The Stuffing of Nightmares (The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse Book 7)

by Nic Saint

  He tapped his friend on the knee. “Hey, don’t talk like that. I will take care of this, all right? Have I ever deserted you in your hour of need?”

  “No,” admitted Grover. “But I’ve never been in so much trouble before.”

  “Trust me, this is nothing. I’ve gone through this five times. Five times!”

  “I know you have,” said Grover, admiration gleaming in his eye for this champion of champions. To have survived five divorces and still look as robust as Chazz was indeed something to draw admiration from his peers.

  “The trick is to make her lose interest in you, my friend.”

  “Judging from those pictures she lost interest in me a long time ago.”

  “That’s not what I mean. She needs to set her eyes on bigger prey.”

  Grover thought about this for a moment, then admitted, “I don’t get it.”

  Chazz chuckled freely. “I’m sure you don’t.”

  “How can I convince Emilia to leave me without sucking me dry?”

  “You don’t have to convince her of anything. When I’m through with her, she’ll leave you of her own accord, and she won’t ask for a single cent!”

  Grover’s lower jaw had dropped to its fullest extent before he reeled it in again. “How will you work a miracle like that? It can’t be done, I tell you!”

  “It can be done, and it will be done,” he assured his stricken friend. “In fact, I’m going to do it right now. I’m going to seduce that wife of yours!”

  Grover’s eyes widened even more. “You’re going to do what?!”

  “Well, not me personally, of course. I’m not so dumb to get involved with Emilia. But I’m going to get someone who is. He’s going to wine and dine that woman to within an inch of her life, wooing her like she’s never been wooed before. Before my guy is done, she’ll be begging him to marry her.”

  “And who is this guy?” Grover asked suspiciously. He might be angry with Emilia for cheating on him, but he obviously still had feelings for her.

  “Why, Jean-Marc Anciaux, of course. Only the richest man in France.”

  Grover grasped his hair and pulled it fiercely. He would have pulled his beard, but that was still a work in progress. “Who’s Jean-Marc Anciaux and why is a Frenchman hitting on my wife?!”

  Chazz leaned in, looking right and left, then whispered, “There is no Jean-Marc Anciaux, Grover. I just made him up!”

  “What?! Don’t torture me, Chazz! I’m going crazy here! Crazy!”

  In all fairness, Grover had always been crazy, Chazz thought, to marry Emilia in the first place. He’d been the first person to warn him that he was getting involved with a world-renowned gold-digger. But had he listened? Of course not. “Look, it’s better I don’t tell you more. It’s called plausible deniability. That way, when something goes wrong, you’re well out of it.”

  Grover regarded him wild-eyed. “Do whatever you want. Hire Russians or Greeks for all I care. Just get me out of this, will you? I’m begging you!”

  “Of course I will,” said Chazz amiably. “What are friends for, eh?”

  “Thank you, Chazz,” said Grover. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  Chazz grinned. Now all he needed was a Jean-Marc Anciaux. And as it happened, he had the perfect candidate lined up already.

  Chapter 19

  On the other side of town, Emilia Calypso, née Kitson, was having a ball. Unaware of the schemes and plots being hatched to thwart her evil plan, she was whooping it up with Romuald Hogston, newly elected partner at Stephenson, Stephenson, Stephenson and Stephen & Son. And since his partnership was a recent thing, champagne was flowing, and room service at the Ritz-Carlton had trouble keeping up with the orders of the happy couple.

  “You’ve got it made now, haven’t you, Rommy?” Emilia asked.

  She was draped across the bed, dressed in a pink negligee, while Romuald was wearing his Calvin Kleins around his head. He was a handsome young man, with a pink face and clean-cut features, except for the hint of a mustache.

  “I’m getting there,” he admitted smugly, pouring himself another flute of bubbly. “I’d say I’m just starting to hit my stride, though.”

  “I think you’re doing great, babe,” said Emilia. “Soon all those Stephensons will be dead and buried, and you’ll be running that place all by yourself.”

