The Marsh Madness (5 page)

I hadn’t found myself yet, no dark-haired twenty-something woman with blue eyes “put in with a sooty finger.” But with thirty-two books, anything was possible. Maybe I’d show up as a Bridget or a Molly with a brogue that Marsh would capture phonetically.

With the other characters, I had decided that Sergeant Fox was my favorite, large, occasionally burly, ginger haired (a good thing), solid in a crisis, he was the right-hand man. He reminded me of Uncle Mick, although clearly on the other side of the law. At least one of the Kelly family was on those pages. I loved the running gag about Fox studying French, which the upper-class Alleyn spouted effortlessly. There were clownish types flitting through the pages too. I wondered what Ngaio Marsh would have made of Uncle Kev.

Smiling, I dressed for dinner.

*   *   *

WE DINE AT eight at a splendid Sheraton table in the formal dining room. Vera at one end, me at the other, Kev halfway between us. We are not late if we know what is good for us. I wore my knee-high boots to prevent Bad Cat from giving me some new scars. Tall boots were a wise choice, because Bad Cat’s claws raked at my ankles from the moment I took my seat. Good Cat watched benignly from the black walnut sideboard. Whenever the signora left the room, Good Cat would join Vera.

Signora Panetone was ready for an army even though we
were only three. The signora never joins us. She’s too busy serving, fussing and hovering. I’ve learned to accept this as the way it is and stay in my seat.

Tonight the signora had promised tiramisu for dessert, my favorite.

She began by serving homemade spinach fettuccine with a mild but savory tomato sauce and lots of fresh Parmesan. Kev and I each accepted a small mountain of it. Vera took a tablespoon, if that. The signora uttered her familiar bleats. “Eat, Vera! You need to eat.”

Vera has selective hearing, and she never seemed to hear a word the signora said. Kev eased the situation by asking for seconds before I’d finished my first mouthful.

Conversation turned to Ngaio Marsh and her work.

Vera said, “Alleyn is the finest of all the detectives, in my opinion.”

I was mindful of what happened not that long ago when I’d yanked Vera’s chain over Archie Goodwin from the Nero Wolfe books. Suggesting they should have been the Archie Goodwin books had been painful.

“Mmmm,” I said. “I thought Marsh glorified the upper classes. The totally perfect Inspector Roderick Alleyn is proof of that in book after book.” I chose not to add that I thought he was a bit too upper class, too constrained, far too elegant, not to mention annoyingly calm. Of course, I liked Alleyn as a detective, but he didn’t have enough flaws for me to fall for him.

Vera shot me a venomous look. “Absurd, even from you, Miss Bingham.”

“I like his wife, the painter Agatha Troy, more.” I ignored the dirty look. “She’s a bit messy, compared to Inspector Perfection.”

Vera scowled as I spoke. The signora edged closer to try to slide a bit more fettuccine onto the plate.

I kept going. “And I like his mother. Alleyn had a warm relationship with her. I was kind of happy that he had a
mother. Not enough detectives have mothers. Imagine her dining with the Dowager Duchess of Denver.”

Even from the length of the table, Vera’s stare was chilly. “We read stories, Miss Bingham. We don’t make them up.”

“But the Dowager Duchess is Lord Peter Wimsey’s mother and—”

Vera sighed dramatically. “I know who she is. Sometimes you are too fanciful, silly, even. It’s all about Roderick Alleyn. He is the glue that holds the books together. I believe he was the love of her life.”

“Even more than the theater? Do you think?”

I imagined Alleyn looking a bit like Cary Grant (my mother’s favorite actor from back in the day): laid-back, elegant and intelligent. Not only was the gentleman detective soigné, he was very nice to his mother. It would be pretty easy to spend time with a sleuth like that. I could see an author being in love. But I couldn’t resist teasing Vera a bit. You’d think I’d learn.

“I don’t know. Sergeant Fox also won me over, especially with his brave attempts to master the French language. Imagine how frustrating it would be, struggling with a language that came effortlessly to Alleyn.”

“For heaven’s sake. Fox is an . . . afterthought.”

“Oh, hardly.”

“
Cela suffit
, Miss Bingham.”

Maybe Vera thought that would do, but I couldn’t resist another little verbal engagement. “Poor Fox. I feel his pain. But should we be jealous of Agatha Troy, Alleyn’s wife? I think I might be, even if she’s a bit untidy and—”

“I do not have emotions about fictional characters.”

I was wise enough not to mention Nero Wolfe again.

The signora arrived with
pollo al limone
served with rice and peas. “Not too much, thanks, Signora. I’m saving room for the tiramisu.”

She inhaled sharply.

The room went quiet.

