Chapter 20
Flossie is fanning me.
Seeing my eyes flutter open, she stops and rings the call button that connects to the office. Then she brings a glass of water tinged with lemon to my lips. “You passed out. Heard it was scotch that did you in.”
“It was a generous pour.”
“Koa brought you up. Just lifted you in his arms like you were a coat he didn’t want to wrinkle and sailed right up three flights of stairs.”
A knock comes at the door, and soon Eva is standing beside my bed as well, her notepad tucked under her arm. “How are you feeling?”
I sit up. “Fine,” I say, though my head feels like it is being elbowed on all sides. I glance toward the still-bright windows. My stomach feels empty, which raises the dreadful question of whether I merely swooned or also spewed.
Never mind. I don’t really want to know.
“Nash isn’t fine,” Flossie volunteers. “Koa punched him in the face.”
Water goes up my nose. “What? Why?”
Flossie takes my glass and passes me a handkerchief. “You tell us.”
I groan, the knocking at the base of my skull louder than a diesel engine.
Now who has the head of cast iron? I specifically asked Koa to behave.
How is Nash supposed to win over customers with a busted face?
It was just a drink. “Nash agreed to continue the charade, and I was simply sealing the deal. How bad is it?”
“He’s got a shiner,” Flossie says cheerfully. “Cookie gave him her arnica poultice, but I’d advise steering him clear of Koa.”
Poor Nash. Another missed ferry. Another debt to pay.
“I’ve already informed Mr. Zephyr,” Eva says crisply, “though Sveyn and Boots might protest the Gatheround at your dinner tonight.”
“But it’s your decision,” Flossie cuts in. “I’ve been keeping my eye on those two like you asked, and one thing’s for sure: They’re pushy as locomotives. But you’re the conductor.” Flossie flourishes one of Lydia’s dinner dresses—a plum-hued silk with a black lace overlay—and I recoil.
“You can’t be hitting the dinner table in scouting duds. It wouldn’t be proper. And if you want to be seen as serious, best be dressing the part.”
I nod, knowing she is right. “Will it just be the three of us at dinner?” I ask, not liking the idea of being outnumbered again.
Eva glances at her pocket watch. “Nash has a standing invitation to the family dining room, but of course, he probably wants a rest.”
“Of course. Might you join as well?”
“Me?” Eva’s composure cracks; she looks almost startled.
“Yes. Why not you?”
“I—I’m not sure it’s appropriate. Mr. Sanders would never have…” She bites her lip.
It occurs to me I don’t know where the secretary takes her meals, as she never eats with the staff. “I think it’s appropriate. I’m relying on you to help me run the business. Your presence is essential.”
Besides, the men have tried to outjockey me once. This time I will bring my own cavalry.
I shrink in size as soon as I step into the family dining room.
How often have I been called to help carry dishes, adjust sauces, or set places here when extra hands were needed?
And now I must take my place at the head of the table, where the silver has been polished to a high shine and the water cup placed at the perfect forty-five-degree angle to the dinner knife.
Sveyn and Boots, in their dark suits, are deep into their whispering. I catch Sveyn’s words—“Surely he’d agree with us; the money’s there for the taking”—before he notices Eva and me and abruptly hushes.
What are they on about? What money?
They get to their feet, more out of obligation than true respect.
“Gentlemen,” I say, feigning ease.
A single Chinook salmon stares glassily from the wall.
Fish out of water. Me too. More manly collectibles decorate the space between the tall windows: a display of trophy cups, a porpoise skeleton.
The largest of the glass-bottom boat lamps unique to the house stretches the length of the table, light shining out from bow to stern.
Buddy peels himself off a wall and holds out an enormous chair for me, and I manage to coordinate planting my rump with his chair-scooting without incident. Eva, still attired in her gray suit with lace collar, is helped into place by Yates at my left, facing the Brain Trust.
The butler and the footman then do their practiced dance around the table, placing napkins and pouring wine.
Sveyn wastes no time. “We heard your Rifle inflicted violence upon Nash.” His beard bounces like a bell rope.
My limbs lock up at his accusatory tone, despite my annoyance at Koa. “Koa believed he was protecting me.”
