Dickens of a Death Page 2

  We answered in unison. “Thanks, Mona.”

  She hovered so I hustled to give her my opinion. I reached for a crème-filled number topped with chocolate swirls. A bite later my initial “Mmm” sounded more like a moan than a word. I reached for another pastry. I believe it’s good to taste test all offerings before making a definitive comment or decision.

  My hand hovered above a fruit tart. Ginger and her mom weren’t showing the same enthusiasm as me. In fact, they hadn’t even chosen their first pastry.

  “You haven’t taken one of these. What’s up?” Unable to control my urge to try another dessert, I snapped up the golden brown phyllo and fruit concoction. The crust crumbled as I bit, leaving my taste buds flirting with honey, rich custard, and fresh fruit. I returned to see if the follow-up bite would be as good as the initial taste.

  “Oh, lordy.” I caught Mona’s gaze. “If you don’t start serving these, like every day, I’ll arrange a picket line you won’t forget.” I licked my lips, catching a vagrant bit of sweetness. “And that’s just for starters.”

  Mona’s face lit up. “Thanks. I thought I had a hit, but wanted to make sure.” She bade her other customers good-bye as they left the store, then sat with us.

  “So, Patricia and Ginger, I’ll echo Katie’s question. What’s up? You haven’t tasted my pastries, which won’t survive Katie’s onslaught for very long. And I’d like your decision.”

  I stopped reaching for a pretty lemon thingy and fisted my hand in my lap. My face felt hot, so I sipped my hot chocolate in self-defense. Sometimes my enthusiasms get in the way of manners.

  Ginger placed the lemon pastry on my plate. “Nothing much, Mona. Mrs. Rose overheard my mom arguing with Richard Shorter. You know how she is. Mrs. Rose, I mean.”

  Mona nodded. “A thorny bitch and bosom friends with Little Dick. Bosom being the operative word.” She rested her chin on one palm. “You’ve had a challenging day.” She pushed the plate closer to Ginger. “I prescribe sugar. Good for all that ails you.”

  The mother and daughter smiled at each other, then at Mona. They each took a confection and bit.

  Mrs. Winslow patted the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin. “Are you planning to debut these during Dickens?”

  Mona shook her head. “No, I’ll have my hands full as it is.”

  Typically, the line for Mona’s hot chocolate wound down the block each day of the event weekend. She prepped for weeks, and often sold out of both hot chocolate and truffle gift boxes. I’d helped one year and swore I never wanted to eat or drink chocolate again. Luckily, I’d been half-comatose at the time and wasn’t responsible for my oath.

  Mrs. Winslow smiled. “Please let me have the honor. I’d love several dozen for my bridge club next week. Madeline Rose will be there.”

  Mrs. Rose’s face would turn scarlet knowing Patricia had scored a big one. I wished I could see it happen.

  Mona’s smile grew. “You got it.” She shook her head. “What’s that saying about water finding its level or something? Shorter and Rose definitely exist in the same mud hole.”

  Ginger and I leaned toward Mona. “What do you know?”

  Mona popped a dark chocolate-covered blackberry into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. “How much time do you have?” She wiped her fingers on a napkin. “Do you have a particular issue with Shorter?”

  Mrs. Winslow replaced her mug on the table without sipping. “Mr. Shorter and I don’t agree on the subject of business ethics.”

  Mona tapped her forefinger against her lips. “Well, that explains the burly dude I saw in his store last week.”

  We all shifted to look across the street. The sun reflected off his store window.

  “I can’t see anything,” Patricia said.

  Mona grinned. “When the light is right, I can see almost to the back of his store, though one side is blocked.”

  Ginger and I exchanged long looks. We knew Mona had some good information.

  “I was wiping down tables when a guy pulled up in a dark sedan. When he climbed out, I pegged him for a bad guy.” She shrugged. “You know. The stereotyped big build, overcoat, flashy fingers.”

  It took me a moment to realize she meant the man wore bling rings.

  “Little Dick took a gander at the dude and started backing away. I saw him lift his hands.” She held her own in the recognizable gesture of surrender. “Then he flipped his Open sign to Closed and led his visitor into the back room.”

