Lucy and the Valentine Verdict

by Rae Davies

  I scurried to the hanger bag and unzipped it as quickly as I could. “Get my phone,” I ordered him. “I want you to take a picture for Betty.”

  I pulled the garments from the bag and froze.

  “It’s...” I couldn’t say it. Couldn’t believe that I, of all people, had been cast as...

  “A maid.” Peter’s eyes twinkled. “French? Maybe you should go ahead and get dressed.”

  I wasn’t sure what y-chromosome-induced fantasy he was living, but I was not amused.

  I dug inside the bag, hoping there had been some kind of mistake, but the only other things inside were a monocle, a cane, and two white envelopes: one with my name on it, the other with Peter’s.

  Peter, it turned out, was playing Captain Egg, a distinguished Military hero who had lost his leg in the “war.” Kiska was his loyal canine companion.

  I was Maid Ann. That was it, not even a last name. Kiska had a better part than I did.

  “You missed something!” Peter pulled a pink feather duster out of the bag.

  I grimaced.

  He waved the duster in the air in what I guessed he thought was a tempting manner.

  My fancy, however, was far from tickled.

  Chapter 3

  Twenty minutes later, we were suited up and standing back in the main house.

  I tugged at the short skirt, managing to pull the top lower than decent in the process. Mumbling to myself, I tugged it back up.

  Peter, aka Captain Egg, put his hand around my waist and pulled me against his side. “My advice? Don’t bend over.”

  I mumbled something unfit for young ears and eyed the coat rack where Lady York had left my down coat.

  My coat was big and ugly, and with a fire blazing in the living room fireplace, the temperature in the house was pushing 80. But still...

  “Here.” Peter plucked a white linen table runner off a nearby buffet and draped it around my shoulders.

  I twisted my lips and considered how willing I was to enter the party dressed in our hosts’ dining room decor.

  The front door flew open, letting in a stiff gust of cold air. My skirt rose in the back, revealing that my bloomers were not any more historically accurate than the rest of the getup that I had been assigned.

  I jerked my skirt down, wrapped the runner around my shoulders and strode into the living room where other guests were already waiting.

  Peter followed me, chuckling.

  I recognized the pair standing by the fireplace from my earlier time outside on our cabin’s front porch. They were younger than I had realized when they were bundled up in their snow gear. Somehow the simplicity of her outfit—a cotton drop-waist dress, hair pulled back in a low bun and small horn-rimmed glasses—made her youth excessively apparent.

  Most likely barely out of college, which made her only a few years younger than I was. However, recent years and the dead bodies I’d discovered during them made me feel much, much older.

  Her companion was young too, and handsome, and looking very dapper in what I guessed was the male version of my costume—the butler.

  I wondered briefly why the co-ed had been chosen for what appeared to be the spinster schoolteacher role over the more obvious choice for her, with her firm curves, of French maid.

  Of course, that would have left me as the spinster. I mulled that a bit, having a hard time deciding if being cast as such would have been more or less disturbing than worrying about exposing my spinster parts for the rest of the evening.

  Lady York moved forward like a boat skimming over the lake that was visible just outside the window beside us. “Maid Ann and Captain Egg, do let me introduce Vera Claythorne and our butler, Mandrake Raven.” She paused for a minute, blatantly taking in my hair.

  I pressed my fingers to it again, but resisted the urge to explain. Not that there was an explanation. I’d dyed my hair blue. Sue me.

  After a moment, she moved on, a bit stiffly, but still continuing with the introductions.

  When there was no mention of real names or occupations, I realized that the evening had already begun. There would be no small talk and no confusing our real identities with those we had been assigned. I was, for at least the next few hours, Maid Ann, blue hair and all.

  Lady York, as if reading my mind, placed a silver tray filled with hotdogs, cut in pieces, wrapped in bacon and skewered with tiny plastic swords in my hands. In a nod to the holiday, tiny red hearts had been glued to the sword handles.

  Peter, aka Captain Egg, and Butler Mandrake didn’t miss a beat, each grabbing two skewers and sliding the bites into their mouths.

