Chapter 28
Squeezed between Flossie and Eva before a full-length mirror, I avoid looking at my reflection.
On Flossie, a tiered dress in dark green puts me in mind of a rare seaside juniper.
Eva shines in powder-blue silk, the first hint of color I have ever seen her wear.
Her white hair bow looks freshly ironed.
“What do you think?” Flossie tilts her face up at me. Lydia’s emerald bobs, which I insisted she wear, twinkle in her ears.
“Maid, you have done a magnificent job,” says Eva in her matter-of-fact way.
Despite her annoyance with the title, Flossie’s reflection bursts with pride.
I grudgingly peek at myself. My eyes look spooked, magnified with the help of Flossie’s kohl pencil.
The man-tamer has been modernized, sleeves replaced by thin straps to hold up the gown of red-purple satin silk, the neckline lowered.
The bodice has been cinched tighter, amplifying parts of me that usually prefer to sit quietly.
My hair falls loose around my shoulders, which Flossie determined looked most striking, even after mastering the flying spindle.
But not even the crystals that cover my strands like dewdrops can distract from the purplish mark on my neck.
“It is quite a transformation. If the killer is at the party, he won’t have to look hard to find me.” I feel for the hard outline of the Double Dee on my thigh.
Eva pins her watch to her pocket. “The killer already knows who you are. It is time to be strong and powerful. Show him he will not make us feel weak.” There is a hard edge to her voice, one that knows of what she speaks.
A surge of gratitude rushes through me. Without this mushroom network anchoring me, sending out roots, I would not be about to make my entrance into the party of the year, where I might catch a killer and revive our business in one stroke. “Where is my kerchief?”
“I’ve chucked that nasty scrap in the fire.” Flossie’s lower lip juts, challenging me.
“You’ve… what? Well then, a scarf. People will stare otherwise.”
“That’s not what they’ll be staring at,” Flossie says brightly, swiping a brush over my cheeks. “Your curves and that small waist can charge their own admission.”
I try to pull the neckline up over my cleavage, but Flossie bats my hand away. “But I am courting clients, not mates,” I grumble.
“Don’t it work the same way?” Flossie asks with a sly wink.
Staring closer at the mirror, I try to rub away some of the rouge, but that only makes my cheeks look pinker. A thought tugs at me. “Mrs. Bonefat was wearing rouge the day Mr. Sanders died.”
Flossie frowns. “Bonefat? I thought she was allergic to color.”
“She also smelled of lilac perfume. At the time I wondered if she was courting someone.”
Flossie guffaws. “Who? Surely not Mr. Sanders.”
Eva, who could also be faulted for an allergy to color, presses a hand to her forehead, as if rummaging through her memory. “A few weeks ago, I did overhear—not intentionally of course—Mr. Sanders discussing a ‘housekeeper situation’ with Sveyn. He said he might have to do something drastic.”
“ ‘Housekeeper situation’ could refer to many things, not just a crush on the boss,” I muse aloud.
Flossie pushes her mouth to one side. “And how drastic, eh? Mr. Sanders wouldn’t have let her go. He treasured her.”
“Still, if she was a woman scorned…” The idea of Mrs. Bonefat killing her beloved employer seems outlandish, but if anyone gets things done with ruthless efficiency, it’s her.
“She asked Koa for a gun after seal number one.” Loaded it herself and shot the neck off a bottle, Koa said.
“She could’ve shot Mr. Sanders on the beach, then rolled his body into the ocean. ”
Silence descends. I imagine the gruesome scene: The surprise on Mr. Sanders’s face as she shoots him in the heart to remind him where he injured her. The hacking that follows with Shimmelfen’s hatchet.
Eva exhales sharply, breaking the spell. “Well then, she’ll need to be watched.”
Flossie starts fiddling with my hair jewels, pulling too tight. Mrs. Bonefat knows every creak of this house. Watching her without her noticing will be nearly impossible.
I steal another look in the mirror, at the stranger staring out at me. She looks bold enough to catch a killer. But underneath the silk and shine, my pulse skitters like a rabbit in a snare.
And through the windows, I see the first boats nudging into the marina. The guests are already arriving.
They arrive in batches, some in their own vessels, others on our great yacht Endeavor. Many have traveled a great distance to join us.
Feeling as exposed as an overturned earthworm, I stand in a receiving line alongside Sveyn and Boots, greeting guests strolling in from the marina, with Eva whispering names and notes of interest in my ear.
I stifle my annoyance at Nash, who has still not shown up.
