Bell, Book & Candlemas

by Jennifer David Hesse

  After the call with Catrina, I stared down at the sheet of paper where I’d jotted down the message she had read to me.

  They are to be put to death....

  How much worse could it get?

  Chapter 9

  By the time I left work Friday evening, I was more than ready for a night out. In fact, I was actually looking forward to my mystery-dinner date with Farrah. She would often suggest some outlandish scheme or crazy adventure—at least, crazy by my standards. I would protest at first, then reluctantly agree. Of course, I would end up having fun after all. Thanks to Farrah, I had experienced rock climbing, spelunking, and nighttime horseback riding.

  I should be able to handle a little murder-mystery skit.

  To avoid showing up as accidental twins, I called Farrah before I got dressed. She told me she was wearing a baby blue sweater with a black skirt and tall boots, so I opted for a green V-neck sweater, pinstriped skinny pants, and ankle boots. But when she showed up at my doorstep, we still laughed out loud. We had each decided to wear our hair in two low, loose braids.

  “I’ll take mine out,” I said.

  “No, no,” said Farrah, shaking her head. “Just leave it—maybe we’ll start a trend. Anyway, I don’t want to miss the tour.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we had entered Edindale’s historical district on the east side of town. The homes on Archer Avenue were all large and set back from the street. Cadwelle Mansion, a charming painted lady overlooking the Muddy Rock River, was all lit up like a showplace. As we parked on the street and walked up the long sidewalk leading to the front door, we noticed there was a vineyard adjacent to the mansion’s wide lawn.

  “That’s a good sign,” said Farrah approvingly.

  I laughed and rang the doorbell. A uniformed maid opened the door and led us through the wide entryway to the parlor.

  “I bet she’s part of the show,” Farrah whispered.

  Like a handful of other guests, we had arrived thirty minutes before showtime to take advantage of the advertised sneak peek at the newly renovated bed-and-breakfast. The maid took our coats and told us to help ourselves to wine and hors d’oeuvres prior to the tour, which would begin shortly.

  “This place is gorgeous, isn’t it?” I said.

  The spacious parlor featured plush overstuffed chairs and gleaming early twentieth-century side tables accented with artful flower arrangements. A baby grand piano took up one corner of the room, while an inviting fireplace crackled on the other side. The entire floor was covered in a large colorful Persian carpet.

  About half a dozen people sipped wine and chatted quietly near the fireplace. I was pleased to see that Yvette Prime was among them. She was dressed modestly in stylish trousers and a red blazer over a black turtleneck. Her long gold necklace flashed in the lamplight.

  In contrast to Yvette’s unassuming appearance, her companion stood out like a pop star in a pantsuit. She was a tall, striking woman with short platinum blond hair and bright red lipstick.

  Farrah picked up two glasses of white wine from the sideboard and handed one to me. I was trying to figure out a way to casually start a conversation with Yvette when the tall blonde’s loud voice caused all heads to turn her way. Her boisterous manner drew the whole room into her circle.

  Fine by me. Now I wouldn’t have to pretend not to listen in. Farrah shot me an amused look and turned to stare curiously at the woman, too.

  “Yvette, you were so right. This place is brilliant! I’m going to feature the B&B on the town’s website and add the vineyard to our wine trail. And we have got to get this house on the historical registry. I’ll do whatever I can to help move that along.”

  Farrah snapped her fingers and gave me a nudge. Turning her back to Yvette and the blonde, Farrah said, “Now I know who that woman is. It’s Tish Holiday, the new Edindale tourism director. I saw her on the local morning show the other day promoting the Groundhog Festival.”

  I nodded to Farrah and looked back over at the pair. I recalled Catrina saying she thought Tish didn’t like Mila for some reason. Now Tish and Yvette were huddled together, so I couldn’t hear what Yvette was saying. Tish, however, didn’t seem to have any volume control.

  “I know!” she said to Yvette. “Do we have Barney Fife running the police department, or what? I told the mayor she needs to do something ASAP. Our downtown businesses are all feeling nervous.”

