Mulled Murder (Pennyfoot Holiday Mysteries) (18 page)

Cecily heard her husband mutter something under his breath and crossed her fingers. With a good deal of luck, maybe this time the plateau would be successful.

CHAPTER
17

Up on the stage, four of the sturdier dancers formed a circle, outstretched arms creating a link. As the orchestra began playing a soft, tranquil version of “O Little Town of Bethlehem,”
the four slowly sank to a crouch, whereupon two dancers clambered rather ungracefully onto their shoulders.

They, too, crouched, allowing the cat to climb up on their shoulders.

Phoebe’s shrill voice could be heard in the wings above the orchestra, shouting instructions.

Slowly, faces turning red and bosoms heaving with the effort, the four dancers at the base of the plateau straightened their knees, with the other three clinging to them. Phoebe’s voice penetrated the music again, and the two dancers in the middle began to rise.

Cecily briefly closed her eyes.

With much wobbling and clutching, the two dancers slowly rose to a weak smattering of applause from the audience.

Then came a shriek from the cat. Her voice rang out, loud and clear. “Get your flipping foot off my bloody tail, you stupid sod!”

One of the dancers giggled. The two in the middle shot up, and the cat, her tail still trapped under someone’s foot, yelled as her furry costume was stripped from her body.

Amid shocked gasps from the audience, Phoebe rushed onstage, just in time to break the fall of the cat as the plateau collapsed. The half-dressed girl toppled on top of Phoebe, while an argument broke out among the rest of the dancers as to whose foot had caused the whole debacle.

Baxter muttered, “Oh, for God’s sake,” and leapt out of his seat.

By the time Cecily had risen to follow him he had disappeared through the stage door. The curtains hurriedly swished to a close before Cecily reached the door behind her husband. The audience remained seated, some politely clapping, though no one onstage was paying any attention. They were too busy screaming at each other.

Cecily reached the stage in time to see Baxter hauling a howling young woman off Phoebe’s still form. “Is she all right?” She rushed forward, concern taking her breath away.

Baxter gently rolled Phoebe onto her back. Her hat was crushed beneath her, and the line of her hair had slipped lower on her forehead. She stirred, and opened her eyes. “What happened?” she murmured.

Cecily hastily retrieved the hat. “Help her up,” she ordered, cramming the hat back on Phoebe’s head the moment it was off the floor. She ignored the odd look her husband gave her. As far as she knew, she was the only person in the world, other than Phoebe’s son, the Reverend Algernon Carter-Holmes, who knew that Phoebe was completely bald and wore a wig.

Phoebe uttered a soft moan.

“Are you hurt? Shall I fetch Dr. Prestwick?” Cecily peered at her friend’s white face. “He’s right there in the audience.”

Phoebe groaned again. “My presentation is ruined. Again. Can’t those stupid little twerps get it right just once?”

Somewhat reassured, Cecily helped the muttering woman to her feet. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“Just my pride.” Phoebe tugged at her hat, which stubbornly remained lopsided. “I need to go to the dressing room. Are the girls all right?”

Cecily looked around. Most of the dancers had disappeared—most likely to escape Phoebe’s wrath. The two who did remain were creeping off the stage as if trying to avoid being seen. “I can’t see any dead bodies,” Cecily said, then immediately wished she hadn’t been so facetious. Under the circumstances, her comment was not in the least amusing.

Phoebe seemed not to notice Cecily’s discomfort. “Good. Then I shall retire to the dressing room to lick my wounds and while I’m about it I shall give those hellions a piece of my mind.” She picked up her skirt and with as much dignity as she could muster marched off into the wings.

Baxter, who had been standing by in silence all this time, shook his head. “One of these days she is likely to cause some permanent damage to either herself or someone else.”

Cecily pulled a face. “I sincerely hope you are wrong about that.”

“Perhaps it’s time to put an end to Phoebe’s fiascoes.”

“How can I? They are such an integral part of our celebrations. Everyone looks forward to them.”

“Not everyone. I noticed some of our guests were notably absent. Including our detective.”

Cecily glanced at her husband’s scowling face. He hadn’t taken the news well about Harry Clements hiding his identity. Or the detective’s suspicions. In fact, he had threatened to report the entire matter to the constabulary, and it was only with a great deal of persuasion that Cecily had managed to change his mind.

“I’m sure Mr. Clements has other things on his mind.” She felt a twinge of anxiety for the man. She’d expected some kind of development by now, and the fact that she hadn’t seen him since their conversation that morning made her most uneasy.

She just had to put her faith in his abilities. After all, as he had assured her, he was a trained specialist and should know what he was doing. She couldn’t help worrying, however, that something awful might have happened to him.

If he hadn’t made an appearance by midday tomorrow, she promised herself, she would contact the constabulary and tell them everything she knew. That would still give them time to stop the art thieves from shipping the paintings to France.

It would also mean an unpleasant upheaval for her guests, and possibly for Pansy’s wedding as well. As she followed Baxter offstage she sent up a silent prayer that Mr. Clements would find the proof he needed and bring the criminals to justice without having to bring in Scotland Yard and the disagreeable Inspector Cranshaw.

• • •

The following morning, right after breakfast, Cecily headed for the kitchen. As usual, the noise level was such that she had to raise her voice to speak to Mrs. Chubb. Amid the rattling of dishes, Michel’s off-key singing, and Pansy’s heated argument with another maid, Cecily asked the housekeeper where she could find Bernie, the plumber.

Mrs. Chubb jerked a thumb at the back door. “Last time I seen him, he was going out the back. I don’t know what for. The lavatories are upstairs.”