Even the Brain Trust is peeved. Sveyn slammed down his drink too hard at lunch, breaking the glass, while Boots barely spoke a word, cheerful as wet cement.
At least the air is fresh, almost sweet.
I do my best to appear strong and powerful. No one seems to be noticing my birthmark, though I have arranged my loose hair to curtain it. “No, just Lucy. No, Mr. Sanders-Byre is unavailable at the moment, but Boots, er, Mr. Williams, would love to give you a tour.”
“What a lovely hankie! You must make sure to hang it above the punch table with the others for the auction. I myself have one there as well.”
“Mr. Olsgaard would be delighted to chat with you about how we put the boats through their paces.”
At a lull in arrivals, Sveyn and Boots scurry off on temporary missions, and Flossie brings Eva and me glasses of punch.
“No doubtin’ you are the mistress here,” my maid says, her own eyes bright and lively.
“You’re making everyone’s faces fall off their heads.
Oh yes, and Boots needs brochures of the Specialties. ”
“I left them on my desk,” says Eva. “I shall be back shortly.” Eva follows Flossie back to the house, though I pray she returns soon.
I glance around for a friendly face, but most of the staff keep their distance.
The Garden of Tranquility has been transformed from a calm retreat into a jaunty spectacle.
Lanterns sway above the ornamental grasses, like giant floats of bull kelp.
Garlands of Nootka roses, our only native variety, seem to gobble up the patio, where guests dance to the jangle of a brass band.
Though the sky won’t truly darken until around ten o’clock, the clouds have given us a false night.
Koa, trim in his formal coat of dark blue, moves down the sea path fifty feet away, his grip on Goliath so practiced that it’s hard to see where man ends and horse begins.
He fingers his gold pendant, his sharp gaze combing a grassy terrace overlooking the ocean where guests play lawn games.
Among them is Jeddah, dressed in his father’s too-wide Sunday suit.
Koa threads his fingers through Goliath’s mane and whispers into the horse’s ear.
I imagine his capable hands on me and blush deep into my roots.
As if he feels my rise in temperature, his gaze swings to me.
I swear a curse passes from his lips and he glances away.
Annoyed again at all the risk I’m taking with this party.
Dismounting, he continues toward the game terrace, where a bunch of bricklayers are jeering at Jeddah. One pushes him.
A measure of concern bubbles up in me for the awkward young man, despite my dislike of him. Maybe his desire to attend the university was less about wanting to take on a new trade and more about leaving his old life behind.
“Miss Lucy?”
I turn to see Buddy, in his most formal coat with the brass buttons, leading a party from the great hall.
Foremost is a man in his sixties with a silver-handled cane and a black derby.
His eyes set up a rapid blinking at the sight of me.
Is it a habit formed from a lifetime of clandestine criminal behavior? Or just from keeping out lime powder?
A girl about my age sashays by his side, her dark pink dress cut to flaunt her hourglass figure. With her round shoulders, pale skin, and auburn hair—short and pinned to one side—she is as lovely as a Nootka rose. They are followed by a middle-aged couple.
Buddy, holding his gloved hands before him, formally states, “May I present Mr. Milton Tavernish, his son-in-law Miles Cooper, his daughter Temperance, and his granddaughter Prosper.”
“How do you do?” I ask the newcomers.
Buddy ghosts away, watched curiously by the lime man.
“He was never cut out for a chopper.” Mr. Tavernish remarks, voice plummy.
“A chopper?”
“Your butler. He used to chop wood for my kilns. Long time ago.”
I suck in air over my teeth. Looks can certainly be deceiving. The mild-mannered servant hardly has the physique of a lumberjack, with his narrow back and pigeon breast. But as a chopper, Buddy certainly must know how to handle an axe.
“So you are the famous Lucy.” Mr. Tavernish bows his head at an angle.
Prosper dimples prettily, a beauty mark drawing eyes to her red mouth.
“We heard you were a rough diamond, but look how you shine.” Her animated voice contains no hint of her grandfather’s posh accent.
“I would absotively love to have some of those sparkles in my hair. I’d be the envy of all the girls in my finishing school. ”
I can’t help being fascinated by the way she moves, her lively way of talking. “Er, I will ask my maid where she found them.”
“Have you been to finishing school?” her mother asks me, her accent lying somewhere between her daughter and her father. Temperance is a small woman with the same red-brown hair, large eyes, and pouting mouth as her daughter. Her swishing fan reminds me of a cat’s tail.
“I haven’t, but I had been thinking about university,” I offer, even though I sent off my letter of withdrawal yesterday.