Wed, Read & Dead

by V. M. Burns

  Dawson looked down. “That’s why I wanted to be here when you got back.” He looked serious. “I saw you take sixty dollars out of your purse.”

  Nana Jo nodded. “Yeah. I left three twenties.”

  “Well, when I went to pay, there were only two.” He stared at her.

  “Lexi?” I asked.

  “Who else?” Nana Jo said.

  I sighed. “I didn’t think she was a thief, but . . . it had to be her.” I shook my head.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to say anything to her, especially without talking to you first,” Dawson said.

  I nodded. “Thank you.” I suddenly felt very tired.

  “Do you want my bed?” I offered.

  He shook his head. “No. I’ve got the keys to Jillian’s car. I’ll go to campus and get some sleep. I’ll be back first thing in the morning to take the girls back so they can shower and change.”

  He hugged us and then headed out.

  I was tired and disappointed. I didn’t know what I expected from Lexi and Angelo, but whatever it was, stealing wasn’t a part of it. The very idea made me sad and discouraged.

  Between the events at the restaurant and learning Lexi was a thief, I was tired, too tired to sleep. So, I sat down to write in the hopes I could settle my thoughts and calm my mind.

  “That peacock’as been parading around ’ere as if ’e owns the place.” Mrs. McDuffy marched into the servants’ hall and slammed a feather duster onto the large oak table. “If ’e tramples snow and mud through that dining room one more time, I’ll take this duster and shove it right up his ar—”

  “Mrs. McDuffy!” Thompkins looked from the housekeeper to the maids, seated at the table, who were snickering as they polished silver, which was piled upon the table. “We must maintain decorum.”

  She huffed. “I can’t stand the sly devil,” Mrs. McDuffy said with venom. “Always slinking around where ’e’s got no business.”

  “What do you mean?” Thompkins asked.

  “Did you see the way he was eyeing the good silver?” she asked. “Like a dog looking at a bone.”

  “Well, perhaps he’s taking inventory for the wedding supper.” Thompkins looked at the housekeeper.

  “Pshaw.” The housekeeper rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest. “And it was only this mornin’ that Gladys tells me she caught ’im sneakin’ around in the library.” She huffed. “And ’e says ’e’s checkin’ the room for overflow.” She breathed heavily and her face grew red from anger. “You tell me why ’e’d need to be checkin’ on anythin’ in Lord William’s library, that’s what I want to know.”

  Thompkins tried not to let his concern show. “Well, I don’t know—”

  “Well, I do know and’e’s up to no good that one.”

  The butler would normally have reprimanded the housekeeper more, but he was also frustrated with the wedding planner’s many changes and demands. Just as he prepared to lecture the housekeeper further, he was halted when raised voices drifted into the hall.

  “I don’t care what you’re trying to do, and I don’t give two pence about your bloody artistic temperament. I am not wearing that ridiculous outfit,” Lord James Browning raged. “And, I’m warning you, Claiborne, if you don’t stop manipulating Lady Daphne, I’ll take that scarf and wring your ruddy neck.”

  “Your Grace, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Philippe Claiborne sounded surprised and shocked, but the words lacked sincerity.

  “Don’t push me, Claiborne.”

  Footsteps marched down the hall, followed by laughter that held a cocky, arrogant tone as though declaring a win over an opponent.

  The staff stayed perfectly still and listened. Another pair of footsteps descended the stairs. The servants waited to see who emerged. As the artistically dressed wedding planner turned the corner and entered the servants’ hall, Flossie and Millie quickly rose and fled the room, leaving the senior staff to deal with the interloper. Gladys lingered in the corner and Frank, the footman, sharpened knives for the cook.

  “Ah, Thompkins. Here’s where you’ve gotten off to.” Philippe Claiborne looked around the hall with a sneer. “The heart of the English Manor home, the servants’ hall.” He walked around the room and wiped a finger across a sideboard. Then he took out a handkerchief and wiped his hands.

  Mrs. McDuffy huffed and turned bright red. She looked like a kettle about to blow steam.

