Bonefire of the Vanities (8 page)

I tried a few wisecracks, but the boys in black had no sense of humor. They went about their task as if Tinkie and I might be smuggling in C4 explosives. They even took the floor mats out of the car and pulled out the backseat. Thorough. To Tinkie’s dismay, they found the second cell phone she’d secreted in the spare tire of the car.

Before they let us back in the car, they called the main house to check our credentials. Harold had done a good job, because a female voice gave permission for us to enter. The lead guard produced an electronic gizmo, which opened the gate. Feeling as if we might be shot if I sped, I let the compact roll down the drive at five miles an hour.

“This place is beautifully landscaped,” Tinkie said. “Harold is researching the history of the property for us. The house has been empty for years.”

“Someone did a lot of work.” Near the pool, which had a waterfall and a miniature volcano, palm trees swayed in a gentle breeze. I planted the layout firmly in my mind. It would come in handy.

When we got to the front door, I stopped and started to exit the car.

“Do not park that ugly car there.” A butler in full tails strode out the door. He shooed us as if we were naughty children. “The help parks in the back, where you will be accommodated. None of your personal things are allowed in the main house. You will enter the main house empty-handed each morning and you will leave the same way in the evening. Is that clear?”

Tinkie did a slow boil. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but—”

“Yes, sir,” I answered as I pushed her away. “I’ll move the car.”

“Back talk is a mistake. The next incident will be your last. And I am Mr. Palk.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Palk,” I said with more enthusiasm.

Easing the car around the drive, I found the servants’ parking lot and pulled into a slot. Tinkie had finally cooled off.

“How dare that man speak to us in that tone.”

“We’re maids,” I reminded her.

“What does it matter? I don’t treat Melinda like she’s dirt. She’s family, and I want her to know it.”

“Mr. Palk may be upset because Mrs. Littlefield is demanding her own servants. It may reflect poorly on him and his management of the staff. If that’s the case, he’ll ride our asses day and night.” An unpleasant thought.

“Well, he’d better be careful. I’ll make him wish he was back in butler school in Merry Old England.”

I popped the trunk so we could grab our bags. “Remember, Tink. You’re Tinkie Jones, not Mrs. Richmond. We can’t back-talk the butler.”

“Not right this minute, but if he treats me ugly, payback will be hell, I assure you.”

I didn’t doubt it for a minute. Tinkie treated all people fairly. The one thing she couldn’t tolerate was using position or status to suppress a subordinate.

We found our quarters. We’d be sleeping in a bunkhouse behind the main house. Our room was comfortably appointed, but Tinkie and I needed access to the big house. Marjorie would have to ask for us to stay in her suite.

When we were unpacked, we followed Mr. Palk through the house. It was an impressive place with a dining table that seated at least eighteen.

“You’re not to speak with any of the guests, unless they speak to you first,” Mr. Palk said as he showed us around the library and meeting rooms where a handful of people listened to a speaker talk about global debt and the role of government.

“Do not touch any of the glassware or artwork,” Palk continued his rant.

“As if I would want to touch such tacky stuff,” Tinkie said under her breath.

“Were you speaking to me?” Mr. Palk rounded on her. “Do not mumble. It’s intolerable.”

I was standing behind Tinkie, and I pinched her as hard as I could on the back of her arm. She jerked forward, but she bit back the reply meant for Mr. Palk.

“Mrs. Littlefield is our employer.” Tinkie was all bristle and no common sense.

“She pays you. I direct you. Is that clearly understood?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Palk.” I’d once played a maid on off-off-Broadway, and while I’d gotten no stellar reviews, I also hadn’t been fired. Tinkie was about to get us both kicked off the property. “May we see Mrs. Littlefield? It’s close to lunch, and normally Mrs. Jones and I read to her while she dines. It’s one of the services we provide.”

“She dines with the other guests.”

I only arched my eyebrows.

“Her room is this way,” he said.

I deduced from his actions that Mrs. Littlefield hadn’t yet signed documents turning her fortune over to Heart’s Desire. If she was still getting her way, she hadn’t caved.

We followed him up a lovely staircase that split at the second level and then continued on to the third. The house was solid, well built.

