by Lucy Ness
“Here’s to that.” Quentin toasted me with a spoonful of whipped cream. “Only we’re going to need to order more supplies. Didn’t think we’d go through that much sirloin tip today for stroganoff.”
My fingers ached from all the salads I’d plated. “And I’m sure we need lettuce and cukes and tomatoes.”
“And pasta.” There was a notepad and pencil on the table, and Geneva slid them over to Quentin and poked her spoon in his direction, urging him to make a list. “We said on the special board that tomorrow’s feature is pasta. We’re going to need more noodles, I bet.”
“And I’d better get a move on more sauce.” Quentin gave me a smile. “After I finish my sundae, that is.”
“Take all the time you need.” I scraped the last of the fudge out of my bowl. “I’ll come in later and see if there’s anything I can do to help. For now”—I pushed back my chair—“I’d better go see what’s happening with the board. They’re planning the ceremony. You know, for when Agnes is officially made president.”
“Funny, don’t you think?” Quentin finished his ice cream, dropped his spoon in his bowl, and sat back, his meaty arms crossed over his barrel chest. “After everything that happened, she ends up president anyway.”
Searching for answers, I looked from Quentin to Geneva. “Everything that happened?”
“Well, you missed all that. You weren’t here yet.” Geneva got up and gathered our bowls and took them over to the sink. “Agnes, she ran for president. You know, in the election they had just a couple months ago.”
I remembered some talk about how Agnes was disappointed when Muriel got the president’s job, but I never realized there was an election, and that they both ran for the top spot. I considered what it meant. “Agnes ran for president? And Muriel won?” Yeah, I sounded a little skeptical, but I didn’t need to explain. Not to Quentin and Geneva. They’d worked with Muriel long enough.
“Didn’t think Muriel had a chance,” Quentin said. “Couldn’t find one person who ever said much nice about that woman. And Agnes, well, she’s mostly nice.”
“She has her moments,” Geneva put in when she came back to the table. “Just like all of them. You know, she can be kind of demanding. But then, that’s what they’re all used to, these ladies with money. They’re used to getting their own way.”
“And Agnes, when she complains about something, it’s usually legit,” Quentin added. “Like the time Bill Manby left the garden hose running by the front entrance and everything out there got soaked. Agnes came in here and read ol’ Bill the riot act. But that was okay. He deserved it.”
“And what did Muriel do when she found out about the garden hose running all that time?” I wondered.
Quentin whistled softly under his breath.
Geneva rolled her eyes.
I could only imagine.
“So nobody liked Muriel much, and everyone felt pretty positive about Agnes. How did Agnes lose the election?” I asked them.
“Easy-peasy.” Quentin got up and lumbered over to the pantry to unload canned tomatoes. “Agnes, she dropped out of the election.”
“She decided she didn’t want to be president?” I asked.
Quentin shrugged.
Geneva pursed her lips. “Got me,” she said. “Nobody ever tells us much of nothing when it comes to club business. I only know one day, there was Vote for Agnes posters stuck on all the doors, and the next day, they were gone.”
“And so Muriel was the only one left running and she won,” Quentin said.
“And now Agnes is president, anyway.” Geneva chuckled. “Kind of funny, don’t you think? Like one of them Carmen things.”
Carmen aside, I did think it was pretty odd and I wondered what it meant in terms of Muriel’s death. Really, it wasn’t possible Agnes would kill Muriel just to become president of the club.
Was it?
I chewed over the thought, but not for long. No one was that desperate to be president of a failing club, I decided, and I headed to the PPWC offices. I never got that far, though, not when I heard a commotion coming from the ballroom.
Back in the days before radio, TV, and the Internet, when Chauncey Dennison built the house that would one day be the Portage Path Women’s Club, fancy balls, musicales, and poetry readings were the height of fashion. People made their own entertainment and the ballroom there at the Dennison mansion was the center of activity for Portage Path society. In fact, it was one of the things I planned to tout when advertising the space for weddings and parties—the grand history of the place, the glamour, the style.