  Farrah elbowed me again. “They must be talking about the burglaries. Did you hear Gigi’s Bar and Grill was the latest to be robbed?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Tuesday night, right?”

  Farrah bobbed her head. “I know the bartender. He told me the police questioned him and the other employees, because there was no evidence of a break-in. They implied it was an inside job. But, I have a theory. You know how—”

  Farrah was interrupted by Tish’s booming voice. “And here are our esteemed hosts now! Danielle, the place looks marvelous. Marco, you married a design genius.”

  I turned to see a familiar-looking couple enter the room. Smiling graciously, they shook hands with people as they made their way to the front of the small crowd. As they took their places in front of the fireplace, I remembered where I had met them before. They were the well-dressed couple who had been talking with Crenshaw in our office building earlier this week.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Marco said, clapping his hands together. “We are pleased as punch to have you here for our very first mystery dinner, as well as our first official tour of Cadwelle Mansion Bed and Breakfast. I’m Marco Thomison, and this is my lovely wife, Danielle. She’s the smart one, so I’ll let her start the tour.”

  Danielle gave a mock bow, then laughingly waved away her husband’s compliment. “Right. So, as some of you know, Marco and I moved here from San Francisco last fall. It was always our dream to open a bed-and-breakfast. It goes along perfectly with two of our passions—mine for cooking and Marco’s for antiques. Well, we had been keeping our eye out for the perfect place—”

  “San Francisco was too expensive,” Marco interjected.

  “And when we learned about this opportunity, we jumped on it,” Danielle continued. “See, I had been to Edindale as a little girl, because my grandfather ran a candy store here. So, I already knew what a lovely town this is.”

  “Oh,” said Marco, jumping in again. “Let’s not forget the reason we saw the listing in the first place. None of this would have been possible if it weren’t for the tireless efforts of the world’s best real estate agent—and our new best friend—Ms. Yvette Prime.”

  The small crowd clapped, and Tish stepped forward. She was holding an engraved plaque, which she presented to Yvette for her “longstanding dedication and valuable contribution to the economic development of Edindale.” Apparently, Yvette had sold a number of downtown business properties in addition to the B&B.

  “Now, about the mansion,” Marco said, gesturing for his wife to continue.

  “Yes,” said Danielle. “Cadwelle Mansion was built in 1901 by Orion Cadwelle. He was from a wealthy Chicago family, but he moved here and became the town druggist. He did quite well. He was a known philanthropist and a generous neighbor. He and his wife, Violet, often threw big parties in this mansion.”

  “And then came Prohibition,” said Marco.

  “Right,” said Danielle. “In 1919, the government banned alcohol. But, of course, some folks found a way around that. There were rumors that Cadwelle became a bootlegger. And, as we’ll see on the tour, there’s an old-fashioned speakeasy in the basement.”

  “Sweet!” said Farrah, next to me.

  “We’ll start our tour upstairs,” said Danielle. “You’ll be able to see all the rooms that are available for nightly stays. Then we’ll take the back stairs down to the kitchen and make our way to the basement. After that, we’ll finish up in the dining room and get ready for the show.”

  As we moved along from room to room, I kept trying to catch Yvette’s eye. At one point she saw me and
gave me a brief smile. My plan to question her tonight was not panning out as I had hoped.

  At least the tour was interesting. The speakeasy was especially intriguing. The shiny long wooden bar had been restored, and there were vintage pieces placed throughout the room, including an antique ivory chess set on a cocktail table and an upright candlestick telephone on one end of the bar. In a far corner of the basement, a pair of high-quality butterscotch-colored leather club chairs flanked a small glass-topped table.

  In spite of the upscale touches, the room wasn’t exactly comfortable. The bare walls were made of stone, and the air was cool and dank. The dim lighting gave it an eerie feeling.

  “It looks like the bar is well stocked,” remarked Farrah.

  “That’s right,” said Marco, with a twinkle in his eye. “We plan to host private parties in here eventually.”

  “Yes, so keep us in mind!” said Danielle.

