The Stuffing of Nightmares (The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse Book 7) (7 page)

W
hile Felicity went
off in one direction, Alice decided she wasn’t going to ask permission to find her fiancé, so she and Rick snuck out of the kitchen before the harridan returned. The fact that the strong, silent type seated at the kitchen table eyed them malevolently didn’t bother her one bit. He probably was the cook’s idiot brother. Or the manor’s handyman. Whatever the case, he didn’t ask questions, so she didn’t feel obliged to give him any answers.

The moment they were out in the corridor, she and Rick were hurrying along, Tony and Spot right on their tail. “Tony said he’s locked up in the dungeon,” she whispered, “so where’s the dungeon?”

“Won’t be hard to find,” Rick replied. He pointed to the two ghost animals. “We’ve got our secret weapons!”

They were moving along the corridor, which was a gloomy affair. So much for restoring this place to its full splendor. It felt as if no one had bothered to install central heating. Even though outside a balmy summer was warming the world, inside it was cold, dark and dank.

“Lead the way, Tony,” Alice said.

“And hurry. We don’t want that horrible cook to catch us!” Rick hissed.

“Or tell the master of the manor that some weird bakers are running amok in the house,” Alice added.

Then Tony paused in front of an iron door, and they halted in their tracks.

Unlike the other doors they’d passed, this one looked new and had a small keypad set in the stone jamb.

“Are you sure this is it?” Rick asked.

The pony inclined his large head. “Yep. This is where they keep Reece.”

Rick gave the door a hefty pull, then put his shoulder against it, but all to no avail. He and Alice shared a look of concern as they eyed the keypad.

“Do you happen to know the combination?” Alice asked Tony.

The pony plunked down on his hindquarters, placed his head on his hooves, and closed his eyes. “Just gimme a minute,” he muttered.

“What’s he doing?” Alice hissed.

“Beats me!” Rick hissed back.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the pet whisperer?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Can you people shut up for a minute?” Tony asked. “I’m trying to focus.”

Spot gave a happy yap, and Tony said, “That’s right. Getting in touch with the universal ghost consciousness is not something easily accomplished.”

For a pony who was only recently introduced to the phenomenon of an afterlife, he sure was learning fast, Alice thought. To her surprise, Tony promptly dozed off, and the next moment soft snoring filled the air. Then Spot plopped down next to the pony and nodded off as well.

“I can’t believe this!” Alice lamented. “Reece is probably getting stuffed as we speak, and these two decide to take a nap!”

“Not a nap. They’re connecting to the universal ghost consciousness.”

“What does that even mean?!” Alice cried.

Just then, footsteps approached, and Alice and Rick hoofed it, leaving the two ghost animals to their joint meditation. Hiding behind the next corner, Alice stole a look back and saw that a woman was approaching. She halted in front of the door. She was a gorgeous young blonde with long wavy hair, dressed in frayed jeans shorts and a crop top that left a remarkably flat tummy bare. She punched in a code, and the door swung open with a click. She quickly entered, and the door closed behind her with a hiss.

They heard the woman call out, “Dad! We’ve got company!”

“Dammit. I’ll bet she’s one of the kidnappers,” Alice said.

They tiptoed back to the door, and Alice saw that Tony had opened his eyes. “I’ve got it,” he announced cheerfully. “The code is 21232.”

Spot yapped in acknowledgement.

“Did you find that out from the universal ghost consciousness?” she asked, thoroughly impressed.

“No, I saw that woman type in the code just now.”

Alice shook her head. So much for spiritual mumbo-jumbo. At least they had the code. But now what? Possibly there was an army of people stuffers in there, and if they ventured inside, they would capture them as well and—

“You can go in,” Tony interrupted her thought process. He’d stuck his head through the door and was looking in on the other side. “Coast is clear.”

Alice and Rick shared a grin. The advantage of having a ghost pony on your team. Rick was already punching in the code, and moments later the door swung open, and they were heading inside…

“
W
hat do you think
, Chazz? Should I confront her?”

Chazz eyed his best friend censoriously. They were seated in their usual corner booth, the comfy club chairs, the tawny bourbon and the soft murmurs of other club members going about their business doing little to console Grover. Chazz was sporting a golden combover this week, his square face, which closely resembled a certain type of fish, twisted into a frown. The billionaire real estate mogul’s hand kept stealing to his face, then returning to his lap. For years, he was used to smoking his Cubans at The Parton, until those fools on The Hill had outlawed this guilty pleasure. The habit still lingered, but instead he now put his bourbon to his lips, and took a long sip.

