by V. M. Burns
“Regardless of the time, we will do what must be done to uphold the honor of his lordship and the Marsh family.” Thompkins delivered his reprimand with a straight back and his head held high.
“I never said no different. I’ve never shirked my responsibilities to ’er ladyship and I ain’t about to start now.” She folded her arms across her chest and huffed. “My girls’ll make sure this ’ouse is in tip-top shape. You just wait and see.”
Thompkins nodded. He knew Mrs. McDuffy would work tirelessly to make sure all was ready.
“Mr. Thompkins, sir.” Gladys, the housemaid, timidly raised a hand. “Do we know how many guests to expect?”
“Not yet, but I’d say we better plan for at least a hundred.”
“Do you think the King will come?” Flossie looked dreamily at the butler. “Them being cousins and all.”
“I don’t know. His Majesty has always been very fond of Lady Daphne.” Thompkins stood straighter. “Nevertheless, we will need to make sure everything is spotless and each of us are at our best. You never can tell.”
“Oh, lawd.” Flossie looked as though she would pass out.
“Now, don’t you go getting no crazy notions in that silly ’ead of yours. Just you mind what you’re doing. It’s going to be ’ard enough without you mooning about the king,” Mrs. McDuffy said.
“I wouldn’t hold out much hope if I was you,” Jim, a footman, teased. “The king didn’t go to his own brother’s wedding. I can’t rightly see him coming down here for a mere cousin.”
Flossie’s smiled dropped away.
Frank McTavish, a footman and son of the groundskeeper, kicked Jim under the table. “Don’t you fret none. There’ll be plenty of aristocrats even if the king doesn’t come.”
“You think so?” Flossie asked.
“Just you wait and see.” Frank winked.
“Three weeks is all good for the rest of you, but that’s hardly enough time to get all of the cookin’ and bakin’ done for a party that size. When do you suppose we’ll be gettin’ a menu?” Mrs. Anderson, the cook asked.
Thompkins bristled. “Her ladyship will address the staff first thing tomorrow. I’m sure she will provide everything you need then.”
Mrs. Anderson turned to her daughter, Agnes. “We better get started on some things first thing tomorrow. We’ll be busy with the weddin’ menu and with guests in the house, and there won’t be time to breathe if we don’t get started early.”
Mrs. McDuffy used the table to help hoist her large frame out of the chair. “We best get busy. There’ll be plenty of scrubbing and washing that we can do.”
Thompkins coughed. “One more thing.” He frowned at the housekeeper, who reluctantly returned to her seat. “Due to the short time frame, Lady Daphne and His Grace have decided to hire someone to help with some of the arrangements.”
Mrs. McDuffy’s eyes narrowed. “ ’Ired someone? Who?”
“I believe they called him a wedding planner.” Thompkins looked around at the servants.
Mrs. McDuffy snorted.
The rest of the group whispered.
Gladys raised a timid hand. “I’m sorry, Mr. Thompkins, sir, but what exactly is a wedding planner?”
Thompkins knew he intimidated the young housemaid, but he wasn’t exactly sure what a wedding planner was himself and didn’t want to look foolish in front of the staff. “I believe it’s someone who helps plan weddings.”
“Well, I bloody well figured that much out just by the name,” Mrs. McDuffy said.
The butler bristled. “Mrs. McDuffy, I’ll remind you to watch your language.”
Mrs. McDuffy rolled her eyes.
“I saw it in a flick.” Flossie’s eyes grew big. “This family hired a real artistic bloke to help plan their wedding. You should have seen all of the beautiful flowers and things and the dresses. There was silk and satin everywhere. And, the food looked amazing,” she gushed.
“Well, I don’t care who they hire. I’ll not have anyone interferin’ in me kitchen.” Mrs. Anderson smacked her hand on the table and stared at the butler.
“You mark my words. No good will come of ’iring some ruddy person from outside of the family,” Mrs. McDuffy said.
