Out of Circulation (8 page)

If anyone seemed hell-bent on destruction, it was Vera Cassity.

The Tuesday of the Friends of the Library annual gala dawned cold but clear. The temperature even promised to hit the midfifties by late afternoon. All in all, an auspicious beginning to what would be a long—and stressful—day. We had sold a record hundred and twenty-seven tickets for the event and had raised nearly ten thousand dollars so far. We would get more from the silent auction with prizes like round-trip airfare and a week’s stay at a nice hotel in London, signed first editions by Mississippi writers, and gift certificates from local merchants.

The party would overflow with food, probably much more than the attendees could eat. In addition to the pastries and cakes and mini quiches from Helen Louise’s bakery, Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce had arranged contributions from two restaurants and a caterer. No one would go hungry tonight.

The board decided early on to make this year’s gala
different from previous ones by making it a costumed affair. All attendees were urged to come dressed as their favorite characters from popular fiction. Miss Dickce suggested we have a costume contest, with prizes for the best single and couple costumes, and everyone agreed. Board members wouldn’t take part in the contest but would judge instead.

Helen Louise and I, both avid mystery readers, put our heads together several weeks ago and decided we should pick an interesting couple from mystery fiction. As fans of Agatha Christie, we eventually landed on Hercule Poirot and Ariadne Oliver. After a trip to a costume shop and two thrift stores in Memphis, we found what we needed.

Diesel regarded me with what looked like suspicion as I affixed my fake mustache to my upper lip with spirit gum. Once it was in place I looked down at him. “
Bon soir, mon chat
. I am the famous detective Hercule Poirot.” Diesel appeared not the least impressed with my attempt to sound like David Suchet, the amazing actor who portrayed Poirot on the small screen so brilliantly.

I surveyed myself in the mirror with a certain amount of satisfaction. Helen Louise had helped me choose the suit, of the type Suchet often wore onscreen. Even if I said so myself, I did look rather dapper. I felt oddly formal, however, and hoped I wouldn’t overheat during the gala. The wool of the suit, added to the heavy linen shirt, an undershirt, a silk waistcoat, and a thick cravat were much warmer than I had expected.

It was all for a good cause, I reflected as I preened in the mirror a moment longer. Diesel made snuffling noises, and I wondered if that was a feline attempt at laughter. I rubbed his head, and the noises became rumbling purrs.

“You’re not going to be too happy with me in a little
while,” I told him. When I left the house without him, he would be annoyed, but there would simply be too many people at the gala. As sociable as he was, he would be freaked out by the noise and the sheer mass of bodies. He would be better off here at home, and Justin had agreed to babysit. He’d had his last final earlier today, and he planned on an evening of relaxation with a good book, an old movie or two, and some quality time with his favorite cat.

The rest of the household would join us at River Hill tonight. Stewart, as a board member, had to be present. Laura would be escorted by her boyfriend, Frank Salisbury, a young professor in the theater department at Athena College, and Sean was going with Alexandra Pendergrast. Neither of my children nor Stewart would tell me what characters they’d chosen to portray. The secretiveness of it all was simply part of the fun, and everyone seemed to have entered into the spirit of the event.

In the back of my mind, however, I couldn’t let go of my worries about Vera Cassity and what she might do. Since her attack on Helen Louise a few days ago, she had made no further moves—as far as I was aware—to punish me for not letting her snoop in the archives. Perhaps she was well and truly chastened by orders from Q. C. Pendergrast and her husband to stop meddling. No matter how much money Vera—or rather, her husband, Morty—had, Q. C. Pendergrast would pull out any necessary stops to put Vera in her place.

Maybe I worried over nothing. Maybe the gala would go off without a hitch tonight, and Vera would be on her best behavior. After all, she aimed to be the cynosure of the cream of Athena society, and she wouldn’t want to embarrass herself in front of them by doing anything nasty or vindictive.

Right—and the mighty Mississippi might start flowing north any minute now.

Diesel ran down the stairs ahead of me and into the kitchen, where we found Justin eating a sandwich and chips. He had a book propped open beside his plate, but he looked up when I entered.

His eyes widened, and he grinned. “Cool costume, Mr. Charlie. Poirot, right? Love the mustache, too.”