  The butler quickly stepped forward, coughed discretely, and bowed stiffly. “You wished to speak to me, sir?”

  “I want to talk to you about the seating plan for the wedding supper.” He flicked ashes from his cigarette onto the floor and then placed his cigarette and holder onto the table.

  The burning embers of the cigarette were close to the feather duster and the already polished flatware. The housekeeper huffed, picked up the duster, brushed the ashes off the table, and moved the polished silver farther away.

  Philippe Claiborne, oblivious to the housekeeper’s ire, merely nodded. “Now, I want to move the wedding supper from the dining room into the front parlor. There’s more light in that room and it will photograph much nicer than that dark-paneled dining room with the heavy brocade drapes and that massive mahogany table. So dark and old-fashioned.” He picked up his cigarette and took a puff, then blew the smoke into the butler’s face. “It’s just so nineteenth century.”

  The butler stared for several seconds and then blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “What part didn’t you understand?” Claiborne smoked.

  Thompkins coughed. “Do I understand that you want to switch all of the furniture from the dining room with the furniture in the parlor? All of the furniture.”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  Mrs. McDuffy looked shocked. “But that dining room table is two hundred years old. It’s massive. I don’t know if it’ll even fit through the ruddy parlor door.”

  Thompkins was too astonished to reprimand the housekeeper and merely stared.

  “Well, I suppose you’ll figure it out, and be quick about it. I have a lot to do.” He looked around the hall and spotted Mrs. Anderson as she entered the room. “Perfect. You’re the cook. Just the person I wanted to talk to.”

  Thompkins and Mrs. McDuffy exchanged glances. For a split second, the butler was shaken. However, he quickly tried to intervene. “Perhaps it would be best if we waited for her ladyship before discussing the menu.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve been commissioned to make this wedding a success. We haven’t got time to waste.” He turned to Mrs. Anderson. “This menu is completely wrong. The entire thing will need to be redone.” He pulled another paper from his pocket and handed it to the cook.

  Gladys gasped and hurried out of the room.

  The cook’s face grew red as she glanced at the paper. “Two hundred squab? One hundred pounds of caviar? Two hundred pheasant?” She stared. “You must be out of your bleeding mind. How am I supposed to prepare all of this in two weeks, along with all of the cakes and puddings?”

  “Not really my problem, is it?” Philippe stared at the cook. “However, if you’re too old to do your job properly, then perhaps it’s time you stepped aside and made room for someone else.”

  The blood drained from the cook’s face and she went from nearly purple with rage to a ghostly white in an instant. “Why . . . you . . . how dare you . . . I never . . . I—”

  Philippe Claiborne stared at the cook. “I’ve dealt with hundreds of old servants like you.” He looked around from the cook to Mrs. McDuffy to Thompkins and then back at the cook. “Ancient relics who have served the family for years but who are too old to keep up with modern times and changes—hangers-on. The family is too soft-hearted to tell you the truth. It’s time you move on and make way for someone younger and more capable.”

  Lady Elizabeth entered the servants’ hall. “That’s enough.”

  Philippe Claiborne turned and plastered a smile onto his face. “Your ladyship.
I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I daresay you didn’t or you wouldn’t have had the audacity to speak in that manner.” Lady Elizabeth’s eyes flashed and her voice was iron. “In the future, you will run any comments or requests through me.” She paused. “Do I make myself clear?”

  Philippe Claiborne inclined his head slightly. “Perfectly.”

  Gladys peeked around the corner.

  Lady Elizabeth looked around the room. “Please continue with your duties.” She forced a smile onto her face.

  The servants bowed respectfully.

  Lady Elizabeth turned back to Philippe Claiborne. “I think we should finish our discussion upstairs.” She turned and walked out.

  Philippe Claiborne inclined his head slightly and turned and glared at the servants. Then he followed her ladyship upstairs.

  After a few seconds, the tension vanished and the atmosphere became less charged. Mrs. McDuffy released a breath. “Lawd, if looks could kill, that fancy peacock would be dead. I’ve never seen ’er ladyship so angry in all my years.”