  Our jaws dropped at the same time.

  “Yeah, it’s surprising how much I see here on the main drag.”

  I wasn’t too shocked. As I mentioned earlier, the Chocolate Fix was second only to the Hair Shack as gossip central.

  Ginger jumped on the information. “How long did he stay? Did they walk out together, or shake hands, or anything?”

  Mona shook her head. “Nope, don’t know. I had customers come in right after.”

  Mrs. Winslow looked pale while Ginger’s face gained color. I asked the obvious question. “But how does Mrs. Rose fit into that picture?”

  “Oh, didn’t you get my reference? I’m pretty sure the two of them are having an affair. Either that, or they play chess in the backroom several times a week.”

  “I thought he liked men,” I said. “You know, antiques, fussy appearance.”

  “I’m surprised you fell for that stereotyped stuff,” Mona said. “I’ve known men who looked and sounded gay and were anything but. Madeline Rose came out more crumpled than she went in, if you catch my drift. Little Dick scored more on the side than he’d be getting as a married man, guaranteed.”

  Chimes sounded, and we turned to see a group of high school students enter. Mona stood. “Gotta run. Let me know if you need refills.”

  We closed our gaping mouths and simultaneously reached for the pastries. Sugar is supposed to help overcome shock, right?

  I swallowed my cooling hot chocolate. “You have got to be shit—um, kidding me.”

  Ginger grinned. “The plot sickens.”

  Suddenly I felt better. “Dirk would love this story. If the mayor knew we knew his wife screwed around, he may not be so quick to cut police funding.”

  Mrs. Winslow wiped her fingers on her napkin and tucked the paper under her plate. “Katie, stay out of this fight with the mayor and his wife. Let me use this tool.”

  Her smile simultaneously cheered and chilled me. “I’ve got just the loppers to clip Madeline’s rose.”

  Ginger nodded. “Deadhead her spent blossoms.”

  “She’s toast,” I added, not being a gardener.

  We clinked mugs and drank.

  Chapter Three

  On December eleventh, the night before Dickens Days started, I slid onto Ginger’s backseat. “Thanks for driving, and hello Mrs. Winslow.”

  Patricia shifted in the passenger seat, craning her neck to see me. “We’ve had this discussion. When will you start calling me Patricia? You’re past old enough.”

  I shifted. “Sorry. Habit.” Plus I felt weird calling my best friend’s mom by her first name after decades of using her title. Not to mention, I got a squiggly feeling, like I had a strange social advantage over my friend, who still used “mom.” Especially when Mrs.…Patricia had become my surrogate mother when my parents died.

  Patricia turned her attention to Ginger. “You’ve done a wonderful job with decorations this year. The main street businesses look better than ever before.”

  Ginger made an inelegant noise. “No thanks to Little Dick.”

  My pride swelled to know I’d gotten my friend to loosen up and call a spade a spade. Though to be honest, Little Dick had done that himself.

  Patricia straightened. “Have you been keeping something from me?”

  My friend kept her attention on the road. “Not really, just that if he’s the event coordinator again next year, I’m not volunteering.” She glanced at her mother. “I told you he designed templates and a detailed list of instructions for every business
, right?”

  Patricia shook her head. “Yes. Your idea of clearing it with the Chamber first was inspired.”

  I could see Ginger’s satisfied grin in the rearview mirror. “Mona helped with that end run.”

  Not to mention many of our storeowners have an independent streak that won’t quit. Being told how to decorate hit a hot button that, even a month after the fact, initiated a visceral reaction.

  “I must admit,” Patricia said, “that getting Granville Falls to update their streetlamp decorations helped. Although, that was part of the City budget process last spring, so on second thought, I won’t give Richard Shorter the credit.”

  Ginger pulled into the City Hall parking lot and snagged one of the last open spots. “From what I’ve heard, he alienated every one of his committee heads except for you. Good going, Mom.”

  “Yes, he left me alone for the most part.” I couldn’t see Patricia’s face, but her voice sounded worried. “We have unfinished business, though.”

