Greenglass House (12 page)

It would've been easier if Mrs. Caraway hadn't declared that it would be a buffet dinner. If they had all been sitting around the same table the way they did in those old British murder mystery shows Milo's mom liked, there would've been meaningful glances, forced conversation, dropped spoons, and, presumably, clues somewhere in the mix. But no; Mrs. Caraway and Mrs. Pine had made a roast with a bunch of root vegetables and egg noodles—a perfect dinner for a cold night—and everyone was eating it wherever he or she liked: at the breakfast tables, in the living room . . . Nobody was actually sitting at the table but Milo's dad.

Milo scowled as he filled his plate. Those British detectives had it easy.

“Hey, kiddo.” Mr. Pine's voice interrupted Milo's irritation. “Come sit by me.”

He did, though he might have set his plate down just a bit too hard. “How are you feeling?” his father asked as Milo slid onto the bench next to him. “I feel bad that your mom and I haven't been able to spend much time with you.”

“I understand,” Milo said automatically. And he did. This wasn't some family reunion his parents had dragged him to.

“How are you feeling?” Mr. Pine asked again, reaching for the pepper.

Milo looked at his father, who didn't usually think he had to make conversation. Mr. Pine was examining his food and trying to sound as if what he was asking wasn't any big deal, but the fact that he had asked twice meant his question was important. “I feel okay, Dad,” Milo said. “I wasn't happy about it, but everybody seems nice enough.”

Somebody broke into my bedroom, though.
Milo wasn't sure what made him keep quiet about that part.

Mr. Pine speared a forkful of parsnip and beef. “Well, look, I just want you to know we didn't forget that it's winter vacation. And we're still having Christmas, come hell or high water. Or, you know.”

“High snow?”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, Dad.” Milo smiled down at his dinner plate. “And maybe we can play Odd Trails one day too. Now that I know you play. I found some of your old role-playing game stuff in the attic.”

“You found my stuff? Weird. I thought I'd sold it at a yard sale years and years back.”

“Nope. It's up there. So we can have our own game sometime.”

“I'd like that. But listen, Milo, what I wanted to say is, if you need time with your mom or with me, all you need to do is tell us. I know you shouldn't
have
to tell us, but these next few days you might. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Mr. Pine swooped in to give him a kiss on the forehead as he stood up to get seconds.

Meddy clambered into the chair at the end of the table with the stained-glass window behind it. “Hey.”

“Where's your food?” Milo asked, taking a huge bite of his own.

“I already finished. Listen, Negret. We've got to get these idiots talking.” She looked around the room. “If they keep to themselves like this, we'll never find out what we want to know. We need
clues.
”

“I know. I'm thinking. Do you have any ideas?”

Sirin shook her head. “All I know is, whatever we do,
you're
going to have to do the talking.” She straightened the collar of the Cloak of Golden Indiscernibility, gave Negret a pointed look as Mr. Pine returned with his second plate of roast, and scooted out of the chair again.

Milo chewed, grumbling a little under his breath.

“Say, how's that book you're reading?” his father asked. “The one Georgie lent you?”

Milo swallowed. “Pretty good.” Then he felt the beginnings of an idea. “That reminds me.” He swiveled on the bench and looked around. Georgie Moselle was sitting at one of the breakfast tables with her back to him. “Excuse me, Georgie?”

She turned, fork halfway to her mouth. “Yessir, Milo?”

“How's the Lansdegown coming?”

Georgie flinched as the sharp clatter of cutlery bouncing off china rang out. Milo glanced into the living room. Most of it was out of his line of sight, but Clem was just visible in the chair at the end of the sofa, mopping away the gravy that had spattered across her cheeks when she dropped her fork. “What the heck is a
lansdegown?
” she asked.

“It's the name of the cigar-box camera,” Milo said, wondering why Georgie now looked vaguely uncomfortable. “All the coolest cameras have names,” he said, in case she was afraid somebody'd make fun of her for naming it. “Did you finish it, Georgie?”