“Thanks, and, yes, I’m Hercule Poirot.” I glanced at the clock. It was a few minutes past five thirty. “Helen Louise is going as Mrs. Oliver, and I’d better be on my way to pick her up. We’re supposed to be at River Hill by six at the latest.”

“Don’t worry about Diesel,” Justin said as he caressed the cat’s shoulders and along his spine. Diesel chirped happily in response. “He and I will have a fine old time tonight while y’all enjoy yourselves at the ball. Will someone take pictures? I bet the costumes will be awesome.”

“There’s supposed to be a photographer from the paper, so I’m sure he’ll snap plenty of photos.” I grabbed my keys, and Diesel saw me. He started toward me, but Justin called him back. “Not tonight, boy, you have to stay here with Justin.”

Distracted by the sudden offer of a bit of ham, Diesel wasn’t looking as I slipped out the back door and into the garage.

Helen Louise was ready when I reached her house several blocks away. She lived in her late parents’ home, a lovely two-story brick house that dated from the early twentieth century.

“You look terrific,” she said as I stepped into the entryway.
“Très formidable.”
She kissed me, then stood back so I could get the full effect of her ensemble.

She had decided to model herself on Zoë Wanamaker’s portrayal of Ariadne Oliver in the television series. Her below-the-knee-length dress sported a multitude of colors in an abstract pattern. Three long necklaces with beads of varying sizes circled her neck and dangled down her chest. Her hat—well, her hat sported enough flowers to fill three or four bouquets. She carried a handbag, and she opened it to show me several apples inside it. “So what do you think?”

“Magnificent, and beautiful as always.”

That earned me another, longer kiss, and when we drew apart her cheeks glowed pink. Mine probably did as well.

“We should get going,” I said, a little out of breath. “Too bad we can’t enter the contest, because I think we could win.” I opened the door.

“I’m sure we could,” Helen Louise said as she stepped outside. I waited while she locked the door, then escorted her down the walk and to my car.

“I hope everything goes smoothly tonight,” I said as I fastened my seat belt.

“It will,” Helen Louise replied, her tone firm. “Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“It’s not them I’m worried about.”

“Stop scowling, Charlie. Your mustache will fall off.” Helen Louise laughed. “Vera wouldn’t dare pull anything tonight of all nights. It’s a perfect chance for her to be the grande dame, so she’ll be on good behavior, just you wait and see.”

The sun had been setting the past few days at just about five o’clock, but the twilight would persist awhile yet. Traffic was sparse on the way to River Hill. Most of the guests wouldn’t arrive for a good half hour or more, and by then it would be dark.

Lanterns lit the driveway to the estate, and Morty Cassity’s valet-parking staff—employees from his car dealerships dragooned into service—stood ready to go into action as I pulled the car up in front of the house. I handed my keys over to a uniformed young man and received a plastic disk in return. He nodded as I thanked him, and one of his coworkers held the door for Helen Louise. As we climbed the steps to the verandah, I glanced back to see my car disappear down a gravel road to the east of the house.

A butler in Edwardian dress greeted us at the door and, in the posh tones of an Oxbridge graduate, informed us we would find the Misses Ducote in the kitchen and ushered us there.

The sounds of clinking china and utensils greeted us, along with the voices of the catering and serving staff who swarmed like bees under the basilisk gazes of the elder Ducote sister and her housekeeper, Clementine.

“Good evening, my dears.” Miss An’gel motioned for us to precede her back into the hallway. “Everything is under control here. Clementine is in charge, and I think we’d probably better get out of the way.”

We stood aside to let Miss An’gel lead us to the front parlor. The house glowed with light, and the mingled scents of vanilla and lavender emanated from the candles.

“This is going to be such a wonderful night, don’t you think?” Miss An’gel turned to smile at us, and now I had time to take in her costume.

I should have guessed that Miss An’gel would choose to portray one of the most indomitable females in all of mystery fiction. “Amelia Peabody Emerson. You look marvelous.”

Indeed, the elder Ducote sister made a splendid Amelia. She had the outfit down to the smallest detail, except for the umbrella the intrepid Egyptologist usually brandished.
The split skirt, the pith helmet, the belt of tools, the sturdy boots—all perfect.

“Thank you, M’sieur Poirot. And how clever of you to bring Mrs. Oliver with you.” Miss An’gel’s aristocratic Mississippi drawl didn’t fit, but that didn’t matter. She had the grand manner down pat.