“Mrs. Littlefield has the Periwinkle Suite.” He pointed to a door painted a pale lilac. “The bedclothes and bath towels are periwinkle blue. All of her personal spa materials are also periwinkle. It is required that guests wear the spa robes and toiletries provided for them. They are not allowed in the spa unless they are appropriately attired in the color-coordinated robes.” He leaned down, his nose inches from Tinkie’s. “Since you’ll be doing her laundry, understand that each item is counted and will be recounted once you leave for the day.”

“You think I’d steal a towel?” Tinkie’s face slowly flooded with red.

“Thank you, Mr. Palk.” I grabbed her shoulder and tapped lightly on the door. “If Mrs. Littlefield needs anything, I’m sure she’ll call on you.” I didn’t wait for the heiress to open the door but dragged Tinkie in behind me. She shot a death ray at the butler as I closed the door.

“Don’t let him get under your skin,” I whispered. “Remember, we’re here for the greater good.”

“The greater good is telling me to kick his pompous ass.”

Tinkie seldom cursed, but I felt her pain. “When this is over.”

I nudged her away from the door and through a foyer to a sitting area.
Suite of rooms
didn’t begin to describe it—
elegant apartment
was more accurate. The pale lilac walls were calming, and white sheers shaded the bright September sunlight but allowed plenty of illumination.

Mrs. Littlefield reclined on a chaise longue, a lavender throw tucked around her legs and a Miranda James Cat in the Stacks mystery on her lap. Figured, since she owned the redoubtable Pluto, demon-possessed kitty.

“Ladies,” she said, putting the book on the table beside her. She looked us up and down. “Mrs. Richmond, your haircut gives you away. Miss Delaney, you’re perfect.”

I didn’t know whether to feel complimented or offended. Tinkie preened. “The butler is vile. What an officious oaf.”

“Mr. Palk takes his duties seriously. If he finds out you’re pretenders, he’ll be very upset. I don’t like lying to the Westins, but Madam Tomeeka and Mr. Erkwell convinced me it was vitally important for you to be here. I understand Madam Tomeeka had a dream of some sort.” She swung her legs to the floor and stepped into child-sized slippers. “At any rate, I’m glad you’re here. You’ll help to pass the time.”

When she stood, she was no taller than Tinkie. A munchkin. A munchkin dripping in rubies and diamonds. She must have had fifty grand around her neck. And she was in a robe. I wondered what jewelry she wore out. Did women contemplating suicide bother with jewelry?

“Would you ladies care for tea?” She faltered and nearly lost her balance.

I gripped her elbow. “We can’t have any,” I spoke before Tinkie could accept. “You can’t ask the kitchen for a pot and three cups. We’re your maids.”

“Of course, how thoughtless of me.” She went to the window. “A lovely day. Once upon a time, I would have gloried in the sun. I was quite the accomplished tennis player.” Her words were casual enough, but there seemed to be sadness beneath them.

“They have a court here,” I said. “I’m sure there are other players visiting.”

“I’m not up to the game any longer. I’m preparing for my final transition.”

I took in her petite figure. She was only in her mid-sixties, far too young to play the geriatric. “Mrs. Littlefield, Madam Tomeeka is very worried about you. She’s afraid you’re—” Tinkie’s shoe, even though it was canvas, caught me right on the shin. The warning made me clamp my lips shut.

Tinkie took over. “We met your cat at Madam Tomeeka’s. Tammy wanted you to know Chasley is asking too many questions about Pluto. We think you should leave this compound and see to the cat.”

“Chasley is asking about Pluto?” She faced us, concern displacing the nostalgia. “What does he want?”

“He wants Tammy to give up the cat,” I said. Tinkie had been correct to play this card. The cat was our ace in the hole. “Tammy fears he may want to harm Pluto. Because of the inheritance. We should help you pack so you can retrieve Pluto and keep him safe. If anything happens to the cat, wouldn’t your son inherit?”

“Well, I’m not dead yet!” she snapped.

“Of course not.” I felt a sudden unease. The rooms could be bugged. Sherry or her mother—or anyone—could be listening to this conversation. Tinkie and I had been extremely reckless. I waved them to silence.

“Let’s step out on the balcony.” I moved toward the French doors.

Outside with the doors closed, I continued. “We’re concerned for your safety, and for the cat.”

“I’m here of my own free will, Miss Delaney.”

“Miss Booth,” I reminded her. “Miss Sarah Booth.” I pointed at Tinkie. “And Mrs. Jones.”

She held my gaze. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m here because I want to be. Heart’s Desire offers a chance I can’t find anywhere else.”

This was tricky. I glanced at Tinkie for help.