  “You want to hear something funny?” said Marco, running his hand over the smooth bar top. “Yesterday, the doorbell rings, so I answer it and there’s this preacher at the door. Says his name is Reverend Natty Smith, or Schmidt or something. Anyway, I invite him in, because I want to be neighborly, you know. I think he’s out soliciting donations for charity or something. Well, come to find out, he’s here about the vineyard. Said he heard we’re opening a winery, and he wants us to make grape juice instead!”

  “Yeah, like that would attract tourists,” said Tish.

  Marco laughed. “Some folks thought Prohibition was a good idea. And apparently some folks still do!”

  I shook my head and chuckled with the rest of the group. It would seem that Reverend Natty could find a way to be against just about anything.

  At the conclusion of the tour, we assembled in the dining room and looked around. From the shiny parquet flooring to the ornate brass chandelier, there was a lot to admire. The room was outfitted with four round cloth-covered tables arranged in a semicircle facing a wall of windows, which were covered in heavy emerald-green drapes. In front of the windows stood a podium, two microphone stands, and a small table of props.

  Farrah moved toward one of the end dining tables, while Yvette and Tish headed toward a middle table. Quickly, I brushed past Farrah and grabbed a chair next to Yvette. Looking over at Farrah, I plastered on a bright smile, hoping she’d understand. She gave me a quizzical look and joined me at the table without saying anything.

  As soon as we were seated, the four of us introduced ourselves. I reminded Yvette that we had met before.

  “Oh, of course,” she said. “Beverly and I go way back. Her firm has thrown business my way many times, and I’ve done the same.”

  Just then, two other guests joined our table. They were a young, fresh-faced couple dressed in slightly old-fashioned outfits—the young man in slacks and a striped dress shirt under a sweater vest and the girl in a cap-sleeved pink dress. When they introduced themselves as Kitty and Dale Valentine, it dawned on me that they must be part of the show.

  But I wasn’t really interested in the show. I was interested in finding out what Yvette and Tish thought about Mila’s shop. I wanted to know just how badly Yvette’s client wanted to buy it. And I wanted to know if Tish really had something against Mila, as Catrina had implied.

  Ragtime music started playing softly in the background, and the maid entered the room pushing a drinks cart. I realized I didn’t have much time. I took a deep breath and turned to Yvette and Tish.

  “So,” I began, in what I hoped was a casual tone. “Did everyone hear about the New Age shop that was vandalized a few days ago? It’s right around the corner from my office. I walked by on my way to work the other day and saw that someone had spray-painted the word Witch on the front of the store.”

  Farrah stared at me suspiciously, while Yvette gave me a politely impassive look that probably hid her judgment of my awkward social skills.

  But Tish took the bait.

  “I saw that on my way to work, too. I about flipped my lid. I mean, of all things!”

  “I know,” I said. “It did seem outrageous.”

  “You know,” she continued, “if I had been here when that shop went before the zoning board, I never would have let it be approved. It just doesn’t fit with the character of this town.”

  “Oh. It doesn’t?”

  “This isn’t Salem,” she said sardonically. “Our visitors—at least, the kind of visitors I’m trying to draw—are looking for upscale relaxation. They come for the wineries and the antiques, not any weirdo, psychic nonsense.”

  I sensed a presence at my elbow, but I wanted to hear more from Tish. “Who do you suppose—”

  “Well, well, what do we have here?” Tish interrupted, looking over my shoulder.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” said a deep voice behind me. “My name is Woolworth Jenkins, house butler and humble servant. I will be your waiter this evening.”

  I turned around to look up at the waiter and nearly fell out of my seat.

  There, holding a silver platter and looking like a character straight out of Downton Abbey, was Crenshaw Davenport III.

  Farrah clapped a hand over her mouth. I could only gape.

  Crenshaw noticed me then and almost dropped the platter. He quickly recovered and gave me a small bow.

  “For your first course,” said Crenshaw the butler, “we have a tossed salad with toasted walnuts and homemade raspberry vinaigrette.”

