Lucy and the Valentine Verdict (3 page)

Behind them were Dr. Armstrong, who carried
a black leather medical bag, and Emily Brent, who clutched a Bible
to her chest as she greeted me.

While I was staring at Miss or Mrs. Brent—I
wasn’t sure which at this point—something clicked.

I looked around for Lady York. She walked
through the door from the kitchen carrying a vase filled with
purple flowers and more hearts, this time glued onto wooden dowels.
She set the arrangement on a table, next to a stack of envelopes
with our characters’ names on them. Instructions for later, I
guessed. I waved her over.

“Agatha Christie,” I said.

Her eyes widened.

“The guests. We’re all from Agatha Christie
novels.”

She glanced around, apparently weighing
whether to break character enough to answer or not. After a moment,
she leaned closer so the other guests wouldn’t hear and replied,
“Yes, although we took some liberty with the storylines, and I
assure you that knowing who victim and killer were in the original
stories will do you no good at all.”

That, considering I doubted Peter had ever
read a Christie novel in his life, was a bit of a letdown. Still,
if our hosts took characters names from the books, there had to be
other influences as well.

I smiled, smug that I did in fact have a
distinct advantage over my oh-so-confident boyfriend.

I also realized that now, while I had Lady
York out of character, was the perfect time to ask about her watch.
I smiled and complimented her on it.

“This? Oh, thanks. It’s actually Rich... Sir
Arthur’s, a family piece. I only wear it to add to the look.”

“It’s lovely. Is that a family crest?” I
gestured to the stag.

She ran her thumb over the raised buck. “I
think so. As I said, I wear it because it fits.” She motioned to
her outfit.

Except the watch didn’t fit. Not really. I
slyly said as much. “Actually, it’s Victorian. Not that that
doesn’t still work. Someone in the twenties or thirties could
certainly have owned it and worn it. And it is a great piece.”

Someone bumped my arm, reminding me that I
still held the tray. I jostled around to find the college co-ed
spinster Vera Claythorne and Bible-bearing Emily Brent had both
moved in beside us. Brent held a bloom from the vase that Lady York
had just brought in.

“I press flowers,” she explained, placing
the bloom inside her Bible and closing it.

I smiled and, hoping they would take a snack
and move on, held out my tray.

Emily, or whatever her real name was, took a
hotdog but other than that didn’t budge. Lady York looked at the
other two women, blinked, and immediately snapped back into
character.

“Mr. Blore,” she called. “Wouldn’t you like
an hors d’oeuvre or perhaps a drink?” She raised her hand and
motioned to Butler Mandrake, who now had a tray of his own. His
was, however, laden with empty martini glasses.

“Perhaps you could pour for the ladies?” she
prompted again, this time gesturing to a table where a metal
martini mixer waited.

Mrs. Peabody, who stood close by, wasted no
time taking a glass from Mandrake and moving toward the shaker,
getting there a good five minutes before the ponderously slow Mr.
Blore had made his way from the front door to where his assigned
job of bartender awaited.

Miss Claythorne and Emily Brent followed,
starting up a conversation with Mrs. Peabody, which apparently gave
the rich widow a headache. She placed her hand over her eyes and
spoke to Miss Claythorne. After a moment, the spinster botanist
pulled a small plastic bottle out of her purse and handed Mrs.
Peabody whatever she took from inside. She held the bottle out to
Emily Brent too, but the religious woman shook her head and pulled
her Bible tighter to her chest.

I wanted to join them, but I also wanted to
free myself from my tray. There were six hotdogs left.

I grabbed three and shoved them into my
mouth.

Chewing, I listened in as Dr. Armstrong
bragged about his upcoming retirement, enabled apparently by some
discovery he’d made with his female clientele and access to a
marketer who was willing to take the doctor’s cash in exchange for
taking his product to the masses.

Sir Arthur, not to be outdone, broke in to
share how he’d just come back from a hunting trip in the Dark
Continent. He was halfway through a list of exotic “kills” he had
made when Peter placed a hand on my waist and murmured in my ear,
“He’s in character, remember?”

I realized then that my expression must have
shown the horror I was feeling.