The ballroom had one wall of windows that looked out over what had once been lush gardens. These days, that had been pared down to potted plants on a stone patio, but not to worry, I had plans for jazzing it up when spring rolled around. Or at least I did when I thought we had a maintenance man who would plant tulip and daffodil bulbs. With or without flowers outside, the room itself was spectacular. The walls in there were paneled in glimmering wood, the sconces on the wall were shimmering silver, and there was a grand piano in the far corner, potted palms in another. Sometime while I’d been over at the Portage Path Police Department, the presidential inaugural committee had gathered and now, they were hard at work planning the ceremony that would take place just one week from the following Sunday. There were tables set up beneath the crystal chandelier that hung from the center of the ornate plaster ceiling, poster boards on easels next to a fireplace that was big enough to step into.
There were women gathered all around, talking and laughing, many of them with piles of papers in their hands. Gracie was ensconced in a chair next to one of the poster boards, going through a stack of old newspapers.
“What’s up?” I asked her.
“Lots to do,” Gracie purred, as happy as a clam to be knee deep in the preparations. She waved a yellowed newspaper clipping at me. “Agnes’s mother’s picture,” she said, and I took the clipping from her hand and studied it. Margaret Yarborough and Agnes were an unlikely duo. Agnes’s face was smooth and ageless. Margaret’s (even at the time the photo was taken, which must have been when she was younger than Agnes was now) was a map of wrinkles and lines. They had the same long graceful neck, though, and that same look of prosperity and privilege; but where Agnes’s nose was short and stubby, Margaret’s was long and thin. Agnes’s eyes were brown; her mother’s were light.
“She was president of the club, you know,” Gracie told me, pointing to the picture of Margaret. “And her mother before her.”
“So Agnes is following in a long tradition.”
“To be sure,” Gracie told me. “Margaret . . .” She tipped her head toward the clipping still in my hands. “Some of us were talking earlier and we decided it would be nice if she was our special guest at the ceremony. She’s in assisted living now, the poor dear, and not in the best of health, and I know she’d get a kick out of being back here and having a fuss made over her. What do you think, Agnes?” Gracie raised her voice. Across the room, Agnes was standing in front of one of the easels and studying what looked to be a chart of some kind, a mishmash of boxes and lines. She turned around when Gracie called to her.
“We’ll have your mother in for the ceremony,” Gracie said. “Our special guest of honor. Nice way to uphold tradition, don’t you think?”
Even from where I stood, I could tell that Agnes was moved by the suggestion. Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears.
“We can add Margaret’s picture to the family tree we’re preparing.” Valentina swept past and plucked the newspaper clipping from my hand and took it over to where Agnes stood, and I went along to see what was up. “Right here.” Valentina held the picture of Margaret Yarborough up to one of the blank boxes on the chart. “We’ll have a graphic artist do the final family tree,” Valentina told me. “But this will give you an idea what we’re going for. Agnes’s grandmother.” Valenti
na pointed to a spot on the chart that was still blank. “Then Agnes’s mother. Then a picture of Agnes right here, front and center, along with the club logo. Do you have a photo you’d like us to use?” she asked Agnes. “Or shall we arrange to have a photographer come in?”
I never did hear Agnes’s response. That was because Patricia came around from the other side of me and hissed in my ear, “Snobs! Every single one of them. They’re only doing this family tree thing to show everyone how superior they are.”
“Oh, come off it with the egalitarianism lecture.” Apparently, Patricia hadn’t spoken softly enough because Agnes made a face at her. “There’s a reason the Portage Path Women’s Club exists, Patricia. You know that as well as anybody else.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to take things from where Muriel left off.” Patricia rolled her eyes. “Now you’re going to tell me how we really are better than the rest of the riffraff in town?”
