Decked With Folly

  Decked With Folly

  Kate Kingsbury

  Make room for murder with all the trimmings in the latest of the Pennyfoot Hotel Christmas mystery series.

  It's the holiday season and the Pennyfoot staff is brimming with anticipation. The scents of the season overflow from the kitchen and the country club's halls are decorated with festive displays thanks to Cecily's dear friend Madeline. But when one of Cecily's candlesticks disappears, she realizes someone is lacking in Christmas spirit.

  Petty thievery seems the least of Cecily's problems after she learns a former employee has been found dead in her duck pond. He hasn't worked at the Pennyfoot in years, but his ex-wife is still their head maid-and now she heads the list of suspects. And when Madeline has a vision of more misfortune to come, Cecily starts feeling more jinxed than jolly. Now a killer and a thief must be taken off the guest list in order to put the merry back into Christmas.

  Kate Kingsbury

  Decked With Folly

  The first book in the Pennyfoot Hotel Special series, 2009

  To Bill,

  for believing in me when I sometimes

  have trouble believing in myself.

  Thank you, my love.

  Without you,

  I would simply cease to be.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There are very few authors whose work cannot be greatly improved by a good editor, and I am fortunate to have one of the best. I sometimes think Sandra Harding knows my characters as well as I do. Thank you, Sandy, for another remarkable job.

  My thanks to Paige Wheeler, my industrious and savvy agent, for her constant encouragement and enthusiasm. You never let me down and that means the world to me.

  Many thanks also to Judith Murello and the incredible art department. My covers are a joy, and so beautifully rendered. I’ve loved every one of them.

  Thanks to a dear friend, Ann Wraight, for sending me research clips and magazines all the way from England.

  To my fans, who send me wonderful e-mails and give me so much pleasure with their warm wishes. The staff and guests of the Pennyfoot Hotel thrive on your praise. Thank you.

  To a very special fan, Helen Gibson, who turned one hundred years old on June 28, 2009.

  To my husband, for being the wind beneath my wings. Your understanding and faith in me give me the strength to persevere when the chips are down.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Christmas season was Cecily Sinclair Baxter’s favorite time of the year. Or it would be, if it weren’t for what had now become known as the Christmas curse.

  Every year, it seemed, something quite dreadful happened to put a dampener on things. This year, Cecily fervently hoped there would be an exception.

  After all, there was so much to look forward to with joyful anticipation. For one thing, her job as manager of the select country club situated on the quiet southeast coast of England afforded her scintillating company.

  In the few short years since the turn of the century and Queen Victoria’s demise, it seemed as if all of England were eager to celebrate with all the gusto they could muster. Her guests were no exception.

  It was a time for music, dance, joyful laughter, and the consumption of vast culinary delights from her famed chef, Michel. The Pennyfoot wallowed in delicious aromas of spices and herbs emitting from the kitchen, while the halls were filled with the fragrance of pine and cedar, arranged by the clever hands of her best friend, Madeline Pengrath Prestwick.

  Descending the curving staircase, beautifully draped with bright red ribbon and holly, Cecily absorbed the heartwarm ing sights and smells of Christmas with a sense of well-being. This year there would be no curse to spoil the celebrations. She was sure of it.

  Her enthusiasm wavered a bit as she spotted the gentleman waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. Archibald Parker’s stunted height and heavy girth caused him to wheeze, and his busy eyes constantly haunted the dark corners of the room as if he expected to see something undesirable lurking there.

  His luxurious mustache apparently gave him some discomfort, since he twitched his nose at regular intervals while talking. Cecily found this all quite distracting, and had trouble following a conversation with the man, which is why she attempted to avoid him whenever possible.

  Despite her best efforts, Archie, as he insisted upon being called, had managed to waylay her on several occasions over the past three days. It seemed that he had done so again, since his gaze remained fixed on her until she reached him.

  “Mr. Parker!” She managed a polite smile. “You have risen early. It’s not yet time for breakfast to be served. I trust all is well with you?”

