Tall Tails Secret Book Club (The Secret Library Cozy Mysteries 1) Read online

  The great grandfather clock chimed from the entryway, reminding everyone of the time. Marguerite set her cup down in the saucer and clapped her hands. “Now, ladies. Let’s rehearse tomorrow’s white glove dinner service. We haven’t a speck of time, and Miss Janice won’t tolerate any screw ups.”

  “Not for this dinner,” Cook muttered. “Might as well be at a court and jury.”

  “Forget the jury,” Marguerite retorted. “It’s the judge we’ll be serving.”

  She hustled away then, leaving me to my tea. I had to wonder at their comments. Was it because of the gossip about Mark’s untimely death?

  Or was something more at hand?

  Chapter Five

  Dinner soon ended and the house put to bed for the night. I waited for some sign from Mary but she never gave one. After a while I headed to my room, where I changed into my nightgown and brought out my sketch pad.

  The first page was a depiction of my mother, my favorite drawing I’d ever done. I’d penciled it one afternoon while Mom recovered from treatment. I’d brought her home, wrapped her in a warm blanket fresh from the dryer, and plied her with soup. She’d fallen asleep instead, and so I’d sat across from her and drew.

  Now I gently touched the profile with a finger. She was so beautiful. I couldn’t wait to talk with her again. Mom and Grandma were staying now with my Aunt Betty, and I knew she was in good hands. They were enjoying some sunshine on the sandy beaches of Florida. She deserved it so much. I didn’t want to disturb her, wouldn’t do it, unless I had to.

  I’d caught a hint of her sweet expression here in the drawing. Even in sleep, her lips softly curled into an almost smile, her face relaxed and free from pain. Hopeful. And that was my mother in one word.

  A soft tap came from my door. I shut the notebook and pushed it under the covers and then hurried to open it.

  “Come on,” Mary whispered. “Follow me.” Her skirt swished as she quickly moved away and down the hall. I grabbed my wrapper and shrugged it on as I followed behind, doing my best to keep up.

  The darkness felt smothering, and once I stumbled, bumping lightly into the wall.

  “Shh.” She pressed her finger to her lips as primly as a preschool teacher.

  Where on earth was Mary taking me? We passed an army of closed doors. It was creepy to be skulking about in the dark. Sinister, even. The feeling not at all helped by Mary occasionally glancing behind us to be sure no one followed.

  With a quick movement, Mary opened a door. She frantically waved for me to enter. I ducked inside and Mary eased the door closed behind us.

  Once the door was shut, Mary relaxed. A smile flickered across her face. “You excited?”

  I thought anxious might be a better word, but I nodded with my own smile. We were in a bedroom decked with a collection of very old-fashioned furniture, the bed covered with an antique white counterpane and ruffled pillows.

  “Almost there.” Mary tugged my sleeve and lifted her chin to indicate the back of the room. There was another empty bookcase.

  She approached it and carefully lifted a shelf. The entire thing moved like a door. I would have gasped but shock sucked the air away.

  “Come on,” she beckoned.

  No way was I going to run all willy-nilly into another situation. Not without some key information at least. “Where are we?”

  “This is Marguerite’s room. It used to be the resting area for the head seamstress at one point. Come on. Almost there.” She pushed harder on the bookcase and it opened back on invisible hinges.

  Behind it flickered the light of many candles. Hesitantly, I took a step inside as faces peered toward us. Marguerite, Lucy, Jennifer and more all stared out.

  Marguerite’s face wrinkled in a scowl. “You’re late,” she scolded. “You know I can’t be doing this all night.”

  Mary nudged my shoulder to propel me further into the room. There was a click as Mary spun the bookcase closed behind us.

  “Sorry, Marguerite. Miss Janice needed extra attention tonight. It took me a minute to get her settled,” she said with a smile. I was happy she didn’t throw me under the bus on how I’d delayed with my hesitation. “Now where’s my wine? I’m ready for a nibble of that cake as well.”

  “Saved some from dinner,” Cook answered, rising to her feet with a grunt. A marmalade cat licked his paw from his spot on a fat stool. He jumped to the floor with a thump and followed after her, his tail swinging sassily in the air.

  “Where did the cat come from?” I asked. I’d known I’d heard one in the library. The animal had nearly scared the lights out of me. And now I felt like an idiot to think of how I imagined ghosts after Miss Janice insisted there were no pets in the residence.

  Cook’s face softened, and she adjusted her pink headband. “This cat, well he’s the old master’s. Used to spend quite some time with the man. Well, when Mr. Thornberry died and Miss Janice shut the room, the poor thing was lost. We keep him here, our little secret.” She laid her finger along her nose. “Isn’t that true, Hank?”

  The cat winked his lantern eyes and let out a baby meow.

  Cook tipped a slice of cake onto a plate. She licked her fingers.“There’s tea over there, then.” She bent her great waist to offer a morsel to Hank. The cat rubbed his cheek against her hand before giving the crumb a sniff. It seemed to pass muster because he delicately took it from her fingers, whiskers twitching.