My phone rang early. I opened one eye and stared at the time. It was still dark outside and not even Snickers was ready to be up quite this early. “Hell—”
Mom’s voice was two decibels louder and two octaves higher than normal, which was almost at the point only dogs could hear.
“Calm down. I can’t understand you.” I sat up in bed and put the phone on speaker to save my eardrums.
Between her sobs, I could only make out every other word. “Who’s dead?”
I stared at the phone because staring increased your hearing. At least it seemed reasonable at the time. “Did you say, Lydia Lighthouse?”
I got out of bed and hunted around for shoes. “I’ll be there as soon as I get dressed,” I replied to my mom’s order to come at once. “I might have to get someone to watch the . . . Hello?”
She’d hung up.
I looked at the clock. It was barely six on Monday morning. Of all the ways to start a week, a frantic call from my mom before sunrise and coffee would probably top my list for worst starts ever. To be honest, I wasn’t fond of Lydia Lighthouse. She was loud, brassy, bossy, overbearing, and snooty. If I analyzed my feelings, I was embarrassed to say the only surprise was that someone hadn’t killed her earlier. Planning a wedding was stressful enough without dealing with Lydia. Nope, my stress was for the purely selfish reason that without Lydia, someone, and I mentally inserted my name, would have to help coordinate the wedding. I shook my head to clear images of myself in a green tartan tablecloth.
I hurried to dress and raised my hand to Nana Jo’s bedroom door but thought better of it. Instead, I went into the kitchen and quickly made coffee. The single cup coffeemaker was quick and, just a few minutes later, I was back at her door. This time I followed through and pounded on the bedroom door.
There were several bumps and a crash that sounded as though a pile of books hit the floor, which was quickly followed by a few well-chosen oaths. The door swung open. “Someone better be dead, or they soon will be.”
“Lydia Lighthouse.”
Nana Jo stared at me as though I’d lost my senses. “What?”
I shoved the coffee mug at her. “Lydia Lighthouse was murdered. Mom just called. We’ve got to get over to her place before she has a stroke.”
I turned and walked away with Nana Jo still standing at her door.
Snickers wasn’t thrilled about getting up two hours earlier than normal, but she did her business and hurried back upstairs. Oreo spent five minutes stretching and then found a mound of snow that wasn’t yellowed from previous visits and took care of his business.
By the time the poodles were taken care of, Nana Jo was dressed. She pulled a knit cap over her head. “I’m going to need a lot more coffee and a sausage biscuit before I can face your mother.”
“Agreed.” I followed her downstairs.
It was too early for what constituted South Harbor’s rush hour traffic. The sun hadn’t yet risen, so it was dark and cold. The drive to Mom’s South Harbor villa was delayed by a stop at a fast-food drive-thru. Nana Jo finished a sausage biscuit and a hash brown patty that smelled fantastic in the confines of my car before we pulled up to Mom’s house. I focused on sipping my coffee without spilling it, which was a skill I had yet to master.
When we arrived, the front door to my mom’s house flew open and she stood at the door, waiting for us to enter.
I hurried inside, juggling a coffee, my purse, and a greasy bag of food, with a newspaper stuffed under my arm.
“What took you so long?”
“Good morning to you too,” I said as brightly as possible, but the sarcasm was wasted on my mother.
I walked into the house and looked for someplace to set my coffee and bag so I could remove my boots. Having finished her food i
n the car, Nana Jo was less encumbered and was able to deboot faster. She held out her hand. “Here, let me help you.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and handed over my precious cargo. The last thing I needed on top of my mom’s hysteria was to spill coffee or track wet snow through the house. Those sins would not be easily forgiven.
At the table, I sat down and reached for my coffee. Unfortunately, my mother took that opportunity to shove the newspaper at me, which caused me to spill my coffee.
My mom sighed and went to the kitchen to get a towel. “It’s a good thing I took Grandma Sarah’s tablecloth to the cleaners.”
“It’s just coffee, Grace. Calm down,” Nana Jo ordered.
Few people had the power to stop my mother in the middle of a hysterical fit, but Nana Jo had the gift.
