April of Enchantment (Sweetly Contemporary Collection) (23 page)

Laughing a little, Laura sidestepped the housekeeper, drawing her wide skirts aside. The chef patted her on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Miss Nichols. I know it doesn’t look it now, but everything is under control. The supper will be perfect, magnifique! I guarantee it!”

“What is this? What is going on in here?” It was Myra who came bursting through the pantry door behind the maid. Her eyes were narrow as she looked at Laura. With her hands curved into claws she came toward her. “I should have known you would be in here, trying to run the show, acting the hostess. I suppose you’re the one who told them to stop serving punch?”

Myra was, apparently, no stranger to the chef. He drew himself up, his great size as impressive as the walrus mustache beneath his nose. “No, Miss Devol. It was I who gave the order.”

“What’s the big idea? My friends are still thirsty.”

“Your friends will have to wait until supper is served. There will be more champagne then, and they can drink themselves into a stupor if they like. But in a few minutes I am going to place the food on the table, and I want no one looking over my shoulder telling me how to do my business.”

“Is that so?” Myra sneered. “Let me tell you, my good man, that you aren’t being paid to offend guests in this house!”

“Offend? I? I, who am about to give them such a culinary treat as they have seldom seen?”

“Myra,” Laura broke in, “it will only be for a few minutes, a half-hour at the most. Everyone is so busy dancing they will hardly notice.”

“I noticed! I demand that the punch bowl be brought back!”

“I demand that you remove yourself from my kitchen,” the chef shouted. “Do so now, or I will go, leave, depart. And you, Miss Devol, can serve your guests their supper yourself!”

That threat effectively silenced Myra. She stood chewing the lipstick from her mouth in indecision.

“I think,” Laura said, “that it would be better if we went back to the parlor.”

“An excellent idea,” the chef seconded.

Myra folded her arms. “First I want to see what is to be served to our guests.”

It appeared that the chef had no need of her to handle the other woman. If she herself left, maybe Myra would feel uncomfortable enough alone in the kitchen to do the same. With that thought in mind, Laura stepped around a caterer’s helper carrying an armful of cans containing almonds, and slipped back through the pantry into the dining room.

She had started across to the hallway when she noticed that wax from the silver candelabra on the table had dripped onto the polished mahogany surface. It was warm and soft to the touch. Laura picked up the worst of the blob with her nails, but a residue was left. There was a roll of paper toweling in the pantry. She stepped back into the small room with its narrow pass-through to pull one from the roll, swinging back toward the dining room with it in her hand.

At that moment, there came the clicking sound of a key in the lock of the door between the pantry and the kitchen. With a lifted brow, Laura swung to stare at the panel. Why the chef would want to lock that door instead of the one from the hallway into the dining room, she could not imagine. It looked to her as though he had locked himself into the kitchen, which made no sense at all. She supposed, however, that he knew what he was doing.

Moving back into the dining room, Laura wiped carefully at the wax, polishing away the smear until the spot shone once more. With a small smile of satisfaction, she surveyed her handiwork, then stepped around the end of the table to carry the towel back into the pantry, where a trash can was located under one of the shelves.

Myra burst into the room then from the direction of the hall. Her face was flushed with hectic color and she seemed out of breath, as though she had been running. In her hands she had the great brass ring that held the keys to the house. “So, you are still here, poking and prying and cleaning up like a busy little housewife. I expected as much!”

“You should have,” Laura said, her patience suddenly at an end. “You’ve watched me do enough of it these last few weeks.”

“Oh, yes, rub it in! Tell me how hard you have worked. You wouldn’t want anybody to overlook it, would you, especially Justin? You’ve made a regular martyr out of yourself for his sake. I do hope he recognizes it.”

“Do you? For myself, I don’t particularly care.” Ignoring the other woman, Laura stepped into the pantry, disposing of the towel.

“A likely story,” Myra said following her. “If that was true, you wouldn’t have left Russ Masters outside moping while you came in here to wipe up messes.”

