Lucy and the Valentine Verdict (2 page)

The woman stepped forward. She was also, I
noticed, wearing a Victorian era gold watch that hung from a chain
around her neck. Not completely period appropriate if she was going
for the Jazz era, but with a gorgeous relief carving of a stag’s
head and rose gold flowers surrounding it, who would quibble over
time period? Unless, of course, mentioning that the item predated
the rest of her outfit might convince her to let a certain Helena
antiques dealer take it off of her hands.

“Clothing you mean?” she asked. “No worries.
We have clothing and props for all the roles.” Her gaze shifted to
Peter. “Although tall as you are, you might just have to settle for
a prop.” She tilted her head and tittered, slightly enough that I
couldn’t quite justify feeling annoyed at the attention she was
giving him. Well, not
overly
annoyed.

“I’m Lady York, and this is Sir Arthur
Cannon. We’re your hosts.” She gestured to the man who placed a
hand in his vest pocket and gave us a genteel nod.

I could feel Peter looking at me. I
studiously did not look back. He’d agreed to come; he’d have to put
up with a little play acting.

“And this must be Kiska,” the woman said,
running her fingers under my dog’s chin. “If we’d known he was
coming earlier we would have planned something more
Hound of the
Baskervilles
.”

Kiska was not a hound, but I did appreciate
the idea of including him. I immediately forgave her earlier
tittering over Peter’s height.

We followed them inside, making the usual
small talk about weather and how long the two had owned the
property, or how long Sir Arthur had. The couple had been married
for less than a year and had met only a few months before that.

Once past the threshold, I took in my
surroundings. The home’s decor was a rather disturbing mix of
Montana rustic and English manor. A silver tea set waited for us on
a Black Forest inspired table.

I discretely walked around eyeing hall
chairs with bears carved into their wooden backs and a china
cabinet filled with Staffordshire dog figures. There was also a
bookcase with an impressive display of mystery novels, all hardback
and some, I guessed, first editions.

“Just sign here.” Sir Arthur held out an
antique fountain pen to Peter. My boyfriend took it without
fluttering a lash and signed us in.

Suddenly nervous, I glanced around. “Is
anyone else here yet?” I asked.

Lady York smoothed her dress. “One couple.
They arrived this morning and decided to use the extra time to do a
little exploring around the lake.” She cleared her throat. “She
seemed to need a bit of air.”

Her husband gave her a pointed look and then
glanced back at us. “You young have fewer boundaries. We aren’t
used to that.”

Since his wife was far from what I would
call old, I thought it best to just nod and look non-committal. I
did, however, wonder what boundaries this “young” couple might have
crossed and how much air the female half could need to make
exploring the lake in the dead of winter a tempting idea.

I glanced out the front window. Besides the
walks and parking area, which someone had cleared, the snow had to
be two feet deep, with drifts that would probably cover my head if
I chose to do something so idiotic as step into one.

I immediately made the assumption that the
air-needing female was a close relative of Admiral Byrd.

“Most of the guests will be staying in the
main house,” Lady York explained. “But with your dog, well, we
thought it best if you stayed in a cabin. You understand.”

I didn’t. Not really. Kiska was cleaner and
less obtrusive than most people.

My impression of her sank again.

She smiled in a too sweet way.

Patronizing. I hated patronizing. I opened
my mouth.

Peter placed a hand on my shoulder. “A cabin
will be perfect,” he said, and then murmured in my ear.
“Privacy.”

Begrudgingly, I closed my mouth. Of course,
I wanted privacy. I just wanted it because I asked for it, not
because someone saw my dog as a second class guest.

I followed Peter back out the front door in
search of our temporary digs.

Standing on the porch, I counted the
distance to the cabin in snow drifts: four. A few feet in, I
revised my number to five. One I had mistaken for a hill.

Peter pulled me out while Kiska grinned.

I grumbled to both of them. Neither seemed
to care.

While Peter unpacked, actually putting his
clothing in drawers for our big two-night stay, I stood on the
screened-in porch and watched as a couple emerged from the
woods.

Admiral Byrd’s relations, I assumed.

