by Maia Chance
“I know what came over you. Your lipstick melted and you panicked.”
I felt like bursting into tears, from fright and relief and embarrassment. Instead, I took the Delica Kissproof lipstick and a hankie from my purse and, hands shaking, repaired my lips.
* * *
We arrived in Stony Brook without seeing Mr. Egghead’s motorcar again. When we parked in front of 11 Rosebud Lane, I had to peel my thighs off the hot leather seat. The first thing I did when I got out was inspect the damage to the Duesy’s rear.
“Oh dear,” Berta said. “The spare tire looks as though it has been chewed up and spit out.”
I told myself to buck up, that it was frivolous to have a lump in one’s throat about a spare tire. But I couldn’t afford to fix it, you see.
I collected Cedric, and the three of us approached Miss Cotton’s house. It was a neat shingled cottage with white trim surrounded by a picket fence and climbing pink roses. Bees droned and birds twittered.
“What a charming little house,” Berta said, opening the gate. “I could not think poorly of a lady who keeps a house such as this.”
“You’ll be singing a different tune once you meet her,” I whispered. “Miss Cotton has a frozen giblet for a heart.”
“But just look at her petunias.”
15
I hit Miss Cotton’s door knocker.
“I am in the back!” a woman called.
Berta and I circled the cottage, following a moss-edged stone path.
Miss Cotton sat at a table, wearing sunglasses and smoking a cigarette. A floral scarf held back graying hair.
I stopped. “Miss … Cotton?” The Miss Cotton I had known wore tailored tweed and crisp blouses. Not … embroidered gypsy dresses. Yet I recognized her rigid posture, her scarecrow limbs, her prominent nose.
Miss Cotton took a pull from her cigarette in its long holder and blew smoke. She set aside a book. “If you’re peddling those cheap cleaning supplies—”
“Miss Cotton,” I said, “I am Lola Woodby, née DuFey. I was a pupil at your academy several years ago.”
Miss Cotton looked over the tops of her sunglasses. “Lola. It is you. What a surprise. The years have treated you well.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I always thought you would come to no good, but now, well, look at you.” Miss Cotton swept her cigarette down and up. “All grown up. Healthy, hearty, and hale, just like your sister, Lillian.”
In my arms, Cedric warbled a growl. I shushed him.
“And who is this?” Miss Cotton turned to Berta.
“Mrs. Lundgren,” Berta said. “Private detective.”
I opened my mouth and shut it again. I hadn’t thought to discuss it with Berta, but I wasn’t too keen on revealing my new trade to the ruthless tormentor of my eighteenth year.
“Did you say ‘private detective’?” Miss Cotton asked.
“Go on,” Berta whispered to me.
I swallowed. “Yes. Both of us are private detectives.”
Miss Cotton laughed.
Berta said, “We are the Discreet Retrieval Agency.”
“Oh my. Lola Woodby, lady gumshoe in last year’s hat. Mm. Now I recall hearing something to the effect that your husband left you penniless. I commend you, Lola. Most women in your position would simply remarry.”
“We would like to ask you some questions about Grace Whiddle,” I said.
“I do not speak of my students. What is more, during the summer holiday, I make it a point not to think of my students. How did you find my house, anyway?”
“Gumshoes have methods,” Berta said.
I said, “Miss Cotton, did you know that Grace Whiddle fled Willow Acres Health Farm yesterday just before Muffy Morris’s corpse was found? No one knows where she’s gone.”
“What are you suggesting?” Miss Cotton tapped ash. “That Grace murdered her future mother-in-law? Shouldn’t the police be handling this? Who hired you?”
“I am not at liberty to say,” I said. Golly, but that was a liberating phrase.
“Oh, very well,” Miss Cotton said. “Why don’t you sit? Would you like a highball? I seem to remember that’s what you were drinking when I found you and your horrid little friend Daisy getting lathered on the roof during ballroom dancing class.”
My mouth watered as Berta and I sat. It had been ages—okay, three days—since I’d had a highball. “Why, yes, I—”
“We do not partake of spirits on the job,” Berta said in a stony voice.
I squelched a sigh.