  He set bowls of salad in front of each of us. Then he held up another small bowl. “Crumbled feta,” he said smoothly. “For the nonvegans, of course.”

  After Crenshaw left the table, I met Farrah’s eyes and let out a giggle.

  “What is he doing here?” she hissed.

  I just shook my head. I knew Crenshaw dabbled in acting ever since I found out he was in a Shakespeare-in-the-Park production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream last June. He had played Bottom, the donkey. So, this must be where he’s been rushing off to after work. He’s probably been going to rehearsal.

  As soon as our salads had been cleared away by two “maids,” Crenshaw walked over to a microphone, which was now in a spotlight.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “The year is 1921. The place, downtown Chicago. Picture, if you will, a high-class speakeasy—much like the one you saw in the lower level of this mansion. The place is hopping. Drinks are flowing, jazz is playing, flappers are dancing the Charleston. Then a stranger enters the room. He wears a black suit and a fedora, and he has trouble written all over his face . . . .”

  As Crenshaw narrated, various characters took the stage, and I soon found myself caught up in the entertainment. For the next hour, the performers acted out scenes in between the courses of our meal. At one point, Farrah got in on the action when a character took her hostage. At another point, we were all startled when “Dale Valentine” was “shot” at our table.

  When it was finally revealed that the maid was really a gangster and the show ended, several audience members walked over to the performance area to meet the actors, while other guests mingled or made their way to the exit. I noticed Yvette was talking to Danielle. I didn’t see where Tish had gone.

  “See how fun that was,” said Farrah, giving me a gentle shove. “Aren’t you glad you came?”

  “Yes, of course.” I gave her a grudging smile. “You were right, as usual.”

  “I’m going to remember you said that, you know,” she said, gathering up her purse.

  “Oh, I’m sure of it. Listen, I’m going to go find the powder room before we leave.”

  “Take your time,” Farrah said. “I’m gonna go talk to that cute guy with the cigar.”

  Rolling my eyes, I left the dining room and followed a short hall to where I remembered seeing a bathroom during the evening’s tour. The door was closed, so I lingered in the hall, admiring the décor as I waited. The attention to detail really was remarkable, I thought. Antique sconces hung on the wall on either side of a gilt-framed oval m
irror. In a corner, near the doorway leading to the parlor, stood an ivory-trimmed pedestal table displaying an authentic-looking Grecian urn.

  A sound at the end of the hall drew my attention. It was the click of the basement door, which was now swinging open. I watched as Tish emerged and slowly closed the door behind her. She glanced to her right, toward the kitchen entrance, then to her left. She let out a squeak when she saw me.

  “Oh, my! You gave me a start,” she said, fluttering her fingers to her chest.

  “Sorry about that,” I said. My eyes slid to the basement door behind her.

  Tish lowered her voice. “I just had to have another peek at that speakeasy. I think it would be the perfect location for a party I’m planning.”

  I nodded and was about to ask her a question when the door to the powder room opened. An elderly woman stepped out and paused when she saw me. Smiling, she reached back into the room to flick the light switch on again. As I thanked her, I noticed Tish brush past me without a word.

  What an odd woman, I thought.

  I also realized that she was capable of being quiet after all.

  Chapter 10

  As I approached the dining room, Farrah walked through the doorway carrying my coat.

  “Ready?” she asked. “I already thanked our hosts. Your buddy, Crenshaw, must have skipped out. I was going to tease him about being the butler, but I couldn’t find him.”

  “Yeah, let’s go,” I said, putting on my coat. I didn’t have the energy to do any more investigating tonight.

  We stepped out into the cold night air and started walking to my car.

  “Well,” said Farrah, “are you going to tell me now, or am I going to have to pry it out of you?”

  “What do you mean?” I said. Then I saw the look she gave me. “Oh, all right. I’m trying to figure out who vandalized Moonstone Treasures.”

  “Go on,” said Farrah.

  “The woman who owns the place is a nice lady, and I’d like to help her. Someone is harassing her. Besides the vandalism, she’s been receiving threatening notes.”