by Lee Strauss
“I think I’ll take my chances on your next soirée.”
Ginger laughed. “Yes, I believe there will be at least one more, though whether it’s a housewarming party or a goodbye party is left to be seen.”
“Ginger!” Ambrosia’s high-pitched voice drew them both back to the sitting room.
“What is it Grandmother?” Ginger said. “Is something the matter?”
The matronly woman pointed upwards. “It’s Felicia. She’s wearing … well practically nothing at all! You must talk to her, Ginger. She simply won’t listen to me. You’d think she was going out for a night of hedonistic dancing the way she’s dressed. She’ll bring scandal and shame down on your home. Oh, I should’ve taken her back to Bray Manor as planned before this dreadful idea of yours came to be. Really, a memorial soirée? Who’s heard of such a thing?”
“Grandmother,” Ginger said, guiding the woman to one of the wingback chairs. “Do calm yourself before you succumb to the vapours. I’ll get you some tea.”
“I’ll do that,” Haley offered, then added with a sly grin. “You go see to Miss Felicia.”
Felicia was halfway down the stairwell when Ginger found her. Her sister-in-law wore a flashy sleeveless evening frock with narrow straps. The strands of beads she wore did little to cover the good amount of bare skin showing.
“Perhaps if you add a shawl, your grandmother’s nerves will be spared.”
“Must I?”
“I have the perfect one you can borrow. It’s a Louise Boulanger.”
Felicia followed Ginger and took a moment to pet Boss who was comfortably snoring on a padded chair. Ginger opened her wardrobe and disappeared inside. A few seconds later she presented a satin, art deco shawl with a foot-long fringe.
“Oh it is lovely,” Felicia said as she draped it over her shoulders.
“And it looks lovely on you,” Ginger said.
Felicia twirled in front of the mirror and sighed blissfully. “I believe Lieutenant Schofield will be pleased!”
“Oh Felicia.”
“Just teasing, sister. I’ll meet you downstairs. Ta ta.”
Ginger breathed in the quiet of her room. She patted Boss. “You’ll need to stay here tonight. Do let me know if someone enters who shouldn’t be here.” Her gaze settled on the photo of Lieutenant Gold on her night table, and she picked it up.
“My love, I don’t know what’s going to happen tonight, but I do hope to get to the bottom of things once and for all. I wish you were here.”
The door chimed. The first of her guests had arrived.
She set the photo back in its place. “Let the games begin.”
Chapter Eighteen
George Hartigan had a self-portrait painted when he turned thirty. It was said that he wanted to commemorate his early success as a businessman and that he thought it would impress future clients who visited him in his office.
When he turned forty, he scoffed at his own self-importance, and the painting was relegated to a short wall behind the door of his study. Ginger had it removed from there and hung prominently over the fireplace for this occasion.
Lady Brackenbury shouted her opinions to Ginger. “He was such a good-looking man. So sad about your mother. Oh dear, they’re both gone now aren’t they, darling?”
Ginger feared Lady Brackenbury might burst into tears. She turned the woman away from the painting and patted her frail hand. “It’s quite all right, Lady Brackenbury.”
“What?”
Ginger raised her voice. “It’s quite all right!”
Ambrosia huffed. “Is she going to be yelling all night?” Ginger looked over Lady Brackenbury’s head and gave her grandmother-in-law a pleading look. The Schofields arrived and Ambrosia could barely contain her look of offence when Mrs. Schofield took the seat beside her and said, “That’s a nice turn-of-the-century frock, Dowager Lady Gold.”
Felicia had attached herself to a dapper-looking Alfred Schofield, dressed smartly in a tuxedo jacket similar in style to those worn by all the men. She giggled and wrapped an auburn curl around one finger. Her charms appeared to be working on poor Alfred.
Inspector Reed stood just beyond by the drawing room door. His tuxedo jacket fit perfectly—black with shiny satin lapels, and a black bow tie on a bright white cotton shirt worn under a shiny white waistcoat. He wore formal trousers and black patent leather shoes, and looked every bit the member of the gentry he was. He grinned at Ginger in a way that made her knees give just a bit. She straightened her shoulders and marched over to him. “What do you think, Inspector?”
