by Jen Turano
Mildred lifted her chin and directed a smile at Daphne that held not a smidgen of warmth. “And of course it’s delightful to meet you as well, Miss Beekman. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here on the Hudson, however brief it may turn out to be.”
CHAPTER
Eight
To Herman’s astonishment, Daphne’s decision to adopt the role of sophisticated and charming lady of the world seemed to be working.
From the moment she made her appearance on the back veranda, after freshening up in the attic room she was to share with Ann, Daphne had garnered attention from every guest in attendance. Most keen to make her acquaintance had been the gentlemen, who clamored for an introduction to her, then proclaimed themselves completely charmed when she insisted they address her as Daphne.
The ladies seemed to be charmed by Daphne, as well, flocking around her as they oohed over her afternoon gown that had a bustle even larger than the one she’d been wearing when she’d arrived at his estate. Daphne took the attention in stride, even as she peppered her conversations with his guests with the most unusual of endearments.
So far, he’d heard her call Jay Storrow buttercup, Martin Corrigan dearie, Charles Bonner ma puce, which was rather odd because Herman was relatively certain that translated to my flea, and Albert Gallatin, who’d never been comfortable speaking with the lady set, sweet pea.
She’d not reserved her endearments only for the gentlemen, though. Miss Finetta Shoenburger had become mopsy, Miss Alida Armstrong doll, Miss Vanetta Cornbury mon chou, which he thought meant my cabbage, and then Miss Martha Mulvey mon lapin, roughly translated into my rabbit.
He hadn’t been able to resist scribbling all those names down in his notepad because given the enthusiastic reaction to her endearments, he was considering having a future character in one of his books embrace a fondness for pet names.
As Daphne mingled with his guests, dispensing sweet nothings at will, Herman hadn’t neglected to notice her teetering more than a few times on the heels he was relatively sure she was unused to wearing. To give her credit, she’d recovered nicely after every wobble, her recovery aided time and again by gentlemen who couldn’t offer her the use of their steadying hands fast enough.
Their solicitous behavior toward Daphne was leaving him feeling disgruntled, as well as annoyed, which was decidedly out of character for him, especially since he didn’t want Daphne to suffer a tumble. He knew full well he couldn’t monopolize her time, nor neglect his other guests by sticking to her side in case she stumbled again, especially when he was aware that Daphne was doing exactly what he’d hired her to do—ingratiating herself with his guests in order to ferret out a would-be murderer.
To give her credit, she was certainly succeeding with the whole ingratiating business, even though the tactic she was using—blatant flirtation—was causing his grandmother to look as if she were actually contemplating her earlier threat of personally escorting Daphne to the ferry station and buying her a one-way ticket back to New York City.
Thankfully, Ann Evans had apparently realized how irritated Mildred was becoming and had stepped in and gotten his guests settled around the veranda, telling them she was about to begin reading the first chapter from her favorite Montague Moreland book.
He wasn’t surprised when Daphne chose to sit directly next to Miss Finetta Shoenburger, instead of sitting beside any of the gentlemen who’d extended invitations for her to sit beside them during the reading. Miss Shoenburger was, after all, at the top of Daphne’s list of possible suspects.
Mildred had not cared for Daphne’s desire to make an acquaintance with Finetta in the least, making her way across the veranda for an intervention, one that never occurred because Ann took that moment to begin chapter one of Murder, Mayhem, and Mischief. That had Mildred stopping in her tracks, then taking the nearest available seat, obviously unwilling to interrupt an activity she’d assured their guests they were going to adore, even though she settled a frown on Daphne.
When Ann finished chapter one and continued to chapter two, Herman noticed Daphne perusing the crowd, peeping over one of the brightly colored fans his grandmother had provided to stave off the heat, even though it was a mild spring day. As she gazed around, she kept swaying back and forth, as if she were having a hard time maintaining her balance on the chair, the monstrous bustle she was wearing taking up most of the seat.