  Patricia had put her argument with Shorter on hold until after the annual holiday event. Mrs. Rose had remained uncharacteristically silent on the argument she’d witnessed at the antique store. The situation was a powder keg, or perhaps more aptly, a stiletto-heeled shoe hanging over all our heads. Still, I’d back Patricia Winslow over Madeline Rose anytime, anywhere.

  “He had a vision for the event and wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Ginger used air quotes around “vision.” “Are you ready to receive your final instructions from Emperor Shorter?”

  We took seats midway in the room. I sat with Ginger and her mother, but my mind had wandered off, thinking of devious ways for killing Little Dick. Shorter had strutted to the podium and begun the meeting after an ear-splitting feedback shriek. Madeline Rose sat in the front row taking notes. I half expected her to pull out a pair of knitting needles à la Madame Defarge.

  Little Dick cleared his throat. “John, I saw several problems with your security detail assignments. See me after the meeting, please.”

  Shorter checked his notes. “Esther, make sure the children caroling move around to different locations this year. They caused a pedestrian blockage last year.”

  I cast a quick grin at Ginger. The kids had hung around the Chocolate Fix, not only for the hot chocolate, but because they had a captive audience. Guess Dickie couldn’t stand Mona’s success.

  “And by the way, Esther, ‘Blue Christmas’ is not an appropriate song choice. Please limit your groups to traditional carols this year.”

  What? I couldn’t let that slur go unanswered, even if only Ginger heard me. “Get a grip, Little Dick. This is the South. Elvis is always traditional.”

  Luckily my voice hadn’t carried, and Shorter marched on. “Mitch, did you get the additional roasted chestnut vendor?”

  Shifting in my seat, I stifled a yawn. All the committee chairs had their assignments down pat. This meeting was nothing more than an ego trip for control-freak Shorter.

  “Ginger, how much longer until we get out of here?”

  “According to the agenda, he’s over half way.”

  “Yes, and I noticed he’s got decorations and the home tour as the last items. Shit head.” Obviously, Shorter wanted to hassle Ginger and her mom as long as possible. Or maybe bore them to death.

  Madeline sent me a glare from her front row seat. It’s as if she’d heard me denigrate her lover. Maybe she had. I’d never learned the fine art of whispering.

  Hours later, or possibly only twenty minutes, it’s hard for me to gauge time when I’m bored spit-less, Shorter bestowed lukewarm praise on Ginger’s work and dismissed Patricia’s report with a hand gesture.

  Shorter tapped the microphone, sending another blast of feedback into the room. “Of course, I expect all chairmen and volunteers to attend the opening ceremony before taking up their posts.”

  I leaned into Ginger. “So we can all applaud his appearance as Charles Dickens, of course.”

  Madeline leveled another death glare in my direction. I counterattacked with a simper.

  “Obviously, those of you who are posted a distance away will be unable to attend. No fear. We’re videotaping the ceremony for our public access channel.”

  I circled my forefinger. “Whoopie. I’ll be sure to record that for posterity.”

  “I’ll circulate throughout the night to ensure everything runs properly, especially the home tours. Any questions?”

  I placed my hand in front of my mouth this time. “Yes. Who died and made you king?”

  Ginger and Patricia, along with everyone in the rows around us, chuckled, snickered or giggled, well, you get the picture. I didn’t look in Madeline’s direction, figuring my name had already made it into her execution notes. I swallowed, happy my head was still attached and that I lived now instead of during the French Terror.

  I felt exhausted, and I’d only assisted Ginger. The committee heads must have been hanging on their last nerve.

  Ginger sighed. “One day at a time. We’ll be free soon.”

  ****

  I chafed under the costume. How did Victorian women handle the dress material’s weight, much less move under the multiple layers?

  Ginger is willowy and tall, and wore her costume with ease. I have a lot more curves packed on a shorter frame. Lucky the costume came with forgiving fasteners so I could leave off the corset. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have taken a breath all night. On the other hand, Dirk’s drool when I’d modeled the corset made me consider wearing it later on. I guess he liked having my boobs shoved toward my throat. At least that’s what I think he said. His eyes were glazed, and he kept swallowing.