  “Except for the son,” he pointed out. “Don’t forget about the damn son.”

  Stephenson, Stephenson, Stephenson and Stephen might be a bunch of old cronies teetering on the edge of the grave, but that son was Romuald’s age, and might be around forever. Worse, he might even sneak in a couple more Stephensons before he was through. Those people bred like rabbits.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Before long I’ll divorce that hapless old Grover, demand half of his fortune, and we’ll be billionaires together!”

  “Do you think it’s time?” he asked earnestly.

  This had always been their plan from the moment they met in tenth grade and swung on the swing behind Knappersville High School, Ohio. They’d promised each other their undying love and affection, and had devised a plan to become filthy rich and rest on their laurels for the rest of their lives. Between their first kiss and today, years had passed, but The Plan was still firmly in place. It hadn’t taken Emilia long to figure out who to marry, and with her charm and beauty Grover Calypso had fallen like the sap he was. Now the most crucial part of the plan would be set in motion: how to strip the old billionaire of his billions.

  Actually, Chazz Falcone had been her first choice. He was a billionaire and had a proven track record of marrying the wrong woman. Unfortunately, he’d learned from his mistakes—it had only taken him five marriages to get there—and he’d spurned her advances. So she’d turned to his best friend Grover, a billionaire in his own right, and a divorce virgin—the man was a widower. And bingo. It hadn’t taken her long to convince him to link his lot to hers, and tie the knot.

  Now in their second year of marriage, it was time to move on. The trick was to lure him into cheating on her with another woman, so she could lay claim to half his fortune. And she had just the woman lined up for the job.

  Grover Calypso was about to have an affair, only he didn’t know it yet.

  “Yes, I think it’s time,” she confirmed as she raised her glass.

  “If you say so, honey,” said Romuald. He was a dear, but not very bright, Emilia knew. But she did love him, even though she was the brains of the operation. He might be the legal expert in their band of two, but she was the one hatching the plots. She’d done so in tenth grade, and she did so now.

  She rolled over to his side of the bed and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. “Just do your part, babe. I promise you that everything will work out fine.”

  “All right,” he said with a smile. His mustache tickled her nose, and she giggled. The thing was hideous, but Romuald figured that the lip ornament lent him some much-needed maturity. Without it, he looked like a teenager.

  And as the kiss deepened, Emilia thought of Grover. Poor Grover. He wouldn’t know what hit him when the trap closed. Now all she needed to do was put the cheese in front of his twitchy little nose, and the game was on.

  Chapter 20

  Felicity trusted her intuition. She knew that if she listened to that still little voice inside her that was a direct line to her subconscious mind, she would find Reece. She’d recently read a book on how to get in touch with her higher self, and she’d been practicing a lot, sitting in meditation, trying to listen to that inner voice. And from time to time she thought she could hear it!

  Like that time she’d lost her favorite oven mitt, the one with the hearts that her Granny Bell had knitted. She loved that mitt and had been devastated when it went missing. She’d searched for it all over the house and when finally she had to declare defeat she’d decided to simply quieten her mind and try to tune into her higher self. She’d listened intently for half an hour, an hour, and when finally n
othing came, had given up.

  And just when she was resigned that the mitt was lost forever, a sudden insight had popped into her head that she needed to check out the chicken coop. She and Alice had constructed a chicken coop in the back of the garden, so they’d always have fresh eggs, and had two chickens, Eugenie and Beatrice, now working at the stand. She’d rushed over, and lo and behold: the mitt had fallen into the coop. She’d probably dropped it there when she’d been baking and had fetched a couple of eggs.

  So now, as she prowled through the corridors of Hartford Manor, she tried to still her beating heart and listen to that quiet little voice inside her that would tell her where they were keeping Reece.