Agnes’s mouth thinned. “Not all at. You know me better than that. But I am going to remind you that we have an obligation to Portage Path. We’re leaders and philanthropists. It’s our duty to help people. We help our members grow as people and then they can go out in the community and give others a helping hand.”
“Like the royal princesses we are!” Patricia said this with an affected—and very bad—British accent. She tossed back her head and laughed. “So what’s your first queenly proclamation going to be, Agnes? There must be something around here you’ve been itching to do. Something you’ve never been able to change. Here’s your big chance.”
“Don’t be silly.” Agnes clutched her hands at her waist. “That’s not the way the presidency works.”
“But it would be kind of fun, wouldn’t it?” Valentina’s smile was sly. “If I were president, I know what I’d change. That hideous carpet in the Rose Room. Pepto-Bismol pink!” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “My first official act would be to march up there and tear it out with my own two hands.”
“And if I were president . . .” Gracie had joined us, and she looked around at the other members of the committee, who were as busy as bees all around us. She lowered her voice and leaned closer. “I’d hire back Bill Manby. He was a looker, all right!”
“I’d start serving liquor at lunch,” Patricia announced, and when Valentina’s mouth fell open, Patricia puckered. “Oh come on. It would liven things up around here!”
“So . . .” Valentina turned to Agnes. “Here’s your chance. Come on, Agnes. You’ve been a member here for a long time. You must have something you’ve always thought about doing.”
“Well . . .” Agnes’s eyes lit, and when she turned and headed out of the ballroom, we followed along. Out to the hallway, through the dining room, right into the kitchen.
“Get a ladder,” Agnes told Quentin, and though like the rest of us he didn’t have a clue what was going on, he did as he was told. She pointed toward the far wall and Quentin set up the ladder right under that funny little sign I’d seen, the handmade one that read Dodie’s Dumbwaiter.
Agnes turned in my direction, then pointed toward the ladder. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
I am not afraid of heights. Or at least I never was until I climbed that rickety ladder. Once I got three steps from the top, I held onto the ladder with both hands and looked down at the sea of faces gathered around me. “What do you want me to do?” I asked Agnes.
“I’ve always hated that tacky sign.” She pointed. “Take it down!”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask why, but no one else questioned the presidential proclamation so I did as I was told.
If the layer of dust that sprinkled down on me when I took the sign off the single nail that held it meant anything, the sign had been up there for years. I sneezed, climbed down the ladder, and once I was safely back on solid ground, handed the sign to Agnes.
“Oh no!” She clutched her hands behind her back. “You all said I could do whatever I wanted as my first official act, and I definitely do not want that cheap sign anywhere in our club. Toss it!”
The order given and her first official act of office completed, she swept out of the kitchen. Patricia and Valentina followed. Quentin and Geneva shook their heads, mystified by the workings of the club officers.
Gracie held out a hand. “Give it here,” she said. “Whether Agnes likes the sign or not, it’s part of club history and I’m going to squirrel it away in the archives.”
I handed over the sign. “Who was Dodie anyway?” I asked Gracie.
“Dodie Hillenbrand. Best darned cook this club ever had,” she said and added, “No offense meant, Quentin.”
“None taken,” he assured her before he went back to the stove and the pasta sauce bubbling there.
“So why did they name a dumbwaiter after a cook?” I wondered.
Gracie grinned. “It was just an honorary thing, I guess. Dodie, see, she was the cook when the Dennisons owned the house, and even though she was a very young woman, she really knew her way around a kitchen! When the club took over, she stayed on, and she used to love to tell everyone how much Mrs. Dennison enjoyed her cooking. Mrs. Dennison’s bedroom, it was up in what’s now the Lilac Lounge, and Dodie would send breakfast up for her, fast and hot out of the kitchen. Or sometimes on chilly nights, she’d make hot cocoa and surprise Mrs. Dennison with it. The sign, well—once Dodie was gone, everyone missed her. It was a little tribute.”
“One Agnes doesn’t want to continue.”