“What?” I said.

“
Domani!
” she said. “
Tiramisu domani
.”

“But I saw it in the kitchen earlier. Why not tonight?”

Vera stared at Good Cat. Kev stared at his feet. The signora said, “You eat lotsa fettucine! Spinach. And chicken. Very good.”

“Let me guess. Something happened to the tiramisu.”

“No, no, no, no!” The signora did a mad little dance around.

Vera muttered, “Let it go, Miss Bingham.”

Kev said, “It was an accident.”

Of course.

“An accident? Did it fall on the floor?”

“Not exactly.”

“Did you accidentally eat it all?”

He flashed his Kelly grin.

“These things happen, Miss Bingham,” Vera said.

“More tomorrow night,” the signora said, slapping several more pieces of chicken on my plate. “Tonight, cookies.”

This all should prove my point about Kev.

*   *   *

AFTER DINNER, I returned to my Ngaio Marsh reading project on my cozy bed. The gently used paperbacks I’d located were not good enough for Vera, but perfect for me. I hoped that I’d get enough of a sense of the Roderick Alleyn stories to hold up my end of the conversation about the series at our coming luncheon. Someone would have to. Vera usually offered nothing more than a grunt for an entire meal, regardless of who she was dining with. Soon I was lost in
A Man Lay Dead.
Time flies when you’re having fun.

*   *   *

I COULDN’T BELIEVE how late it was. I needed to get a good night’s sleep. I cleaned my face and teeth, and I took a peek out the dormer window. This was one of my favorite things to do at bedtime when I was a child and watched the
night sky with my uncles. From my little pink-and-white bedroom over Uncle Mick’s shop (Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques), the stars were magical and powerful. Uncle Mick could weave stories about the constellations. Looking back, I now think my uncles wanted to keep me from having nightmares. After all, I was a small girl whose mother had vanished and I lived with my bachelor uncles who were adorable, although undeniably crooked. I didn’t care. I loved it when Mick would point and have me do my five-year-old best to say Cassiopeia. The night might have been overcast with not a star in view, but I still had happy memories of watching the sky.

I did a double take. Was that a furtive movement in the direction of the woods? I wasn’t sure. But at least it couldn’t be Kev. I could see the light in his quarters over the garage and his shadow against the blind. Just a fox, I decided, happily hunting. But I needed to remember to check on those woods in the morning. In case.

I
FOLLOWED VERA’S old Caddy up the long, long approach to Summerlea. With its high stone walls at the entrance and vast formal grounds on either side of the front driveway, it made Van Alst House look like a shack in the woods. It was impressively over-the-top. I love opulence. If it looked this attractive in the gray early light with only evergreens and a wide swath of crocus for color, I could only imagine how beautiful it would be in late spring, and how stunning the summer events had been here.

A silver classic Aston Martin was parked creatively in front of the house, next to it a vintage red Mercedes convertible, both with muddy plates. I figured the Mercedes was from the seventies or eighties. It was a bit battered and dusty, and not a candidate for any classic car parade, but had I not given my heart to the Saab, this might have been what I’d buy if I won the lottery.

As I didn’t buy lottery tickets, that wouldn’t happen. Uncle Kev used up all the Kelly luck long ago.

I was happy to see there was a ramp for Vera’s wheelchair. I’d made it clear when Miss Troy and I discussed arrangements. I was still kind of tickled by the coincidence of Miss Troy’s name.

As Kev pushed Vera up the ramp, I headed up the wide steps to the door and rang. It was opened by a large, stone-faced butler. How’s that for over-the-top? I had never met a real butler before, although I’d always enjoyed the butlers in the novels of the Golden Age of Detection. Bunter was my favorite. I may have already mentioned that I had a serious crush on his employer, Lord Peter Wimsey, but I’d been able to move on, with the help of Archie Goodwin.

This time, I’d been so distracted by the grand entrance, I missed the butler’s name. Maybe butlers weren’t supposed to give their names.

How would I know? I came from simple, criminal stock, good-natured and totally devoid of servants. Maybe it was instinctive for me to note the impressive security setup at the front door. I’d be sure to mention that to Uncle Mick. More impressive though was this butler. Even Vera didn’t have a butler. Attempts to dress up Uncle Kev and have him answer the door had not gone well, shall we say.

But back to the moment. I was expecting more of a stereotypical British butler, the type you might meet on
Masterpiece Theatre
. But this was upstate New York, not England. This butler’s pear-shaped body stretched the fabric of his somber suit, and he could have used a good color-consultant before choosing that flat, black hair dye. One of the things I liked about Ngaio Marsh when she described characters was that she commented on their hands. Somehow it helped to bring those characters to life. I found myself checking hands too. In fact, the butler’s ham-like appendages seemed more suited to tossing a javelin than serving tea, or whatever it is that butlers do. I figured he might have had a career as a wrestler before he discovered that the butler’s life was his heart’s desire. I was surprised that those hairy
fingers hadn’t kept him out of the game, not to mention the five-o’clock shadow at noon.