  “Quite, quite, Mrs. B. Yes, indeed.” Archie’s twitching nose sent his mustache into a brief, lopsided angle. “I did want a word with you, however, if I may be so bold?”

  Cecily suppressed a sigh. “Of course, Mr. Parker.”

  “Archie, please.”

  He looked so anxious she hurried to reassure him. “Archie, then. How may I be of assistance?”

  His gaze switched to the corner where the grandfather clock resided. “Well, I was… er… wondering if you’d be interested in any of my wares. I’m a medical salesman, you know. In the great city of London.” He coughed, bringing a pudgy hand to his mouth. “Yes, indeed.”

  Having been informed of that on more than one occasion, by Archie himself no less, Cecily had trouble hiding her irritation. “So you have mentioned. I believe I have already explained about my friend, Mrs. Prestwick? She is an herbalist, and supplies all my needs.”

  As on all the previous occasions when she had mentioned Madeline’s penchant for herbal remedies, Archie managed to convey his disgust with a slight toss of his practically bald head. “Don’t believe in all that weeds and herbs stuff myself. You never know what you’re swallowing. Could be poison for all we know.” He uttered a nervous laugh. “Now on the other hand, these little pills”-he withdrew a small bottle from his pocket-“best thing for the digestion you ever did see.” He waved the bottle in her face.

  “My digestion is in quite good order, thank you.” Still holding on to her smile by sheer willpower, she started to move away, but Archie slithered in front of her again. “What about regularity? Have any problems with that?”

  Cecily paused, her smile vanishing. “Mr. Parker, I really must insist that you not use this establishment for soliciting. If I find out that you have been harassing the guests with attempts to sell-”

  “Oh, no, no, Mrs. B. You have my word you are the only one to whom I have mentioned my profession. Yes, indeed.”

  “Really. However did I manage to be so fortunate?”

  Archie beamed. “Well, I just thought I could do you a favor or two, seeing as how you are always running about this building.” He waved his arm in the air. “Pretty sizable building at that. Must be quite tiring at your age.”

  Cecily winced. While she was perhaps a little closer to fifty than forty, she did not consider herself in the least old, and to be reminded that she was no longer a sprightly young thing offended her greatly.

  Archibald Parker was a guest of the club, however, and as such had to be treated with due respect. Even if the man was a complete and utter oaf. Moreover, he had arrived without a companion, and Cecily’s kind heart compelled her to feel sympathy for anyone spending Christmas without a loved one by his side.

  “I can assure you, I will enlighten you if I should feel the need for any of your medical remedies.” She regained her smile, albeit with some difficulty. “In the meantime, perhaps you’d like to wait in the library for breakfast to be served?”

  Archie glanced down the hallway. “Perhaps I will. Er… will your chief housemaid be serving breakfast this morning, by any chance?”

/>   Taken aback, Cecily took a moment to answer. “You’re referring to Mrs. McBride, perhaps?”

  Archie nodded. “McBride. Gertie. Yes, that’s her. I like her temperament. Spirited young woman, that.” He attempted a wink, but his nose twitched at the same time, pulling his entire face into a grotesque grimace.

  “I’m sure she would be most flattered by your comments,” Cecily said, trying not to grit her teeth.

  To her surprise, a look of alarm crossed Archie’s flushed face. “Oh, please don’t mention that I spoke of her.” He shot a worried glance across the lobby. “Wouldn’t want the young lady to get the wrong impression.”

  It was Cecily’s considered opinion that her robust housemaid would waste no time in putting the objectionable man in his place. With considerable fervor if necessary. “Of course. You can rely on my discretion.”

  “Good, good.” He thrust a hand in his pocket and came up with a large white handkerchief. Mopping his brow, he muttered, “Don’t want to go putting ideas in young heads, now do we. Wouldn’t do at all.”

  Cecily was about to answer when the front door flew open and a bulky man wearing overalls charged through it. Clive Russell was the club’s maintenance man, and right now he appeared to be most disturbed.