“As difficult as this is for me to admit, I’m enjoying this reading of Montague Moreland’s book.”
Pulling his attention from Daphne, who was now smiling at Finetta, who’d just gasped at what even Herman had to admit was a riveting passage in Moreland’s book, he found Mr. Jay Storrow, one of a half-dozen writers he’d invited to the house party, strolling up to join him.
Herman smiled. “Moreland does craft an exceptional mystery.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“No, but I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. James Durnham, Moreland’s editor, at a literary luncheon last year. When I inquired about his reclusive client, all Mr. Durnham would say about the man was that Moreland treasures his privacy.”
“Treasuring privacy or not, I find it curious that a writer of Moreland’s acclaim is rarely seen. In fact, I don’t know any other writers who’ve met the man,” Jay said.
“It is curious, and I’m surprised Mr. Durnham hasn’t insisted Moreland make at least a few public appearances. There’s nothing that sells more books than allowing readers an opportunity to meet their favorite author in person.”
Jay nodded to Ann, who was now gesturing wildly with one hand while holding Moreland’s book in the other. “He might have made at least one public appearance, because that copy Miss Evans is reading from is signed and includes a personal note to Miss Evans from Moreland.”
Before Herman could respond to that, Ann closed the book and smiled. “That’s the end of chapter three. I’ll stop there for the day and pick up again tomorrow.” She directed her smile at Mildred. “If I’m not mistaken, your grandson has arranged for a rousing game of croquet next, hasn’t he?”
“I believe he has,” Mildred began, “although I know many a young lady might not care for such a strenuous activity, so do continue with the story, Miss Evans.”
To Herman’s surprise, Finetta suddenly raised her hand. “Forgive me, Mrs. Henderson, but if Miss Evans continues, the guests interested in playing croquet may be reluctant to do so now because the mystery is really beginning to heat up.” She nodded to Miss Martha Mulvey, who was the paid companion to Finetta’s grandmother. “Miss Mulvey has remarked several times about how much she’s looking forward to the croquet match, but I can see that she’s clearly as swept up in this enthralling story as everyone else is. She’ll be forced to miss what I’m convinced are going to be thrilling chapters, as well as miss clues as to who the dastardly culprit is behind trying to murder the hero.”
“Everyone should have already surmised that the culprit is, of course, the butler.”
Directing his gaze to the gentleman who’d just possibly ruined the book for many guests, if he’d been correct with his conclusion, Herman was unsurprised to discover the man behind the statement was Mr. Charles Bonner, a writer himself, who should have known better than to divulge anything about a plot twist to a rapt audience. He was also the man Daphne had called ma puce, and amusingly enough, given that the man had just made an incredibly rude declaration, the endearment that meant my flea seemed rather fitting.
Before he could summon a response to Charles’s rudeness, though, Daphne was rising to her feet.
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Bonner,” she began, “but I fear you’re completely off the mark. I assure you, the butler is not to blame.”
An indulgent smile played around the corners of Charles’s mouth, one Herman had seen often, especially when Charles felt he was speaking with a person not possessed of the lofty intellect he often claimed to possess. “While it is true that I’ve not read this particular book, butlers are often to blame fo
r the skullduggery at hand.”
Daphne readjusted her spectacles. “Not in any Montague Moreland book I’ve read. Nor do I believe you’ll find that somewhat trite trope in any of Herman’s books or Mr. Jay Storrow’s work, for that matter.”
Jay stood up a little straighter. “She’s read my books?”
“All of them,” Herman said as Charles began turning red in the face.
“What did you mean by trite trope?” Charles demanded.
Daphne tilted her head. “Come now, ma poule,” she began, causing Herman to swallow a laugh because he knew for a fact that poule was French for chicken, not that he was certain Daphne knew that. “From what I’ve heard about you, you’re an author who has sold an impressive number of books. With that type of success, I would assume you know exactly what a trite trope is. Writing a butler into the story as the dastardly villain who is disclosed, of course, at the very end of the tale is a trite trope if there ever was one and should be avoided at all costs.”
