“I give you my word,” said Bree, “We really will write the article and your Tony really will see it in a glossy magazine one day.” She hesitated. “But if you can help us to find Mikhail . . .”
“I would if I could, but—” Gracie broke off suddenly and gazed, frowning, into thin air, as though she were struggling to recall a distant memory. “I’ll tell you what,” she said slowly. “The old lady at Tappan Hall might be able to steer you in the right direction. Do you know Lady Barbara Booker?”
“No,” I said.
“Oh, Barb’s a corker,” Gracie said enthusiastically. “Her family’s been at Tappan Hall longer than the bloody Bogs have been at Risingholme, but does she look down her nose at me and Tony? Not on your life. She’s too classy to think about class.”
“She sounds like an excellent neighbor,” I said.
“She’s a damned sight better than the Bogs,” Gracie growled. “Barb must be in her nineties, but she came to our parties and made friends with our friends and kicked up her heels with the rest of us, until her health broke down. She says my chicken soup clears her chest better than drugs. The secret is in the schmaltz. You start with a free-range chicken—”
“Gracie,” I broke in, to head off a recitation of the recipe. “What made you think of Lady Barbara just now?”
“One night Tony got to talking to Barb about his granddad,” she replied, “and she said something to him about a Russian boy she palled around with when she was a kid. She said his family lived somewhere near here.”
“Did she say where?” Bree asked.
“No,” said Gracie. “It was Tony’s fiftieth and his mates threw him into the pool before he could finish the conversation. He meant to follow up on it, but then Barb’s asthma kicked in and he got busy with work . . .” She shrugged. “You know how it is. Some conversations never get finished.”
“Do you think she’d be well enough to see us?” I asked.
“Some days are better than others,” said Gracie. “If you catch Barb on a good day, though, she’d love the company. Tell her Gracie sent you.”
“Thanks, Gracie,” I said. “We will.”
“And if you find the lost prince,” she said, “you’ll let me know, won’t you?”
“Of course we will,” I said.
“Uh, Gracie?” said Bree. “Would you mind giving me a few more details for my article?”
“Love to,” said Gracie.
While I continued to graze, Bree continued the interview, filling her notebook with the names of Gracie’s architects, her interior decorators, her builders, and the Italian sculptor who’d created her fountain of love. My hunger pangs had subsided completely by the time Bree announced that she had all the information she needed and thanked Gracie for being such a generous interviewee.
Gracie led us through the house to the entrance hall and Divina restored our coats to us, but as we turned to leave, a final question darted into my head.
“I wonder if you might shed some light on an unsolved mystery,” I said to Gracie. “It concerns the Bogs.”
Gracie’s jaw tightened ominously, but she didn’t explode, so I went ahead with my query.
“When I was at Risingholme,” I said, “Lord and Lady Boghwell seemed to think I was some sort of filmmaker. Do you have the faintest idea why they would they jump to such an odd conclusion?”
A wicked gleam lit Gracie’s blue eyes.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” she said. “So does anyone who lives round here. We’ve all seen the lorries coming and going from Risingholme, and we’ve heard about the fans who sneak onto the grounds to take souvenir snaps.”
“The raving mad fans?” I said as a bell went off in the back of my mind.
“They’d have to be raving mad to want souvenir snaps of that rat’s nest,” Gracie opined, “but they’re the sort who like rats.” She clasped her hands to her remarkable bosom, like a child anticipating a Christmas present. “Oh, you’re going to love this. I felt as though I’d died and gone to heaven when I found out what was going on over there.”
“For pity’s sake, Gracie, spit it out,” Bree urged. “I can’t stand the suspense!”
Gracie planted her hands on her hips, lifted her nose in the air, and said, “The hoity-toity Bogs make ends meet by letting film companies use their house and grounds as backdrops for movies—horror movies! The kind that go straight to DVD!”
Gracie crowed with triumphant laughter while Bree and I chuckled appreciatively at a punch line I hadn’t seen coming.
Shanice had been right, I thought, as Bree and I made our way to the Range Rover. If she’d told me how Lord Boghwell had learned filmmaking jargon, I would not have believed her.
