Tall Tails Secret Book Club (The Secret Library Cozy Mysteries 1)

by CeeCee James

  “Laura Lee, I suppose I’ll have you clean the study,” Marguerite mused over a piece of toast. “We haven’t been in there for a few weeks now.”

  Cook snorted, pounding away at a chicken breast. With each thwack she seemed to get angrier. “I seem to remember when Mr. Thornberry spent day and night in there when he was alive. Now the room is as dead as the library. This whole house is just a tomb filled with ghosts.”

  “Cook!” squealed Mary. “Do you have to word it that way? I heard creaking the other night I’m not likely to forget. Slept with my flashlight under my pillow and now I have a neck crick.”

  “You better be careful then,” Cook said with a final thwack before turning to wash her hands. “It sounds like Mr. Thornberry may be coming to search for his books.”

  “Burned, you said,” I whispered.

  Marguerite leaned closer, and I saw a toast crumb perched on her upper lip. She swung her gaze up at the ceiling. “‘Cept those we saved.”

  “You mean the….” I started, ready to refer to the book club room.

  She held a finger to her mouth, and I stopped. A vivid picture formed in my mind of the women carrying the books up all those stairs in a stealthy mission to save them from a panicked and outraged Miss Janice. Somehow they must have built all those shelves. These women were amazing.

  “Poor Mr. Thornberry, dead over his chess board with a cold cup of tea,” Cook tutted as she dried her hands.

  “I wonder what his next move was,” I mused.

  “What’s that?” Cook asked.

  I repeated myself, now feeling the question foolish.

  “Well, who’s to know. He often played chess with the ghost that comes around. Maybe in between moves he whispered where he had hidden the crown.”

  “Cook!” Mary squealed again.

  “Oh, Laura Lee should know to keep an eye out. Haunts the garden. Comes in all creepy like.” Cook waggled her fingers, and Mary ran out. I shivered myself, making Cook laugh. “Aw, get on with you! Surely you have chores to do instead of cluttering up my kitchen, listening to silly stories.”

  She might have been joking, but my skin still crawled as I hurried out. I hadn’t forgotten my visit to the herb garden and the peculiar sensation of being watched. I didn’t care to hear any more talk about the poor deceased owner.

  After gathering my cleaning bucket, I stood outside the study’s door. It was quiet down here, and I felt very alone. I expelled a huge breath, and thought about puppies and rainbows to drive all that negative talk about ghosts from my mind. My resolve bolstered, I firmly opened the door.

  A decidedly tomb-like gloom welcomed me, thanks to Cook for putting the idea in my head. I left the door open and walked across the large area rug. The thick carpet appeared luxurious. But, like everything else in this house, once I snapped on the desk lamp, the light exposed the worn and frayed edges.

  The desk seemed impressive, though, and the wood burned with a glow that spoke of years of polishing. On the floor sat a blue cushion, and I wondered what it had been used for. A teacup rested on the desk top, making me frown to see the lack of a coaster. I guess I’d better start there. I set down the bucket and rummaged inside for the dusting cloth.

  Behind me came a soft footfall. I turned, expecting to see Mary or Lucy who’d be helping me clean.

  There was nobody there. And was the door more closed than I’d left it?

  The air had an unearthly stillness to it. Behind it all was the clicking of the grandfather clock. Ticking away. Reality wrapped in a fake permanence, with each tick a reminder that eventually the chain must be pulled again or the illusion of time keeping would end.

  The wind blew against the house, shaking the glass panes inside their old wooden frames. They had to be replaced and soon. But who would do it? It would be an extraordinary cost, and who would pay?

  I walked over and parted the brocade curtains. Through the rain-pebbled glass, I could barely see across the driveway, let alone down into the lonely field.

  A floorboard squeaked under my weight. Quickly, I stepped back to safety, the area rugs faded tapestry squelched the sound of my steps. It occurred to me then. Was this the room where Mr. Thornberry had died?

  As if that thought guided me, I glanced to the side of the bank of windows where an enormous buffet sat like a water buffalo. There above it hung a painting of a very formidable man. I stared at it now.