Basil Reed held a glass of gin rum cola that was mostly cola. Ginger knew this since she’d prepared the drink herself. The inspector had said he wanted to keep a clear head. She saw the wisdom in that and prepared a scotch and soda—mostly soda—for herself.
“It’s a little early in the evening to say,” Basil Reed responded. “I wonder when it will work it out that the guest list tonight matches the guest list from ten years ago.”
“I hope not too soon.” She laughed. “I’ll have to instruct Pippins to keep the drinks going.”
From her position by the fireplace, Ginger scanned the room. The Brackenburys sat together on the settee. William Hayes and Dr. Longden stood awkwardly next to the drinks trolley, each with one hand holding a drink, the other stuffed into a suit jacket pocket. Though they were engaged in conversation, neither of them looked the other in the eye. Ginger wondered what kind of history they shared.
The doorbell chimed again and Pippins went to answer it.
“It’s either Lord Turnbull or Monsieur and Madame Moreau,” Ginger said. “If it’s Lord Turnbull, remember you’re with me.”
She nudged his arm, and he blinked hard. “I’ll endeavour to do my duty.”
Lord Turnbull entered with a flourish, removing his cloak and top hat and handing them to his valet. Ginger was glad to see Andrew Bailey there: she’d hoped Lord Turnbull would bring him.
Pippins slid in beside Ginger, his narrowed eyes darting to Bailey. “I hope you have your valuables locked up, madam.”
There was an audible gasp when Turnbull entered the drawing room. William Hayes blanched to an even paler shade of white. Lord Brackenbury said, “Oh, my.”
Lord Turnbull presented his guest to Ginger. “Lady Gold, may I introduce Mrs. Harriet Fox.”
Ginger’s heart skipped a beat as she registered the redheaded woman before her. Though she had to be in her mid-forties, Harriet McCallum Fox retained her youthful beauty. The arrival of her father’s former acquaintance, a rival to her mother, was a turn of events Ginger had not anticipated. She expertly kept her facial expression unreadable and welcomed her unexpected guest.
“Nice to see you again, Mrs. Fox,” she said.
“Likewise.”
It was Lord Turnbull’s turn to be surprised. “You two are acquainted?”
Ginger smiled and answered before Harriet McCallum Fox could. “Mrs. Fox was a friend of my father’s. I believe my stepmother was particularly fond of her. This is before Mr. Fox entered the picture.”
Ginger’s look conveyed the question. “Where is Mr. Fox?”
Harriet Fox scowled. “You’re not the only one to lose a husband in the war. Now, do you mind if I get a drink?”
“Of course,” Ginger said. She turned to Lord Turnbull. “I’m so glad you could make it. Might I introduce Mr. Basil Reed?”
Lord Turnbull smirked and shook Basil’s hand. “So you’re the one who got to her first.”
“Indeed,” Inspector Reed said. “And how do you know the Hartigans?”
“Old friend of George’s,” Lord Turnbull said. “Business partners, actually.”
“Really?” Ginger said, then lied. “I thought you barely knew each other. I wasn’t aware you and my father were in business together?”
“It was long ago, just a small thing. Sadly the business didn’t go the way we planned and was soon dissolved.”
“So curious,” Ginger said
lightly. “I’d love to hear more about it.”
“Maybe later,” Turnbull said, his gaze locking on her glass.
“Oh, yes, please do get yourself a drink,” Ginger said.
Lord Turnbull took Ginger up on her offer, and went over to the drinks trolley. Soon after, he held an exotic blue cocktail in one hand as he led Mrs. Fox halfway across the room with the other. Her red evening dress draped seductively over her curves and a crepe skirt bloomed out from her hips. She looked as glamorous as a film star.
“Is that Eunice Hathaway?” Lady Brackenbury shouted. The room went silent and all that was heard was the repeated scratch of a gramophone needle on a record at the end of play.
Finally Lord Brackenbury removed his pipe and spoke. “No dear. That’s Lord Turnbull’s new gal.”
“What?”
“It’s Turnbull’s new gal!”
Basil Reed whispered into Ginger’s ear. “I’m going to surmise that Mrs. Fox and Miss Hathaway resemble each other.”