  Miss Claythorne, apparently gifted with the metabolism of the young, relieved me of four more. She pushed her glasses up her nose and then sank her perfectly even white teeth into the middle of one dog and pulled it from its sword.

  Kiska sat and looked up expectantly.

  His ploy worked. “Oh, how cute. Is he yours?” She asked, directing her question to Peter.

  “No, he’s–”

  I cut Peter off with a nudge of my hip.

  He glanced at me, obviously confused. “Kiska is Captain Egg’s therapy dog,” I explained, emphasizing Captain Egg as much as I could for my role-play challenged boyfriend.

  Peter made a face, but it was fleeting and probably only something I noticed. Neither Miss Claythorne nor Mandrake seemed to.

  “Oh, then can I?” Miss Claythorne held up a hotdog.

  Peter, apparently deciding to embrace his role, nodded without so much as a sideways glance at me.

  Kiska predictably popped up like a hungry trout and snarfed the snack out of the faux spinster’s fingers milliseconds after she had released hold of the tidbit.

  She pulled her fingers back and stared at him a little distrustingly. I scowled at Peter, who, for a highly thought of detective with the Helena Police Department, seemed disturbingly oblivious.

  He dropped two empty plastic swords onto my tray, shoved his hands into his pockets and went promptly into will-this-be-over-soon mode. In other words, he was present and polite, but not as completely there as I would have liked. He was also doing nothing to help us in our quest to solve whatever mystery was scheduled to come our way as the evening progressed.

  I did my best to fill in for him, asking Miss Claythorne a few pointed questions that led to me learn that she, the character, was a botanist by trade who had recently retired from an up-and-

  coming pharmaceutical company.

  “So many new discoveries,” she commented. “It was hard to keep up with everything, and the field is becoming so competitive.”

  As I was struggling to come up with some follow up question, two more couples arrived, rounding out the expected guest list of ten, counting our hosts— Lady York and Sir Arthur— and giving me and my silver tray an excuse to mosey away.

  The first arrival was Mrs. Peabody, who Sir Arthur introduced as a widow. A rich one, apparently, based on the mink stole around her shoulders and the “jewels” glittering at her throat. Mr. Blore was a bloated-looking banker who, based on his work-hardened hands, I guessed was actually a rancher or ranch worker in real life.

  Behind them were Dr. Armstrong, who carried a black leather medical bag, and Emily Brent, who clutched a Bible to her chest as she greeted me.

  While I was staring at Miss or Mrs. Brent—I wasn’t sure which at this point—something clicked.

  I looked around for Lady York. She walked through the door from the kitchen carrying a vase filled with purple flowers and more hearts, this time glued onto wooden dowels. She set the arrangement on a table, next to a stack of envelopes with our characters’ names on them. Instructions for later, I guessed. I waved her over.

  “Agatha Christie,” I said.

  Her eyes widened.

  “The guests. We’re all from Agatha Christie novels.”

  She glanced around, apparently weighing whether to break character enough to answer or not. After a moment, she leaned closer so the other guests woul
dn’t hear and replied, “Yes, although we took some liberty with the storylines, and I assure you that knowing who victim and killer were in the original stories will do you no good at all.”

  That, considering I doubted Peter had ever read a Christie novel in his life, was a bit of a letdown. Still, if our hosts took characters names from the books, there had to be other influences as well.

  I smiled, smug that I did in fact have a distinct advantage over my oh-so-confident boyfriend.

  I also realized that now, while I had Lady York out of character, was the perfect time to ask about her watch. I smiled and complimented her on it.

  “This? Oh, thanks. It’s actually Rich... Sir Arthur’s, a family piece. I only wear it to add to the look.”

  “It’s lovely. Is that a family crest?” I gestured to the stag.

  She ran her thumb over the raised buck. “I think so. As I said, I wear it because it fits.” She motioned to her outfit.

  Except the watch didn’t fit. Not really. I slyly said as much. “Actually, it’s Victorian. Not that that doesn’t still work. Someone in the twenties or thirties could certainly have owned it and worn it. And it is a great piece.”

