Lucy and the Valentine Verdict (5 page)

Her eyes rounded. “Hell! Me too!”

“Ann?” Lady York called from the head
table.

I rolled my eyes at Mrs. Peabody and
followed Mandrake into the kitchen.

“A glass is missing,” he announced in a
less-than-excited voice.

“Huh?” Still fussing over being forced to do
labor on my romantic valentine weekend, I was a bit slow
following.

He pointed at the sink.

“The martini glasses. You brought them in
here earlier, didn’t you? There should be ten, but there are only
nine.”

I blinked. “Uh...”

He widened his eyes, prompting me to do
something. When I didn’t respond, he pointed to the pocket in my
apron where I had tucked my cheat card.

I pulled it out, but there was no
instruction past bringing the glasses into the kitchen.

I twisted my lips. “Should we tell the
Cannons?” I asked, guessing that was what a good servant would
do.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” His
tone was ominous.

I twisted my lips some more. If we reported
the glass was missing, I would obviously be blamed.

“Mrs. Peabody... do you think... Dr.
Armstrong was right? She was poisoned?” I was getting into it
now.

“It makes sense. Egg and Armstrong thought
to keep the mixer, but forgot about the glass.” He paused. “You
know they’ll blame us. The staff is always blamed.”

I glanced at him. The butler did usually do
it, and he seemed awfully eager to pull me into some kind of a
partnership.

“That is true.” I glanced back toward the
closed door that separated us from the dining room.

“You clean everything up, and I’ll serve
dessert,” he suggested, turning away from the sink and towards a
cake stand where a chocolate cake stood waiting.

There were many things wrong with this idea,
not the least of which was that it involved me doing the worst of
the work and most likely missing out on dessert.

Then there was the fact that I’d most likely
be destroying evidence. I frowned. I really wasn’t trusting
Mandrake at all.

The door to the dining room flew open and my
hero, Peter, strolled in. Well, he was usually my hero. As he held
up his monocle and made his way to the tray of martini glasses, I
wasn’t so sure about that right now.

He stared down and cocked one brow. “A glass
is missing.”

Both men looked at me.

A fist tightened around my heart and sweat
beaded on my lip. I grabbed a napkin and wiped it off.

Then I remembered this was play-acting. And
even if it wasn’t, I hadn’t done anything wrong.

My upper lip curled, and I think I snarled.
Someone did.

Peter’s other brow rose.

Mandrake, turncoat that he was, raised his
hand and pointed at me. “I had just noticed that. She must have
killed Mrs. Peabody. Poisoned her and then destroyed the glass to
cover her crime.”

A chorus of gasps caused me to turn in a
circle. The entire dinner party, dead woman included, pressed into
the kitchen.

o0o

“Mr. Blore, Captain Egg, detain her!” our
loving hostess called out.

Both men took steps toward me. I scowled,
causing Blore to rethink his next move.

Egg, aka my boyfriend, however, was
undeterred. He placed his hand around my arm and gave it a light
squeeze. “I have her. Should I take her to my cabin for
questioning?” His finger moved up and down the bare skin of my
upper arm.

Lady York frowned. “I don’t think that will
be necessary. Dr. Armstrong, what did you discover from the
body?”

Armstrong pulled his cheat card from his
pocket and cleared his throat. “The victim was most definitely
poisoned. Unfortunately, without access to my laboratory, I can’t
say by what substance.”

All eyes turned back to me.

“Perhaps she still has it on her,” Peter
suggested. His free hand wandered a bit, roaming down my side to
the curve of my hip.

However, being accused of murder as I was, I
was not in a mood to play. I kicked backward, aiming for his
shin.

My aim was good, but his leather boots
blunted the blow. He chuckled.

Lady York gave him a disapproving look
before getting back into role. “I doubt she would be naive enough
to leave any evidence on her, especially if she had the foresight
to get rid of the glass.”

“But when did she get rid of the glass?”
Emily Brent wanted to know.

Mandrake it seemed had an answer. “When she
brought the tray in. I thought it odd that when Mrs. Peabody fell,
Ann continued on into the kitchen.”