In keeping with the thought, they were
appropriately prepared for the weather, both wearing some kind of
high-tech snow shoes and outerwear designed for maximum warmth with
minimal bulk.

The woman stopped a few feet from the house
and stared toward it as if lost in thought. The man walked up
behind her and put his arms around her in a comforting or
reassuring manner.

“Snooping?”

Peter’s voice made me jump.

I flicked some hair out of my eyes. “No. I
was just standing here, looking at the scenery. I can’t help it if
people walk into my line of sight.”

“Right.”

I twisted my neck to stare up at him. He
just chuckled and wrapped his arms around me from behind, then
nuzzled my ear. “We have another hour until dinner...”

Yes, we did...

o0o

Or we should have had an hour.
Unfortunately, after only thirty minutes had passed, there was a
knock on the door.

Peter groaned and arched an eyebrow at
me.

“Maybe Kiska will get it,” I suggested. We’d
left my malamute in the front room of the two-room cabin. While
we... ahem... relaxed on the bed.

There was another knock, louder this time.
“I have your costumes,” Lady York called out, way too
cheerfully.

I did, however, want my costume. I widened
my eyes at my boyfriend.

He sighed, rolled off the mattress and
pulled his pants and shirt back on.

I sat up and caught a glimpse of myself in
the mirror. I gasped. Hair, gelled and snowed on, should not be
pressed against a pillow. There was also the whole blue thing. I
had no way of disguising that, but I could at least try to tame the
rooster comb look I’d managed to obtain.

By the time Peter walked into the room
carrying a zippered hanger bag, I’d jumped to my feet and was busy
pressing my hands against my unruly hair.

He stared at me in a “seriously?” kind of
way. Then he sighed again and fell back onto the bed.

I scurried to the hanger bag and unzipped it
as quickly as I could. “Get my phone,” I ordered him. “I want you
to take a picture for Betty.”

I pulled the garments from the bag and
froze.

“It’s...” I couldn’t say it. Couldn’t
believe that I, of all people, had been cast as...

“A maid.” Peter’s eyes twinkled. “French?
Maybe you should go ahead and get dressed.”

I wasn’t sure what y-chromosome-induced
fantasy he was living, but I was not amused.

I dug inside the bag, hoping there had been
some kind of mistake, but the only other things inside were a
monocle, a cane, and two white envelopes: one with my name on it,
the other with Peter’s.

Peter, it turned out, was playing Captain
Egg, a distinguished Military hero who had lost his leg in the
“war.” Kiska was his loyal canine companion.

I was Maid Ann. That was it, not even a last
name. Kiska had a better part than I did.

“You missed something!” Peter pulled a pink
feather duster out of the bag.

I grimaced.

He waved the duster in the air in what I
guessed he thought was a tempting manner.

My fancy, however, was far from tickled.

Twenty minutes later, we were suited up and
standing back in the main house.

I tugged at the short skirt, managing to
pull the top lower than decent in the process. Mumbling to myself,
I tugged it back up.

Peter, aka Captain Egg, put his hand around
my waist and pulled me against his side. “My advice? Don’t bend
over.”

I mumbled something unfit for young ears and
eyed the coat rack where Lady York had left my down coat.

My coat was big and ugly, and with a fire
blazing in the living room fireplace, the temperature in the house
was pushing 80. But still...

“Here.” Peter plucked a white linen table
runner off a nearby buffet and draped it around my shoulders.

I twisted my lips and considered how willing
I was to enter the party dressed in our hosts’ dining room
decor.

The front door flew open, letting in a stiff
gust of cold air. My skirt rose in the back, revealing that my
bloomers were not any more historically accurate than the rest of
the getup that I had been assigned.

I jerked my skirt down, wrapped the runner
around my shoulders and strode into the living room where other
guests were already waiting.

Peter followed me, chuckling.

I recognized the pair standing by the
fireplace from my earlier time outside on our cabin’s front porch.
They were younger than I had realized when they were bundled up in
their snow gear. Somehow the simplicity of her outfit—a cotton
drop-waist dress, hair pulled back in a low bun and small
horn-rimmed glasses—made her youth excessively apparent.