Nineteen
Bree waved good-bye to the cement fish as Shangri-la’s white gates closed behind us. While I negotiated the winding lanes that would take us back to the main motorway, she propped her feet on the dashboard and peered meditatively through the windshield.
“Do you think we’ll ever find Mikhail?” she asked.
“Of course we will,” I answered firmly. I glanced at her, then nudged her with my elbow. “I found you, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” she said with a crooked smile. “Thanks for doing that, by the way.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said, “and don’t ever underestimate the power of unrelenting, rock-ribbed stubbornness. My mother didn’t call me her bullheaded baby girl for nothing, Bree. Once I decide to do something, it gets done.”
“The Tereschchenkos were another dead end,” Bree pointed out.
“No, they weren’t,” I retorted. “They were another step on the tea cake trail, leading us ever closer to our quarry.”
Bree giggled. “Never let it be said that you don’t have a way with words, Lori.”
“I’m not waxing lyrical,” I protested. “I’m pointing out the obvious. Wherever we go, we find Russian tea cakes lurking in the background. I didn’t need to see the old book in Gracie’s kitchen to know who’d written the recipe in it.”
“The same person who wrote it in the other receipt books,” said Bree.
“Who happens to be a person familiar with authentic Russian recipes,” I said. “And what about Lady Barbara Booker? We would have gone to Tappan Hall eventually, because Amanda Pickering worked there, but Gracie has given us an even better reason to go there.”
“Lady Barbara’s childhood pal,” said Bree, nodding.
“The boy she mentioned to Tony Thames has to be Mikhail,” I insisted. “I mean, how many Russian children lived around here when Lady Barbara was a youngster? She’s our best lead yet, and thanks to Gracie, we have an easy entrée to her home.”
“Gracie sent us,” said Bree.
“Those three magic words will open Tappan Hall’s doors for us,” I said bracingly. “We won’t even have to pretend to be journalists. We can simply introduce ourselves as Gracie’s friends.” I glanced at my wristwatch. “I wish we could go there now, but I have to get dinner going, then pick up the boys. We don’t have enough time at our disposal to do Lady Barbara justice.”
“It may take us a while to see her anyway,” Bree reminded me. “The woman’s in her nineties and in poor health. We can’t go barging in on her if she’s having a bad day.”
“Let’s hope she’s having a good one tomorrow,” I said, “because that’s when you and I are tackling Tappan Hall. Unless you’ve given up on Mikhail.”
“Me? Give up on Mikhail? Never!” Bree declared, planting her feet on the floor and sitting up straighter. “I can be as stubborn as you, Lori. Together, we’re invincible!”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I temporized, “but we do make a good team.”
Bree gazed at the passing countryside for a while, then said, “I wonder what kind of stories Daisy made up about Gracie Thames?”
“I’m sure they were wonderful,” I said. “How could they be anything else? Gracie’s a national treasure.”
“So is Shangri-la,” Bre
e said.
Since I considered Shangri-la to be a national disgrace, I gave Bree an incredulous, sidelong look before asking carefully, “Are you serious?”
“I’m totally serious,” she replied. “Gracie has fabulous taste.”
“Does she?” I said doubtfully.
“The 1870s meet the 1970s,” said Bree. “It’s brilliant! I can’t wait to get cracking on the article.”
The generation gap, I thought, was sometimes unbridgeable.
“You made some pretty spectacular promises to Gracie,” I observed. “I seem to recall you throwing around phrases like ‘worldwide readership’ and ‘glossy magazine.’”
“I’ll keep every promise I made to Gracie,” said Bree. “Seventies retro is hotter than hot at the moment, but, to my knowledge, no one’s had the nerve to fill a Georgian house with it, not since the seventies, at any rate. Sectional sofas and disco-ball drinks cabinets in the drawing room? Fantastic!” She looked at me with complete self-assurance. “No worries, Lori. Once I show your photographs to a few editors, they’ll be falling all over themselves to publish my piece.”
