Authors: Elizabeth Peters
It was perhaps inevitable that Jacqueline and Willowland Manor, as it was properly called, would not take kindly to one another under even the most auspicious circumstances. Neither of them was at its best that day; Jacqueline was wearing jeans and a denim jacket, to match the informal appearance of her conveyance, and the conveyance was of the sort that any functionary would immediately direct to the tradesman’s entrance. She encountered the functionary as soon as she had turned into the front entrance. There was no gate, but there was a little sentry box in the middle of the drive, and a sign that said STOP. Jacqueline might have ignored it if the uniformed person inside the box had not emerged to inquire after her intentions.
Her lips were tight with annoyance and her eyes were glittering ominously when she proceeded a few minutes later. The man had had the effrontery to doubt her statement that Mr. Stokes had invited her to luncheon, and he had demanded that she wait while he called the manor to confirm her story. She had put him in his place with her famous combination of aristocratic hauteur and schoolmarm shrillness, but his behavior had not given her a good first impression of the spa.
The manor house had the conventional white pillars, wide veranda, sprawling wings and spreading lawns, but it was not at its best either. No doubt it looked delightful in the spring, and radiated antebellum charm when snow frosted the roofs and chimneys, but the gray autumn skies and barren trees gave it a look of bleak isolation. The cars in the parking lot were BMWs and Cadillacs, Lincolns and Ferraris. Jacqueline parked a little too close to a spanking new Olds 98, and got out.
The guard in the sentry box must have called after all. The second line of defense moved alertly forward as soon as Jacqueline opened the door. The title “receptionist” failed to do justice to her dignity; “chatelaine” seemed more appropriate. She was elegantly garbed in black silk, or a reasonable imitation thereof, and her white hair was swept into a stately French roll. A pair of pince-nez hung around her neck on a gold chain; confronting Jacqueline, she set them on her nose and stared hard. “May I be of assistance?”
Jacqueline pushed her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose and returned the stare. This time she had found an opponent of her own caliber. Not by the faintest flicker of an eyelash did the woman react to the names, real and pen, of Brunnhilde, and when Jacqueline claimed she had been invited to luncheon by her other friend, Mr. Stokes, a sneer curled the other woman’s pale pink lips. “We require preliminary notification of at least one day, madam. Mr. Stokes made no such request.”
“He’s a little absentminded,” Jacqueline said. “Suppose I rent a room. Would I then be permitted to go where the elite meet to stuff themselves?”
“Rent a room” was obviously the wrong phrase. “Our suites and cottages are always booked for at least a month in advance, madam. The Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays have been booked since last March. Should you wish to make a reservation for January—”
Jacqueline’s patience gave out. “Connect me with Mr. Stokes’s room, or go tell him I’m here. I am Jacqueline Kirby!”
She had always suspected that if Joe Nobody Jones announced himself in sufficiently impressive tones, people would be too cowed to admit the name was unknown to them. Whether this was indeed the case, or for some other reason, her pronouncement had the desired effect. Stokes didn’t answer his telephone, so with ineffable condescension the receptionist agreed to go and look for him. Mrs. Kirby was welcome to wait in the reception area.
Mrs. Kirby had no intention of doing any such thing. She watched the chatelaine sweep through a door behind the desk and turn left. She cleverly deduced that the dining room must be in that wing. Where else would Booton be at noontime? Jacqueline went out the front door and trotted briskly along a boxwood-lined path, through a gate marked “Guests Only,” across a brown and withered garden, and onto a wide flagstoned terrace. The stacked tables and chairs told her that the terrace was used for outdoor dining in fine weather; the glassed-in doors beyond must lead into the dining room proper.
When she opened one of them and entered, she found herself in an anteroom, with heavy leather curtains on one side. It was a temporary structure, designed to prevent the cold winds of the real world from touching the bodies of the rich and greedy. Jacqueline parted the curtains and looked in.
Every table appeared to be occupied. At the right side of the room was the famous Willowland buffet—tables loaded with a dozen different varieties of every conceivable food. At the far end of the room was Booton Stokes, on his way out, following the black-clad form of the receptionist. And at a table for four, as close to the groaning board of the buffet as she could get, was none other than Brunnhilde. She had a turban twisted tightly around her head and was wearing tinted glasses, but her shape was unmistakable.