  A bowl crashed to the ground. Mrs. McDuffy and Thompkins turned and caught a glimpse of one of the twins, Josiah or Johan as they scurried from their hiding place in an alcove. The boys liked to spend time in the servants’ hall watching and listening. Neither Thompkins nor the housekeeper minded, especially since the boys didn’t speak or understand much English. However, they were intelligent lads and the butler wondered if maybe they understood more than they were letting on.

  Thompkins stared down. His hands were shaking and he had crumpled the paper with the seating changes into a ball. He flexed and unflexed his hands to release the tension.

  The next morning, Lady Elizabeth sent word for Frank to take the car into town to pick up Joseph Mueller, Thompkins’ son-in-law, from the train station. Frank left the gamekeeper’s cottage he shared with his dad and headed to the back hall to get the car keys. He whistled as he hurried through the cold winter morning. At the back door, he nearly tripped over a bundle someone had left near the back gate.

  The footman reached down to move the bundle and realized what he had mistaken for a discarded bundle of clothes was the body of Philippe Claiborne. He recognized the knife sticking out of the man’s back as one of the knives he’d sharpened the previous evening.

  He reached out a hand to remove the incriminating knife but was halted at the sound of the back door opening.

  Thompkins came outside and stared at the footman and then down at the dead man for several seconds.

  Neither man spoke.

  After a long pause, Thompkins stood straight. “I’ll alert Lord William and her ladyship. You’d better stand guard over the body until I return.” He turned to go back into the house but turned and looked at the footman. “You will most likely need to pick up the detective from Scotland Yard, Detective Inspector Covington.”

  “HELP!”

  Both men looked around to see where the call for help came from when another call came.

  “Help, I need help.”

  Both men followed the voice around the side of the house. When they arrived, a man stumbled out from behind a bush.

  “Mr. Waddington, what are you doing here?” Thompkins asked. Under normal conditions, the butler would never have dreamed of questioning a guest in this manner, but with one person dead, these were definitely not normal conditions.

  Percy Waddington had only recently arrived for the wedding. He was in his forties, but he looked ten years older. Once, slender and deemed handsome by many, he had now run to fat and his hairline had receded to the middle of his head.

  The butler stared at the man. He was pale and one of his arms was covered in blood. If Percy Waddington intended to answer the question, Thompkins would never know. The bleeding man took one step forward and his eyes rolled back into his head.

  Frank arrived in time to catch the bleeding man before he crumpled to the ground. “What the bloody hell is going on?”

  Thompkins, stiff and proper, stared at the bleeding man. “I have no idea, but you’d better get him inside. I’ll call Dr. Haygood.” The butler rushed as quickly as he could, while still maintaining his demeanor, to the back door. He glanced at the body of Philippe Claiborne, which was still crumpled on the floor, and halted. He stared at the body for several seconds. Suddenly lightheaded, the butler swayed and had to hold on to the door to steady himself. He stared at the body and mumbled to himself, “The knife. Someone has stolen the knife.”

  Chapter 11

  The next morning, I was tired from a late night of writing and from worry about Lexi and Angelo. When I eventually went to sleep, I tossed and turned for what felt like hours. My mind waffled between calling their foster parents and sending them home and calling the Chicago Child Protective Services and reporting the bruises I’d seen to calling the local police and charging them with theft.

  When I finally woke up, I smelled coffee and heard voices in the kitchen. I got up, showered, and dressed. I went into the kitchen. Lexi, Emma, and Jillian had prepared breakfast and the kitchen looked as though a small tornado had blown through.

  “Don’t worry about the mess. We’re going to take care of everything,” Emma announced as I turned the corner and went to the coffeepot to pour myself a cup.

  “I’m not worried.” I inhaled the aroma and looked around. “What’s that wonderful smell?”

  “Dawson mixed batter for waffles before he left last night and left it in the fridge. All we had to do was fire up your waffle iron this morning.” Jillian held out her arm in Vanna White fashion. “So, it’s Belgium waffles for those of you who don’t have to watch your waistlines.”