“Yes,” Lady York agreed. “She isn’t the most
dedicated of workers.”

I raised a brow.

“And we were all occupied looking at Mrs.
Peabody,” Mr. Blore added, obviously warming up to the idea of me
as the killer.

I folded my arms over my chest and leaned
against the counter. The kangaroo court was off and hopping. I
couldn’t see how I could say anything to stop them, especially
since for all I knew I had killed Mrs. Peabody... pretend killed
that was.

The dead body in question leaned against the
counter next to me. “They have you on motive, but what about means?
What do you know of poison?” she suggested.

No one looked at her. Not that that could
have been expected. She was dead after all.

I, however, wasn’t. I cleared my throat and
said, “But I don’t know anything about poison. I wouldn’t have any
idea what to give someone to kill them so quickly.”

That stopped them for a moment. They dug in
their pockets and pulled out their cards. Emphasis on the plural
there. Everyone except me and Mrs. Peabody seemed to have a stack
of cards; I still had only one.

I could only guess there had been more
handed out while Mandrake and I had been in the kitchen and his
initial envelope must have been much fuller than mine.

I was beginning to suspect that I had been
cast as patsy as much as maid.

Killer, fine, but patsy? I didn’t care for
that at all.

I stepped away from the counter and Peter’s
loose grip. I pointed at Mr. Blore. “What about him? He mixed the
drinks. Or maybe...” I swiveled until Mandrake was in my sights.
“The butler. He had the tray with the glasses. Maybe he added the
poison to Mrs. Peabody’s glass before it was filled. Or... Vera
Claythorne. She told me she worked for a pharmaceutical company,
and I saw her give Mrs. Peabody a pill. Or maybe the poison wasn’t
even ingested. Maybe the killer pricked her with a dart or even
shot her from across the room.” I turned my attention to Peter.
“Captain Egg, where did you say you served? It wouldn’t have been
Africa, would it? Home of the boomslang snake?”

Peter, damn him, didn’t miss a beat. He
turned to our host. “No, but Sir Arthur was just telling us of his
adventures on the Dark Continent.”

All eyes moved to our host.

I was feeling quite proud of myself and my
knowledge of all things Christie until Mandrake lunged forward and
pulled something out of my cleavage. At least it looked like the
small folded note he held between two upraised fingers had come
from my cleavage. I didn’t remember placing anything there and I
hadn’t felt him pull anything out from that space either.

I placed my hands over my recently assaulted
breasts.

“What is this?” the butler asked, waving the
note in the air. Slowly and with every eye watching him, he
unfolded the paper.

I had an irrational urge to throw myself at
him, grab the note and devour it before he could read one word.
Peter gave me a sideways look and then pulled Kiska to his side,
reminding me that Kiska had destroyed evidence in a similar manner
not all that long ago.

Not wanting to establish a pattern of
behavior, I gritted my teeth and pasted a bored superior look on my
face.

“It’s a will!” Mandrake declared with enough
melodrama to make even me suck in a breath.

“Hold on a second,” Sir Arthur declared.
“You probably shouldn’t be handling that. Fingerprints, don’t you
know.” He pulled a pocket square out of his jacket and carefully
took the note from the butler.

When the note was spread out flat on the
kitchen countertop, the party gathered around.

Emily Brent, who had somehow wedged her way
into the front of the pack, began reading.

It wasn’t a will at all. It was instead some
kind of a poem about a maid who was tired of digging potatoes and
“spudding up docks,” whatever that was.

I gave Mandrake a sideways look. He’d seemed
nice enough when we were eating dinner, but now everything he said
and did seemed pointed at directing blame to me.

Peter leaned in and whispered in my ear.
“Play-acting, Lucy.”

I blinked. Oh, yeah. Mandrake was in
character. I really needed to work on being less sensitive.

I also, however, wanted to win, and if
Mandrake the character was working this hard to cast suspicion on
Ann the Maid, there had to be a reason.

I pulled out my handy notebook and scribbled
down my thoughts.

“It’s Thomas Hardy,” Miss Claythorne
announced.

I looked around, thinking for a second that
someone new had joined us.