As a disguise the outfit was about as effective as a fake mustache. It certainly wouldn’t have fooled Booton Stokes. Brunnhilde was not dining alone. One of the other places at the table had been occupied; there was food on the plate, wine in the glass, and a crumpled napkin on the chair. It required very little imagination to deduce that Stokes had been the occupant of the chair. Either Booton and Brunnhilde had been in cahoots all along, or they had declared a temporary truce. Jacqueline frowned. She had been operating under the assumption that Stokes and Brunnhilde would take pains to avoid one another. Her plans would have to be revised.
Brunnhilde was so busy gorging herself that she didn’t notice Jacqueline until the latter pulled out a chair and sat down. Then her mouth opened (Jacqueline quickly averted her eyes) and her chest swelled.
“Swallow,” Jacqueline said earnestly. “I beg of you, swallow before you speak.” She pressed a napkin into Brunnhilde’s hand.
Brunnhilde made uncouth noises, but managed to avert catastrophe. Before she could speak, Jacqueline went on, “I must talk to you, Zelekash. You don’t mind if I call you by your real name, do you? It’s so euphonious. Zelekash, sweet Zelekash… The years may come, the years may go…”
“What do you want, Kirby?” Brunnhilde’s voice was choked with passion and buttered roll.
“You, darling. I presume Boots has gone to head me off? He’ll be back any second, so listen. He’s no friend of yours, Zel. You’re in grave danger. Trust me—”
“Trust you? Ha!”
Jacqueline, watching the doorway, swore under her breath. Booton hadn’t wasted any time; having failed to find her waiting, he had come straight back to the dining room. Turning to Brunnhilde, she said rapidly, “I’m serious. Excuse yourself to go to the ladies’ room. He can’t follow us there—”
“I wouldn’t be caught dead in the ladies’ room or anyplace else with you, Jacqueline Kirby.”
Booton arrived in time to hear at least part of the speech. He smiled and shook his head. “Ladies, ladies! Jacqueline, why didn’t you call? I would have been delighted to arrange for you to join me at luncheon.”
“Ah, but then I might not have had the pleasure of seeing Zel——I mean, Brunnhilde.”
“You can’t have been more surprised to see her than I was,” Booton said, resuming his chair. “I didn’t mingle the first few days, and we just happened to miss one another at mealtime, until this morning.”
Nice and smooth, Jacqueline thought. That accounted for Booton’s failure to mention Brunnhilde’s presence. It might even be true.
“At any rate, I’m delighted you’re here,” Booton went on. “I’ve managed to persuade Mrs. Wellington to let you stay, so why don’t you select your lunch from that splendid buffet, and perhaps I can persuade both of you to bury your differences. This little feud of yours is absurd; two such fine writers and charming ladies should be friends.”
The two charming ladies eyed one another with mutual expressions of mistrust and loathing. Jacqueline excused herself and went to the buffet before Booton could commit any further assaults on the truth.
She helped herself at random, watching the pair at the table out of the corner of her eye. Booton was doing all the talking; Brunnhilde remained unmoved by what he said, her dour expression didn’t alter. Jacqueline returned to the table. Booton had filled her glass with wine and was ready to play the genial host. “Let’s not talk shop today,” he said, smiling.
“If we don’t talk shop, we’ve nothing to talk about,” said Jacqueline. “Don’t you want to know how I’m getting along with the outline?” She paused only long enough to note their reactions—Booton’s reproachful frown and Brunnhilde’s greedy interest—before continuing. “I’m not getting along with it. Somebody stole the first forty pages.”
“What?” Booton dropped his fork. “When? Who—?”
“Ah, that’s the important question,” Jacqueline said. “Who indeed?”
“It wasn’t me,” Brunnhilde stuttered. “Don’t you dare look at me, Kirby. I have an alibi—”
“For when?” Jacqueline inquired gently.
“Why, for last night. It was last night, wasn’t it?”
“As a matter of fact, it wasn’t. But that’s all right, Zel——Brunnhilde. I believe you.”
“You do?” Brunnhilde stared.
“I really do. In spite of the fact that I don’t see how you can produce an alibi for a time when you were presumably sound asleep in your bed. Unless—er—” She glanced meaningfully at Stokes, whose horrified expression went unremarked by Brunnhilde, so anxious was the latter to clear herself.