“I think you should handle this matter discreetly,” he finally said.

As Grover’s longest standing friend, he was concerned. He was something of an expert when it came to matters of the heart. He’d been married five times, after all, and had lost quite a bit of money on most of his wives. Now officially retired from the mating game, he kept a low profile, preferring to keep his distance from the fairer sex. That Grover had married Emilia had always irked him, as he knew what marrying beauty queens could do to a man. He’d married no fewer than three, and they’d all started bleeding him dry the minute the honeymoon was over.

“What do you mean?” Grover asked, nervously scuffing his toe on the thick Persian rug.

“You should get a good divorce attorney and settle this thing quietly.”

“But how can I? The moment I start proceedings the press will be all over me. The scandal will destroy me, not to mention ruin my business.”

Chazz thought about this for a moment. Then an idea occurred to him.

“Why don’t we let
her
file for divorce? That way you’ll be well out of it.”

“But how?” Grover wrung his hands. “How? How? How?”

“You sound like an echo in the Swiss mountains,” Chazz chided gently. His friend was clearly in the dumps, judging from the pale pallor of his cheeks and the look of desperation in his eyes. Even his frizzy hair was standing on end, as if he’d charged it with electricity before leaving the house.

“God, just shoot me now and get it over with,” Grover cried.

He tapped his friend on the knee. “Hey, don’t talk like that. I will take care of this, all right? Have I ever deserted you in your hour of need?”

“No,” admitted Grover. “But I’ve never been in so much trouble before.”

“Trust me, this is nothing. I’ve gone through this five times. Five times!”

“I know you have,” said Grover, admiration gleaming in his eye for this champion of champions. To have survived five divorces and still look as robust as Chazz was indeed something to draw admiration from his peers.

“The trick is to make her lose interest in you, my friend.”

“Judging from those pictures she lost interest in me a long time ago.”

“That’s not what I mean. She needs to set her eyes on bigger prey.”

Grover thought about this for a moment, then admitted, “I don’t get it.”

Chazz chuckled freely. “I’m sure you don’t.”

“How can I convince Emilia to leave me without sucking me dry?”

“You don’t have to convince her of anything. When I’m through with her, she’ll leave you of her own accord, and she won’t ask for a single cent!”

Grover’s lower jaw had dropped to its fullest extent before he reeled it in again. “How will you work a miracle like that? It can’t be done, I tell you!”

“It can be done, and it will be done,” he assured his stricken friend. “In fact, I’m going to do it right now. I’m going to seduce that wife of yours!”

Grover’s eyes widened even more. “You’re going to do what?!”

“Well, not me personally, of course. I’m not so dumb to get involved with Emilia. But I’m going to get someone who is. He’s going to wine and dine that woman to within an inch of her life, wooing her like she’s never been wooed before. Before my guy is done, she’ll be begging him to marry her.”

“And who is this guy?” Grover asked suspiciously. He might be angry with Emilia for cheating on him, but he obviously still had feelings for her.

“Why, Jean-Marc Anciaux, of course. Only the richest man in France.”

Grover grasped his hair and pulled it fiercely. He would have pulled his beard, but that was still a work in progress. “Who’s Jean-Marc Anciaux and why is a Frenchman hitting on my wife?!”

Chazz leaned in, looking right and left, then whispered, “There is no Jean-Marc Anciaux, Grover. I just made him up!”

“What?! Don’t torture me, Chazz! I’m going crazy here! Crazy!”

In all fairness, Grover had always been crazy, Chazz thought, to marry Emilia in the first place. He’d been the first person to warn him that he was getting involved with a world-renowned gold-digger. But had he listened? Of course not. “Look, it’s better I don’t tell you more. It’s called plausible deniability. That way, when something goes wrong, you’re well out of it.”

Grover regarded him wild-eyed. “Do whatever you want. Hire Russians or Greeks for all I care. Just get me out of this, will you? I’m begging you!”

“Of course I will,” said Chazz amiably. “What are friends for, eh?”

“Thank you, Chazz,” said Grover. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Chazz grinned. Now all he needed was a Jean-Marc Anciaux. And as it happened, he had the perfect candidate lined up already.