“Hello, everyone.” Miss Dickce spoke from behind us, and I did my best not to gawk when I turned to greet her. Beside me I heard Helen Louise turn a startled gasp into a more polite and genteel cough.

Red hair piled into a bun on the top of her head, a pencil sticking out of it, an overlarge handbag on her arm, and a pantsuit in neon shades of green and blue—the only thing missing was a cigarette. Miss Dickce was every bit as big a fan of Elizabeth Peters as her sister, and her portrayal of Jacqueline Kirby revealed an impish side to her character that I’d not suspected before now.

I bowed over her extended hand and brushed the knuckles with a light kiss.
“Enchanté, madame.”

Miss Dickce giggled as I released her hand.
“Merci, Hercule.”
She clapped her hands, the handbag wobbling on her arm. “Isn’t this a hoot? We’re going to have a blast tonight. I can just feel it.”

“And no one is going to spoil the fun.” Miss An’gel regarded Helen Louise and me with a grim smile. “Vera won’t dare. She won’t bother either of you, I promise you that.”

“Thank you,” Helen Louise said. “I was doing my best to reassure Charlie of that on the way here.”

Miss Dickce moved to stand beside her sister. They exchanged a glance that seemed laden with meaning before she spoke. “An’gel and I have taken care of everything. After tonight, Vera won’t be in a position to bother anyone ever again.”

All my earlier worries about tonight returned. Miss Dickce spoke lightly, but the import of her words chilled me. What on earth were the sisters planning to do to Vera?

Helen Louise squeezed my arm as she whispered, “Don’t look so alarmed, Charlie.”

I gave her a weak grin. “I’ll do my best,” I responded in an undertone.

The attention of the sisters shifted toward the parlor door, and Helen Louise and I turned to see the new arrivals.

“Sissy, dear, and Hank. Don’t you both look wonderful.” Miss An’gel stepped forward and held out both hands as the Beauchamp siblings neared her.

Sissy grasped one hand and Hank the other as they murmured their responses. I speculated on the identities of the fictional characters they represented. Sissy’s was easy to
discern, but Hank’s puzzled me. They certainly presented sharp contrasts, one to the other.

Sissy wore a tight red dress that left little to the imagination, and her high-spiked heels caused her to thrust her two major assets forward at a dangerous angle. A black and red shawl that looked like cashmere draped her shoulders. One hand clutched a red silk purse, the small kind that women brought to parties. She had a stuffed dog, a Yorkie, by the look of it, attached to her other wrist, like a corsage. The dog’s head was near her hand, and its tail almost to her elbow. It looked awkward to me, but I supposed it was easier than carrying it around all evening.

The Yorkie, Chablis, offered the telling clue. Sissy had to be none other than Tinkie Bellcase Richmond, sidekick to Carolyn Haines’s heroine Sarah Booth Delaney. If anyone was ever reared to be a “daddy’s girl,” it was Sissy.

Her brother surely wasn’t dressed as Oscar Richmond, Tinkie’s husband. That would be creepy. No, Hank’s dark suit looked severely Victorian rather than contemporary and bankerish, but his appearance was on the untidy side. His hair was not as carefully groomed as usual, and his pants pockets bulged under the contours of his jacket. His handkerchief straggled out of the breast pocket, and surely that was a pencil beside it. If he was going for messy, he’d achieved it. The suit looked like he had been wearing it for days.

“Good evening.” Hank turned to me and Helen Louise and inclined his head. “Thomas Pitt, at your service.”

The untidiness should have tipped me off because Anne Perry’s policeman hero went about in such fashion. Hank’s face, however, made me think more of Mr. Rochester, the tortured love interest of Jane Eyre. The skin beneath his eyes appeared bruised, and his eyes themselves were bloodshot.
His handshake lacked firmness, and his whole demeanor betokened weariness, if not utter exhaustion.

Sissy, however, sparkled with energy and gaiety. “This is going to be
the
event of the year, Miss An’gel. Oh, Miss Dickce, you look absolutely fabulous. You, too, Miss An’gel.”

Hank smiled at the sisters, but it seemed an effort for him. “If I’m correct, you must be Amelia Peabody and Jacqueline Kirby. Right?”

“Right.” Miss Dickce nodded approvingly. “You’re so clever, Hank.” She batted her eyes in an overtly flirtatious manner, and Hank forced his lips into the ghost of another smile.