by Emily Queen
Evelyn rounded the corner and caught sight of him. “There you are. You simply must get dressed, darling,” she said, as though she had forgotten her previous statement regarding their planned arrival time.
“Yes, yes, Evelyn.” Cecil hushed his wife, with a wave of his hand. “All in due time. First, I’d like to say hello to my daughter, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, of course. I only meant that—” Evelyn began.
Her husband interrupted gently. “I know what you meant, dear.”
The look he cast at his wife expressed the high regard in which he held her. Rosemary had always appreciated that, despite how anyone else viewed her mother, she continued to hold Cecil’s affections even after decades of marriage. Her father was a gentle man, a scholar at heart, and a businessman by necessity. Having inherited a depleted fortune, he had done quite well for himself, restoring the family name through good old hard work and determination.
Rosemary gave her father a kiss on each cheek, accepted the adoring look in his eyes when he gazed at her, and quickly exited once he had tottered off to ready himself for the party.
Upon arriving at Vera’s, a butler she didn’t recognize greeted Rosemary—Lorraine Blackburn went through staff at an alarming rate—and directed her up the lavish marble staircase that was as familiar to her as her own foyer. Rose and Vera had met in grade school, fallen in love with one another, and inspired a friendship between their mothers that was almost as strong as their own. At the time, Mrs. Blackburn had been a shell of her fabulous self. Now, having lost a husband, Rosemary understood far more about the woman’s state of mind than she had as a child.
They had all lost, but both Blackburn women had taken the pain and turned it into an otherworldly strength of character that most people didn’t recognize as a coat of armor. Often accused of callousness, Vera followed her mother’s example and let the opinions of most roll off her back like inconsequential raindrops.
Now, Vera stood before a large gilt-framed mirror and twirled around as she saw Rosemary approaching. Her expression changed from a welcoming smile to a look of absolute horror when she took in Rosemary’s outfit.
“Undress immediately. You are not wearing funeral garb to an anniversary party. In fact, when we get back to London I’m coming over to clean out your wardrobe. Now, you will go into my dressing room and put this on.” She handed Rosemary a hanger with far too little material clinging to it, and pointed toward the door, “No arguments.”
“As if arguing would make any difference, except to our arrival time,” Rosemary joked with a laugh as she took the proffered garment. “Fine, fine, I’ll be out in a minute,” she promised after noting the raised eyebrow Vera shot her way. Once she was alone, she took a minute to look at the fringed frock her friend had chosen. Still black, but with a far more daring neckline than the one she’d brought with her, it hugged her slim hips in all the right places while showing a moderate amount of sheer black-stockinged leg. A triple strand of pearls and rhinestones covered enough of her décolletage for her to remain appropriate, and a pair of black, diamante-accented pumps with a Cuban heel completed the ensemble.
Vera pushed into the dressing room and surveyed her friend. “Here, I have earrings and a bracelet to match.” She sat Rosemary down at a cluttered vanity table, rolled her hair into perfect finger waves, and added more kohl to her eyes to create a smoky effect. “Now, you look absolutely perfect!”
“Next to you, I will always look like a canceled stamp. Though tonight, perhaps, I won’t be pegged for a spinster.” Andrew would want Rosemary to be happy, and feeling attractive—in her own way, at least—let her shrug off some of the mantle of sadness constantly draped over her shoulders.
Smoothing her hands down the front of her dress, Rosemary cautioned her friend. “Remember, Vera, this isn’t just a social call. We’re trying to find out whatever we can about Mr. Barton’s death threat. This is serious business.”
“Yes, I know, my love. I am at your service.” Vera dipped into a dainty curtsy, and Rosemary couldn’t help but let loose another smile.
Barton Manor sat atop an expanse of rolling hills, and the driveway snaked through an elaborate garden that had just burst into bloom. Daffodils, peonies, and tulips lined the path, and grew here and there in strategically placed clumps. The steeple of a small chapel visible in the distance contributed to the charming atmosphere.