  His dark hair, usually neatly combed, looked as if he’d been fighting a strong wind, and he seemed to have trouble finding words, since his mouth opened and shut without a sound coming out of it.

  Watching him stumble toward her, his hat crushed in his hands, Cecily felt a familiar sinking feeling in her stomach. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Parker,” she murmured, and without waiting for his answer, hurried to meet the other man.

  Clive halted as she reached him, his eyes wide with shock. “Dead body,” he said hoarsely. “In the duck pond.”

  Cecily clutched her throat. For the past week she had fought the worry that something dreadful might occur, as it had so often during this time of year. Now it appeared her worst fears had been realized. It seemed they would never be rid of the dreaded Christmas curse.

  “Oh, no, no.” She drew a deep breath. “Tell me what happened.”

  Clive made an obvious effort to lower his voice as the sound of chatter warned of people descending the stairs. “Don’t know exactly, m’m, though the bloke stinks of booze. I reckon he must have been drunk and fallen headfirst into the water. Looks like his head hit a rock or something.”

  “One of our guests?”

  Clive shook his head, and Cecily swung around as someone spoke from behind her.

  “Mrs. B.? Is anything wrong?” Archie peered up at her, his sharp gaze darting from her to Clive and back again. “Can I be of any assistance?”

  “No, no, thank you.” Cecily glanced at the grandfather clock. “Breakfast should be served any minute, Mr. Parker. I strongly suggest you make your way to the dining room. You don’t want to be late for your meal.”

  The sight of guests filing down the stairs must have convinced the man. He gave Clive one hard stare, reluctantly nodded, and then ambled off after a small group of visitors heading for the dining room.

  “Where is the body now?” Cecily demanded, drawing Clive out of earshot of the chattering guests.

  “Still in the pond.” He swallowed. “I didn’t know what to do so I came straight here.”

  “All right. Find Samuel and ask him to help you get the body into the stable. Do it now while everyone is at breakfast and let’s hope that no one sees you. Don’t talk to anyone and don’t answer any questions, is that clear?”

  “Yes, m’m.” Clive touched his forehead. “Right away, m’m.” Instead of leaving, however, he hovered there, refusing to meet her gaze.

  Her feeling of dread intensified. “What is it, Clive? What are you not telling me?”

  For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer, but then he shoved his hat in his pocket and took a deep breath. “The dead man, m’m. I’m afraid it’s someone with whom you’re well acquainted.”

  She stared at him, her heart pounding so hard she was sure she would faint. “I thought you said it wasn’t one of the guests.”

  “No, m’m. It’s not.”

  The foyer appeared to tilt a little and she reached out a hand to steady herself on the hallstand nearby. “Not… not one of the staff?”

  “No, m’m.”

  Drowning in relief, she grasped his sleeve and shook it. “Then for heaven’s sake tell me. Who is it?”

  “I’m afraid it’s Mr. Ian Rossiter, m’m. Gertie McBride’s ex-husband.”

  Stunned, she could only stand and stare at him. “Ian? But I thought he was in London. What is he doing here? Does Gertie know he’s here?” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my goodness. Gertie. I shall have to tell her.” She paused, leaning forward in her distress. “Unless you’ve already told her?”

  “No, m’m.” Clive shuffled his feet and looked away at the door. “I didn’t tell anybody but you.”

  “Then I shall have to… oh, my Lord.” She shook her head to clear the fog of disbelief. “Run along, Clive. Get Ian… get the body out of that pond and out of sight before someone else sees him. Then I want both you and Samuel to report back to me in my office.”

  “Yes, m’m.” This time Clive shuffled off to the door, letting in a gust of cold wind as he opened it, then closed it behind him.

  Cecily took a moment to collect herself. Ian dead. It didn’t seem possible. She hadn’t seen him in quite a while, but at one time he had been a trusted member of her staff. Until that dreadful affair when he’d married Gertie, neglecting to tell her he already had a wife in London.