“Sarah Booth and I have reason to believe Heart’s Desire might not be on the up-and-up.”

Mrs. Littlefield stiffened. “I’m not a dotty old woman. I’m in my right mind. And I’m not a fool. I’ve agreed to the ruse necessary to get you here so you can look out for me. Mr. Erkwell, at Madam Tomeeka’s insistence, convinced me it was in my best interest to hire you and bring you here, but I have no intention of leaving. I’m well cared for, and we’re making progress in contacting Mariam. Sherry believes we’ll get a breakthrough any day. Sherry has caught glimpses of my daughter, but Mariam’s confused. And timid.” She brushed past me and went back inside.

“Did the Westins show you a video?” I asked.

Marjorie walked to a liquor decanter on a table behind the sofa. She tried to hide it, but a sob broke from her. She poured a good measure of Scotch into a glass and added two ice cubes. It might be five o’clock somewhere else, but it wasn’t even lunch in Mississippi. She was getting a head start on the day.

“My daughter drowned and it was my fault. I didn’t watch her closely enough. I want to speak with her before I transition. I have to know if her death was an accident or a deliberate act. Once I speak with Mariam, this will all be settled. Had I not been busy with a social engagement, had I known the true character of my son—” She broke off on a gasp of pain. “It’s all my fault.”

Guilt consumed her, and I knew that nothing Tinkie or I said would change it. She was here to make amends with her dead daughter, and perhaps to join the child. And whatever the Westin women’s goal, I felt certain they were manipulating everything.

5

Mr. Palk reluctantly brought up a lunch tray to Marjorie, but he made it clear she was expected to dine with the other guests for dinner. Tinkie and I preferred for her to join the communal meal, because we needed to know who else was on the premises. Unfortunately, Marjorie was too upset to leave her rooms.

So we tidied up around her—or I did, Tinkie was about as useless as tits on a boar hog—as we tried to talk sense into Marjorie and convince her to pack her things. To no avail. She wouldn’t consider leaving Heart’s Desire until she made contact with her dead daughter. She wasn’t even the least bit embarrassed to admit it. She totally believed that Sherry Westin could channel spirits.

Tinkie handed me the lunch tray, and I returned it to the kitchen, hoping food was available for the hired help. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Palk took a page from the Dickens School of Butlers and fed us crusty bread and water.

On the way to the kitchen, I passed several other employees who kept their gazes on the ground. Well trained by Palk the Bully. Laughter tinkled from the dining room, where a half-dozen people gathered. A pretty woman laughed at something. They looked hale and hearty. At least the guests weren’t being starved.

“Miss Booth!” Palk’s voice reverberated in the cavernous room.

“Sir?” I had about had it with him.

“Are you lost?”

“Indeed, I am.” I smiled sweetly. “I’m trying to find the kitchen, but the house is so big. I was confused.”

He pointed and gave my shoulder a push. Had I not held the tray, I would have belted him.

“Mr. Palk, I think you should know if you touch me again, I’ll hurt you.” I spoke in a calm voice. “I’m Mrs. Littlefield’s maid. If I tell her you’ve manhandled me in any way, I’m sure she’ll pack her things and leave.”

Color climbed his neck and into his cheeks until his forehead almost glowed. Even his balding scalp looked hot. “I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly.

I clutched the tray and went the way he pointed. I could feel daggers in my back. While I had risked making him an enemy, I had to make him lay off. Tinkie and I couldn’t snoop if Palk lurked around spying on us. I hoped I had scared him sufficiently to make him avoid us. I had no doubt if Mrs. Littlefield threatened to leave Heart’s Desire because of his conduct, he’d be a gone goose.

I pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen and put the dirty dishes on a counter. Several young women were busy chopping, stirring, and washing up. Standing with her arms akimbo was a slender and quite beautiful Asian woman, obviously the mistress of the kitchen.

“I’m Sarah Booth,” I said, holding out my hand. “I work for Mrs. Littlefield.”

She clasped my hand in a firm grip. “Yumi Kato, master chef.” She took my measure as she held my hand.

“Would it be possible to get some lunch for my coworker and myself?” Mrs. Littlefield had eaten, but Tinkie and I had not.

“The maids eat in the staff dining hall. Mr. Palk does not allow special preparation of food for anyone.” Yumi glanced around. “But I shall make an exception this time. Robert! Prepare sandwiches for two.”