The nameless underling ushered us in, much to Kev’s astonishment. He is used to being the underling. He nodded to the butler in his best version of a gentleman of leisure.

Miss Troy was waiting and she seemed delighted to see us. “Please, call me Lisa.”

I don’t know why I was surprised by her warm greeting. Why had I been expecting otherwise? As Vera’s assistant, I would have been equally happy to meet guests who were going to help her out in some way.

The grave look of the butler had worried me. Or it could have been the significance of the Kauffman family and their mighty history. I reminded myself that we lived in a democracy where everyone had a value and it was supposed to be how you lived your life that mattered, not how much money you had. I tried not to gawk at the huge crystal chandelier illuminating the foyer.

After all, I was not the upstairs maid. I’d be at the table.

I was impressed by Miss Troy. She was tall and willowy, and that severely tailored black suit and crisp white shirt couldn’t disguise that. Her soft brown hair was caught back in a perfect chignon, a style that flattered her. With her luminous skin, she could have been the face of any major beauty company. Really, she would have been quite unbearable except for her dark horn-rimmed glasses and the barest suggestion of an overbite. That overbite was kind of endearing. And of course, she was so welcoming. She seemed to be working at being cool and professional, but her smile kept surfacing. Even so, in this environment, I kept thinking of her as Miss Troy. It seemed right somehow. Maybe because of the Ngaio Marsh connection.

Kev looked like he could get used to being an honored guest. Of course, we’d only been there for minutes and he hadn’t had time to mess up.

Miss Troy murmured delicately that if we wished to freshen
up after our trip, there were facilities around the corner. She gestured beautifully with her long, slim white hand. I couldn’t help but admire her modern manicure with the short, smooth nails in deep, glossy burgundy. I was glad I’d done my own nails in palest nude. My hands are small and dexterous, perfect for using the traditional tools of my family. Have I mentioned I received a set of lock picks for my Sweet Sixteen? Despite this encouragement, I’ve stuck to the straight and narrow. Mostly.

Uncle Kev and I took advantage of her offer to freshen up. Vera never freshens up; if anything, she blands down.

As we passed through the foyer, I admired the glossy marble floors with their intricate inlaid designs and the spectacular curving mahogany stairs. Everything gleamed. The space smelled of lilies from the towering arrangement on a Chippendale table. Unlike Van Alst House, the money was obviously still here to keep Summerlea at its best. The ladies’ room was opulent in cream paint and dark mahogany woodwork. The soap was Crabtree and Evelyn Citron, Honey & Coriander. The hand towels were pale linen. I thought we should consider upping our game at Van Alst House, but of course, Vera rarely had visitors unless they were trying to kill her.

Anyway, why spend scarce funds on soap and linen towels when there were still first editions to buy, would be her response. Still, I decided I’d start keeping an eye out for linen hand towels at the vintage shows. Maybe I’d find some embroidered with
V
for Van Alst, or even better,
B
for Bingham.

Of course, I couldn’t spend the day admiring the facilities when luncheon awaited. I reluctantly left this little oasis of luxury and rejoined Miss Troy in the hallway.

She smiled sympathetically, and I wondered if she could sense the generations of grifter from me, one of whom had tagged along. The smile seemed pitying.

We found Uncle Kev in front of a small demilune table
with another arrangement of lilies. He was gazing at a petite marble nude carving and grinning innocently, always a bad sign. Had he just put that down when we reached him? What else had his eye spotted? His blazer didn’t seem lumpy, so I didn’t need to worry about lecturing him to return whatever he’d pilfered from the little boys’ room. At the same time, I didn’t let myself touch the flower arrangement to make sure those blooms were real. Of course they were. I didn’t want to come across as gauche.

We were shepherded into a large sitting room for drinks. The butler—whatever his name was—looked like he’d be right at home mixing cocktails. Inside the splendidly appointed room stood the person who could only be Chadwick Barrymore Kauffman, last of the Kauffman clan. He leaned against the fireplace, waiting with a weary smile glued to his thin face. He was not what I’d expected. There was no sense of warmth or welcome. It was impossible to imagine him presiding over charity fund-raisers. My research told me he was forty-three, although he looked younger. He seemed to do a slight double take when he spotted Vera rolling in. I imagined it was the mud-brown acrylic cardigan she sported. How the pilling danced in the light. And it felt worse than it looked. She wouldn’t go for the blue silk blouse I’d picked out for her. Usually, I can at least count on her to wear one of her brilliant diamond brooches for a social event. This time, she’d declined to do that too. “Don’t want to look like we’re doing too well,” she’d said. There was little danger of that. If Vera had looked any worse, someone might have started a fund-raiser for her.