“The poet,” she clarified. “It’s his poem,
The Ruined Maid
.”

Of course
. I nodded my head and tried
to look educated, only to realize everyone was once again looking
at me.

“I’m not ruined,” I declared, maybe a little
too defensively.

Miss Brent lifted a brow and stared
pointedly at my too short skirt.

I tugged it down, revealing my note-hiding
cleavage again.

Peter smiled and then pulled my lace runner
over my front before returning to character and facing the group.
“We should give Maid Ann a chance to explain why she had the
poem... tucked away.”

His lip quirked.

I opened my mouth to announce Mandrake’s
duplicity, but was cut short by Lady York raising her hand and
declaring the mystery party done for the evening.

“We’ll pick up again tomorrow at brunch.
Ann, Mandrake, I’ll need you to come in a half an hour earlier than
the other guests.” The words were brisk and her face drawn. She
snatched the poem up from the counter, folded it back into its
previous discreet shape and concealed it in her fisted hand.

Mr. Blore in particular did not look pleased
with the announcement. “Done? But it’s only...”

Dr. Armstrong and Emily Brent chimed in too,
adding their voices to Mr. Blore’s and increasing the tension I
could feel building in the air.

Lady York, however, had regained her
composure. “Don’t fret. Your mystery hasn’t been cut short. In
fact, you’ll be getting more mystery for your money.”

Mrs. Peabody moved into the space beside me.
She held a full martini glass in her hand and sipped happily as the
others argued. “Usually, the only things we do the next day
mystery-wise are the accusations and final unveiling. Guess she’s
going longer this time.”

“But I thought it was a full weekend.” The
price I’d seen on the flyer was certainly enough to cover two
nights at even the fanciest of hotels in Montana. Not that there
were any overly fancy hotels... And even with having to work for my
supper, I wasn’t willing to have my romantic getaway cut short.

“Oh, it’s a full weekend, but after the
unveiling, they slip in some DVDs and call it good. I think Andrea,
excuse me, Lady York, has a gym set up in one of the cabins. At
least I’ve seen her leaving one in
disarray
on more than one
occasion.” She laughed and took another sip.

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure how else to respond. The
flyer certainly hadn’t mentioned that the mystery part of the
weekend was really only one night, but then if this weekend was
going to be carried further, I really couldn’t complain.

Mrs. Peabody, apparently deciding we were
buds, looped her arm through mine and pulled me toward the living
room. “Let’s drink on it.”

I glanced over my shoulder at Peter who
seemed to have been similarly cornered by Lady York. At least I
assumed he had been cornered. He was pressed up against the dining
room wall while she talked to him in an animated manner.

Mrs. Peabody, catching the direction of my
attention, stopped and frowned. Her eyes narrowed, and for a minute
I thought she might stomp over and jerk my boyfriend from our
hostess’ trap. Peter’s gaze slid to the side, catching me with a
beseeching look.

I smiled and started to move forward, but
Mrs. Peabody, who had apparently seen his look of desperation too,
laughed. Then she grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into the
living room.

“Let him suffer a little. It won’t hurt
him.”

Mr. Blore was back at the bar, mixing a
fresh batch of martinis. Mrs. Peabody grabbed a glass for me and
watched carefully as he filled both hers and mine to the rim.

I was taking a sip of something pink and
frothy and very Valentiney, if not at all what I would have
expected either a pretend banker or a real rancher to concoct, when
Peter and Lady York walked through the door from the dining
room.

Our hostess looked pensive and not happy.
Peter looked like he always looked, calm and unruffled.

He walked over to stand next to me as I
sipped. His presence made my skin tingle. I didn’t know why he had
this affect on me. It was both insanely attractive and wholly
annoying that all he had to do was stand silently with his hands in
his pockets and my insides fluttered.

I don’t think he was even aware that he did
it, but whenever he entered a room, he sized it and everyone in it
up. Then he stood by watching, in a crazy casual way that told you
whatever might happen, he would have things under control. He was
top dog without ever having to so much as snarl.

It was, quite honestly, stupid sexy.

Mrs. Peabody cocked an eyebrow. “Cop or
military?”