Archie’s nose twitched furiously, and his mustache danced in unison. “I… ah… no, I didn’t… I had no idea…”
Cecily smiled. “If you will excuse us, Mr. Parker?”
“Oh, of course. Of course.” Archie backed away, still staring at Madeline as if he were afraid she was about to bite him.
“Strange little man,” Madeline murmured as she glided toward the stairs. “There’s something odd about him, but I can’t quite place it.”
“Well, be prepared. He’s likely to inquire after your digestive system, or something even more personal.”
Madeline uttered a sound of contempt. “If that man has any medical knowledge at all, I’ll give up making potions altogether.”
Cecily was inclined to agree. It was one thing to sell remedies, quite another to understand how they worked.
“As a matter of fact,” Madeline said, pausing at the foot of the staircase. “I would say that your Mr. Parker is a charlatan, and you would do well to avoid any of his bogus remedies.”
Having come to a similar conclusion herself, Cecily gave her no argument. In any case, Archibald Parker was the least of her worries. What concerned her a great deal more was Madeline’s suggestion that Kevin examine the wound on Ian’s head, and her vision of dead bodies.
She considered pursuing the matter with her friend but just then Madeline uttered a sigh of annoyance and sped toward the front doors. At first Cecily thought she meant to go outside and was about to offer her a coat when Madeline halted in front of the hallstand, upon which sat a marvelous display of red and white candles wreathed in holly.
“Look at this,” Madeline exclaimed. “Some blundering fool has disrupted my display.” She started moving the candlesticks around, then paused. “I don’t believe it.”
Her concern growing, Cecily hurried over to her. “What is it?”
Madeline turned, her face stiff with outrage. “Someone has stolen one of these. Look at this.” She picked up one of the candlesticks and thrust it at Cecily. “I had six of them and now there are only five. I can’t believe-” She broke off, a strange expression creeping across her face.
Once more Cecily felt a stab of anxiety. “Madeline?”
Madeline blinked, shook her head and put the candlestick down on the hallstand. “My display is ruined, and now you have a thief in the Pennyfoot. Who would do such a thing?”
Cecily sighed in resignation. “It’s all right. The candlesticks are not worth that much. They’re made of lead, and merely silver-plated. That’s why they’re so heavy. Besides, the display still looks beautiful. I’m sure no one will notice the absence of one.”
Madeline frowned. “Aren’t you the least bit upset that someone stole one of them?”
“Well, yes, of course, but this is a hotel-at least,” she hastily amended, “it was before my cousin turned it into a country club. Things go missing more than you’d think, and really I have far more important things to worry about.”
“Then you are far more forgiving than I would be.” Madeline fussed with the display for several moments until she was satisfied it was as it should be, then stood back for a final critical scrutiny. “There, that will have to do.”
“Good, then let us go up to my suite where we can relax for a while.”
To Cecily’s relief, Madeline sent one last look at the display then headed for the stairs. On the way up to the top floor, she seemed determined to put the subject of the theft out of her mind. She prattled on instead about a local villager who insisted one of her potions was making his hair grow back.
“Silly man,” she said, laughing. “I gave him the potion to cure a cough. His hair is still as sparse as ever, but if he believes it’s growing back, then who am I to dash his forlorn hopes.”
Cecily smiled and nodded, though she didn’t feel in the least like smiling. She knew quite well that her friend’s chatter was an attempt to take her mind away from the events of the morning. It was a wasted effort. Madeline’s comments earlier had thoroughly unsettled her, and now she had a deep sense of impending disaster.
Madeline was right. All was not as it seemed.
Mrs. Chubb paused to wipe the perspiration from her brow with a floury hand. All around her, maids hustled back and forth, carrying platters and tureens from the stove to the dumbwaiter. The smell of roast pork filled the kitchen, tempting her taste buds. It would be at least an hour or two before she could satisfy the pangs of hunger.
She glanced at Michel, busy at the stove, his tall chef’s cap bobbing as he danced from one side to the other, stirring, pouring, and piling food into the dishes. Mrs. Chubb shook her head. It never ceased to amaze her how much food a few dozen people could stuff into their mouths in one sitting. The day was an endless round of preparing meals, cleaning up, and then more preparing meals and cleaning up.
The clatter of dishes was giving her a headache, and she longed for her afternoon break, when she could put her feet up in her room and get on with her knitting. She still had to finish the mittens she was making for the twins for Christmas.
Shaking her head to dislodge the cobwebs, she picked up her rolling pin and smoothed out the lump of pastry in front of her into a large circle. Deftly she flipped the dough onto a pie plate, then picked up the bowl of raisin apple filling and tipped the lot onto the plate.
This was the last pie for the day. Get it in the oven and then she could slow down a bit and take a breather. It was hot in the kitchen, and a moment or two out in the backyard would cool her off nicely.
She looked for the last pie bird, but couldn’t see it on the table. Someone must have moved it. More than likely picked it up with some dirty dishes. Clicking her tongue in annoyance, she walked over to the sink.
There was the pie bird, sitting on the counter. Relieved, she picked it up. Without that little porcelain funnel sitting in the center of her pie, there’d be nowhere for the steam to escape while the pie was cooking. Then she’d have a mess, all right. Burnt filling all around the edges. Madam wouldn’t like that.
Out of habit, she glanced at the windowsill to make sure her ring was still there. She always took it off when she was making the pastry. If she didn’t it ended up with pastry stuck in between all the little grooves, and it was a devil of a task to get it all cleaned out. So she left it on the windowsill until she was finished with the pies.
Only today, it wasn’t there.
Mrs. Chubb paused, unable to believe her eyes. All the years she had been working at the Pennyfoot, and it had been far too many to remember, she had placed that ring on the windowsill and it had always been there when she came to get it. It had to be there.
With a little cry of dismay, drowned out by the din in the kitchen, she put down the pie bird and leaned across the sink for a better look. No, she wasn’t seeing things. The ring was gone. It must have somehow been swept off the sill and into the sink.
Frantically she dug her fingers into the drain hole in some vain hope of finding it there. Behind her, she heard Michel call out above the racket of crashing pots and pans.
“Where the blazes is the pie? Sacre bleu! It should be halfway to cooked by now! Whatever are you doing over there in the sink?”
“Oh, go drink your brandy,” Mrs. Chubb muttered, quiet enough so he wouldn’t hear. Turning her head, she added more loudly, “My ring fell down the sink. It’s gone!”
“We find it later.” Michel waved a wooden spoon, dripping with gravy, in the air at her. “I must have that pie in the oven this minute.”
“Oh, all right.” With a last, searching gaze along the windowsill, Mrs. Chubb turned and trotted back to the table. Staring at the pie, she couldn’t think why she hadn’t put the top crust on. Then she remembered the pie bird and had to go back for it, earning a scathing stream of curses from the irate chef.
Ignoring him, she took the pie bird back to the table and sat it in the middle of the apple filling. This had to be one of the worst days ever. Poor Ian lying dead in the duck pond and now her ring was lost. Mrs. Chubb slapped a second circle of pastry on top of the pie plate. What else was going to go wrong, for heaven’s sake?