Giving the impression they were guarding the manor, a pair of sculptured topiaries in the shape of lions flanked the gate. Rosemary suddenly remembered having seen those lions before and decided she would have a personal conversation with Grace at the first opportunity. Had Grace recognized her as an old acquaintance when she’d arrived at Lillywhite Investigations, and if so, why hadn’t she said something at the time?
Moreover, why couldn’t Rosemary remember Grace? The hole in her memory was becoming worrisome.
“A bit pretentious, don’t you agree?” Vera said under her breath, as if her home wasn’t just as elegant. Yet, there was something about Barton Manor that did appear pretentious, just as had Vera pointed out.
Pursing her lips, Rosemary attempted to quantify the difference. Both properties boasted meticulously groomed lawns fading back to several copses of trees, sharply edged gardens in spring bloom, with many-roomed mansions as the centerpiece. The difference might lie, she mused, in the pink-shading-to-red blooms in the gardens. Lorraine preferred a riot of cheerful color to a rigid palette. Then again, it might have been the presence of a small grouping of headstones surrounded by an iron fence that ruined the symmetry of the view and lent a slightly sinister air. Rose couldn‘t imagine why anyone would want to situate a house adjacent to a graveyard, no matter how quaint the chapel grounds might appear from a distance.
“It lacks a welcoming feel; that much is certain. Though the view of the hillside is enviable,” Rosemary murmured.
Vera’s driver maneuvered the car to a stop and held the rear door open for his mistress and her friend. A stoic butler clad in a crisp black tuxedo with a starched white shirt opened the door before anyone could knock, and took their names.
“Follow me to the ballroom.” He walked briskly through an elegant foyer and towards the sounds of music emanating from a room at the end of a long hallway. Rosemary glanced at the family portraits that lined the wall along the foyer, recognizing a younger Grace surrounded by two people who Rosemary guessed to be Mr. and Mrs. Barton, and an attractive boy on the cusp of manhood.
On the other side of the entrance, a door opened and a man ducked out of it. Everything about him could be described as medium, from his stature and build to the color of his brown hair and matching suit. His eyes darted around the room before landing on Rose and Vera. He pasted a smile on his face and made his way toward them.
“Mr. Cuthburt, you are aware that the rest of the manor is closed off for the party, are you not?” The butler said, his tone icy.
Mr. Cuthburt let out a husky laugh and nearly managed to suppress an eye roll. “Yes, Geoffrey, my good man. I think the fact that I am a regular visitor to Barton Manor ought to grant me some leniency, don’t you agree?”
It was a challenge, and one to which Geoffrey had no intention of rising. “Of course, Mr. Cuthburt. Ladies, the ballroom is through there,” he said in a clipped tone before taking his leave.
Rosemary and Vera ignored the awkward situation and followed Mr. Cuthburt’s unimpressive figure through the entrance.
Chapter Five
Twinkling chandeliers lit the ballroom with a golden glow, and as Rosemary and Vera entered, a waiter dressed just as formally as the butler offered flutes of champagne. In one corner, a live band played a jaunty tune that invited one to tap a foot to the beat.
Rosemary felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Grace Barton looking significantly more composed than she had two days before, though there was a tightness around her eyes to attest she still had a lot on her mind
“Hello, Grace, what a
lovely party. I hope you don’t mind that I brought Vera Blackburn along.”
“Surely not, Mrs. Lillywhite,” she said. “The more the merrier.”
“Grace, please, I think we’re past the point of formality considering we have a history,” Rosemary said and left it at that. Andrew’s words echoed in her head, Never offer up more information than you must. Insinuate and then wait. Let them come to you. He’d been speaking of a suspect, and Grace was hardly that. Still, the same rules applied.
The woman blushed and looked between Vera and Rosemary as though embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to mislead you. In fact, I didn’t realize who you were until after I’d left your flat. I hope you understand.” Grace looked shyly in Vera’s direction, and Rosemary recognized her expression. She’d seen it on the children with whom she’d attended school, on the men who watched Vera’s performances with bated breath, and on the few women who had enough self-confidence not to be intimidated by her brilliance. The rest, convinced she was a snake in the grass just waiting to pick off their beaus, tended to regard Vera with jealousy-laced malice. If Rosemary wasn’t mistaken, Grace idolized Vera, and would have liked to be her friend.