“That shows how much you know, Kirby. I have a room in the manor house this time, not one of the cottages; and they lock this place up at midnight. If you plan to stay out later than that you have to get a key, and sign for it. And,” she finished triumphantly, “it’s a dead bolt; you need a key to open it even from the inside. So if your burglary happened after ten o’clock, I do have an alibi, because it takes almost two hours to drive here from—”
She stopped, flushing unprettily. Jacqueline gave her a pitying smile. That admission—that she knew how long it took to get to Pine Grove—would not have counted as a slip if she hadn’t emphasized it by her pause and look of guilt.
“Stop this bickering,” Booton ordered sharply. “Damn it, Jacqueline, do you realize you have less than a week—”
“It doesn’t matter.” Jacqueline bowed her head. “I don’t believe I am destined to write the sequel. It came to me the other night, like a message from the Beyond. I could almost hear the voice of Kathleen Darcy telling me it was not to be.”
The blood drained from Booton’s face and rushed to the plump cheeks of Brunnhilde. “Don’t say things like that,” Booton gasped.
“I could be mistaken, of course,” Jacqueline admitted. “Those voices from the Beyond are somewhat unreliable.”
The flush of happiness and satisfaction faded from Brunnhilde’s face and returned to Booton’s. “Jacqueline, please… I’m not a well man, don’t do this to me.”
“All right, dahling,” Jacqueline said agreeably. “Tactful as always, I will change the subject. Anyone for dessert?”
Booton shook his head, but when Brunnhilde declared her intention of joining Jacqueline in pursuit of more calories, he quickly got up and followed them.
“What do you recommend?” Jacqueline asked, studying the array of tarts, cakes, pies, trifles and puddings in mild consternation.
Brunnhilde, to whom the question had been addressed, only glowered and did not reply. She selected a particularly rich, gooey confection heavy with spices and smothered in fudge sauce.
“Excellent choice,” said Jacqueline sincerely. Brunnhilde gave her a hateful look and retired with her dessert. “Oh, dear, I can’t decide,” Jacqueline murmured to Booton. “What are you having, dahling?”
“I’ve changed my mind. They all look too rich for me.”
Jacqueline went on muttering and dithering until Booton left and another woman, who should have known better, had selected a slab of strawberry pie a la mode. It took Jacqueline only a few seconds to do what she had to do. When she joined the others she was carrying the same dessert Brunnhilde had chosen.
Brunnhilde had almost finished hers. While she gobbled, Booton tried to get Jacqueline to make sense. “If you need extra time, I’m sure we can get it. You must remember something of what you had written.”
“Oh, yes.” Jacqueline took a bite, made a face, and put her fork down. “It’s rum-flavored. I hate rum. You have it, dahling.” She pushed it toward Booton.
“Stop trying to change the subject, Jacqueline. I don’t want the damned thing.” He pushed the plate away. After a moment Brunnhilde reached for it. Jacqueline ostentatiously ignored the byplay.
“I just can’t decide what to do,” she said earnestly. “Perhaps we ought to confer, Boots dear. Why don’t you come to my place this evening? I’ll meet you in the lounge at the inn at five-thirty. We can have dinner and then retire to my little sanctum for a heart-to-heart chat.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Booton said. “But I do hope—”
He was interrupted by a horrendous, monumental belch from Brunnhilde. She had clapped her hands to her mouth, and her face had turned a delicate pea-green.
“Tsk, tsk,” said Jacqueline. “All that rich food… Are you going to be sick, dear?”
Brunnhilde nodded speechlessly. “Quick.” Jacqueline jumped up. “You take her other arm, Boots.”
Between them, and the waiter who leapt to their assistance when he recognized the signs that must not have been entirely unfamiliar to him, they got Brunnhilde out of the dining room before the worst occurred. Leaving the others dismally contemplating the mess on the polished floor of the corridor, Jacqueline hustled Brunnhilde through a door marked “Ladies,” and held her head while she finished the job. It was not a pleasant occupation, but as Jacqueline philosophically reminded herself, it was a lot harder on Brunnhilde.
Before long they were joined by a woman in nurse’s whites, whose questions made it clear that she was more concerned with the reputation of Willowland’s kitchen than the condition of the sufferer. Jacqueline’s answers reassured her, and she turned a critical eye on Brunnhilde. “If you’ll come to the infirmary, the doctor will have a look at you. I expect all you need is rest and bicarb.”
“I can’t walk,” Brunnhilde groaned. “Oh, God, I feel awful.”