  Emma plopped one of the large waffles onto her plate. “Great. All the more for me.” She poured a generous amount of syrup onto the waffle.

  I wondered how she could eat so much and still maintain her tiny figure.

  Lexi also had a large waffle, but, unlike Emma, she merely picked at hers.

  Nana Jo brought a bouncing Angelo out of the bathroom. He quickly ran to the counter and demanded waffles.

  “Look here, you little dictator, you can stop ordering people around like some kind of emperor. If you want waffles, then you can ask nicely.” Nana Jo’s words were spoken softly, but there was an authority behind them, which she’d honed over the years as a teacher.

  This time was no different. Angelo poked out his lip but stood very still. “May I please have a waffle?” He climbed onto the barstool.

  “Yes, you may.” Nana Jo smiled and placed a plate containing a quarter of a waffle on his plate.

  “But I want a whole one like Lexi.”

  “You eat that and I’ll give you more.” Nana Jo poured syrup on the waffle and Angelo was mesmerized by the amber-colored liquid. He stuck a finger into the puddle of maple goodness and licked it.

  I ate one of the waffles and savored the delicious vanilla and maple fluffy concoction.

  Dawson arrived while we were eating. He handed off the keys to Jillian and as soon as Jillian and Emma finished their breakfast and loaded the dishwasher, they were off to campus to shower and change, promising to return at lunchtime.

  That left Dawson, Nana Jo, Lexi, Angelo, and me. I sipped my coffee and looked at Nana Jo. If she didn’t bring up the missing money, I would.

  “My hands are sticky.” Angelo licked his fingers.

  Nana Jo rose, but Dawson volunteered. “Let me help you.” He lifted Angelo up over one shoulder and took the squealing child to the bathroom.

  We sat in silence for several seconds and then Lexi stood. She pulled a wrinkled twenty-dollar bill from her pocket and walked over and handed it to Nana Jo. “This is yours.”

  Nana Jo took the money. “Why’d you take it?”

  Lexi refused to make eye contact and shrugged.

  Nana Jo lifted her chin and looked in her eyes. “That’s not good enough. I want you to tell me why you stole money from me.”

  Tears streamed down her face. “I hear
d her on the phone.” She pointed at me. “She’s going to send us back to Chicago to the Hoopers. I was going to run away again. I took the money to help pay for bus fare to New York.”

  “Why New York?” I questioned whether the book she was reading was a good idea. From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler was about a young girl who ran away from home with her little brother and stayed in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  She shrugged. “I dunno. It’s big and maybe nobody would find me.”

  “Why don’t you want to go back to the Hoopers?” Nana Jo asked.

  She hesitated. “Because they’re mean. They beat me and . . . I don’t like Mr. Hooper.”

  Dawson and Angelo came out of the bathroom.

  “Dawson, could you and Angelo do me a favor and take Snickers and Oreo outside please?”

  Dawson must have noticed the atmosphere in the room was charged. He nodded, hoisted Angelo onto his shoulders, and grabbed some dog biscuits out of the jar and then headed downstairs.

  When they were downstairs, Nana Jo turned to Lexi. “You’re going to need to tell us what happened, and we need the truth.”

  Lexi lifted her chin.

  I steeled myself to hear the rest of her tale.

  “He drinks.” She licked her lips. “He’s fine as long as he ain’t had nothing to drink. When he drinks, then he gets mean. I used to share a room with Veronica and Taylor. Veronica is the oldest. She’s fifteen. Taylor’s eight. He don’t like it if you talk back. Veronica used to talk back a lot. One night, he came in the room and he had been drinking.” She paused for several moments. We waited for her to continue. “He was yelling at Veronica because she didn’t wash the dishes before she went to bed. He had a leather strap and he started hitting her over and over and over.” She stopped and tears ran down her face.

  “Take your time,” Nana Jo said softly.

  “I tried to make him stop because he was hurting her, and Taylor was scared and she was crying. He kept yelling for her to shut up, but he just kept on hitting her.” She took a deep breath.

  “What happened to Veronica?” I asked.