  The Victorian mobcap—I now knew why the covering could excite women to riot—had been pulled off my wavy black hair an hour or so ago. In one sense, I didn’t mind all the garment layers. They served to keep me warm with the constant door opening leaching all the heat from the foyer. The small heater, blowing nonstop, sure wasn’t doing its job.

  And now, along with the froo-fooey costume, my night was complete. Richard Shorter approached, clipboard in hand and sneer in place.

  He’d chosen to portray a younger Charles Dickens, at a time the author wore a moustache rather than a door knocker beard. Shorter’s period garb looked faultless, including a nattily tied scarf and a wide lapelled velvet-trimmed jacket. Striped trousers and shiny boots, along with a fancy hat, topped off a costume I figured hadn’t come from Costumes 4U downtown. Guess Little Dick was something of a reenactor, just not a man who relived wars.

  The stress of coordinating the event must have finally gotten to him. When he reached the lamplight’s glow, he looked pale, and drops of sweat dotted his forehead.

  I searched the area for Ginger or her mother but didn’t see either of them. Too bad. They deserved a heads-up on Little Dick. I shoulda asked for a walkie-talkie or baby intercom. Some method of communication besides the cell phone residing in my too modern purse now stored in Patricia’s locked office.

  As he entered I uttered the standard greeting. “Welcome to Winslow House, Mr. Shorter.”

  I’d promised to use his formal name and a polite demeanor, mostly under protest, if he showed while I had door duty, but I didn’t smile at him. He pushed past without comment or removing his top hat. Dick.

  I turned to follow his progress and noted he headed directly to the dining room and Patricia’s station. My surveillance ended with the arrival of a noisy group of people who’d had a bit too much holiday cheer. The rum fumes about knocked me over. Good thing we had a no smoking rule or the New Year fireworks would have started early. I signaled one of the high school football team members who served as unofficial bouncers. He quickly moved into position behind them, and I returned to door duty.

  The pace picked up, and my cheeks hurt from smiling when Ginger arrived for her door-keeping stint. “Why’d you let that jerk in the door?”

  “Huh?” I studied Ginger’s tight jaw and narrowed eyes. “You mean I coulda tossed Little Dick
out? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  She shook her head. “You had to let him in, but what an ass. He said something loud enough to catch the attention of visitors and set off my mother, that’s for sure.”

  Of course he had, but I couldn’t raise that topic with so many people around. “Rest easy. Winslow House is the gem of the tour, this year and every year.”

  Ginger’s smile looked like the Grinch’s before his heart grew. “Whatever he said, he choked on his own words. Needed water, so Mom had me take over while she led him to the kitchen.”

  I frowned. “So where is he? Your mom didn’t leave him alone, did she? He didn’t exit through the front.”

  “She said she sent him out the back, still coughing and red-faced. He turned down her offer of something to drink.”

  “Would it be too much to hope he choked on his words?”

  Ginger didn’t answer, instead, rubbing her arms for warmth. “Time for our rotation.”

  We were supposed to move to one of five different posts every half hour, but I knew Ginger wouldn’t make it long at the entry with the temperature dropping.

  “I can stay here if you want to switch with someone else.”

  “No, I need to cool off. Just go.” She pulled a wool shawl over her shoulders and turned to face the door.

  Having been friends with Ginger since second grade, I knew that expression and tone of voice. I got.

  The tour had just thirty minutes left, so I took my last assignment next to the library door. Yes, not only did Ginger’s ancestral home have a name, it had a bona fide library, with built-in wooden shelves up to the ceiling and a rolling ladder. The windows were stained glass and the furniture comfortable leather club chairs. A tree decorated with authentic ornaments from the late eighteen hundreds dominated the room’s center. My job? Make sure nothing was stolen or trashed and answer stupid questions from visitors.

  A couple of Granville Falls High School linebackers were ensconced in the chairs. They had that comfortable look that said they’d been hanging in the library all night. The Winslows made a practice of paying the boys for helping out, but not all the tour house owners did. No surprise the best and the brightest jockeyed to get the Winslow gig every year, even if it meant dressing the part. These kids were already pulling at their neckties in preparation to leave.