  She walked along stealthily, peeking around every corner, trying to make her footfall as silent as possible. She wasn’t exactly trespassing, she told herself, but merely looking for the bathroom, having gotten lost trying to find it. So when she suddenly came face to face with a large Doberman dog who stood leering at her, his mouth open and his teeth bare, she gulped a little but didn’t panic. That little voice inside her told her that all would be well, if only she kept perfectly still and didn’t move a muscle!

  Don’t give the beast any excuse to maul you to pieces! said the little voice. It was a wise little voice, she decided. Nobody likes to be mauled to pieces, and keeping perfectly still sounded like just the thing to do.

  So it was a surprise to herself that her legs suddenly defied that sage advice and broke into a run, back to where she came from. Hurtling along the corridor, the ginormous ferocious beast on her heels, she started screaming. “Help!” she shouted to no one in particular. “Heeeeeeelp meeeeee!” she repeated, still not sure if anyone could hear her.

  It was ironic, she thought, that at first she’d been trying to be as quiet as possible, and now she didn’t mind who heard her—in fact, she kind of hoped someone did. Someone who could tell this horrid monster to cut it out!

  And it was a surprise when she found that instead of returning to the kitchen, she entered a very large room, with books lining the walls, and sofas and couches centered in the middle. An old man with graying hair and a dressing gown wrapped around his skinny frame appeared startled when he suddenly saw her enter, running at full tilt.

  “Clancy! No! Down!” he yelled sharply, and the big Doberman, recognizing his master’s voice, halted the chase and instantly plunked down.

  “God, thank you!” Felicity cried, her heart thudding in her chest and her breath coming in gasps. “I thought I was a goner for a moment!”

  The man didn’t smile or even acknowledge her presence.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, realizing how this must look. “I’m the baker. I was looking for the bathroom when I came upon this—” She was going to say monster but realized before she said it that even though Clancy might look like a monster to her, he was probably man’s best friend to this skinny elderly man. “—this nice little doggie here,” she completed the sentence.

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he said stiffly. He’d been reading the newspaper and now put it down. “My name is Bowen Cieslok. I’m the owner and proprietor of Hartford Manor. And you are?”

  “Felicity Bell,” she said gratefully. He seemed like a kindly old guy. Not the kind that would stuff his fellow human beings. “From Bell’s Bakery.”

  “Yes,” he said with a feeble smile. “Pete Bell’s daughter.”

  “That’s me,” she said as chipper as her still raging nerves allowed her to. She kept a keen eye on Clancy, but the dog seemed to have lost interest and was now staring moodily before him, probably hoping another prey would soon present itself and this time he wouldn’t be so rudely interrupted.

  “Yes, I was delivering bread and—”

  “Snooping around?” he asked with raised brow.

  “Oh, no, sir,” she assured him. “I was just looking for the bathroom.”

  “At least have you brought me my afternoon tea?” he asked.

  She stared at the man. The conversation had been going so well, and now this? “I’m sorry. Your tea?” It wasn’t even afternoon. It was barely lunchtime.

  “Yes. Aren’t you the girl who brings me my tea around this time?”

  Only now did she see that his eyes were a little unfocused, as if he wasn’t really there. “No, I’m a baker,” she repeated. “I don’t do tea. Only bread. Well, and pastry, of course. And cakes and pies and…”

  Her voice trailed off. The old guy was probably not in the mood for a sales pitch, and now that she came to think of it, neither was she.

  “Say, listen,” she said instead. “I’m looking for a friend of mine. Reece Hudson? The famous actor? You haven’t seen him by any chance?”

  But the man had picked up his newspaper again and was muttering something about tea.

  “Sir?” she asked, approaching. “Any idea where I can find my friend?”

  He raised a long and skeletal hand and pointed to the door. “Ask Fabiola. She’ll know.”

  A chill settled at the base of her spine as Felicity looked in the direction indicated, and found herself gazing at a young, blond woman, who was looking straight at her, a strange and wistful smile playing about her lips.

  “And who have we here?” asked the young woman gleefully.

  “Hi, there,” she said hesitantly. “I’m Felicity Bell. The baker?”