Mom sat at the table.
“We rushed over as fast as we could.” She sat across from Mom. “Now, how did you find out about the murder?”
Mom pointed to the newspaper.
Nana Jo unfolded it and read while I ate my sausage biscuit and the now-cold hash browns.
Lydia Lighthouse’s murder was on the front page of the newspaper. One advantage to a small town was murders don’t happen every day. Domestic disputes, drunken brawls, or weather-related accidents that were exacerbated by alcohol were prominent. Murder, not so much. So, a great deal of space was allocated for a real murder. According to the newspaper, she was found facedown on the drawbridge that crossed over the St. Thomas River. An early morning bridge worker saw what he thought was a heap of clothes on the bridge. Closer inspection showed the heap to be a person. Thinking it was a homeless person, he went to ask the woman to move. I mentally translated that to he went to force her to find another place to sleep. It wasn’t until he was directly over the body that he realized the heap of clothes was a dead woman.
“I can’t say I’m going to miss her.” Nana Jo folded the newspaper.
“What am I going to do?” Mom burst into tears.
Nana Jo and I exchanged a glance. “Grace, pull yourself together.” Nana Jo passed Mom a handkerchief. “I know you weren’t any crazier about Lydia Lighthouse than the rest of us.”
She shook her head.
“You’ve only known the woman for a week. She was a snob who treated you like dirt. Frankly, I don’t understand why you’re so upset she’s dead.”
Mom looked up. “I’m not upset she’s dead.” She sniffed.
“Then what’s with the waterworks?” Nana Jo asked.
“I’m upset because they’re going to arrest Harold for her murder.”
Chapter 6
By the time Nana Jo and I had picked our jaws up off the ground and Mom was able to talk coherently, Harold hadn’t been arrested for the murder; not yet anyway. However, Mom was certain it would just be a matter of time before the police arrested him.
“But why would they arrest Harold?” I asked.
“You saw him yesterday. I’ve never known him to get that angry at anyone. When we went home and I told him about the hundred thousand dollars’ worth of flowers and the five thousand to reserve the room, well, he was really angry.”
“I don’t blame him for being angry. Anyone would be,” Nana Jo argued. “She was taking advantage of him and spending his money like water.”
“Wait. I thought Lydia Lighthouse’s services were free. Margaret said she was her wedding present.” I stared at Mom.
“Actually, I thought that too, but Lydia explained Margaret was only paying for labor. The actual expenses were up to Harold.”
“Holy cow. Did Harold know that?”
Mom colored. “Well, not at first. At first, he was under the same impression as the rest of us. However, last night I had to tell him Lydia had asked for a check for one million dollars to cover expenses, so I gave it to her.”
My mom’s timing was incredible. I had just taken a sip of coffee and what didn’t try to go down my windpipe ended up on the table.
Mom rose and got a paper towel while Nana Jo pounded me on the back to bring up any coffee still lingering in my windpipe.
After a minute, I was finally able to stop coughing. “Did you say one million dollars?” I croaked.
Mom nodded. “Well, yes, that’s what she said she needed.”
“But where on earth did you get a million dollars?” Nana Jo asked the question that had been floating around my head.
“Well, I don’t have that kind of money, but when Harold and I got engaged, he added me to his bank account.”
“Holy mackerel.” I stared at my mom. “I knew Harold was well off, but I had no idea he was that well off.”
Nana Jo was so quiet, I wondered what was going through her mind. “What’s the matter?”
“If Lydia Lighthouse had taken one million dollars of my money, I’d strangle her too.”
“You can’t seriously believe Harold killed her?” I asked.
Nana Jo shrugged. “It really doesn’t matter what I believe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s face it, Sam. Lydia Lighthouse was a stranger. She was only here for your mother’s wedding. Harold argued with her. He threatened her. And, he had one million reasons to want her dead. Even Stinky Pitt could get a conviction with that.”