  He’d gone back to London after Gertie had found out the truth. Then a year ago he’d come back, demanding to see his twins. He’d even gone so far as attempting to kidnap Gertie’s daughter, until Clive had caught up with him and saved the little girl.

  Something had happened to Ian in those years after he’d left-something that had changed him into a hard, bitter man. Cecily uttered a deep sigh. Now he was lying dead outside, and once more her Christmas would be interrupted while she dealt with another death at the Pennyfoot.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, Mrs. Chubb wiped her brow as she leaned into the massive oven to retrieve a sizzling pan of sausages. With a tea towel wrapped around each hand, she grasped the pan and hauled it out to drop it on top of the stove. The tempting aroma of bacon and sausage reminded her she hadn’t eaten her own breakfast yet. Nor, it seemed, would she have that luxury for at least another half hour.

  Behind her, the clatter of dishes assured her the maids were loading up the dumbwaiter with covered silver platters of bacon, fried eggs, fried tomatoes, fried roes, and fried bread.

  The fried herrings and poached haddock had already been sent up, and by now Gertie, Pansy, and the new maid, Mabel, hired for the Christmas rush, would be collecting dirty dishes to send down once the waiter had been unloaded.

  It was all timed down to the second, and Mrs. Chubb, the Pennyfoot’s competent housekeeper, took pride in seeing that everything was in the proper place at the proper time.

  Even if it meant doing Michel’s job, like getting sausages out of a hot oven. Glaring at the pantry door, she yelled, “Michel? What are you doing in there? I hope you’re not sipping on that blinking brandy again!”

  Mrs. Chubb rarely used questionable language unless she was really agitated. Apparently Michel must have noted her resentment, as he appeared in the doorway, his tall white hat bobbing back and forth as he wagged a finger at the housekeeper. “That ees no way to talk to a chef of such renown. I have not touched one single drop of ze brandy. Non.”

  “Then what are you doing in there?” Mrs. Chubb slapped a cover on the sausages and carried the pan over to the dumbwaiter. One of the maids grabbed it from her and shoved it onto the pile of platters.

  Waiting just long enough for the maid to haul on the rope and send the load up to the dining room, Mrs. Chubb spun around and came face-to-face with the chef.

&nbs
p; “If you really must know,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm, “I search for the jug of cream. I make the custard, and I must have the cream to put in it, oui? What is custard without ze cream, huh?”

  “All right, you don’t have to get all hoity-toity with me.” Mrs. Chubb shoved past him and walked back to the large wooden table in the center of the room. “Next time, load the sausages before you look for the cream. I don’t have time to do your job as well as mine.”

  Michel’s face turned red, a sure sign he was about to indulge in his favorite pastime-rattling saucepans and lids just to establish his superiority to everyone within earshot. It was a completely wasted effort, since the staff was used to the noise and did their best to ignore him.

  Mrs. Chubb winced as the first saucepan lid crashed to the floor. One of these days, she thought darkly, she’d bash one of Michel’s saucepans right over his head. It was bad enough putting up with his fake French accent, which disappeared whenever he’d downed enough brandy to kill a cow-but his temper tantrums gave her a headache with all that crashing and banging.

  She picked up her rolling pin, prepared to do some banging of her own, but just then the door swung open. Mrs. Chubb looked up, and dropped the rolling pin when she saw Mrs. Baxter walk in. Madam never visited the kitchen during mealtimes. She knew better than to disturb the staff during their busiest part of the day.

  The housekeeper stared at her manager in dismay. Something had to be up for madam to come in during breakfast. Even Michel stopped banging the saucepans about, and the maids all stopped talking and stood huddled in the corner, apprehension written all over their faces.

  Mrs. Chubb wiped her hands on her apron and waited.

  Madam glanced around the kitchen, and her face looked pinched and white when she said, “I don’t see Gertie. Is she upstairs?”

  “Yes, m’m.” Mrs. Chubb squared her shoulders. “What’s she gone and done now, then?”