by Rae Davies
I groaned and rolled over. No Peter. I started to sit up, but thought better of it. I rolled the other direction. There was a note on the bedside table.
Breakfast is in the armoire. Be back soon.
The armoire was a strange place to keep breakfast, unless a malamute was sleeping beside you. Then it was an ingenious place to keep breakfast.
I stumbled out of bed and opened the armoire. A brown grocery bag sat inside, filled with a bacon and egg croissant sandwich, a thermos of coffee, two bottles of water and a bottle of ibuprofen.
I had the best boyfriend ever.
The ibuprofen and water were first. Then, immunized against the worst of my post-alcohol adventures, I crept out of the bedroom to have my coffee and sandwich away from begging malamute eyes.
I had just finished both and was on my way to feeling human when I saw Peter get out of his truck and walk toward our cabin.
He smiled when he saw me watching him from the couch. “You’re alive.”
I couldn’t help but be a little insulted. I hadn’t drank that much. “Of course I am.”
“Uh huh.” He picked up the thermos and turned it upside down. One lone drop of coffee dripped onto the polished wood. He shook his head and walked into the kitchen where he went about making more coffee in a small four-cup maker that had been hidden inside a cabinet.
“Where were you?” I asked.
“Out.”
The coffee dripped into the carafe with a slow steadiness that, if I hadn’t already had two cups earlier, would have driven me insane.
“The others seem to be up,” he commented, reminding me that there’d been brunch promised.
Seeing my face, he laughed. “No food until 11. There was a note under our door when I got up.”
I didn’t bother asking him what time that was. Knowing him, it had probably been pre-dawn. I snorted and held out my cup for the coffee that had just finished brewing. He filled mine and then before filling his own, handed me a handful of little plastic half-and-half cups.
“Out where?” He might have thought the aftermath of the previous night’s martinis had allowed that to slip past me, but he’d been wrong. Seeley Lake was beautiful, but it was also in the middle of nowhere. I wasn’t even sure there was a decent-sized grocery store within an hour’s drive. Which made me think... “Where’d you get my breakfast?”
“Mrs. Peabody.”
I cocked a brow.
“She brought it by.”
“And where’d she get it?”
He took a drink of coffee. “I didn’t ask.”
I rounded my eyes and mouth in mock shock. Well, not all that mock. “Do you think she stole it? From the house? Did you take stolen goods?”
His lips curved in a deliciously devious way. “I have no knowledge of such events or reason to suspect such events.”
Except there was no grocery store and that croissant hadn’t come from a gas station...
He walked over to pick up the empty paper bag that had held my breakfast. “Unfortunately...” He shook the bag. “Someone has eaten all the evidence.”
I smiled. I loved it when he was playful like this.
As we sipped our coffee, I studied him and considered how to find out what he’d been up to that had put him in such a good mood.
“So, out?” I prompted.
He took a drink of coffee and settled into the over-stuffed recliner across from me.
Whoever had decorated the main house had not, it seemed, given the same attention to the cabins, or at least our cabin. It was much more Black Friday bargain bin than Black Forest antique.
Peter thumped the arm of the recliner. “I used to have a chair like this. I should get another one.”
Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I reached for a creamer. “So, you went into town?”
“I did.”
It wasn’t much, but it was an answer.
“What exactly is in town, anyway?” Casual... not prodding at all.
“Post office, gas station, a bank...”
“A police station?”
He took a slug of coffee. “Nope. No police station here. No police.”
He was looking a little too smug for my taste. I twisted my lips. “No police at all? What happens when someone’s... I don’t know... antique watch is stolen?” I remembered then that he’d said something about a “deputy sheriff” last night. “Is there a sheriff’s office maybe?”
He took another sip. “Missoula covers this area.”
That was not a complete answer. He knew it, and I knew it. I narrowed my eyes. “So if I wanted to report a crime, I’d call Missoula.”
“That’s what I’d do.”
I growled. He grinned and then he relented.
“It so happens, I did run into the deputy sheriff.”
I was sure that was a big old coincidence. “And?”
He shrugged. “Some kids spray-painted a garage.”
“And...?”
“Not much more; he did let me use his laptop for a few minutes. To check email and such.”
I bet. “And?”
“Nothing.”
Nothing my ass. I grimaced. Looking as pleased as Kiska with a brand new toy, he took another sip of coffee. I waited a few seconds, trying to determine if he actually knew something or was just enjoying making me think he knew something.
My annoyance must have shown on my face, because after a moment, he relented.
“Really. Nothing. No one called in any complaint from here.”
I nodded. That made me feel somewhat better, but not a lot. “That doesn’t mean they won’t.”
“And it doesn’t mean they will. And if they do, there is zero evidence against you.”
True, but I’d been accused before on not much more.
He walked over and sat on the couch beside me. “People misplace things all the time. A missing watch does not a grand larceny case make.”
He was right, as usual. Still, I couldn’t help but want to avoid the accusing eyes that I knew were waiting for me in the main house.
I twisted my finger into a hole on the knee of my sweats. “Are you having fun? Because if you aren’t... we could leave. I know this isn’t your kind of thing...”