“I thought that only applied to the police,” Miss Cotton said.
“You will find that we are more serious about our work than the police are,” Berta said.
“What I would like to know first, Miss Cotton,” I said, “is what sort of girl Grace Whiddle is.”
“What sort of girl? Why, the same as the rest of them. Spoiled, sullen, rich little princess. She was one of the wallflower set. I must admit I was surprised to hear of her engagement to Gilbert Morris, because I had her pegged for one of those three-season debutantes who eventually marry a businessman from Kansas or else one of those elderly European aristos who are on their third wife and always seem so very sinister.”
“Grace is not a good matrimonial prospect?” I asked.
“Well, no, she isn’t. Rather dull and plain, hideous posture, plump, prone to spots on the chin, that sort of thing. And she scarcely ever speaks.”
“But she is an avid diarist,” I said.
“Oh? I had no idea.”
“Cut the cauliflower,” I said. “We know for a fact that you confiscated Grace’s diary at school only a few weeks ago, and that you read it.”
“Of course I didn’t read it.”
“What was in Grace’s diary?”
“I shall say it again: I did not read it.”
I was convinced Miss Cotton was fibbing. Her sunglasses hid her eyes, but she had that sneezy look people get when they’re bottling up a secret.
“The contents of the diary could be the key to Mrs. Morris’s death,” I said.
“But I read in the newspapers that she drank herself to death.”
Oops. “Of course she did. But why did she drink herself to death?”
Miss Cotton blew smoke. “Oh, very well. You two are persistent, aren’t you? Like fruit flies. I did dip into the diary—briefly—but I assure you it contained nothing but girlish nonsense about her mother and her fiancé and the servants’ gossip and what she ate for dinner. She simply recorded all the mind-numbing minutiae of her useless existence. No cloak-and-dagger stuff, I’m sorry to say.”
Berta said, “Did anyone besides you see the diary before the girls stole it back, Miss Cotton?”
“Yes. Eugene Van Hoogenband saw it.”
“Van Hoogenband?” I said. “But why?”
“Why?” Miss Cotton toyed with her silver cigarette lighter. “Because he is Josie’s father, of course. Josie had been passing notes in Personality Development class—to Grace, you see—at the same time that Grace was writing in her diary. It was, as it were, a two-girl crime.”
Josie hadn’t mentioned that bit.
Miss Cotton continued. “I called in the parents of both girls for a disciplinary meeting. Mrs. Whiddle canceled at the last minute, but Mr. Van Hoogenband came—although he is, as you must know, tremendously busy with his steel company. I allowed him to peruse the diary while I went to take a telephone call in the front office. Mr. Van Hoogenband wished to keep the diary, but I could not allow that. It did not belong to his daughter. In any event, you two are barking up the wrong tree with this diary nonsense. If it’s murder—”
I said, “I didn’t—”
“—then Miss Wilbur is your woman.”
“Violet Wilbur?”
“Mm. You see, when I read the newspaper report about Muffy Morris’s death, I was surprised to learn that Violet Wilbur was also checked into Willow Acres at the time, and that in a brief interview she indi
cated that she was not acquainted with Muffy.”
“Neither Muffy nor Violet gave any hint of a prior acquaintance,” Berta said.
“Well, that is peculiar,” Miss Cotton said, “because Violet and Muffy knew each other for years. Decades, actually. They attended finishing school in Switzerland, near Lake Geneva, at the same time. Institut Alpenrose.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“Because I attended Institut Alpenrose as well. I was one year behind them, but I remember them well. Both of them were rebellious troublemakers. Sneaking out to drink beer with local boys, smoking behind the carriage house, that sort of thing.” Miss Cotton turned her sunglasses in my direction. “Rather like you, Lola.”
“Why would they have pretended not to know each other?” I asked.
“You know how it is. Schoolgirls do silly things, things they sometimes regret for the rest of their lives. I don’t know. Now, I really must ask you to leave. Be a couple of old dears and see yourselves out through the garden. Oh, and Lola—I don’t like to point out such things, but I think you ought to know that you have lipstick on your teeth.”