  Was this Mr. Thornberry? Hooked nose, beady eyes. Hair like a greasy tumbleweed. Why would a painter not soften those attributes?

  The man’s eyes seemed to glitter coldly in rimmed white paint. I rubbed my arms at the rising goosebumps and turned to grab the cleaning bucket to get the job done.

  Glancing at the desk, I froze. Had the cup moved? Hadn’t it been on the other side of the desk? I swear it had been. I glanced around, honestly my heart rate elevated. Was someone playing a trick on me?

  Of course, there was no one here. I gritted my teeth and wished I’d never heard those horrible stories.

  Then came a soft sound, like fingernails across a table top. Or from inside a coffin. I spun toward the door, ready to bolt from the room.

  A scratchy meow nearly made me cry out from joy. Hank! I hurried over to a bank of cupboards behind the desk and began opening them up. It was the third one, stuck for a moment from the wood swelling, that eventually exposed the fabulous orange cat.

  “What are you doing in there?” I scolded him in my relief.

  The cat pranced toward the desk like he owned the place. He stalked over to the pillow and climbed on top. Slowly, he kneaded the surface, and I saw orange fur there.

  This was his spot, and most likely had been for a long time. I realized he must not have been back for a visit since Mr. Thornberry died.

  “You have quite the pathway, but do you have to be so spooky about it?”

  The cat stared up with happy eyes.

  “This was your special place, wasn’t it?” I sat down next to the cat and rubbed his head. He sniffed my fingers, his nose cold and wet, and then hopped off to explore again.

  “Where are you going, buddy?”

  His collar jingled as he walked around the desk. He jumped into the heavy rolling chair and sniffed some more.

  “Aw, you miss your owner, don’t you?”

  The cat climbed onto the desk and examined every corner.

  “You take your time, I have lots of stuff to clean yet.”

  I fully opened the curtains. A shower of dust filled the air and exposed streaked and dirty glass. I went back to my cleaning bucket and found a cloth and some window cleaner. Then I dragged a chair over and climbed up to start polishing the window.

  Soon I had it sparkling, and my arm ached. I turned to find the cat.

  Hank lay on his side, fishing his paw under the ornate trim of the desk.

  “Again, Hank? Please tell me it’s not a bug.”

  He didn’t look up even as I approached.

  Of course I had to check, especially after the last time. “You better not be tricking me, and it’s really a spider,” I warned, getting ready to lower myself.

  He tipped his head like he understood me and meowed. A second later, he readjusted to peer into the desk gap. I scooted him over to see into his hidden hole.

  There was a tattered piece of paper under there.

  “What on earth did you find?” I asked, now lying flat on my belly. My fingers were too fat to reach it. I sat up to rummage through the desk drawers for a pencil or something. The second drawer gave me a pause.

  Another teacup slid forward when I’d yanked the drawer open. I suppose this proved Mr. Thornberry’s eccentricity at its fullest. Stashing cups here and there. How very strange.

  In the top drawer, I did eventually find a silver letter opener carved with an italicized T. The dust tickled my nose as I slid it under the desk and swatted the paper out. I also saw a bitty pink mouse toy and rescued that as well.

  Hank watched with interest.

&
nbsp; “Here you go, buddy,” I said, handing him the mouse. He grabbed it in his mouth and carried it to the cushion, tail straight in the air. Smiling, I carefully unfolded the scrap of paper.

  There were six folds, and at the end, I had what appeared to be a map. The map detailed a gate and a garden with a swing along with an apple tree. In spidery calligraphy was the number twenty-three and the words, Louise Driscoll.

  The dinner bell gonged, making me jump. Someone would be looking for me. I picked up Hank, scared to leave him out to be discovered, and guided him back into the cupboard. He disappeared through the wall crack, carrying his pet mouse.