“Sure did,” Georgie said, giving him a grateful smile. “If you want, I'll bring it down later.”

“Yeah, that'd be neat.”

“I'd love to see it too,” Clem said sweetly.

“As would I,” Mrs. Hereward added. Both girls looked at her in surprise. “I dearly love photography,” the old lady said, a bit defensively.

“And I really like the book so far,” Milo added, getting up and carrying his plate of half-eaten food into the living room. “I think my favorite part's the way it's set up.” He sat on the hearth and glanced around. Everyone seemed to be at least half listening, if only because this was the only conversation going on just then. “It takes place at an inn,” he explained. “Sort of like this one. And the guests are all stuck there because it's raining and flooding and stuff, so every night someone—one of the guests—tells a story.”

“You're reading
The Raconteur's Commonplace Book
or
The Holly-Tree Inn?
” Mrs. Hereward inquired.

“
The Raconteur's Commonplace Book,
” he replied. “You know about it? What's the other one you mentioned?”

“
The Holly-Tree Inn,
” she repeated. “Dickens. Or at least partly Dickens. It has a similar structure. Some people think the fellow who collected the tales in
The Raconteur's Commonplace Book
modeled the idea after
The Holly-Tree Inn.
”

Georgie set aside her plate. “Do you know much about folklore, Mrs. Hereward?” she asked politely, sitting beside her on the sofa.

“Some,” Mrs. Hereward said, a note of hesitation creeping into the word. “Just a bit. I'm an old woman, and I've always loved to read.”

That might well be true, Milo thought, but coming from Mrs. Hereward it managed to feel like a lie. He filed that observation away to think about later.

Irresistible Blandishment: you can entice even the most reluctant to do as you ask.
He touched Negret's blackjack keys, which were still in his pocket. Surely Negret's father would've made certain his son could pull this exploit off.

“You know what would be fun?” he asked, trying to sound as if the idea had just occurred to him. “Maybe each of us should tell a story. We're all strangers together in an inn, after all. It would be just like in the books.” He considered adding,
You could each tell the story of how you came to be staying here right now,
but decided that might be too specific. Something told him not everyone here was going to be willing to answer that question honestly. Maybe if they could pick any story, they'd all participate. And whatever story each person picked, Milo had at least a chance of learning something about the guest from the telling of it.

Worth a try, anyway.

“That's a lovely idea, Milo,” Mrs. Pine said. “How about if Mrs. Caraway and I make some punch while everyone finishes eating, and then we can have a story afterward? Or there's whiskey if anybody wants a hot toddy.”

He beamed. “I'll help do the dishes, then.” He ignored his father's shocked expression—Milo hated washing up. Negret, however, had a plan. As he passed from person to person clearing their plates, he'd have a chance to size up each guest's reaction to his idea.

He strolled through the room, a cheerful smile pasted on his face as he collected plates and cutlery. Behind the smile, though, the escaladeur was taking careful measure of each person.

Georgie was first, and her grin looked genuine. “I'm so glad you thought of that,” she said as she handed over her plate with knife and fork neatly stacked to one side. “Maybe it'll help us act less like strangers. Might as well, since we're all here together, right?”

Mrs. Hereward seemed a bit flustered as she relinquished her own dish. “Now if I can only think of a story to tell,” she said.

“You could tell what brought you here,” he suggested, just to see what she'd say.

“Oh, no,” the old lady replied immediately. She patted her hair nervously. “That's not interesting. I wished for a winter holiday trip and settled on this place. There's nothing interesting there.”

Just like her answer to Georgie's question about whether she knew much about folklore, this had the feeling of a lie.
Well, not a lie, exactly,
Negret thought.
It might be true, but it's not the whole truth.

Dr. Gowervine brought his dish over and added it carefully to the stack. He said nothing but gave Negret a thoughtful look as he pulled a leather pouch from his sweater pocket. He nodded once, took a pipe from the pouch, and went to the foyer to get his coat. Then he crossed the living room again and disappeared out the door to the enclosed porch at the side of the house to smoke.