Chadwick paused, watching her through heavy-lidded eyes. He reminded me of a lizard, and not the cute one from the commercials.

For a split second, I thought we’d be escorted out. No Ngaio Marsh collection for this motley crew. Here’s your hat. What’s your hurry?

After a brief pause, Chadwick extended a slender, limp
hand to Vera. I was relieved she didn’t bite it, but returned his handshake like a normal person. Not a fan of lizards. I barely refrained from a shiver. Chadwick offered a bored nod of acknowledgment to me and to Kev. We were, after all, the help and merited only the minimum attention. His cologne stung my eyes. It smelled like entitlement
.
I didn’t care if we were just the help. We were included in the lunch, as was Miss Troy. I did feel Miss Troy was higher up the food chain than we were.

The butler’s name was Thomas, it turned out, and he was there to serve. Thomas had a talent for mimosas. They were perfect and served, naturally, in sparkling crystal. Although the mimosas may have relaxed us slightly, they didn’t lead to anything approaching merriment.

Summerlea might have been a getaway, but it had a somber, dignified air to it. The staircase may have been magnificent, but I couldn’t image that solemn Chadwick had ever slid down that shiny banister shrieking with laughter. I bet he’d been an aloof and withdrawn child. He’d probably spent most of his childhood sunning himself on a warm rock.

Conversation sputtered along.

Chadwick asked Vera about her collection.

“It’s not bad,” Vera said. “Coming along.” That was an understated way to describe the treasured volumes in the climate-controlled library with its security system, Aubusson carpets, rosewood furniture and bookshelves and wrought-iron circular staircase leading to the second floor. Of course, Vera was crying poor on the off chance, in the end, the price for the Ngaio Marsh collection could dip a bit in her favor.

Chadwick tilted his narrow head and gazed at her speculatively. I figured he had her number. Sometimes, playing games can actually cost you money. Vera wanted that collection the way she wanted to keep breathing.

“Tell us about the collection here at Summerlea,” I said, being careful not to chirp.

He glanced at me briefly before saying, “What do you want to know?”

“What did your uncle collect? Fine firsts? Other mysteries?” Those were Vera’s passions, and she favored the authors from the Golden Age of Detection. Of course, Ngaio Marsh had been one of the giants of that era.

I guessed that Chadwick didn’t appreciate an interruption from one of the minions. He gave a tight smile that went nowhere near those hooded eyes. “He collected many things, including certain authors. Marsh was a favorite, although he leaned toward American classic mysteries. He had some Hammetts and Chandlers.”

There had been nothing about Magnus Kauffman’s reading habits in anything I’d read.

“Did he keep his books here in Summerlea?” I wondered about the climate-controlled conditions. My guess was that Summerlea wasn’t open all year round and that we were the first through the door at the end of winter. Would it be damp? “Damp” was a four-letter word in our business.

He flicked an annoyed glance in my direction. “No. The books are at the residence in Manhattan. There is a special room for them for the time being. Some were singled out in the will for the New York Public Library, Rare Book Division. If
Miss Van Alst
would be interested in seeing the others sometime before they are on their way, we could certainly arrange for
her
to visit.”

If Uncle Kev noticed that we were pointedly not invited to visit the city residence, he gave no indication. Instead, he held out his empty mimosa glass. Thomas refilled it, with his eyebrows raised. And here I’d thought butlers were supposed to keep their reactions under wraps.

“I don’t travel,” Vera was saying, dismissively. It must have been difficult for her to look so uninterested, because of course, she would want to see, and yes, touch, the Hammetts and the Chandlers. I was impressed that she’d managed
not to drool. But she’s nothing if not a good negotiator. Her first principle: You have to be prepared to walk away. They can sense that.

Chadwick pursed his thin lips and glanced at me once more past those thick eyelids, as if I were responsible for Vera’s rudeness. I kept my mouth closed. Although I found myself disliking Chadwick more by the minute, I didn’t want to ruin lunch. Instead, I smiled and said, “What a beautiful room. I love the light and the view. It must be lovely in the summer looking down the lawn to the water.” I didn’t say, “Holy crap, is that a real Andrew Wyeth?”

Miss Troy, who had continued watching Chadwick intensely, produced a warm smile that transformed her face. “Yes, it’s wonderful, isn’t it? What a shame this isn’t later in the season.”