  Instead of responding, the woman walked right up to her, took out a gun, and pulled the trigger. There was a soft thud Felicity felt against her stomach, and the world turned on its axis. She fell to the floor and stared up at the blonde, who was saying something. And just before she passed out, she understood. She said, “How serendipitous. We didn’t have a baker yet!”

  Chapter 21

  “That does it,” said Mabel. She’d been trying to get in touch with the bank for the past half hour, only to be given the runaround every time she got someone on the horn. It didn’t do, she felt, that she was the secretary of the mayor himself, and no one cared to talk to her. “That’s it,” she huffed. “They’re so not invited to the mayor’s ball! Not a single one of them!”

  Mark was seated across from her at the kitchen table. They were running out of options. Even though Mark had had his dream about Mabel’s father, so far things weren’t looking up.

  “I think we’re losing the house, Mark,” she said, starting to feel desperate.

  “Maybe we should simply stop fighting,” he suggested, “and take Natalie up on that offer of hers.”

  Their daughter had suggested they could move in with her and her fiancé for the time being. Until they got on their feet again. They weren’t the first people to lose their house and probably wouldn’t be the last.

  “No,” said Mabel. “I refuse to burden my child with something that is not our fault. We paid our mortgage. It’s that banker who made the mistake.”

  Mark reached across the table and placed his hand on hers. “Sometimes you just have to accept the inevitable, hon.” He was looking defeated now. He’d hoped against hope that his dream had meant something, but so far it didn’t. He’d gotten in touch with their lawyer again, who’d told him the only way to speed up the process was to appeal directly to the man at the top. The owner of Armstrong & Tillich. He’d also told him there was no way he would ever be allowed access. “If only we could get in touch with the big kahuna.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Some guy called Brian Rutherford,” Mark said. “President of the Wardop Group, who’s the majority shareholder of Armstrong & Tillich. But he’s impossible to reach, of course.” He stared at his wife, for Mabel had made a strangled noise at the back of her throat. “What’s wrong, honey?” he asked, visibly worried. “Are you all right? You look… weird.”

  She squawked again. The name Brian Rutherford had that effect on her. “Did you just say Brian Rutherford? Of the Wardop Group?”

  He nodded. “Some young lawyer who lucked into being Peverell Wardop’s heir. The story was all over
the news a couple of months ago.”

  “But I know Brian!” she cried, nodding vehemently. “I know him very well! He’s—” She paused, suddenly remembering that she’d sworn an oath of secrecy about the Wraith Wranglers and their business. “I mean, he’s a good friend of Felicity Bell.” She hopped up from her chair, hope suddenly surging in her bosom and making her giddy. “I know him very well indeed!”

  And without another word to her husband, she ran from the room and was out the door before he could utter a protest. She needed to talk to Fee—and set up a meeting with Brian. This could all be turned around, she realized, without much effort. Brian would understand what was going on, and he definitely wouldn’t want to see a member of the neighborhood watch committee, the inception of the Wraith Wranglers, be turned from her home.

  She arrived at Fee’s house, setting a new record for the hundred yard dash, and when she rang the bell and no one answered, ran some more and arrived at the bakery in next to no time and stormed inside to find Bianca behind the counter as usual. She stumbled to the counter, placed her hands on her knees, and took big gulps of air, eliciting worried glances from Bianca.

  “Do you know where I can find Fee?!” she finally huffed out breathlessly.

  “Have you tried the house? She should be home by now.”

  She shook her head, placing a hand on her spleen, which was hurting like hell. She hadn’t run like this since high school, and she sure felt it. “Nope. Nobody home over there.”

  Bianca picked up her phone and pressed one. A look of surprise stole over her cherubic features. “Straight to voicemail,” she said.

  Mabel smiled. “Do you know who owns Armstrong & Tillich, hon?”

  “Is this one of those crossword puzzle questions? Because you know I’m terrible with crossword puzzles, Mabel. I never get anything right!”

  “No, this is not about a crossword. This is about Mark and I saving the house!”