I snapped my mouth closed and glanced down
at my tray. Still three hotdogs left. Normally I would have eaten
them too, but Sir Arthur’s tales of blowing away a bull elephant
for his ivory, pretend or not, had taken away my appetite.

Instead I decided to unload my burden in a
time- and child-tested manner. I quietly pulled the plastic swords
out of the remaining hotdogs, tipped the tray, and allowed the
snacks to tumble onto the ground right next to my dog.

In seconds they were gone, and it all
happened so quickly I didn’t think anyone but Peter and I were the
wiser. And Kiska, of course, but he wasn’t telling.

I looked up to see that I was wrong. Mrs.
Peabody met my gaze with a smile, raised her martini glass in
salute and then slammed back its contents.

Sensing a kindred spirit, I wove my way
through the guests to her side. The other ladies were nearby, but
seemed to have separated themselves slightly from the lively
widow.

She grabbed my arm with her free hand and
squeezed. “Have a drink. It’s all that’s getting me through this.
Thank God, I didn’t get the teetotaler part.” She nodded toward
Emily Brent, who was busy making notes in a little notebook, and
then plucked the martini shaker out of Mr. Blore’s hand. He frowned
at her in a too-familiar way.

“Mind your part, Harold,” she chided. “I
said I’d come and I did. I didn’t say I’d stick completely to
script.”

Blore, aka Harold, looked like he was going
to argue, but Lady York spoke up before he could. “Time to read
your cards!” she announced, dropping some of the envelopes that I’d
seen earlier onto Mandrake’s silver tray.

I pretended interest in a walnut mantle
clock just in case Maid Ann was expected to help with the task, or
any task for that matter.

“Got the maid, huh?” Mrs. Peabody asked,
tipping back her third martini. “At least you’re young and have the
legs for it. Harold dragged me to one of these a few months ago and
the French maid looked more like a Polish sausage in that
outfit.”

“Oh, so you’ve been here before?”

“You could say that.” She shot a disgruntled
look at Blore. “My husband fancies himself the Hercule Poirot of
the cattle industry.”

“Oh.”

“Plus, he and Arthur went to school
together.” She drained her glass and leaned past me to check out
the status of the bar. Blore and the martini mixer had moved across
the room where he seemed to be chatting up Lady York. As I watched
them, our hostess unhooked her gold watch and laid it on top of the
buffet.

My attention sharpened. Maybe I had a chance
at acquiring the item for my shop after all. I turned to Mrs.
Peabody to make my excuses, but as I did, Mandrake arrived with our
envelopes.

Before I had a chance to open mine, Peter
appeared at my side. “Would you like to make a little wager?” he
asked, hazel eyes twinkling.

My eyes narrowed. “What kind of wager?”

He tapped his still-sealed envelope against
his palm. “A mystery-solving wager.”

“Oh?” Since I’d already planned on not only
beating him to the solution, but also rubbing his nose in my
success, his offer grabbed my interest.

“First to find the perpetrator wins...”

“A trip to Minnesota?” I suggested.

“Minnesota?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“There’s a flea market there I’ve been
wanting to go to. It’s huge. We’d need a trailer.” I was dedicated
to antiquing, especially for pottery, and Minnesota was known for
it, but I had never pulled a trailer of any real size. If I wanted
to do my dream trip right, I’d need Peter, his truck and his horse
trailer.

He angled one brow, obviously considering my
proposition. “And if I win?” he asked.

I smiled. “You won’t.” He wasn’t going to
win anyway, but if there was a trip to the biggest flea market in
the upper Midwest on the table, there was no way I’d let that slip
out of my grasp.

He shook his head in a chiding manner. “We
go to Seattle instead.”

“Seattle?” That didn’t sound that bad. There
had to be some antiquing to be done there too.

“In the fall.”

Not understanding the time restriction, I
blinked.

“For football.” He grinned.

Oh.
That
. I
grimaced. Still it didn’t matter, because he wasn’t going to win. I
held out my hand. “Deal.”

He grabbed my hand, pulled me close and
whispered in my ear, “Deal.”

Smiling, I slid my thumb under the
envelope’s seal and pulled out my first assignment.

Pick up the dirty glasses and carry them
into the kitchen.