His gaze was level and serious. “Is that what you want?”
Pressing my lips together, I stared back at him. It was what I wanted. Being accused of stealing in front of everyone had been humiliating, and then I’d added to that embarrassment by stumbling out on my way to passing out. But if I left, people would think I was guilty.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Good.” His eyes glimmered, and I smiled. I was a liar and he knew it, but I thought maybe that made him appreciate my decision to stay even more.
From inside the bedroom came the sound of an Alaskan malamute slamming his body against the bedroom door. While Peter let him out, I filled Kiska’s food and water bowls and picked up his leash.
Peter held out his hand. “I’ll take him.”
I handed over the duty and went to shower. I was getting back into my maid’s outfit when the males in my life returned. While showering, I’d remembered something else from the night before.
“What was Lady York talking to you about last night in the dining room? Before she noticed her watch was missing.”
Peter didn’t answer. I turned, ready to whine that he could at least give me that much information, and caught him staring at my behind.
He grinned. “You might want to watch bending over like that, at least when you’re around decent people.”
He moved to grab me, telling me that at the moment, he was willing to be plopped into the less-than-decent category.
Still working off the effects of the previous evening and a little stressed at the knowledge that I was on my way to face my accuser, I was not willing to join him there. I side-stepped and gave him a no-nonsense stare.
He sighed and fell back onto the bed. “It was the note. I don’t think it was p
art of the play.”
Interesting, but also disappointing. The note had been the one piece of real evidence from last night. That did, however, explain Lady York’s sudden change in plans, cutting the evening short.
“Why’d she ask you about it?”
“She knew I was a detective. She seemed to be under some kind of delusion that that meant I was responsible for solving any slight that occurred, and since it was found in your cleavage...” He shrugged. “People think they can ask police to do anything. I once had a woman call and ask me to arrest a store owner for selling her 12-year-old daughter pop.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“She was supposed to be on a diet.”
And I thought my mother was bad.
“I didn’t put the note in my cleavage,” I stated.
He widened his eyes. “Then who did?”
I rolled mine. “No one. Mandrake just acted like he pulled it out.”
Peter’s face went into detective mode. “Why would he do that?”
“To put blame on me, I guessed. He seemed pretty determined to paint me as the murderer.”
“So, you think the butler did it?” Peter waggled his brows.
I frowned. I’d forgotten for a minute that we had a bet and pride riding on who solved the crime. Deciding I’d given away too much, I picked up my runner and wrapped it around my shoulders. “I’ll see you there,” I called, walking out the door to face my accuser and hunt down a make-believe killer.
o0o
Mandrake was already in the kitchen, filling silver stands with mini quiches and croissants that looked a lot like the one I’d already eaten.
He was not, however, in uniform.
Lady York walked in, dressed in jeans and a deceptively simple cotton top that probably cost more than my Jeep.
She stared at me. “Oh, didn’t you get my note?”
Having survived high school, I could feel a set-up coming. “The one that said brunch was at 11?”
She tilted her head and placed the tips of her fingers next to her mouth. “Oh, did I forget to mention that we decided not to dress in costume this morning? I didn’t want anyone to be uncomfortable, wearing dirty smelly clothes, you know.” She wrinkled her nose as if my dress or I was giving off an unsavory odor.
I moved, ready to head back to the cabin.
She waved a stack of napkins my direction. “No time to change. The guests will be here any minute. You must have forgotten that you and Mandrake were to arrive early.” She smiled, but I wasn’t fooled. Her teeth glimmered like daggers.
Her suspicion of me seemed to have morphed into out and out dislike overnight. I considered being all Zen and letting it go... for about as long as it took me to open my mouth.
“I didn’t take your watch. If you really think I did, you should call the sheriff.” I stood as tall as my five-foot-two-inch frame would allow.
She snorted. “As if that would do any good. I heard your boyfriend was talking to the deputy sheriff already this morning. I’m sure he’s set things up so anything I say won’t be taken seriously.”
“Peter wouldn’t do that.” Annoying as I found it at times, my boyfriend’s job came first. He might turn a blind eye to a “hot” croissant, but that was his limit. “If he thought I stole something, he’d turn me in himself.” The words came out a little prouder than perhaps made sense, but they were true, and I realized I was proud of my boyfriend. Coming from a long line of people with somewhat squishy morals, his were, while frustrating at times, also reassuring.
“Yes, well, you would say that.”
My not-as-upstanding-morals-as-Peter’s wavered. My hand fisted at my side.
Unaware of my weakening, she continued, “I’m surprised you’re still here. I thought for certain that you would disappear overnight. It makes me wonder what else you hope to accomplish here.” She stared at me as if her words had some hidden meaning that I would most certainly get.
I didn’t. I stared back.
We stood there like two stubborn eight year olds until Mandrake cleared his throat. “I think I hear someone in the dining room.”
Lady York frowned. “I said eleven.” She turned on her heel and strode out of the kitchen.
I shifted my gaze to Mandrake who, on Lady York’s exit, was happily popping a mini quiche into his mouth. He held the tray out to me.
Normally, I would have welcomed the small gesture of disobedience, but he was now on my not-to-be-trusted list.