I pictured hundreds of gold cupids on my bedroom ceiling, vowed never to be a slave to fashion, and drove on.
• • •
Bree cloistered herself in the guest room when we returned to the cottage, so I fetched Rob and Will from Morningside without her and shielded her from them until dinnertime. She arrived at the dining room table with the glazed and puffy eyes of someone who’s spent too much time staring at a computer screen, but the boys’ hearty greetings pulled her out of her daze and a large helping of lentil stew restored her to full consciousness.
“Madeleine Sturgess’s website will be up and running by the middle of next week,” she announced. “She’s using your photographs and my text, but she came up with the tagline: Hayewood House: Luxury accommodations for the discerning traveler. Maddie reckons anyone clever enough to know what ‘discerning’ means will be sufficiently discerning to qualify as a guest.”
I laughed. “Maddie’s been clever as well. Travelers looking for bargains avoid luxury accommodations, so she’s already whittled her share of the market down to the select few she wishes to entertain at Hayewood House.” I drew a vertical line in the air. “Score one for Mrs. Sturgess.”
“Score two for Mrs. Sturgess,” Bree corrected me. “An editor at Heavenly Hostelries magazine bought my article on Hayewood House. He’ll publish it in the online and the print editions as soon I add Maddie’s Web address to it. The publicity should pull in all the punters she can handle.”
“A worldwide readership online and a glossy magazine for the rest of us,” I said admiringly. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Bree. You’ve got the travel-magazine business figured out.”
“An editor I know pulled a few strings for me,” she said modestly.
“Nevertheless,” I said, “Heavenly Hostelries wouldn’t have accepted your piece if it hadn’t been well written. Maybe you should consider taking up the pen for a living.”
“The pen?” she scoffed. “Writer’s cramp and ink-stained fingers are old school, Lori. I’ll use a computer to write or I won’t write at all.”
“You wrote with lemon juice,” Rob reminded her.
“And a toothpick,” Will added.
“So I did,” Bree acknowledged. “But writing secret messages isn’t the same as writing an article for publication.”
“Why not?” asked Will.
“You could write an invisible article for publication,” Rob said reasonably, though I wasn’t convinced he knew what “publication” meant.
“Yes,” said Bree, “I could, but . . .”
I’m not sure how, but the discussion that followed ended with the boys presenting their flashlights to Bree, to aid her in playing spies. She accepted the flashlights gravely, promised to return them when her mission was completed, and carried them with her into the more tranquil precincts of the guest room.
As I read a bedtime story to Will and Rob, I couldn’t help wondering whether Bree was having second thoughts about babysitting Coral Bell’s rambunctious brothers.
• • •
Aunt Dimity made a cogent observation later that evening, after I told her about Tony Thames’s family history.
It seems we can’t count on names to guide us in our quest. Sergei Sturgess can trace his English roots back to the Vikings, while Tony Thames is the Cockney grandson of a Russian-Jewish fish peddler.
“Tony Thames was born and raised in London,” I said. “I can’t understand how the Boghwells could mistake him for a foreigner.”
I can. As far as Lord and Lady Boghwell are concerned, London’s East End is a foreign country. It’s as strange and alien to them as Outer Mongolia, and the people who live there have no right to call themselves English.
“Huh,” I grunted irritably. “In the Bogs’ tiny minds, the only people who have a right to call themselves English are the direct descendants of Queen Boudica.”
Lord and Lady Boghwell would never approve of a rabble-rouser like Boudica. If she’d had a well-mannered and well-to-do sister, on the other hand . . .
Aunt Dimity’s absurd suggestion restored my good humor. I grinned and decided to waste no more energy excoriating the Bogs.
“The point is,” I said, “Gracie and Tony aren’t our bad guys. They haven’t lived at Shangri-la long enough to have anything to do with Mikhail. They have, however, lived there long enough to impose their dreadful sense of style on it. Honestly, Dimity, they’ve scooped the soul out of the house and replaced it with a void. The decor is as sterile as a laboratory’s, all chrome and plastic and acres of white nothingness. Bree’s crazy about it, but I think it’s a completely inappropriate way to furnish a classic Georgian house.”