“It’s perfectly okay. I didn’t recognize you, either. I hope you didn’t take offense,” Rosemary replied.
Grace shook her head. “No, none at all. I know how difficult our school years were for you, and it’s not as though we were terribly close.” Bits and pieces of memory swam up from the depths of Rosemary’s subconscious, and with the puzzle falling into place, she finally pulled the image of a younger Grace to the surface.
Quiet and shy, Grace had been a girl who had always followed the rules and therefore had few friends. Of course, that was years ago. In all likelihood, she had changed since then. Most people did.
Once the appropriate pleasantries had been exchanged, Grace, taking a surreptitious look around as she did, led Rosemary and Vera out of the ballroom and into the hallway where they could speak privately.
“The way I see it, whoever wrote that note is probably here tonight. Father has invited a slew of his business associates and several close friends. It’s a place to start, anyway. Later, we’ll sneak away and look at the letter.”
“Perfect,” Rosemary replied. “For now, I’d like to observe everyone present as well as your father, so I think it would be best if we mingled. Keep your eyes open for anything out of the ordinary, or anyone—besides us—who wasn’t on the guest list.”
Over Grace’s shoulder, Rosemary spotted her mother and father engaged in a lively conversation with the guests of honor. “Introduce us around a little and then we can split up.”
“All right, but let’s meet back here once Father has given his toast. They’ll dance, and then we can slip out,” Grace suggested as she parted the crowd and approached the group.
“Cecil, you old dog,” Mr. Barton boomed. “You know how much business gets done on the golf course. Why can’t I convince you to join the club? I play with Arthur and Ernest every Wednesday, and it’s been well worth the monthly fee.”
Mrs. Barton placed a hand on Evelyn’s arm. “By all means, send Cecil off to chase the little white ball. Take the free time to go to the spa. I recommend the muscle-lifting treatment. As you can see, it took five years off my face. You must try one, I insist.”
The words alone could have been taken as a friendly suggestion, but something in the tone of Mrs. Barton‘s voice turned them into an underhanded insult. Come to think of it, the way Mr. Barton had spoken to her father was enough to make Rosemary take an immediate dislike to the man. It wasn’t the first time she’d been put in a position where a client’s personality rubbed her the wrong way, and so she shoved her opinions away and vowed to approach this case with an open mind. Just because the Bartons were utter snobs didn’t mean Mr. Barton deserved to be murdered.
“Grace, please fetch me another glass of champagne,” Mrs. Barton ordered her daughter, the words dripping like honey but with a sharp edge that caused Rosemary’s eyes to narrow. Grace’s face turned a discomfited shade of red, but she said nothing and scurried off to do her mother’s bidding.
“I will pencil you in for this week, Cecil. I insist.” Mr. Barton was still carrying on about golf, much to the displeasure of her father.
Mr. Woolridge merely smiled, and Rosemary guessed it wasn’t the first time he had been forced to deal with the likes of men such as Mr. Barton. “Not my cup of tea, Edgar. Not my cup of tea. Oh, hello Rosemary. You look…” He faltered.
“You look lovely, dear.” Evelyn cut in. The twinkle in her eye let Rosemary know she’d made a misstep. Wearing Vera’s fashionable dress had only served as ammunition for her mother’s theory she’d come here to nab herself a man. “Eva, Edgar, this is our daughter, Rosemary. I believe she is friends with Grace.”
“Hello, hello.” Edgar Barton nodded, his eyes sliding just south of Rosemary’s neckline. She fought back the urge to say something saucy and instead allowed him to kiss her hand even though the feel of his lips on her skin made her stomach churn.
“And this is Rosemary’s friend, Vera Blackburn,” Evelyn continued as if she hadn’t noticed Rosemary’s discomfort. Whether or not her mother intended it, introducing Vera took the attention off Rosemary completely, which was just fine with her. Vera was used to older men fawning over her and took Mr. Barton’s admiration in stride. The same couldn’t be said for his wife, who eyed Vera with venom in her eyes. It looked as though her husband was about to make another unwelcome comment when a handsome man approached the group, his eyes fastened on Rosemary in a far less obnoxious manner than Mr. Barton’s had done.