“What I do, and who I do it with, is no concern of yours.” Laura’s violet gaze was hard with anger as she stared at the other woman blocking the doorway. “I no longer have to put up with you or your outrageous demands and sneaking ways now that I am through at Crapemyrtle.”

“Yes,” Myra cried, giving a vicious nod so that the feathers in her hair slid forward at an odd angle, making her look demented with rage. “Yes, through!” she screamed, flecks of spittle appearing on her mouth. “That’s exactly what you are. You are through, you and this horrible house. I hate you, I hate both of you!”

Laura saw what she intended. She saw and started forward with a diving step. Immediately Myra stepped back, and with a twisted smile of triumph, slammed the door between the pantry and the dining room, thrusting the key into the lock.

Laura threw herself against the panel, hitting it with her shoulder. But the catch held, and then she heard the grate of the old-fashioned key snapping the bolt home. She was shut in.

Myra laughed with the sound of hysteria that trailed off into a sob. Hearing her still in the dining room, Laura shook the door, twisting the knob this way and that. It did no good. She swung to the other door, which led to the kitchen, knowing as she did so that it would gain her nothing, that it must have been Myra who had turned the key in that door also. Still, she hammered against it. From inside, she could hear the hum of the dishwasher and the whir of a blender. No one came.

Turning back, Laura moved to the end of the pantry, standing on her tiptoes to look through the pass-through. What she saw held her immobile with horror. In the dining room, Myra had picked up the candelabrum with its burning tapers from the table. Her fingers were shaking, and she held the base of the heavy silver piece in a choking grasp with both hands. Muttering to herself, she moved toward the drapes over the windows. As she reached them, she thrust the flames toward the dangling tassels.

Laura stretched as high as she could, banging on the window. “Myra, no! Don’t!”

If the other woman heard, she gave no sign. The tassels of the drapes caught with a rush. Smoke curled upward in a black cloud. Myra’s eyes widened as she backed away, then suddenly she dropped the candelabrum and whirled, running from the room, slamming the door behind her.

“No,” Laura whispered, “no!” Not Crapemyrtle. It could not burn. Even if it did not come to that, if the fire-extinguishing system came on in time, there would be smoke and water damage, so much work gone for nothing.

The pass-through was small, but so was she. She hoisted herself up onto the cabinet beneath it, catching the handles, pushing upward with all her strength. It was stuck in its own fresh paint, but as she strained, jerking at it again and again, it cracked free, sliding upward on the counterweights.

Her wide skirts were an encumbrance, but she had no hoop like Myra. Standing on the cabinet, she unbuttoned the band that held her six thicknesses of petticoats and dropped them to the floor. Swinging around, she put first one leg and then the other through the opening until she was sitting on the sill. Bending low, she wriggled the rest of her body through, balanced a moment, then jumped down on the other side.

At that moment, the smoke alarm set high on the wall gave a preliminary beep, then went off in a nerve-shattering sound. Laura swung toward the drapes with fear in her eyes, then went still. The tasseled fringe had burned for a few inches, and the fabric smoldered where the direct flames had touched it, but that was all. Though the smoke had activated one system, there had not been enough heat to cause the water sprinklers to come on.

Weak with relief, Laura took a few steps, then went down on her knees, picking up the candelabrum Myra had dropped. Of the six candles it held, four had gone out as she flung it down, one had fallen from the socket to be snuffed out in the pile of the carpet, and one still burned. Tilting the flaming wick in her direction, Laura gently blew it out and watched the thin blue wisp of smoke curl upward toward the ceiling.

Abruptly the door swung open. People poured in, crowding around her, shouting above the sound of the alarm, screaming at the sight of smoke. Farther back in the hall, there came shouts of “Fire! Fire!”

It was Justin who came swiftly toward Laura, helping her to her feet. His father moved around the table, jerked out a chair, and unceremoniously climbed up on the seat to snatch off the cover of the smoke alarm, silencing it.