It’s undoubtedly inappropriate, Lori, but you must admit that Gracie’s furnishings are more pristine than the Boghwells’.
“Gracie’s furnishings are more pristine than mine,” I protested, “but I still wouldn’t use them in the cottage.”
You weren’t raised in the East End. Gracie grew up in a filthy, noisy, overcrowded environment. Is it any wonder that, when given the opportunity, she created a clean, sleek, and uncluttered home? Her taste may not be as sophisticated as yours, Lori, and she may not share your sense of history, but when you consider her background, I’m sure you’ll understand why Shangri-la is her idea of heaven on earth.
“Her swimming pool is pink,” I muttered.
Pink is a common color in coral reefs.
“I still think it’s dreadful,” I grumbled, “but I’ll make an effort to understand it.”
You like Gracie, though, even if you don’t like her sense of style.
“I adore Gracie,” I said readily. “I can’t imagine anyone—barring the Bogs and their ilk—who wouldn’t adore Gracie. She’s generous, smart, funny, and loving. She made me feel like a heel for complaining about Bill’s business trips.”
Good.
I wrinkled my nose at the journal, then said, “I wish she didn’t drink so much, though. I think she hits the bottle because she’s lonely.” I sighed. “I feel as though I’ve met a lot of lonely women recently.”
Go on.
“Well, there’s Maddie Sturgess, for a start,” I said. “Daisy’s story about a lonely queen in a castle isn’t far off the mark. Maddie’s children have left home and her husband spends five days out of seven in London. If you ask me, she came up with the guest house venture in order to have some company.”
Do you believe Frances Wylton to be lonely?
“No,” I said. “Her husband works at home, but even when he’s not around, she’s comfortable with being on her own.” I shook my head. “Shanice must be lonely, though. Servants come and go too quickly at Risingholme for her to build relationships with them. That’s why she took such a shine to Daisy and that, in turn, is why she protected Amanda from the Bogs. The longer Amanda stayed at Risingholme, the more time Shanice would get to spen
d with Daisy.”
And Gracie?
“Her children have left home, too,” I said. “When Daisy showed up . . . Well, Gracie said it herself: She loved having a kid around the house again. With Daisy gone, Gracie has no one to talk to. She’s all alone in her plastic paradise and drinking like a fish.”
I agree with you about Frances Wylton, but I believe you’ve misread the other women, Lori. Madeleine Sturgess isn’t desperate to fill her home with strangers. She’s an enterprising businesswoman embarking on a project that will allow her to utilize the skills she’s acquired as the chatelaine of Hayewood House. Shanice is a compassionate caregiver who fulfills her maternal instincts by looking after two foolish but frail old people.
“What about Gracie?” I asked.
I’ve already expressed my views on what you condescendingly call her “plastic paradise.”
“What about her drinking?” I pressed.
Although I’m sure Gracie enjoyed Daisy’s company, I doubt that Daisy’s disappearance turned her into an alcoholic. Gracie comes from a drinking culture, Lori. Her parents probably took her with them to the pub before she was old enough to walk. Her drinking habits may seem extreme to you, but I imagine her family and friends regard them as unexceptional. As for her alleged loneliness . . .
“Alleged loneliness?” I said. “Now that Daisy and Amanda are gone, she’s stuck at Shangri-la with no one but Cook and Divina for company.”
You’re judging her entire life by one day, Lori. If what you’ve told me is true, Gracie spends very little time alone at Shangri-la. Her husband’s trips abroad seem to be the exception rather than the rule and it’s not as if her children have emigrated to the dark side of the moon. If they wished to distance themselves from their parents, they wouldn’t have involved themselves in the family business. I’ll wager Tony Three, David, Naomi, and Talia spend as much time with their mother at Shangri-la as she spends with them in London. Then there are the bowling tournaments, the cocktail parties, the pool parties . . . Gracie Thames strikes me as a busy, happy woman, not a lonely one. Why would you think any of the women you’ve met of late are lonely?
Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince Page 16