“Theodore, where have you been all evening?” Mrs. Barton asked while Rose tried to dislodge Vera’s elbow from her ribs. Never one to employ subtlety, Vera’s gaze flicked from Rosemary to the man named Theodore with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. “You know Mr. and Mrs. Woolridge, and this is their daughter Rosemary and her friend, Vera Blackburn,” Mrs. Barton continued.
Theodore smiled an enigmatic smile and took Rosemary’s hand while nodding to Vera, “It’s a pleasure, Miss Woolridge.”
“Actually, it’s Mrs. Lillywhite,” Rosemary said automatically, and then blushed.
Her mother, unable to allow such a specimen of a man to believe Rosemary unavailable, quickly jumped in to explain, “Our poor Rosemary is a widow.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Theodore said, his eyes filled with sincerity, “and please, call me Teddy. Can I interest the two of you in accompanying me to the bar?”
Vera practically pushed Rosemary toward him, and they bade goodbye to the group as Theodore led them away with Rosemary’s hand in his. He let go before the moment turned awkward, but that didn’t help Rosemary’s color return to normal.
“What’s your poison? Actually, let me guess. This is a special talent of mine.” Theodore gazed between Rose and Vera, rubbed his chin for a moment and then pointed towards Rosemary, “A classic G&T for you, possibly with a twist, and for your friend, I’m going with a Negroni. Was I close?”
Rose battled the urge to lie and say he was wrong, but a giggle she hadn’t been expecting escaped her lips. “Yes, you’re right on the money. I will take that twist.”
“Make mine a Boulevardier please,” said Vera, “but I’ll give you credit, that’s a handy talent, especially at parties.”
Teddy grinned, and Rosemary believed she could imagine exactly what he must have looked like as a child. “Here you go,” he said, handing over the drinks. Rosemary took a sip and then held onto her glass. The last thing she needed was to get drunk and miss out on a vital clue. Teddy Barton was distraction enough.
It looked as though he might have been preparing to ask her to dance when a velvety voice cut through the band’s music. “Well, hello, Theodore,” the voice purred. Rosemary whipped her head around to see who was speaking and her gaze landed on a spectacularly attractive woman wearing a dress that barely skimmed her thighs. Never one to enjoy being
upstaged, Vera let out a huffing sound.
“Marjorie,” Theodore answered in a dry tone that nearly elicited another giggle from Rosemary. If she weren’t mistaken, he didn’t find the woman nearly as enchanting as Marjorie wished he did. “Meet Rosemary Lillywhite and Vera Blackburn. Ladies, Marjorie Ainsworth.”
“Charmed, I’m sure.” Marjorie flashed a faux smile toward the women, turned her back to them, and spoke directly to Theodore as if they’d ceased to exist. “Come dance with me, Teddy. Please?” Her long black lashes fluttered and her deep blue eyes sparkled from beneath a blond fringe of finger curls that shined in the twinkling lights of the chandelier above.
She ran one manicured hand up Theodore’s arm, pressing herself against him as much as she could and leaning in to give him an unobstructed view of her considerable assets. His chiseled jaw clenched with irritation, and his dark eyes turned stormy beneath a prominent brow. The expression ought to have made him appear formidable, but it only accentuated his good looks.
“I’m sorry, Marjorie, but I’ve just been told I’m needed elsewhere. I’ll see you later. You too, ladies,” Teddy said, shooting Rosemary an apologetic look and then nearly running off in the opposite direction. Vera was shaking with barely concealed laughter, and once again Rosemary resisted the urge to say something her mother would consider unladylike.
Marjorie stared after Teddy as though thoroughly baffled by his sudden departure, which only made the situation all the funnier. As soon as Theodore disappeared, a gainly, dark-haired gentleman approached Marjorie. He was attractive, or at least he believed he was. Yet there was something about his appearance that just seemed smarmy. Rosemary was sure he had been watching for Teddy’s departure and had waited to approach the woman once she was alone.
“Heya, Marjie. I saved you a dance. What do you say?” He held out a hand as if expecting her to fall into his arms.