As Charles’s face began to turn from red to purple, Daphne directed her attention to Perkins, Herman’s butler, who’d been standing off to the side of the room. “I’m certain you would agree with that, wouldn’t you, Mr. Perkins?”
Perkins blinked, blinked again, then began looking decidedly uncomfortable, probably because of all the attention now being directed his way.
Perkins was not a man who liked attention, preferring to maintain a stoic demeanor at all times, something he’d claimed to have learned at his former place of employment, where he’d been the underbutler to a butler who’d once worked for a member of the British aristocracy.
Oddly enough, even though he’d been trained by such an illustrious butler, and even though Perkins was always dressed to perfection in a formal dark suit, with nary a hair out of place, he was merely adequate at his duties. Truthfully, the main reason Herman had hired the man five years ago was because Perkins was distantly related to Mr. Conkling, who’d been the Henderson butler when Herman’s father had been alive. Mr. Conkling had, tragically, perished in the same boating accident as Herman’s parents.
“I’m sure it’s not my position to comment one way or the other,” Perkins said, drawing Herman from his thoughts. “But please, you may address me as simply Perkins, Miss Beekman. There’s no need for the mister.”
Daphne beamed a bright smile at the man. “And aren’t you just adorable? How kind of you to insist I adopt an informal attitude with you, which means you must call me Daphne in return.”
Perkins’s mouth gaped open the slightest bit as Mildred rose to her feet, her color high and her eyes flashing in a most un-Mildred-like manner. Before Perkins or his grandmother could get a word out of their mouths, though, such as the fact that he hadn’t exactly been offering Daphne leave to abandon formality with him because everyone addressed Perkins as Perkins, Daphne was walking Perkins’s way, wobbling a bit on her heels. She stopped directly in front of him.
“As for it not being your place to give your opinion, Perkins, I fear I must disagree with that. Who better to add some valuable insight on this matter than a real butler?” She gestured around the room. “There are many mystery writers in attendance right now. You’d be doing them a great service by disclosing your thoughts.”
Perkins gave a bit of a shudder. “I really don’t have an opinion on the matter because I’ve never dwelled on it before.”
Daphne tilted her head. “Dwelled on the idea of butlers being used as villains, or dwelled on murderous intentions in regard to your employer?”
In the blink of an eye, Herman understood exactly why Daphne had the reputation at the Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency of being a master at figuring out plots. What had started as an innocent questioning of the butler seemed to have turned into something so much more.
“I have never had murderous intentions toward Mr. Henderson,” Perkins said firmly. “Logically, it makes no sense for a butler to murder anyone in the family he serves because that would inevitably deny him his livelihood.”
Instead of responding to that, Daphne flipped open her notepad and began jotting something down, drawing more than a few curious looks from the guests in the process and causing Charles Bonner to move to join her.
“What could you possibly be writing?”
Daphne lifted her head and smiled. “I couldn’t resist jotting down what Perkins just said, because that was a brilliant explanation for why a butler wouldn’t want to follow through with a dastardly deed even if he did have murderous intentions toward his employer.” She gestured to the group of writers standing on the veranda. “Frankly, I’m surprised none of you saw fit to write that down, as well. It was very insightful and certainly allowed us a glimpse into the mind of a butler, which I don’t believe any of us have the privilege to do often.”
Charles’s lips quirked into yet another indulgent smile. “I believe I’m finally beginning to understand what motivated you to make your absurd declaration about trite tropes. You long to become a writer, don’t you?”
Daphne tucked her notepad into a pocket. “I’m already a writer. A, ah, poet, to be exact.”
Charles’s smile turned more indulgent than ever. “And you think you’ll have a need for a butler in a piece of your poetry?”