Cecily, too, was beginning to wonder why Bernie spent so much time downstairs, when he should be working on the second and third floors. “Thank you, Mrs. Chubb. If you should see him, please tell him I want a word with him.”

“Yes, m’m.” Mrs. Chubb wiped her hands on her apron. “I can’t for the life of me understand what’s taking him so long. George would have had all of it done in no time.”

Cecily nodded. “I’m inclined to agree with you, Altheda. That reminds me, I really should give George a ring and find out how he’s coming along with that sprained ankle.” She turned to leave, just as an almighty crash rang in her ears.

Glancing back, she saw Pansy staring in dismay at the pieces of a serving dish lying scattered at her feet. One look at Mrs. Chubb’s face made Cecily feel sorry for the girl. Wedding nerves of course. She just hoped the housekeeper remembered that and went easy on the jittery bride. Normally she would have been given the day off, but Pansy had insisted on working that morning, since they were so shorthanded. She wanted to help get the ballroom ready for the reception.

Cecily had a suspicion that Pansy, knowing how much she was going to miss everyone after the wedding, was stretching out the last few hours she had left working at the Pennyfoot.

It was more than an hour later when Cecily caught sight of Bernie through her office window. He was crossing the courtyard, and judging from the red patches in his cheeks and the deep furrows on his forehead, the plumber wasn’t in the best of moods.

Deciding to waylay him, Cecily hurried down the hallway and across the foyer. She had just reached the kitchen stairs when Bernie appeared at the top of them. He would have brushed past her with no more than a curt nod if she hadn’t stepped in front of him.

He came to an abrupt halt, looking at her as if she were a slug in his salad.

She met his gaze, and saw something in his eyes that unsettled her. “Good morning, Bernie,” she said firmly, glad that there were several guests milling about the foyer. “I’d like a quick word with you, if you have the time?”

“Of course, Mrs. B.” The hostility in his eyes vanished, to be replaced by the usual twinkling mischief.

It was such a fast and extensive switch, Cecily stared at him for several seconds, forgetting what she was going to say next.

Bernie cocked his head to one side. “Is something wrong?”

Cecily hastily recovered. “Oh no. At least, I hope not. Actually, I was expecting the lavatories to be back in service by now.”

“So was I, Mrs. B. So was I.” Bernie shook his head. “The problem is, it’s Christmas, isn’t it. I had to order several parts for the lavatories. All worn-out they were. But because of Christmas, it’s taking a lot longer for them to get here. I got word, though, that they’ll be here by this afternoon. By tonight your lavatories will be in fine working order again. That’s a promise.”

Cecily relaxed her shoulders. “Well, I’m very happy to hear it. My guests have been complaining and I can’t say I blame them.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that, m’m. Like I said, the parts should be here later today and just as soon as I get my dirty little hands on ’em, I’ll be up there fixing them all up.”

“Very well.” She was about to turn away when she remembered something else. “Oh, by the way, someone mentioned that you were talking to Alice the other day.”

His expression changed at once. It was fleeting, but for a second or two she thought she saw fear in his eyes. Then he was smiling again, and she decided she must have imagined it. “Was I? I don’t remember who I talked to, to be honest, m’m. I talk to a lot of people.”

Now Cecily felt uncomfortable again. “Well, yes. I only asked because Alice has left the Pennyfoot and since you were one of the last people to talk to her, I wondered if perhaps she mentioned where she was going.”

There it was again. She hadn’t imagined it after all. That look in his eyes. He knew more about Alice than he wanted her to know.

Bernie shrugged. “Sorry, Mrs. B. I don’t remember even talking to her, so I’m afraid I can’t help you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d better get back to work.” With that he stepped around her and headed for the stairs.

Cecily stared after him, wondering what it was he knew about Alice that he was keeping to himself. Almost as if he was afraid of her. Frowning, she retraced her steps across the foyer and started up the stairs. She needed to talk to her husband, just as soon as possible.

• • •

Pansy picked up another potato from the pile on the draining board and started slicing at it with the peeler. Her stomach felt out of sorts, and the last thing she wanted was to be messing about with food. All she could think about was the wedding. How it would feel to walk down the aisle of St. Bartholomew’s with all eyes upon her. Samuel would be waiting at the altar, smiling at her. At least, she hoped he would be smiling at her.

What if he didn’t like her gown? What if he changed his mind about marrying her and was going to tell her in front of everybody? What if he didn’t turn up at the church at all? What if—

“Are you bloody trying to peel that potato or murder it?”

At the word
murder
Pansy dropped the peeler into the sink. Turning to look at Gertie she snapped, “Whatcha making all that noise for? You made me jump out of my skin.”

Gertie backed off, one hand over her heart. “Oh, sorry, your bleeding majesty. I didn’t know you were so bloody fragile this morning.”

To Pansy’s horror, tears starting trickling down her cheeks. “I’m not fragile. I’m j-just s-scared!”

The last word ended on a wail and Gertie’s grin swiftly vanished. “Here, luv, I didn’t mean to upset you. What’s the matter, then?”

“She’s got wedding nerves,” Lilly said from across the room. She held up the silver fork she was polishing. “I know what that’s like.”

“So do I,” Gertie said, putting a hefty arm around Pansy’s shoulders. “I done it twice already.”

Pansy sniffed. “I keep wondering what I’ll do if Samuel doesn’t turn up at the church.”

Gertie let out a shout of laughter. “Turn up? He’ll flipping be there, don’t you worry. He can’t wait to marry you. He told me that himself.”