* * *
“Mrs. Woodby,” Berta said when we were motoring away down Rosebud Lane, “do not look in the rearview mirror.”
“Huh?” I jolted up in my seat to look in the rearview mirror. Holy gamoly. Mr. Egghead and his tiny pal in the cloche hat were back. Their front fender was mangled, and I got a better look at the pal this time. A blond-bobbed puppet with a red Cupid’s bow. I rewrapped my sweaty palms around the steering wheel. “What should we do?”
“Please focus on the road, Mrs. Woodby.”
“But what does Van Hoogenband want from us?”
“He must be attempting to make certain that we leave his daughter alone. Recall how sheltered she is.”
“I wasn’t banking on thugs when we took on this case, Berta. I really can’t contend with thugs.”
“Of course you can.”
I sneaked another glance in the mirror. Mr. Egghead wasn’t trying to gain on us. It was more like he and his pal were keeping tabs on us. That was tolerable—for the moment. “I’ve got it,” I said. “Violet Wilbur is redecorating Amberley. We could stop there to ask her about that schoolgirl scandal Miss Cotton mentioned—I can always say I wish to visit my sister. Even if Violet isn’t there just now, those two thugs back there won’t be able to get past Amberley’s gatekeeper.”
* * *
Mr. Egghead and his sidekick motored behind us all the way back to Hare’s Hollow, through fields lit with golden sunbeams, past tree groves, train stations, villages, strawberry stands, and mansions.
Chisholm’s gatekeeper let us through Amberley’s gates without question. After all, he had very recently been my gatekeeper. Mr. Egghead didn’t try to get past the gates; he parked across the road. He’d be waiting.
I drove up the long, leafy drive and parked in front of Amberley, with its brown-and-white half-timbering and ivied chimneys. Mullioned windows sparkled in the late afternoon sunlight. It still looked like home to me.
But it wasn’t.
I felt like laying my forehead on the steering wheel and screaming. I also felt a bit like being sick on Chisholm’s drive. Instead, I lifted my chin high and climbed out of the motorcar.
Berta settled back in her seat and shut her eyes. “It is fine to leave Cedric here with me.”
“You’re not coming in?”
“For your sisterly chat? Oh no, no, no. I must have a bit of a nap.”
“Oh, fine,” I grumbled. “Would you let Cedric out for a stretch?”
“His legs are four inches long. I do not think they require stretching.”
“Well, he’s slimming.”
“So you say.”
Lillian answered the door. “Lola,” she said, her blue eyes widening. “What a … nice surprise.”
“Might I come in?”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Miss Wilbur’s here, though, seeing to the decorating, so please don’t act eccentric like you do and upset her. She has fragile nerves, you know. Chisholm’s treating her.” Lillian led me into the drawing room. White drop cloths shrouded the furniture, and one wall was being papered in puce-and-gold stripes by workmen. “I’ve started with the drawing room since Dr. Woodby and I will be entertaining ever so much. You didn’t really entertain here, did you, Lola? Unless you count the tawdry drunken frolics you and Alfie had with people you barely knew.”
“Is that how Chisholm described it to you?”
“Yes.” Lillian said this without even a flicker of shame. She is nineteen years old and devoid of the capacity for shame or humor. Which, since she resembles a marshmallowy pre-Raphaelite angel, is appropriate. I imagine angels never cringe or crack jokes.
“I’ll have you know, Chisholm never once attended a party in my home,” I said, “so he doesn’t know what he’s speaking of.”
“Well, it’s my home now,” Lillian said with a vicious smile, “or it will be soon. Once I’m married and after I’ve managed to dispose of all the bottles of booze and trashy novels I keep finding in cupboards and closets, things are going to be different. Proper.”
“Speaking of proper—” I glanced around. “—I’m surprised you’re here without a chaperone.”
“Mother is upstairs having a lie-down in the guest bedroom. Headache. The paint fumes brought it on.”
There was a God, then.
“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Lillian said. “Raymond Hathorne telephoned Mother at Clyde’s Bluff, trying to find you. Said he met you and was utterly charmed. So nice to know that there is a little hope for you, Lola. Even if it’s with a man in soda pop.”