“One never knows what may capture a writer’s interest, turn into a muse for them, and result in a brilliant piece of work. I’m currently writing a poem that has a pirate in it, but I could possibly decide to include a butler, as well. The possibilities for conflict are endless since butlers and pirates don’t normally share time on a page with each other.”
Whatever Charles said in response to that, Herman didn’t hear because Mildred suddenly materialized by his side, her cheeks a noticeable shade of pink.
“You’ve hired a woman who fancies herself a writer? Honestly, Herman, did you not consider that there could be a distinct possibility she only wants to work as your secretary because she’s interested in stealing your words and passing them off as her own?”
“She writes poetry. The words I write are hardly conducive to poetry.”
“Perhaps she’s not content with simply penning poems. She might have grander plans in mind—those plans assisted by a touch of plagiarism.”
“And perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to have Ann read from a Montague Moreland novel because your imagination has obviously gone into high alert.”
“I’m not simply imagining that Miss Beekman could very well be up to something. I’ve always been intuitive about such matters, and my intuition is humming madly away.”
Since Daphne was definitely up to something, but not anything he wanted to disclose to his grandmother, Herman was thankful when Miss Martha Mulvey walked up to join them.
“Shall we gather the guests who want to play croquet before that”—she turned and nodded to where Daphne and Charles now seemed to be engaged in a heated debate— “turns more concerning than it already is?”
“A wonderful idea,” Herman said, stepping forward and gesturing to the crowd milling about the veranda. “If the guests interested in playing croquet will follow me, the staff has set up the croquet field on the side lawn, which offers a lovely view of the Hudson.”
Thankfully, Daphne abandoned her debate with Charles and joined a group of young ladies, moseying with them toward the side lawn.
Mildred took hold of Herman’s arm before he could move to join his guests. “I’m finding myself very confused as to why Miss Beekman is being included in the festivities. Are you not worried that her inclusion is going to be a source for gossip at some point since it’s rather unusual for a secretary to enjoy all the amusements offered at a house party?”
“I couldn’t very well have excluded her, not when Sheldon’s always invited to join in with any festivities we host.”
“Sheldon’s your cousin. Family can be expected to be included.”
He summoned up a smile. “True, but Sheldon’s also my assistant. I certainly wouldn’t want to injure Daphne
’s feelings by excluding her since assistants and secretaries are remarkably similar positions.”
“That type of logic suggests you should also consider inviting the butler and the housekeeper to join the croquet match because their positions are considered the highest in the household.”
Clearly, he’d been spot-on when he’d told Daphne her explanation for mingling with his guests was a flimsy one and really should have convinced her to think up something better.
Taking a second to try to figure out where to take the conversation from there, Herman was spared a response when Mildred sent him a look of exasperation and marched away at a very fast clip, straight in Daphne’s direction.
Knowing there was nothing to do but try and distract his grandmother before she reached Daphne, Herman strode into motion, making it all of three feet before he was intercepted by Charles Bonner, who was looking incredibly put out.
“You might want to speak with your new secretary about the inadvisability of insulting your guests, Herman,” Charles began. “I’d hate to see anyone feel compelled to vacate this charming house party over the inappropriate insults your secretary may level at them, such as the one she leveled against me.”
Herman began walking toward the croquet field again, Charles falling into step beside him. “I don’t know how Daphne insulted you.”
“She called the butler business a trite trope.”
“And how was that an insult to you?”
“The butlers in both of my novels, as you should well remember, turn out to be the villains. Not only was I insulted by Daphne suggesting that specific plot point is trite, but I was also insulted because even though it appears she’s well-read, she’s evidently never bothered to pick up one of my books, which have been very well received.”
Since no good could possibly come from telling Charles he’d never been able to finish either of the man’s books, which was why he hadn’t known Charles had written butlers as the murderer in both works, Herman struggled for a reply that wouldn’t further injure the man’s wounded pride.