“Perhaps his judgment is off.” Boots sniffs his leek soup, which needs to be strained several times to get perfectly smooth. He is cautious with everything. “He should be reprimanded. Bad enough he needs more Rifles for kids’ pranks. I always thought Dakon promoted him too early.”
Clearly neither he nor Sveyn is worried about the seals. Assuming they are not the killers, how differently might they act if they knew one was on the loose? Or perhaps they are the murderers, acting jointly to take whatever easy money they were whispering about.
“Oh please, there is no need for action on my account.” Nash strolls in, Mrs. Bonefat like a shadow behind him.
Our pretend president’s face is pale, and there’s a red bruise and a cut under his eye.
Yet the injury is like a chip on a well-designed cup that somehow brings out the fairness of the crockery even more.
“I was on my second glass of moon scotch. Hardly felt a thing.”
His gaze slides to me, and my shoulders suddenly feel bare, despite the black lace covering them, and the kerchief I insisted on wearing.
“If my mother were here, she’d want to paint your portrait.” Nash nods toward a painting of a woman bent over a sewing machine on the beach, one of the few items of tasteful decoration here. “That is one of hers. She found that traveling seamstress in West Sound.”
A dark dinner jacket swings easily over his narrow trousers as he makes his way to a chair, easy as a whistling bluejay. “Yates, I’d love a martini with two olives.”
Yates murmurs assent and shuffles to the sideboard.
Sveyn, scraping the bottom of his bowl, boasts, “Viridian once offered to paint my portrait, you know. Said my face ‘told a story.’ ”
“Is it one that keeps children up at night?” asks Boots with a smirk.
Nash laughs. “Mother had an eye for memorable characters.”
I can’t help envying his easy camaraderie with the Brain Trust. Did the whispers—the money’s there for the taking—refer to him? What if Sveyn and Boots had jointly disposed of Mr. Sanders, believing his carefree replacement—Nash—would be easy to manipulate into whatever they were scheming?
A glop of soup drops onto my lap, where, thankfully, a napkin has been placed. It strikes me that a dinner gown seems designed more to hinder the consumption of food than aid in it, with its figure-hugging bodice and fine fabric in constant danger of ruin.
“Sounds like your mother was an adventurer.” I inject myself into the conversation. What other memorable characters might his mother have drawn? Could she have ever met my father?
“It takes one to know one. The Lady Vee is always at your service, should you want a ride.”
Nash and Daniel used to take his mother’s speedboat on their jaunts, and it hasn’t seen much action since Daniel’s death. But I can hardly see myself racing about in that pleasure craft. A canoe is more my speed.
Empty soup bowls are swapped out for clean plates.
“Thank you. Of course, with the Gatheround, we shall be very busy,” I say, attempting to redirect the conversation.
Eva gives me a subtle nod.
“On that subject, it is hardly the time or place for a celebration,” Sveyn grumbles. “The Gatheround should be an intimate dinner for customers only. No staff.”
No staff? That would make morale even worse than it is now. Everyone attends the Gatheround, and even the staff chosen to work it have a good time. Eva keeps her gaze affixed to the boat chandelier. It is up to me to maneuver us out of this situation. It is my estate, after all.
“The Gatheround was Mr. Sanders’s favorite event of the year, even more than the fishing derby, and to honor him, we shall keep all the traditions. The entire staff will be welcome.”
Sveyn sets down his wineglass hard enough to crack it, and Buddy, scraping crumbs from the table, sucks in his breath.
“Think of the publicity.” Eva inserts her words lightly, but they land as solid as coins in a fountain. “Surely all the newspapers will want to write about it.”
Sveyn and Boots glance at each other, doubt filling their expressions.
Nash, slouched in his chair and observing us, props himself up on an elbow. “I, for one, always look forward to the hankie-auction tradition.” He raises his martini. “A toast, then, to the heiress of Nowhere, skillfully navigating our ship into abundant waters.”
Glasses are lifted, and the toast is consummated. As I sip, I notice a sly look passing between Boots and Sveyn. The money’s there for the taking.
If those two are plotting against me, the Gatheround could be a dismal failure, advertising to all the weakness of our enterprise. Then who will smell the blood in the water?
And who will close in for the kill?