In the sudden quiet, everyone stopped speaking except a man in the hall who could be heard passing the word to those who could not see that the damage was minor and there seemed to be no danger.

“Laura, what happened?” Justin asked, his hands firm upon her shoulders.

She drew a deep breath, but before she could speak, Myra pushed forward, elbowing her way to the front of those gathered around.

“Can’t you see what happened, Justin?” she cried, pointing to the smoking candle in its silver holder still in Laura’s hand. “Isn’t it obvious that sweet little Laura tried to burn down your house?”

“No, she couldn’t,” came a voice Laura recognized as her mother’s, then Russ stepped up.

“Now, why,” he drawled, “would she want to do that?”

“She was jealous,” Myra shrilled. “Jealous of me, and spiteful because she is in love with Justin and she knew she didn’t have a chance. She knew she would never be his wife, never live in this house, because he is still engaged to me!”

Laura could sense the withdrawal in the man beside her, the deep, tightly controlled anger that gripped him, though he did not move. “No,” she said, her voice strained as she stared at the other girl, “that’s not true. It was you.”

“Listen to her try to switch the blame to me. Why in the world would I do that?”

“I don’t know,” Laura said, carefully, “but you did.”

Myra glanced from Laura to Justin, then back again. “It’s your word against mine, isn’t it? And you are the one with the motive.”

Russ spoke again, moving to stand on the other side of Laura. “We still haven’t heard what happened.”

“No, we haven’t,” Justin said. “Laura?”

She told them quickly, leaving out nothing. Justin’s father moved to the pantry door and shook the handle. “It’s still locked.”

“And the window is open,” Russ put in, “and I would be willing to bet that Laura’s petticoats are still inside. A complicated business to go through, don’t you agree, Myra? It would have been so much easier for her to set the fire and run, if she really wanted to destroy Crapemyrtle.”

“She’s not stupid,” Myra sneered. “She knew we would suspect her, so she waited until the chef had put everyone out of this room, then went into her act so we would all feel sorry for her. She thought we would treat her like a heroine instead of seeing through her game.”

Justin reached to take the candelabrum from Laura’s hands, removing the single warm candle, holding it in his hand as he set the silver piece on the table behind him. “That would have been intelligent, if she had done it that way,” he mused, looking from the candle to the drapes, then back to Myra. “But there’s one thing wrong.”

A wary light came into the woman’s green eyes. “And that is?”

“Laura is the one who chose the drapes hanging at the windows there, just as she chose the others throughout the house. As a preventive measure, the material they were made out of was treated for flame retardation, something Laura knew very well. But you didn’t, did you, Myra?”

“Why should I? What do I care about things like that?” The woman laughed, a hollow sound. “It makes no difference to me.”

“I think it does,” Justin said. “This candle is yellow, to match the roses in the centerpiece on the table and the gold drapes at the windows. It doesn’t go too well with your dress. You are the one who set the fire, Myra.”

Myra stared down at the splotch of hot wax that had streaked the taffeta of her skirt. Her head came up. She stared from Justin to Laura, then glanced at Russ before she swung back to the man who was her fiancée. “You think you’re so smart, all of you! All right, then, I did it! So put me in jail. Who cares? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Justin? You’d like to be rid of me! I know it, don’t think I don’t! I know why you refused to let me announce our wedding date tonight, why you wouldn’t let me do anything in this house. You thought I would call off the engagement, didn’t you? Then you wouldn’t have to feel guilty for being in love with another woman! That woman there that you’re so ready to protect!”

Mr. Devol, murmuring soft, soothing phrases, stepped to his daughter’s side then. He tried to put his arm around her, but she shook him off, pulling at the diamond on her hand. “No, no, let me do it, let me do it! I’ve got news for you, Justin Roman! I will call off the engagement, I will! I don’t want to marry you. I hate you! I hate your house! I wish I had burned it to the ground with you and your Laura in it!”