Seriously? I glanced at our hostess. This
role-playing thing was a little too to-the-letter for me.

Lady York, however, seemed unconcerned with
the hired help. She was busy leaning in toward Dr. Armstrong and
laughing. Her hand traveled up his arm.

I frowned, wondering if that was part of the
play-acting or something else.

“Second wife,” Mrs. Peabody announced. “The
first one was killed in a car wreck on the way home from the
hospital after she had a baby.”

Startled by this unrequested fountain of
information, I stiffened.

I glanced at Peter. He lifted one eyebrow
and asked, “Lady York?”

“Oh, sorry, no... forgot we were supposed to
be in character now.” She sighed and opened her envelope.

Peter, sensing gossip, retreated.

I watched as he walked past Lady York and up
to Sir Arthur. My dog trotted happily at his side, snarfing up
dropped bits of hotdog as he went.

“Oh, thank, God!” Mrs. Peabody
exclaimed.

Emily Brent and Mr. Blore, who were engaged
in some conversation of their own, turned to stare... and
frown.

Mrs. Peabody, face still as a mannequin’s,
held the card in front of her face and robotically read, “My advice
column was just syndicated. I have thousands of fans.” She tossed
her hair and winked at me. “It comes in useful too. When I type,
people act. Just last week I started a boycott of Aunt Jennie’s
Syrup. Have you seen how they dress Aunt Jennie? White shoes in the
middle of January. It’s a disgrace!” She held up one finger to
emphasize the point. “My next target... a new supplement a friend
gave me. Claims to make you lose weight, but all it has done for me
is cause
intestinal upset
.” She leaned closer and whispered.
“I think that means the runs. Now ask me the brand.”

I blinked. “Uh, that’s terrible. Who makes
it?”

“I don’t remember... there’s a man’s flexing
his bicep on the label. Subscribe to your local paper though, and
you will know!” Another upraised finger.

She glanced around, smiling. Everyone in the
room looked back. Seeing she had the floor, she turned to me and
went on, “You appear to have lost weight. Are times hard?”

Unsure how I was expected to answer, I
stuttered. “I... uh...”

She nudged me with her elbow. “Part of the
act.” Then tucked her card back into the envelope and shoved it
down the neck of her dress.

“She’s a regular too,” she confided, nodding
her head toward Brent. “Bet it’s killing her that she pulled the
religious righteous card tonight.” She giggled.

I was pretty sure the giggle wasn’t part of
an act.

I glanced down at my card. If I was to play
my role, I needed to get moving, but then again, if Mrs. Peabody
had been to one of these before, she might prove to be a shortcut
in solving the case.

“Do they always take characters from Agatha
Christie?” I asked.

“Always.” She flipped her mink’s tail. “Lady
York is not known for her originality.”

“How about the crimes? Are they from the
books too?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. If
they were, Harold would do better at picking out the villain. To be
honest, I think sometimes they make it up as they go... see what
direction people are leaning and then switch it to someone
else.”

“So even the killer doesn’t know who he
is?”

“Nope. But the victim does.” She grinned.
“Better pick up those glasses.”

I looked down, but my note card was tucked
away. She couldn’t have seen it. Which meant her card must have
told her what I was supposed to do.

“Hurry now,” she added. “My feet are killing
me.” She motioned to her square-heeled pumps. “I’m ready to stretch
out and watch the monkeys scurry about.”

So she...

I did as she asked and picked up the glasses
around us. I’d retrieved the rest of the party’s as well and was
walking into the kitchen when I heard a clunk. I turned around to
see that Mrs. Peabody had fallen face first onto the floor in front
of the bar.

I finished my task, leaving the tray of
glasses next to the kitchen sink as the card had instructed and
then hurried back into the living room.

By the time I’d gotten there, Dr. Armstrong
was kneeling on the floor next to Mrs. Peabody, who had somehow in
her dead state managed to flip herself over and arrange her mink
stole out around her in an inspired and artful manner.

Betty would have been proud.

The rest of the guests, and both hosts,
stood around the pair taking notes and jabbering out information. I
pulled the notebook that had been included with my costume out of
my apron pocket and rushed forward.