  Someone bumped my arm, reminding me that I still held the tray. I jostled around to find the college co-ed spinster Vera Claythorne and Bible-bearing Emily Brent had both moved in beside us. Brent held a bloom from the vase that Lady York had just brought in.

  “I press flowers,” she explained, placing the bloom inside her Bible and closing it.

  I smiled and, hoping they would take a snack and move on, held out my tray.

  Emily, or whatever her real name was, took a hotdog but other than that didn’t budge. Lady York looked at the other two women, blinked, and immediately snapped back into character.

  “Mr. Blore,” she called. “Wouldn’t you like an hors d’oeuvre or perhaps a drink?” She raised her hand and motioned to Butler Mandrake, who now had a tray of his own. His was, however, laden with empty martini glasses.

  “Perhaps you could pour for the ladies?” she prompted again, this time gesturing to a table where a metal martini mixer waited.

  Mrs. Peabody, who stood close by, wasted no time taking a glass from Mandrake and moving toward the shaker, getting there a good five minutes before the ponderously slow Mr. Blore had made his way from the front door to where his assigned job of bartender awaited.

  Miss Claythorne and Emily Brent followed, starting up a conversation with Mrs. Peabody, which apparently gave the rich widow a headache. She placed her hand over her eyes and spoke to Miss Claythorne. After a moment, the spinster botanist pulled a small plastic bottle out of her purse and handed Mrs. Peabody whatever she took from inside. She held the bottle out to Emily Brent too, but the religious woman shook her head and pulled her Bible tighter to her chest.

  I wanted to join them, but I also wanted to free myself from my tray. There were six hotdogs left.

  I grabbed three and shoved them into my mouth.

  Chewing, I listened in as Dr. Armstrong bragged about his upcoming retirement, enabled apparently by some discovery he’d made with his female clientele and access to a marketer who was willing to take the doctor’s cash in exchange for taking his product to the masses.

  Sir Arthur, not to be outdone, broke in to share how he’d just come back from a hunting trip in the Dark Continent. He was halfway through a list of exotic “kills” he had made when Peter placed a hand on my waist and murmured in my ear, “He’s in character, remember?”

  I realized then that my expression must have shown the horror I was feeling.

  I snapped my mouth closed and glanced down at my tray. Still three hotdogs left. Normally I would have eaten them too, but Sir Arthur’s tales of blowing away a bull elephant for his ivory, pretend or not, had taken away my appetite.

  Instead I decided to unload my burden in a time- and child-tested manner. I quietly pulled the plastic swords out of the remaining hotdogs, tipped the tray, and allowed the snacks to tumble onto the ground right next to my dog.

  In seconds they were gone, and it all happened so quickly I didn’t think anyone but Peter and I were the wiser. And Kiska, of course, but he wasn’t telling.

  I looked up to see that I was wrong. Mrs. Peabody met my gaze with a smile, raised her martini glass in salute and then slammed back its contents.

  Sensing a kindred spirit, I wove my way through the guests to her side. The other ladies were nearby, but seemed to have separated themselves slightly from the lively widow.

  She grabbed my arm with her free hand and squeezed. “Have a drink. It’s all that’s getting me through this. Thank God, I didn’t get the teetotaler part.” She nodded toward Emily Brent, who was busy making notes in a little notebook, and then plucked the martini shaker out of Mr. Blore’s hand. He frowned at her in a too-familiar way.

  “Mind your part, Harold,” she chided. “I said I’d come and I did. I didn’t say I’d stick completely to script.”

  Blore, aka Harold, looked like he was going to argue, but Lady York spoke up before he could. “Time to read your cards!” she announced, dropping some of the envelopes that I’d seen earlier onto Mandrake’s silver tray.

  I pretended interest in a walnut mantle clock just in case Maid Ann was expected to help with the task, or any task for that matter.

  “Got the maid, huh?” Mrs. Peabody asked, tipping back her third martini. “At least you’re young and have the legs for it. Harold dragged me to one of these a few months ago and the French maid looked more like a Polish sausage in that outfit.”

  “Oh, so you’ve been here before?”