O
n the other
side of town, Emilia Calypso, née Kitson, was having a ball. Unaware of the schemes and plots being hatched to thwart her evil plan, she was whooping it up with Romuald Hogston, newly elected partner at Stephenson, Stephenson, Stephenson and Stephen & Son. And since his partnership was a recent thing, champagne was flowing, and room service at the Ritz-Carlton had trouble keeping up with the orders of the happy couple.

“You’ve got it made now, haven’t you, Rommy?” Emilia asked.

She was draped across the bed, dressed in a pink negligee, while Romuald was wearing his Calvin Kleins around his head. He was a handsome young man, with a pink face and clean-cut features, except for the hint of a mustache.

“I’m getting there,” he admitted smugly, pouring himself another flute of bubbly. “I’d say I’m just starting to hit my stride, though.”

“I think you’re doing great, babe,” said Emilia. “Soon all those Stephensons will be dead and buried, and you’ll be running that place all by yourself.”

“Except for the son,” he pointed out. “Don’t forget about the damn son.”

Stephenson, Stephenson, Stephenson and Stephen might be a bunch of old cronies teetering on the edge of the grave, but that son was Romuald’s age, and might be around forever. Worse, he might even sneak in a couple more Stephensons before he was through. Those people bred like rabbits.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Before long I’ll divorce that hapless old Grover, demand half of his fortune, and we’ll be billionaires together!”

“Do you think it’s time?” he asked earnestly.

This had always been their plan from the moment they met in tenth grade and swung on the swing behind Knappersville High School, Ohio. They’d promised each other their undying love and affection, and had devised a plan to become filthy rich and rest on their laurels for the rest of their lives. Between their first kiss and today, years had passed, but The Plan was still firmly in place. It hadn’t taken Emilia long to figure out who to marry, and with her charm and beauty Grover Calypso had fallen like the sap he was. Now the most crucial part of the plan would be set in motion: how to strip the old billionaire of his billions.

Actually, Chazz Falcone had been her first choice. He was a billionaire and had a proven track record of marrying the wrong woman. Unfortunately, he’d learned from his mistakes—it had only taken him five marriages to get there—and he’d spurned her advances. So she’d turned to his best friend Grover, a billionaire in his own right, and a divorce virgin—the man was a widower. And bingo. It hadn’t taken her long to convince him to link his lot to hers, and tie the knot.

Now in their second year of marriage, it was time to move on. The trick was to lure him into cheating on her with another woman, so she could lay claim to half his fortune. And she had just the woman lined up for the job.

Grover Calypso was about to have an affair, only he didn’t know it yet.

“Yes, I think it’s time,” she confirmed as she raised her glass.

“If you say so, honey,” said Romuald. He was a dear, but not very bright, Emilia knew. But she did love him, even though she was the brains of the operation. He might be the legal expert in their band of two, but she was the one hatching the plots. She’d done so in tenth grade, and she did so now.

She rolled over to his side of the bed and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. “Just do your part, babe. I promise you that everything will work out fine.”

“All right,” he said with a smile. His mustache tickled her nose, and she giggled. The thing was hideous, but Romuald figured that the lip ornament lent him some much-needed maturity. Without it, he looked like a teenager.

And as the kiss deepened, Emilia thought of Grover. Poor Grover. He wouldn’t know what hit him when the trap closed. Now all she needed to do was put the cheese in front of his twitchy little nose, and the game was on.

F
elicity trusted her intuition
. She knew that if she listened to that still little voice inside her that was a direct line to her subconscious mind, she would find Reece. She’d recently read a book on how to get in touch with her higher self, and she’d been practicing a lot, sitting in meditation, trying to listen to that inner voice. And from time to time she thought she could hear it!

Like that time she’d lost her favorite oven mitt, the one with the hearts that her Granny Bell had knitted. She loved that mitt and had been devastated when it went missing. She’d searched for it all over the house and when finally she had to declare defeat she’d decided to simply quieten her mind and try to tune into her higher self. She’d listened intently for half an hour, an hour, and when finally nothing came, had given up.

And just when she was resigned that the mitt was lost forever, a sudden insight had popped into her head that she needed to check out the chicken coop. She and Alice had constructed a chicken coop in the back of the garden, so they’d always have fresh eggs, and had two chickens, Eugenie and Beatrice, now working at the stand. She’d rushed over, and lo and behold: the mitt had fallen into the coop. She’d probably dropped it there when she’d been baking and had fetched a couple of eggs.

So now, as she prowled through the corridors of Hartford Manor, she tried to still her beating heart and listen to that quiet little voice inside her that would tell her where they were keeping Reece.