  I slid the map into my pocket and gathered the cleaning bucket. I hesitated before I left, my gaze landing on the cup on the desk. Should I bring it down to the kitchen with me? I glanced over at the stern painting highlighted by the window light. Shivering, I decided to let sleeping dogs lie and hurried out.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two days had passed and this one started with a toilet that wouldn’t flush. I rolled my eyes. What else was wrong with this house?

  A quick arm workout with the plunger made for an even quicker shower as time ran away from me. But that wasn’t what caused my soul to feel a little rumpled. The truth was I hadn’t seen Hank since I’d stuffed him back into his cupboard. Even though I’d done it to keep him safe, I felt racked with guilt.

  Down in the kitchen, Mary handed me coffee, and Cook passed over a bowl of oatmeal. The steaming breakfast helped my spirits with its scent of apples, brown sugar, and a pinch of cinnamon. I accepted it and sat in a free chair.

  “How are you today?” she asked. I noticed her headband had flowers.

  “I’m okay.” I took a bite and looked around for Butler. “The bathroom was having issues this morning.”

  “Whole plumbing needs to be replaced,” he grumped. “I only hope we still have jobs before the house falls apart.” He stood up, chair scraping, and stomped over to the sink to place his bowl inside with a clatter.

  “Let’s not start those rumors again,” Cook muttered.

  “They won’t be rumors if she puts us out because she can’t afford to keep us anymore.” He left the kitchen with Cook rolling her eyes.

  I stirred the creamy oatmeal. “Has anyone seen Hank lately?”

  The other women shook their heads. They weren’t really paying attention to me though. I gleaned through the panicked conversation that Mrs. Fitzwater was on her way for a visit. In no time at all the whole house activity spiraled into a tornado. Dishes clattered, and Cook yelled for people to bring in provisions. Flowers were needed, and rooms cleaned and prepared. Miss Janice wished to make up for the dinner party, especially since the purse still hadn’t been found. It was imperative that, today, nothing go wrong.

  Dusting appeared first on my list. I finished the foyer and worked down the hallway. I paused when I approached the study. After verifying no one was around, I dipped inside.

  The study’s lifeless similarities were the same as last time. I peeked into the cupboard and softly called for the cat. “Hank? Are you in here, buddy?”

  Other than the cold air that wafted in from the interior of the house, there was no answer.

  Disappointed, I shut the door behind me and hurried through the hall. I had one more place to check.

  It was chancy, but I had to visit the secret book club room. No one entered there without the proper protocols. However, this was the only other room I’d seen the cat in, and I felt desperate to find him.

  Criminal shame crept over me, making my cheeks heat, as I tiptoed down to Marguerite’s room. I snuck inside, and the remorse spiked even higher when I spotted Marguerite’s nightgown on her bed. I moved over to the cupboard and pushed on the board like I’d seen Mary do.

  Inside, the cozy chairs sat in the circle for the next meeting. The fireplace had been laid for a new fire, and the bookshelves were full and happy. But Hank was nowhere to be seen.

  I sucked in a breath. Unfortunately, a far worse thing had happened to me than mere guilt. Sitting on one of the chairs, as innocent as a viper blending into a rock, was Mrs. Fitzwater’s purse.

  I stared at it and tried to wish it away and then snatched it up. Who had put this here? I had to tell Marguerite, and now the significance of all I’d been trying to do hit me with its consequences. She may never trust me again, knowing I’d snuck into her room.

  Regret made the purse feel as heavy as a bag of cement as I carried it down the stairs. I struggled with my explanation of why I’d been in the room and patted the chess bust on the landing as I passed it for good luck.

  The suspense ended quickly with Marguerite exiting the formal living room. She carried a bucket of dead flowers she’d removed from the arrangement, and she smiled at me. “Oh! There you are!” Her gaze dropped to the purse in my hand and her mouth dropped. “Is that…?”

  I nodded, slightly out of breath from my rush. “It is. But I have to explain where I found it.” I swallowed. This was going to be hard.

  Her brown eyes fastened on mine, and her cheeks pinked as I explained. Then she calmly took the purse instead of giving me the scolding I’d expected. “I guess that darn cat is good for something, after all.”