  “You could say that.” She shot a disgruntled look at Blore. “My husband fancies himself the Hercule Poirot of the cattle industry.”

  “Oh.”

  “Plus, he and Arthur went to school together.” She drained her glass and leaned past me to check out the status of the bar. Blore and the martini mixer had moved across the room where he seemed to be chatting up Lady York. As I watched them, our hostess unhooked her gold watch and laid it on top of the buffet.

  My attention sharpened. Maybe I had a chance at acquiring the item for my shop after all. I turned to Mrs. Peabody to make my excuses, but as I did, Mandrake arrived with our envelopes.

  Before I had a chance to open mine, Peter appeared at my side. “Would you like to make a little wager?” he asked, hazel eyes twinkling.

  My eyes narrowed. “What kind of wager?”

  He tapped his still-sealed envelope against his palm. “A mystery-solving wager.”

  “Oh?” Since I’d already planned on not only beating him to the solution, but also rubbing his nose in my success, his offer grabbed my interest.

  “First to find the perpetrator wins...”

  “A trip to Minnesota?” I suggested.

  “Minnesota?” he asked, brows furrowed.

  “There’s a flea market there I’ve been wanting to go to. It’s huge. We’d need a trailer.” I was dedicated to antiquing, especially for pottery, and Minnesota was known for it, but I had never pulled a trailer of any real size. If I wanted to do my dream trip right, I’d need Peter, his truck and his horse trailer.

  He angled one brow, obviously considering my proposition. “And if I win?” he asked.

  I smiled. “You won’t.” He wasn’t going to win anyway, but if there was a trip to the biggest flea market in the upper Midwest on the table, there was no way I’d let that slip out of my grasp.

  He shook his head in a chiding manner. “We go to Seattle instead.”

  “Seattle?” That didn’t sound that bad. There had to be some antiquing to be done there too.

  “In the fall.”

  Not understanding the time restriction, I blinked.

  “For football.” He grinned.

  Oh. That. I grimaced. Still it didn’t matter, because he wasn’t going to win. I held out my hand. “Deal.”

  He grabbed my hand, pulled me close and whispered in my ear, “Deal.”


  Smiling, I slid my thumb under the envelope’s seal and pulled out my first assignment.

  Pick up the dirty glasses and carry them into the kitchen.

  Seriously? I glanced at our hostess. This role-playing thing was a little too to-the-letter for me.

  Lady York, however, seemed unconcerned with the hired help. She was busy leaning in toward Dr. Armstrong and laughing. Her hand traveled up his arm.

  I frowned, wondering if that was part of the play-acting or something else.

  “Second wife,” Mrs. Peabody announced. “The first one was killed in a car wreck on the way home from the hospital after she had a baby.”

  Startled by this unrequested fountain of information, I stiffened.

  I glanced at Peter. He lifted one eyebrow and asked, “Lady York?”

  “Oh, sorry, no... forgot we were supposed to be in character now.” She sighed and opened her envelope.

  Peter, sensing gossip, retreated.

  I watched as he walked past Lady York and up to Sir Arthur. My dog trotted happily at his side, snarfing up dropped bits of hotdog as he went.

  “Oh, thank, God!” Mrs. Peabody exclaimed.

  Emily Brent and Mr. Blore, who were engaged in some conversation of their own, turned to stare... and frown.

  Mrs. Peabody, face still as a mannequin’s, held the card in front of her face and robotically read, “My advice column was just syndicated. I have thousands of fans.” She tossed her hair and winked at me. “It comes in useful too. When I type, people act. Just last week I started a boycott of Aunt Jennie’s Syrup. Have you seen how they dress Aunt Jennie? White shoes in the middle of January. It’s a disgrace!” She held up one finger to emphasize the point. “My next target... a new supplement a friend gave me. Claims to make you lose weight, but all it has done for me is cause intestinal upset.” She leaned closer and whispered. “I think that means the runs. Now ask me the brand.”

  I blinked. “Uh, that’s terrible. Who makes it?”

  “I don’t remember... there’s a man’s flexing his bicep on the label. Subscribe to your local paper though, and you will know!” Another upraised finger.