Good old Pippins put on a new record and Bessie Smith’s voice filled the dead space.
William Hayes approached. “What is he doing here?”
“You don’t like Lord Turnbull,” Ginger said. “Do you?”
“Nobody likes Lord Turnbull. He’s an egomaniac and a bully. If he stays, I’m leaving!”
“Oh, Mr. Hayes,” Ginger said, putting a palm to his chest. “You must stay. Mrs. Thornton has cooked a most delicious roast dinner. Surely you won’t give up a chance for a home-cooked meal because of one distasteful personality?”
William Hayes’ eyes flitted around the room—to Dr. Longden standing alone with a frown on his face—and back to Ginger and the inspector. “You’re right. I’m not going to let Turnbull push me around.”
Mr. Hayes returned to the drinks trolley, and Dr. Longden stepped forward, Ginger supposed to express his grievances as well.
“I fear you’re also not a fan of Lord Turnbull’s either?” she said.
The doctor clicked his tongue. “I’ve known Maxwell Turnbull his whole life. I’m the Turnbull family doctor. Lord and Lady Turnbull doted on him, you see, he was their only child and the only heir. I feared he’d grow up spoiled and entitled and I was right. I tended to his injuries when he was sent home during the war.”
“The scar on his forehead?” Basil Reed asked.
“Yes, I removed the stitches.”
The doctor scanned the floor in deep thought as if he wanted to say something else, but was bound by his oath as a doctor.
“Is something wrong?” Ginger said.
The doctor’s gaze settled on Harriet Fox. “I’m afraid the woman may be in danger.”
Basil looked at him seriously. “Why do you say that?”
“She looks a lot like her. The reddish-blonde hair, a similar figure.”
“And she’s wearing a very similar dress,” Ginger added. She’d noticed the Lucile gown right away.
“Yes,” the doctor said. “Now that you mention it.”
“Why do you think the young woman might be in danger,” Basil pressed.
“His wife died in suspicious circumstances.”
“A fall down the stairs, I believe,” Basil said.
“Yes, that’s right. And this woman looks so much like the one from ten years … wait a minute, is that what this is about? I read in the paper last week that she was the owner of the remains that were found in the attic here.”
“Dr. Longden,” Ginger said softly. “Please don’t give us away. We’re endeavouring to recreate that evening and hopefully get a little closer to bringing Eunice Hathaway some justice.”
“Yes. Of course. I would do anything to keep another young life from being tragically cut short.”
Ginger checked the time. The Moreaus were late. They might not arrive at all. She clapped her hands calling everyone to attention.
“Please, everyone, dinner is ready. Let’s dine together as we remember my father, George Hartigan.”
Glasses lifted and a chorus of cheer emitted for Mr. Hartigan.
Pippins led the way to the dining room as their guests followed, with only Bailey remaining behind should anyone require a drink. Lord and Lady Brackenbury shuffled slowly at the rear. Lord Brackenbury leaned into Ginger and whispered, “Watch out for that Turnbull fella.”
Ginger and Basil waited until the guests were seated and were about to join them when the doorbell chimed.
“That would be the Moreaus,” Ginger said. Since she was near the foyer and Pippins away in the kitchen, she answered it herself.
“Monsieur Moreau!” Ginger said with a perfect French accent. They engaged in the double cheek kiss, a common French greeting. Her smile froze when Monsieur Gaston Moreau introduced his wife.
The woman stared as the bouquet of wild flowers she carried slipped to the floor. “Mon Dieu, is that you, Mademoiselle LaFleur?”
Before Ginger could answer, Madame Moreau threw her arms around Ginger and broke into French.
“Antoinette, I thought you were dead! No one would tell me anything. You saved my life! I can’t believe it’s you!”
Ginger swallowed hard. She remembered Madame Moreau well. During the war she had been known as Mademoiselle Julia Durand. Ginger had run an operation through Julia’s family-run hotel. To secure the Durand family’s trust, Ginger had forged a friendship with the daughter. It had begun as a mission, but in the end, Ginger had grown close to Julia and had shed many tears over the loss of their friendship when she had to ship away.
“I’m sorry,” Ginger said in English. “But you must have me mistaken for someone else.”