Stinky Pitt was Detective Bradley Pitt of the North Harbor Police Department. He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. We’d encountered him several other times when he’d jumped to the erroneous conclusion that I, Dawson, and even Nana Jo had committed murder.
Nana Jo and I exchanged glances.
“There’s only one thing to do.” Nana Jo looked at me. “You’re going to have to figure out who murdered that woman, or your mother will be getting married in the North Harbor Jail.”
Chapter 7
We made it back to the bookstore before opening, but just barely. Thankfully, Dawson was there to help. I worked on autopilot during the morning, not thinking about Harold or my mother or trying to solve another murder. My body went through all of the motions. I helped customers, smiled, sold, shelved, and reshelved books. At one, Nana Jo suggested I go to Frank’s and grab lunch for both of us.
I bundled up for the short walk. It was snowing and the view looked like a postcard. Big, fluffy white flakes of snow blanketed the street. Wreaths hung from the streetlights and green garland was wound around the poles, giving the brick streets and brownstone storefronts a seasonal vibe.
My thoughts refused to acknowledge the Christmas spirit. In fact, I glanced at a reflection of my face in the window of one of the shops and realized my facial expression would have made Ebenezer Scrooge feel downright jolly. Nevertheless, rather than make adjustments, I stuck out my tongue and muttered, “ ‘Bah Humbug.’ ”
By the time I walked into North Harbor Café, I was covered in a light dusting of snow. I took a minute and shook myself, Oreo-style, and stamped my feet, leaving a small mound of snow at the door.
I walked over to the bar and hopped up on a barstool, then removed my coat.
Frank was behind the bar. He smiled. “Hey, beautiful.”
I scowled. “Hey, can I get two soups and two chicken salad sandwiches to go?”
He walked over and placed a pitcher of ice water with lemon and a glass of ice in front of me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Right.” He leaned across the bar so his face was inches from my ear. “No warm greeting. No smile. No kiss. A guy might think you didn’t like him anymore.” His breath was warm on my earlobe and heat rose up my neck. I breathed in his scent of bacon, red wine, and herbal Irish soap.
“I’m sorry.” I turned my head and kissed him lightly.
“Now, that’s better.” He smiled and pulled back so he could look me in the face. “Now, I’m going to get your order placed in the kitchen and then I’ll be back, and you can tell me what’s bothering you.”
He left and went to the kitchen, and I took several deep breaths. I was very fortunate to have met Fr
ank Patterson and just because I was in a bad mood was no reason to take it out on him. He was kind, thoughtful, and very caring. He was also a great cook and deserved to be treated better. I felt ashamed. When he returned, I was close to tears.
“I’m so sorry for being grumpy earlier, I don’t—”
“It’s okay. I just look forward to seeing you, so when you’re in a bad mood, well, I just want to help.”
One of his waitresses came out of the kitchen and placed a plate of warm salted caramel chocolate chip and pecan cookies in front of me with a tall glass of milk.
I stared in surprise, but Frank merely smiled. “I got the recipe from Dawson.”
I took a bite and allowed the chocolate to melt on my tongue. I closed my eyes and I must have moaned because when I opened my eyes, Frank was smiling. “Do you need a moment?”
I nodded and took a sip of milk.
“Now, what’s wrong?”
I ate my cookie and told Frank about Lydia Lighthouse and my mother’s fears that Harold would be arrested for her murder. “I can’t even let my mind focus on the fact Christmas is less than two weeks away. Which means my mom’s wedding is less than two weeks away and the woman hired to plan the wedding is dead.” I whispered the last words and looked around to make sure no one was listening. “Nana Jo says I have to figure out who murdered Lydia before the wedding.”
Frank dried glasses while he listened. “Well, you could leave it up to the police. It is their job to figure out who killed her.”
I stopped with the cookie midway to my mouth and stared. “Are you kidding? I can’t leave this up to Stinky Pitt. He couldn’t detect his way out of a paper bag.” I popped the last chocolatey morsels into my mouth and swallowed the last of the milk.
Frank smiled. “So, I guess the decision is easy.”