Gracie shrugged. “It was a long time ago and well, things didn’t end as well as they should have. There was going to be a big party, you see, an anniversary celebration for Agnes’s parents. And the ballroom was filled with flowers, and the musicians arrived and . . .” Her expression soured. “No dinner.”
I leaned forward. “Because . . . ?”
“Because Dodie had up and quit. Never said a word to anyone, just never showed up for work again.”
With all the thinking I’d been doing about murder, I couldn’t help but ask, “Was she all right? Did something happen to her?”
Gracie waved a hand. “We heard from her after. A time or two. She was living down in Florida, working at some ritzy hotel and having the time of her life. It was all good. Except Agnes, I don’t think she ever forgave Dodie for ruining that anniversary.”
I looked at where Gracie had the sign tucked under her arm. “Where you going to hide it?”
She chuckled. “In my car for now. I don’t want Agnes to see it. Not yet. She’ll come around eventually and realize it’s part of club history. For now”—she gave me a wink—“we’ll let her think she got her way as president.” Gracie tucked the sign under her gray sweater and headed out the door to the parking lot.
I got back to the ballroom just as the women were examining another newspaper clipping they’d found.
“They’re talking PowerPoint presentation,” Patricia warned me. “They’ll want you to throw it together.”
It was something I was comfortable with, so that wasn’t a problem, though if the pile of newspaper articles on the table meant anything, I’d be scanning for days. The newest picture they’d found had a headline under it, Settling In. It showed a young Margaret Yarborough holding infant Agnes. There was a man in uniform standing beside Margaret.
“Daddy.” Agnes leaned over my shoulder and took a look at the picture. “It was 1942 and he’d been in England and had orders to head right back. He was here in Portage Path only long enough to be present when I was born.”
“It’s a great picture.” I set it down on the pile. “I’ll need your help with the PowerPoint. You’ll need to explain who people in pictures are and why they’re important to your presidency.”
Agnes nodded. “Of course. If there are any questions you have—”
“There is one.” It had been bugging me, and I figured this was the perfect opportuni
ty, but I waited to ask it until Patricia and Valentina had drifted off. “You ran for president recently. Why did you drop out of the election?”
Agnes’s lips puckered. “Does it really matter?”
“Probably not,” I admitted. “But I’m curious. Everyone I’ve talked to thinks you’ll be a great president.”
At this, she clucked all the right, humble phrases.
“And I can tell you’re going to enjoy holding the office.”
She lifted her chin. “It’s always been my obligation to serve the club.”
“So why did you step back and let Muriel win?”
Agnes put a hand on my arm and tugged me toward that wall of windows, farther away from where the committee worked.
“I can’t tell anyone else about this,” she said, her head close to mine. “But in your position here, I feel you have the right to know. It was Muriel.”
“What about Muriel?”
Agnes sighed. “I . . . Well, this isn’t easy to admit, especially considering everything that’s happened. But Muriel . . . well, I felt sorry for Muriel.”
I couldn’t imagine anyone on earth feeling sorry for Muriel Sadler. Not the Muriel I knew.
Apparently, Agnes knew this, because she smiled. “There’s so much you need to learn about the Portage Path Women’s Club, Avery. This is a good place to start. You see, we are ingrained with the notion of service. All of us. And not just from when we join the club, but at home, from an early age. This was especially true for me, since both my mother and my grandmother were once president here. We are also not prone to tooting our own horns, but . . .” She turned away and for a second, I thought it was all she’d say, but she lifted her shoulders and turned back to me.
“Muriel desperately wanted to be president of the club. She wanted it more than anything in the world. And when I realized I had the support of the club, I knew I would win the election, hands down.”
“Isn’t that the whole point of elections?” I asked her.
“It is. But so is good sportsmanship. Muriel wasn’t getting any younger and, well, I don’t want you to think I’m gossiping, I just want you to understand. She had a terrible home life.”