. The slate- gray roof tiles were in disrepair, and the topiaries had been allowed to grow back into hedges. A cherub with a cracked wing still poured water into a fountain outside the front gates.

  It was an easy matter to dart into the hedge maze that wrapped around the back of the house, climb over row after row, and emerge at the back doors within a few minutes of her arrival. Thankfully, there was no one guarding the back entrances, and Priscilla climbed in through a broken window on the first floor.

  She emerged into a small bedroom. Most of the furniture had been covered with white cloth, and the baby grand piano pushed against one wall was in dire need of dusting. The clock on the mantle chimed 6:30 and startled Priscilla badly.

  “Just get dressed,” she muttered to herself. This was more privacy than she’d get in a bathroom anyway. She set her bag down on the floor and bent to unzip it. What she found inside made her groan.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” she said, pulling out the red, off-the-shoulder evening dress she’d been gifted by Emily almost four years ago. She’d worn it once, after Christmas, to appease her friend, then stuffed it into the back of her closet, never to be heard from again.

  Until now.

  It wasn’t as if she had any other options, really. She wondered if Emily was watching her from some afterlife and laughing at her. Priscilla pulled Arthur’s T-shirt off in one move, noting that she hadn’t really worn the proper bra for this dress, and that Anna had failed to pack one. So, with nothing else to do, she pulled the undergarment off as
well. The shorts came off last.

  It took a few more minutes to squeeze her frame into the dress. Of course, she hadn’t gained weight in the last four years, so it still fit like a glove. An inappropriately flashy glove, that revealed cleavage she hadn’t been aware existed before now. She slipped on the black heels Anna had packed, vowing that she’d eventually shove one up her assistant’s rear for this.

  After packing away the clothing for later use—there was no way she was going to stay in this getup for the rest of the night—Priscilla exited the bedroom, intent on finding Olivia.

  Instead, she found Arthur waiting for her at the end of the hall. He looked surprisingly dapper in a dress uniform. He blinked when he caught sight of her.

  “Priscilla, you look …”

  “Overdressed,” she finished sourly. “Have you seen Olivia? I’ll need her help.”

  “She was headed to the bathroom the last I heard.”

  She gave him a half smile. “Thank you for this, Arthur. I appreciate it.”

  He cleared his throat and looked away from her with a blush. “My pleasure, ma’am.”

  Priscilla smirked. “Ma’am? I don’t think you’ve called me ma’am before. Don’t tell me one dress makes you go soft, Arthur.”

  His cheeks flushed still darker. “Oh, stop being such a pain in my—”

  “Ah-ah. None of that, dear,” she teased. “We’re trying to be classy, remember?”

  Arthur grumbled something incoherent and she swept past him, in slightly better spirits than she had been.

  Thankfully, the Markinswell Madhouse was not labyrinthine like some of the manor houses she’d cleaned back in the day. It had only four floors and was arranged like a long rectangle. It was a relatively easy matter to locate the bathrooms. She hesitated just outside of the door, worried about what she might find inside. The last time she’d entered a bathroom at a society function, she’d found someone dead.