She walked along stealthily, peeking around every corner, trying to make her footfall as silent as possible. She wasn’t exactly trespassing, she told herself, but merely looking for the bathroom, having gotten lost trying to find it. So when she suddenly came face to face with a large Doberman dog who stood leering at her, his mouth open and his teeth bare, she gulped a little but didn’t panic. That little voice inside her told her that all would be well, if only she kept perfectly still and didn’t move a muscle!

Don’t give the beast any excuse to maul you to pieces! said the little voice. It was a wise little voice, she decided. Nobody likes to be mauled to pieces, and keeping perfectly still sounded like just the thing to do.

So it was a surprise to herself that her legs suddenly defied that sage advice and broke into a run, back to where she came from. Hurtling along the corridor, the ginormous ferocious beast on her heels, she started screaming. “Help!” she shouted to no one in particular. “Heeeeeeelp meeeeee!” she repeated, still not sure if anyone could hear her.

It was ironic, she thought, that at first she’d been trying to be as quiet as possible, and now she didn’t mind who heard her—in fact, she kind of hoped someone did. Someone who could tell this horrid monster to cut it out!

And it was a surprise when she found that instead of returning to the kitchen, she entered a very large room, with books lining the walls, and sofas and couches centered in the middle. An old man with graying hair and a dressing gown wrapped around his skinny frame appeared startled when he suddenly saw her enter, running at full tilt.

“Clancy! No! Down!” he yelled sharply, and the big Doberman, recognizing his master’s voice, halted the chase and instantly plunked down.

“God, thank you!” Felicity cried, her heart thudding in her chest and her breath coming in gasps. “I thought I was a goner for a moment!”

The man didn’t smile or even acknowledge her presence.

“I’m sorry,” she said, realizing how this must look. “I’m the baker. I was looking for the bathroom when I came upon this—” She was going to say monster but realized before she said it that even though Clancy might look like a monster to her, he was probably man’s best friend to this skinny elderly man. “—this nice little doggie here,” she completed the sentence.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he said stiffly. He’d been reading the newspaper and now put it down. “My name is Bowen Cieslok. I’m the owner and proprietor of Hartford Manor. And you are?”

“Felicity Bell,” she said gratefully. He seemed like a kindly old guy. Not the kind that would stuff his fellow human beings. “From Bell’s Bakery.”

“Yes,” he said with a feeble smile. “Pete Bell’s daughter.”

“That’s me,” she said as chipper as her still raging nerves allowed her to. She kept a keen eye on Clancy, but the dog seemed to have lost interest and was now staring moodily before him, probably hoping another prey would soon present itself and this time he wouldn’t be so rudely interrupted.

“Yes, I was delivering bread and—”

“Snooping around?” he asked with raised brow.

“Oh, no, sir,” she assured him. “I was just looking for the bathroom.”

“At least have you brought me my afternoon tea?” he asked.

She stared at the man. The conversation had been going so well, and now this? “I’m sorry. Your tea?” It wasn’t even afternoon. It was barely lunchtime.

“Yes. Aren’t you the girl who brings me my tea around this time?”

Only now did she see that his eyes were a little unfocused, as if he wasn’t really there. “No, I’m a baker,” she repeated. “I don’t do tea. Only bread. Well, and pastry, of course. And cakes and pies and…”

Her voice trailed off. The old guy was probably not in the mood for a sales pitch, and now that she came to think of it, neither was she.

“Say, listen,” she said instead. “I’m looking for a friend of mine. Reece Hudson? The famous actor? You haven’t seen him by any chance?”

But the man had picked up his newspaper again and was muttering something about tea.

“Sir?” she asked, approaching. “Any idea where I can find my friend?”

He raised a long and skeletal hand and pointed to the door. “Ask Fabiola. She’ll know.”

A chill settled at the base of her spine as Felicity looked in the direction indicated, and found herself gazing at a young, blond woman, who was looking straight at her, a strange and wistful smile playing about her lips.

“And who have we here?” asked the young woman gleefully.

“Hi, there,” she said hesitantly. “I’m Felicity Bell. The baker?”

Instead of responding, the woman walked right up to her, took out a gun, and pulled the trigger. There was a soft thud Felicity felt against her stomach, and the world turned on its axis. She fell to the floor and stared up at the blonde, who was saying something. And just before she passed out, she understood. She said, “How serendipitous. We didn’t have a baker yet!”