Most likely barely out of college, which
made her only a few years younger than I was. However, recent years
and the dead bodies I’d discovered during them made me feel much,
much older.

Her companion was young too, and handsome,
and looking very dapper in what I guessed was the male version of
my costume—the butler.

I wondered briefly why the co-ed had been
chosen for what appeared to be the spinster schoolteacher role over
the more obvious choice for her, with her firm curves, of French
maid.

Of course, that would have left me as the
spinster. I mulled that a bit, having a hard time deciding if being
cast as such would have been more or less disturbing than worrying
about exposing my spinster parts for the rest of the evening.

Lady York moved forward like a boat skimming
over the lake that was visible just outside the window beside us.
“Maid Ann and Captain Egg, do let me introduce Vera Claythorne and
our butler, Mandrake Raven.” She paused for a minute, blatantly
taking in my hair.

I pressed my fingers to it again, but
resisted the urge to explain. Not that there was an explanation.
I’d dyed my hair blue. Sue me.

After a moment, she moved on, a bit stiffly,
but still continuing with the introductions.

When there was no mention of real names or
occupations, I realized that the evening had already begun. There
would be no small talk and no confusing our real identities with
those we had been assigned. I was, for at least the next few hours,
Maid Ann, blue hair and all.

Lady York, as if reading my mind, placed a
silver tray filled with hotdogs, cut in pieces, wrapped in bacon
and skewered with tiny plastic swords in my hands. In a nod to the
holiday, tiny red hearts had been glued to the sword handles.

Peter, aka Captain Egg, and Butler Mandrake
didn’t miss a beat, each grabbing two skewers and sliding the bites
into their mouths.

Miss Claythorne, apparently gifted with the
metabolism of the young, relieved me of four more. She pushed her
glasses up her nose and then sank her perfectly even white teeth
into the middle of one dog and pulled it from its sword.

Kiska sat and looked up expectantly.

His ploy worked. “Oh, how cute. Is he
yours?” She asked, directing her question to Peter.

“No, he’s–”

I cut Peter off with a nudge of my hip.

He glanced at me, obviously confused. “Kiska
is Captain Egg’s therapy dog,” I explained, emphasizing Captain Egg
as much as I could for my role-play challenged boyfriend.

Peter made a face, but it was fleeting and
probably only something I noticed. Neither Miss Claythorne nor
Mandrake seemed to.

“Oh, then can I?” Miss Claythorne held up a
hotdog.

Peter, apparently deciding to embrace his
role, nodded without so much as a sideways glance at me.

Kiska predictably popped up like a hungry
trout and snarfed the snack out of the faux spinster’s fingers
milliseconds after she had released hold of the tidbit.

She pulled her fingers back and stared at
him a little distrustingly. I scowled at Peter, who, for a highly
thought of detective with the Helena Police Department, seemed
disturbingly oblivious.

He dropped two empty plastic swords onto my
tray, shoved his hands into his pockets and went promptly into
will-this-be-over-soon mode. In other words, he was present and
polite, but not as completely
there
as I would have liked.
He was also doing nothing to help us in our quest to solve whatever
mystery was scheduled to come our way as the evening
progressed.

I did my best to fill in for him, asking
Miss Claythorne a few pointed questions that led to me learn that
she, the character, was a botanist by trade who had recently
retired from an up-and-

coming pharmaceutical company.

“So many new discoveries,” she commented.
“It was hard to keep up with everything, and the field is becoming
so competitive.”

As I was struggling to come up with some
follow up question, two more couples arrived, rounding out the
expected guest list of ten, counting our hosts— Lady York and Sir
Arthur— and giving me and my silver tray an excuse to mosey
away.

The first arrival was Mrs. Peabody, who Sir
Arthur introduced as a widow. A rich one, apparently, based on the
mink stole around her shoulders and the “jewels” glittering at her
throat. Mr. Blore was a bloated-looking banker who, based on his
work-hardened hands, I guessed was actually a rancher or ranch
worker in real life.