Negret discovered his heart had sped up, and he took a deep breath to calm himself.
This man definitely has a secret.

“What sorts of stories do people tell in the book?” Clem asked curiously. “Is there . . . I don't know . . . a right sort or wrong sort for this kind of occasion?” She scratched her head. “I don't honestly know if I've ever told a story before.”

“You've never told a story?” Negret asked. “Not ever, not to anyone? You must have.”

“Well, not like this,” she protested. “This isn't the same as when you tell someone how your day went, is it?”

He opened his mouth to say that it wasn't quite like that, not exactly—but then he stopped himself. “It can be any kind of story you want. The point is that you share something with everyone. It's supposed to be a fun thing. I don't think you can do it wrong, if that's what you mean.”

“It is fun, I suppose,” Clem said thoughtfully. “Maybe tonight I'll just listen, and then I'll tell one tomorrow.” She turned to Georgie. “Maybe you can tell us how you came up with such an interesting name for your camera, Blue.”

Georgie smiled a bit sourly. “Maybe
you
can tell us how, Red.”

“Maybe,” Clem said thoughtfully. “Maybe I will.”

“I would very much like to hear that story myself,” Mrs. Hereward said with a very small, very strange frown.

Weird.

Mr. Vinge was last. He was still sitting in the chair in the corner, and he had his plate balanced on the arm. He gave Negret a very sharp looking-over before surrendering it. It was as if he somehow knew exactly what Negret was up to and wanted it understood that he knew, and moreover, if he decided to go along, it was for his own reasons.

Then he blinked and smiled a little lopsidedly as he adjusted his big tortoiseshell glasses, and Negret wondered if he hadn't been looking for meaning where there was just another bored, snowbound guest.

Mrs. Caraway met him where the dining room opened into the kitchen and relieved him of the stack of dishes. “Thanks, Milo. How about I make you a super-special hot chocolate for helping out?”

When the dishes were done, the after-dinner coffees and punch had been distributed, and plates of Lizzie Caraway's famous red velvet cake had been passed around, the eleven inhabitants of Greenglass House assembled in the living room. It had been an odd group from the start, but somehow with everyone here and staring at one another, they seemed even odder than before. Of course, now Milo was looking at them through Negret's eyes. That made a difference.

The mood in the room was stranger than before too. The group, taken as a whole, was giving off a tense combination of nervousness and expectation and curiosity and suspicion.

“So,” Negret said at last, as innocently and cheerfully as he could. “Who's going first?”

The guests looked from one to the next. Negret glanced at Mr. Vinge, surprised to find he was really hoping the man in the argyle socks would speak up. But he was stirring his cup and looking mildly but pointedly down at his spoon. Clearly, he was not going to offer a story. Not yet, anyway. Milo looked to Dr. Gowervine, but he, too, kept mum.

At last, Mrs. Hereward gave her spoon a ringing tap against the edge of her mug.

“I suppose I can manage one,” she said primly. All eyes turned her way.

“Mine is a very old, very venerable family.” The old lady stirred her tea meditatively. “Perhaps one of what my father called our hand-me-down stories would be appropriate. I believe I'll tell you the one Papa called ‘Only a Fool Scoffs at Destiny.' Listen.”

“We
are
listening,” Dr. Gowervine grumbled.

Mrs. Hereward opened her mouth to snap at him, but Georgie replied first. “No, Doc, that's how you begin a story in some of the old folklore traditions. It was how storytellers let their audiences know the tale was about to begin.”

“Yeah,” Negret said, realizing he knew what she was talking about. “Some of the stories in
The Raconteur's Commonplace Book
start that way.”

Mrs. Hereward folded her arms. “If you're quite ready.”

Dr. Gowervine rolled his eyes. “Excuse me for interrupting.”

“That's fine,” the old lady said loftily. “Now listen.”