“What’s on your cards for today?” I asked. His eyes widened and I realized that my tone had revealed more of my resentment than I would have liked.
“Same as everyone. Brunch, big reveal.” He turned his back to me on the last, making me think he was hiding something.
I circled around him so we were facing again. “No, I mean literally... your cards. The ones for the mystery weekend. Last night they all seemed targeted at me.”
His eyes grew again. “You’re upset by that? Someone has to be the killer. It isn’t personal.”
“I’m not–” I cut off my reply. Honestly, I didn’t know if I was the killer or not. “What about the note?”
“What about it? It was in the envelope, with my cards.” He tilted his head. “Seriously, I was just playing my role.”
Except Lady York had seemed surprised by the poem. “Who gave you your envelope?”
“Lady York. Same as everyone else.”
Lady York had left the envelopes on the table, next to the now missing watch. It was possible that the same person who took the watch also switched out Mandrake’s envelope. But why add in the poem and why target me?
Mandrake popped another quiche in his mouth. Chewing, he asked: “Did you take it?”
Lost in my own thoughts, his question startled me. “What?”
“The watch. You were pretty interested in it.”
A little shocked that he would pose the question so bluntly, I stared at him.
Apparently undisturbed by my lack of response, he picked up another quiche. “What do you think it’s worth? You should know, right? You said you own an antique shop.”
“That doesn’t make me an expert in everything.”
He made a face.
I relented. “To the right buyer? A thousand? It was fairly unique.”
He stopped chewing. “That much? But it’s so old.”
It was my turn to make the face. “Yes, it is.”
“That’s a felony. You could get real time for that.”
His concern was endearing, or would have been if I hadn’t thought it was coming mainly from a place of morbid fascination at my plight.
The kitchen door swung open and my new friend and fellow martini guzzler walked in. Dressed in a jersey tracksuit, Mrs. Peabody looked completely relaxed, if a little out of place.
She milled around the kitchen island, breaking off a piece of quiche crust and stirring the fruit salad. “All grapes,” she commented. “Typical.” After picking out the lone strawberry, she walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of orange juice and another of tomato juice.
“Mr. Blore is back on bar duty. I told him I’d get the juice.” With a pitcher in each hand, she turned and looked at me. Her eyes roamed down my wrinkled maid’s uniform. When she looked up, there was a question in her eyes.
“I didn’t get the memo.”
“Ah...” She shook her head. “I swear that woman never left high school. What are you waiting for? Go change.” She raised a pitcher to emphasize her words. Orange juice slopped onto her arm.
I glanced at the dining room door.
Mrs. Peabody sat down the pitcher and licked the juice off her arm. “You realize you don’t work for her, right? Besides, she called you out last night for no reason at all. Screw her.”
She was right. I took her advice and scurried back to our cabin.
o0o
Peter and Kiska were gone when I got to the cabin. Since I hadn’t passed them on the short trip from the main house,
I assumed they had gone for another walk. I did, however, check the parking lot to make sure Peter’s truck was still there.
I didn’t think he’d desert me completely, but I wouldn’t put it past him to run an “errand” or two that took up a big portion of this morning’s activities.
The truck was still where he had left it, and on further investigation I saw new man and malamute tracks in the snow heading toward some trees. So I went inside to change, reassured that I was not going to be left alone with Mrs. Peabody as my only ally.
Ten minutes later, dressed in jeans and with cleavage fully covered, I returned to the main house.
Peter and Kiska were standing by the front window, flanked by Emily Brent and Dr. Armstrong.
My boyfriend was dressed in his usual garb of jeans and cotton shirt. Of course, the extent of his costume the night before had been the monocle, and knowing Peter he’d left it behind fully expecting everyone else to still be dressed in their costumes.
Everyone else had gathered in the living area too. The buffet that had held the disappearing watch the night before was now loaded with food, and the bar, with Mr. Blore manning it, was fully stocked with the makings of mimosas and bloody marys.
I eyed the banker’s handiwork, but decided to avoid that particular dog’s hair, at least for a while. Instead, I followed Miss Claythorne to the buffet and placed a very ladylike serving of two mini quiches in the center of my china plate.
Feeling quite saintly for my restraint, I went to sit next to Mrs. Peabody on the couch.
She eyed my plate. “Look at you, eating like a bird.” She elbowed me in the side and laughed.
Okay, after the croissant, I wasn’t being that saintly. Still... I could have taken more.
With a wink, Mrs. Peabody picked up her own quiche and nibbled at the crust.
Everyone milled around, getting food and drinks. Sir Arthur, Mandrake, Miss Claythorne, Peter and Dr. Armstrong moved into the dining room to sit at an actual table, while the rest of us perched on the couch and chairs in the living room. After finishing off her plate, Mrs. Peabody lifted herself from the couch and announced that she was going in search of a bathroom.
At her exit, Lady York pulled a side chair up next to my spot on the couch. “So, you live in Helena?” she prompted. Relieved that we were being given a break from character while we ate and that she seemed to have stepped back from her hard core suspicion, I set my plate on my lap and tried to look friendly and forgiving.