“Oh. Hello, Mrs. Woodby,” Violet said from the doorway with a stack of fabric swatches in her arms.
“Hello, Miss Wilbur,” I said. “Busted out of the health farm so soon?”
“My stay was but a short one.”
Just long enough for her to be around when Muffy popped off, actually. “Mine, too,” I said. “Those hip-slimming machines are marvelously efficient.”
“Oh?” Violet eyed my hips.
Violet wore a chic dress, and her cheeks shone with rouge cream. Had her stay at Willow Acres brought about these changes in her grooming habits? Because even in her magazine column photograph, she appeared dowdy.
I needed to get rid of Lillian for a while so I could speak with Violet alone. “Lillian, dear, I’m absolutely parched,” I said. “Could you ask the maid to bring some iced lime water? Not lemon.” I smiled at Violet. “I find lemons to be so blasé.”
Lillian opened her mouth as if to object, but she seemed to think better of it after a nervous glance at Violet. “Of course, sister dear,” she said, and swanned away.
16
I eyed the puce-and-gold wallpaper the workmen were smoothing with brushes. “What scrummy wallpaper,” I lied.
“It’s hideous,” Violet said in a flat voice. “Lillian insisted upon it, although I told her that gentlemen do not wish their living spaces to appear so very feminine.” She touched a pearl earring. “When I marry, I shall let my husband make all the decisions. That is the road to matrimonial harmony.”
Maybe, but it was also the roller-coaster ride to festering resentment and excessive éclair consumption.
“Are you to be married?” I asked.
“Well, perhaps. And believe you me, I am ready to defer to the man I love, even to walk the plank for him.” Violet blushed under her rouge cream.
My, my. Violet Wilbur in love? Well, even cactuses bloom from time to time.
“Who’s the lucky fellow?” I asked.
“I don’t like to speak of my private life while working,” Violet said. Her dreamy expression slid off as she watched something over my shoulder.
I turned to see a delivery truck pass the side windows. They’d be heading to the rear service entrance. “Miss Wilbur,” I said, “I must admit I’m surprised to see you back at work so soon after the death of Mrs. Morris
.”
“Why should it surprise you? I am a busy lady.” As if to prove it, Violet barked orders at the workers to straighten a strip of wallpaper. “Boors,” she said to me in an undertone. “And they leave buckets of wallpaper paste simply everywhere.”
“I’m surprised to see you working because you and Muffy were friends,” I said.
“We weren’t friends. I barely knew her.”
“But you went to school together. In Switzerland. Institut Alpenrose, wasn’t it?”
Violet glanced at the workmen and lowered her voice. “That was decades ago. Who told you about that?”
Time for a whopper. “My aunt Penelope attended Institut Alpenrose, and I was just chatting with her on the telephone today and she thought it fishy that you told the newspapers that you didn’t know Mrs. Morris when, in fact, you did.”
Violet’s nostrils pinched. “Well. You may tell your nosy aunt that I was not in the habit of acknowledging Mrs. Morris as an acquaintance because she was a degraded drunk and, what is more, I had not spoken to her since she humiliated herself with a schoolgirl scandal in Switzerland. She was a shockingly wayward and saucy young lady.”
Muffy was wayward and saucy? Miss Cotton had said Violet and Muffy were both naughty as schoolgirls. “What did Muffy do?” I asked.
“I never repeat filth.”
“The night that Muffy died—did you hear or see anything peculiar in the ward?”
“No. I sleep with wax stoppers in my ears. Now, I really must step away. A delivery has arrived that requires my supervision. So nice speaking with you, Mrs. Woodby.” Violet clicked away on her high pumps. She was even wearing seamed stockings.
Whoever Violet’s fellow was, she was certainly head over heels. A lady won’t fiddle with keeping stocking seams straight for just anybody.
Lillian hadn’t yet returned, so I decided to follow Violet. I wished to know why this delivery had her so jumpy. Maybe her secret sweetheart was driving the truck.
Naturally, I knew my way around the house, so I took a shortcut through the dining room wainscoting to a hidden servants’ passage. This led to a hallway outside the kitchen. The delivery was sure to be made at the service entrance at the end of the hallway.