Kate Kingsbury
Mistletoe and Mayhem
The second book in the Pennyfoot Hotel Special series, 2010
To Bill, for being the love of my life.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have been so fortunate with my editors, all of whom have been supportive, understanding, and encouraging. My new editor, Faith Black, is no exception. Thank you for making the transition so smooth and enjoyable, and for so quickly accommodating the inhabitants of Badgers End. They appreciate it as much as I do.
Grateful thanks to my agent, Paige Wheeler, for all your support and understanding in a difficult year. Your efforts on my behalf are so greatly appreciated.
Again I’m blessed with yet another incredible cover from Judith Murello and her talented team in the art department. I’ve loved each and every one of my covers, and I can’t thank you enough for all your hard work.
Thanks to my lifelong friend, Ann Wraight, who keeps me in touch with my homeland and helps me keep my facts straight.
My deepest thanks to all my wonderful fans. Your e-mails mean so much, and I hope you all know how very much I enjoy them. By the time you read this, another year will have passed. None of us know what the future holds, and this year promises to be an even more uncertain one for me. I hope this isn’t the last of the Pennyfoot books, but just in case it is, I want to tell you all that writing for you has been one of the greatest joys of my life. Thank you for letting me know how much you have enjoyed the lives of the staff and guests at the Pennyfoot Hotel.
Lastly, as always, my thanks to my dear husband, Bill. I could not have done any of it without you.
CHAPTER 1
The chill wind from the ocean had brought gray skies and the threat of rain earlier that morning. In fact, the Pennyfoot’s chief housemaid thought she smelled snow in the salty air as she stepped out into the kitchen yard.
Above Gertie McBride’s head, seagulls circled in search of food, their shrill cries echoing across the smoking chimneys. It wasn’t the hungry gulls that caught her attention, however. It was the sound of raised voices, one shrill, the other harsh and grating.
Gertie recognized them both. The high-pitched voice belonged to the new maid, Ellie. Gertie didn’t like Ellie. She was the sort that acted sweet and innocent in front of Mrs. Chubb, but behind her back was as saucy as a concubine.
Gertie, on the other hand, believed in saying what she thought, no matter who could hear her. All that putting on airs and graces was nothing better than lying, and Gertie couldn’t stand a liar.
The other voice, even harsher now, Gertie knew belonged to the coal man, Stan Whittle. She’d recognize his Scottish accent anywhere. She’d been married to a Scot, and knew what one sounded like. From the sound of it, Stan was really angry with Ellie, for some reason.
The maid, however, seemed more than capable of holding her own. Her voice rising, she shouted words that made even Gertie blush. Deciding that the last thing she wanted to do was get in the middle of an argument, Gertie determined that the wine cellar could wait. They wouldn’t need the sherry for another two hours. She’d come back later.
Leaving the two voices to their battle, she turned around and went back inside the kitchen.
No one would ever guess, when first glimpsing the red roofs of the Pennyfoot Country Club, that the sparkling white walls hid a dark and menacing secret. Indeed, upon first sight, the tastefully decorated foyer offered a warm welcome to all who ventured inside.
Met with bright crimson ribbons, boughs of holly, and wreaths of lush green fir adorning the staircase, not to mention the graceful Christmas tree glowing with white lace angels and silver balls, one was immediately engulfed in the best of the Edwardian Christmas spirit.
A tantalizing aroma of spicy boiled Christmas puddings, tangy mince pies, and roasting chestnuts lured the visitor even deeper into the hallways, where anxious staff members, eager to please, extended a guiding hand.
Since long before the turn of the century, the Christmas season at the Pennyfoot had offered its visitors an enjoyable week or so of appetizing food, warm hospitality, and exciting entertainment.
Perhaps too much excitement for some, as a few previous guests might have attested. For all who entered the Pennyfoot’s walls in December did so at the risk of falling prey to the infamous Christmas curse.
Not that such misfortunes were ever advertised, of course. In fact, everyone employed at the club looked forward to the Christmas season with the firm belief that this year would prove to be the exception.
Cecily Sinclair Baxter was especially determined that no misfortune should mar the festivities, regardless of the Christmas curse. Having once owned the Pennyfoot when it was a hotel, she had sold it to her cousin who had then turned it into the country club.
Cecily had taken over the management and now it was her job to see that each and every guest enjoyed a pleasant and rewarding visit and returned home with many happy memories that would last a lifetime.
She would allow no forbidding thoughts to surface, in the hopes that an optimistic outlook would bring positive results. Nevertheless, her resolve was somewhat shaken when her husband arrived home that evening from his office in London with an ominous declaration.
“He has struck again,” Baxter announced, throwing his homburg onto the bed in the boudoir.
Seated at her dressing table, Cecily stared at his image in the mirror. “Who has struck what, darling?”
“Not what. Whom.” Baxter pulled off his cravat and ran a finger around his starched collar. “Another young girl, brutally slain. It’s disgusting. You’d think Scotland Yard could have caught the scoundrel by now.”
Cecily felt a shiver of fear. “Oh, dear. You’re talking about London’s latest serial killer.”
“I am, indeed.” Baxter sank heavily onto the bed. “He’s got most of the city terrified out of their wits.”
“Are they so sure it’s a serial killer? Couldn’t it just be more than one murderer?”
“Unlikely. The victims are all young women and all similar in appearance. The trademark of a serial killer. Not only that, with each victim the murderer has left a memento behind.”
“Memento?”
“Yes. You know, the sort of badge that distinguishes him as the perpetrator of the crime.”
Cecily shuddered. “As if he’s proud of his gruesome handiwork.”
“He usually is,” Baxter muttered darkly.
“So what kind of memento is he leaving?”
“No one knows. Scotland Yard refuses to disclose a description. They call him the Mayfair Murderer. Apparently all the bodies have been found on or close by Savile Row.”
“Good heavens.” She sat up. “That is a very nice part of town. Whatever is the city coming to, harboring a