Julia Moreau jerked back as if she’d just been slapped. “But you look so much … and sound like …”
Ginger forced a laugh. “Goodness gracious, I must have a doppelgänger!”
Julia looked close to tears. She grabbed onto her husband. “I feel so silly now.”
“Please don’t,” Ginger said.
Pippins arrived to take their coats. Had he been there long enough to witness Julia’s confession? Ginger hoped not.
“Pippins, please collect the blossoms that have fallen to the floor and find a vase.”
“Dinner is ready, Monsieur and Madame Moreau,” Ginger said brightly. “A good meal is what you need.”
Basil Reed led Ginger into the dining room by the elbow and spoke softly into her ear.
“One of these days you’re going to explain what just happened.”
Chapter Nineteen
The dining room table was exquisitely laid out. Fine china, sparkly silverware, crystal vases with garden lilies all glistening under recently dusted electric chandeliers. Ginger made a mental note to give Mrs. Thornton a bonus after this.
Fifteen being an odd number left one person without a corresponding partner, so Ginger had arranged to be seated at the end of the table. She was the hostess of the evening after all.
Basil Reed sat to Ginger’s right with Haley, Felicia, Ambrosia, Julia Moreau, Lady Brackenbury and Dr. Longden down the line. To her left was Lord Turnbull with Harriet Fox beside him, then Alfred Schofield, Mrs. Schofield, Gaston Moreau, Lord Brackenbury and William Hayes.
“Welcome everyone,” Ginger said. “Please do enjoy your meal. Bon appétit!”
Lizzie and Grace dished out the soup, a delectable lobster bisque, while Pippins poured champagne into the empty flutes.
“Smells divine,” Harriet said. “My compliments to the cook.”
“We’re very fortunate to have Mrs. Thornton come back to us after all these years,” Ginger said.
Casual conversation sprung up as the starter was completed and the main course of roast mutton in cream sauce paired with rosemary-covered baked potatoes was brought out.
“I’d like to make a toast,” Ginger said to her guests. She lifted her champagne glass. “To my father, a good and dear man, Mr. George Hartigan.”
A chorus of hear, hear, rang out.
Glasses along the table lifted and ch
ampagne was consumed. When Harriet lifted her glass, she flashed a prominent ruby ring on her finger.
“Mrs. Fox, what a fine ring you have,” Ginger said.
“Isn’t it just beautiful!” Harriet said. “It’s a gift from Maxwell.”
Before Ginger could respond, a loud crash at the sideboard turned all heads. Mrs. Thornton’s face reddened as she curtsied to the table and apologised. “My apologies, Lady Gold. I’m all fingers and thumbs.”
Ginger spotted a silver jug on the floor. “It’s quite all right, Mrs. Thornton. It’s only water.”
Lizzie appeared with the mop and the affair was quickly cleaned away.
Harriet caught the inspector’s eye. “I don’t think we’ve officially been introduced.”
Ginger jumped in. “My apologies. Mrs. Harriet Fox, this is my good friend, Chief Inspector Basil Reed.”
“Inspector!” Harriet said. Her eyes darted to Lord Turnbull who’d gone still.
“Everyone must have a profession,” Basil Reed said. “But tonight, I’m here as Lady Gold’s friend. You must call me Basil.”
Harriet’s painted lips pulled up into a broad smile. “Then you must call me Harriet.”
Ginger wasn’t the only one who didn’t like this rapid move to intimacy between Basil Reed and a suspect who happened to look like a fashion model.
Lord Turnbull made a show of taking Harriet’s hand, the one wearing the ring, and squeezing it. By the way Harriet’s eyes pinched together, and her gaze latched onto Maxwell Turnbull, Ginger guessed he was gripping a little too tight.
“It’s such tremendous good fortune to see you again, Harriet,” Ginger said. Even though the woman’s offer of first name usage was extended to Basil Reed, Ginger took the liberty to use it as well.
“Yes, Ginger, I remember. In Boston, you were quite the precocious child.”
“And you were younger as well.”
Harriet Fox frowned but remained silent. No woman liked to be reminded that they had aged.
“Tell me,” Ginger continued. “Are you still in contact with my stepmother, Sally?”
Harriet smirked. “It was your father I was friends with, not his wife.”