  At that moment, Miss Janice waltzed in from the garden room. “What was that you said, Marguerite?”

  The housekeeper flashed me a silent warning. “Ma’am, look at what we’ve found.”

  “Where was it? Hidden in the coat closet after all?”

  “These things happen,” Marguerite hedged, passing over the purse.

  “Well, thank goodness we have it in one piece.” Miss Janice opened the handbag and peered inside. “I do hope nothing is missing.”

  “I never checked, ma’am.”

  “She’ll be here any minute. Please continue to prepare.” Miss Janice seemed very practical, but I saw a frown cross her face as she turned away. That struck me as quite an odd reaction.

  I had no time to think about it. Marguerite looped her free arm through mine and dragged me toward the kitchen. There, amidst the clatter of the final preparations of the meal, we finished the last floral arrangement. Then I was sent to wait by the front door with a small silver tray upon which perched a glass of wine.

  It wasn’t long before there came a knock at the door. Through the side window, I saw Mrs. Fitzwater stare expectantly, purse in hand, and with a jaunty hat perched like a tiny bird on her frowsy hair.

  I opened the door. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Fitzwater.”

  “Thank you, dear.” She stepped lightly inside. “And what was your name, again?”

  “Laura Lee. May I take your coat or…?” I flushed. I couldn’t very well ask for her purse after what had happened, could I?

  Mrs. Fitzwater clutched her bag to her side. “I think I’ll keep it with me this time, thank you.”

  “Of course. If you’ll follow me to the parlor, Miss Janice will be right down.”

  Her gaze landed on the tray in my hand. “Is that for me?”

  “Yes! Of course.” I’d forgotten to offer it to her. I held the tray steady as she reached for the glass, and then led her to the parlor.

  The parlor lighting glowed soft white. Gauzy linens flowed gently from windows cracked opened to let in fresh air. The furniture was fresh and appealing, white cushions with green chintz pillows and china vases filled with colorful tulips. I seated Mrs. Fitzwater on a particularly soft couch—one that caused a surprised murmur when she sank in deeper than she expected. As I headed out, I passed Miss Janice.

  Miss Janice’s hand rested lightly on my arm. “If you could have Marguerite bring in lunch, I would be so appreciative.”

  I dipped my head and hurried to the kitchen to relay the request. Cook had the silver tea tray prepared with finger sandwiches and scones, with pots of jam and clotted cream laid out on a crisp white doily.

  “So, she’s here?” Marguerite asked. “And you plied her with the wine?” I nodded. “That will help the bitter
pill of the purse go down.”

  Marguerite swept out the door with the tray, and Mary followed with a rattling silver tea set complete with cream and sugar cubes.

  I waited for Marguerite to come back. I had to know how the news of the purse went over.

  She returned shortly, and from the bright spots that marked Marguerite’s cheeks, it appeared it did not go well. “That was quite unpleasant,” she confirmed.

  “What happened?” Cook asked, her headband glinting.

  “The purse has been found, and somehow Miss Janice managed to pin the blame on me.”

  “How did Mrs. Fitzwater take it?” I asked.

  “She was happy to have it back. Although she seemed extraordinarily interested in her phone. And she mentioned something was missing.”

  “Missing? What?” gasped Cook.

  “Ladies, we’ll discuss this tonight. We will get to the bottom of this, I assure you of that.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cook didn’t like that answer. “I feel like I’m missing something,” she harrumphed over the floured board, her hands twisting in the dough. “I’d like to be in the know, you know.”

  “The purse was discovered,” Marguerite repeated in her prim no-nonsense manner. “And we have some interesting things to talk about. Some place private.”

  “You’re going to make me wait until then?”

  Marguerite watched the frowning woman for a moment and then leaned close to her ear. There was whispering, and now I was the one who was missing out.

  Apparently Mary felt the same way. “Come on,” she said with a bob of her head. We walked into the pantry where she began to tidy up a box of groceries that had been delivered earlier in the day.

  “I hate all that whispering,” Mary said vehemently. “It reminds me of high school.”