  “Unless you want something stronger.” Lucy giggled, holding up a glass filled with amber-colored liquid. Several of the other young maids laughed from their seats on plush ottomans pushed into a square.

  Mary reached for a glass, after first giving Hank the cat a pat on his head. She then cozied up to Cook on the settee.

  I gazed about the room, still a bit awestruck, and then gasped.

  Books lay in stacks from the floor to ceiling on makeshift shelves that had been cobbled together from odd boards and bricks. Candlelight flickered across their gold embossed lettering as though they’d been sprinkled with a bit of fairy dust. The books overflowed in piles on the floor as tall as my hip, many leatherbound in red, blue, and brown.

  Mesmerized, I followed after Mary to receive my own cake plate and glanced about for a spare place to blend in among the giggling, somewhat tipsy girls. All the other seats seemed to be taken. I was starting to feel a smidge like a baby bird lost from its nest when I spotted a round red hassock pushed unneeded in the corner. I sat with my legs curled up underneath me.

  “Now that everyone is here,” Marguerite spoke pointedly in Mary’s direction, making the rest of the room laugh. “Let’s continue. Are there any other thoughts on Jane Eyre?”

  “I thought Rochester was horrid. I would have never fallen for him,” said a woman whom I knew to be named Tabitha. Some of the women shook their heads. “What?” She hiccuped. “I’m just being honest.” Shrugging at the lack of support, she took another sip from her wine.

  “I know this is probably sacrilegious, but he reminded me of Mark,” said another young woman. The room’s energy turned glacial at the mention of the deceased chauffeur.

  “Oh, Jennifer.” Cook clucked her tongue. I noticed several of the young housekeepers whispering. Cook continued, her voice low with sympathy. “I’m sorry, dearest. Mark was not one to be tied down, was he? Especially not after the hullabaloo with his last girlfriend.”

  “I was glad she left. She was awful.” said Jennifer. She stopped then, her mouth working hard, and unexpectedly wiped the corner of her eye with her shirt sleeve.

  Marguerite started then, “Now love, I hate to say it, but it takes two. It wasn’t all her fault, and I warned you, didn’t I? I told you not to get attached. He didn’t deserve any trust.”

  “Nobody knows what we really had,” Jennifer murmured. She glanced at her ring finger. It was bare but the movement had been obvious.

  “I know he came up to your room at night,” a woman named Jessie huffed. “Your door is right next to mine, and I heard him snif
fing around.”

  “That’s not true!” Jennifer shouted, jumping to her feet.

  “Yes, it is! And I bet that’s why the lipstick on his face must be a dagger to you!”

  Jennifer lunged at Jessie, making the women near them squeal and dive back.

  Marguerite grabbed Jennifer’s arm to stop her. “Now, now.” Her voice was low but the warning unmistakable.

  The offended woman’s face flamed while anger lines made lighting strikes by her mouth. “I’m not letting her get away with it. She’s always been jealous of me, and it’s not true.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Cook hissed. A shower of shh’s flooded the room like feathers from a fluttering bird’s wings.

  Jennifer crossed her arms as her eyes puddled up: a reminder to everyone they spoke of a man who had died only that morning. “Fine, but make her take that back. It isn’t true.”

  Marguerite turned to Jessie, who sighed and raised her hand in concession. “Fine. Fine. I take it back.” Jessie smiled but as she turned away she muttered only loud enough for me to perceive. “But my ears know what they heard.”

  I watched all the action like a tennis match and took a bite of cake. Honestly, I wondered what I’d gotten myself into.

  Cook bustled over to give Jennifer a hug. “What the man did while he was alive is neither here nor there. What matters now is that he’s gone, may he rest in peace.”

  “And the killer is still among us,” Jennifer murmured against Cook’s shoulder, obviously still angry.

  “Why do you say that?” shot Jessie. “Anyone could have done it.”

  “Anyone, hmph!” Cook said. “Isn’t it obvious that he knew the murderer? The red on his cheek? A kiss from the enemy.”

  Her words were unsettling. We quietly cut side-eyes at one another, and nobody spoke. I did notice Jennifer sit down rather abruptly, making the couch bounce, even as her gaze dropped to her bare finger again.

  Chapter Six

  “You can hardly believe the morning I’ve had,” Marguerite groaned as she sank wearily in a chair at the kitchen table. “That newspaper boy, Eric! What a rascal. He doesn’t just toss the papers over the fence. Why, he sends them into the bushes and beyond. He had one perched on the top of the service shed today. I had to dispatch Lucy up there to grab it, the nimble thing.”

  Cook’s sweaty face glanced up from the bread dough she was ferociously kneading. “Surprising Miss Janice even wants a newspaper anymore. It seems everyone is googling their phone for their news.”

  “You are probably right.” Marguerite rose to her feet with a wince. “Now I need to bring her some headache tonic. She’s been out all of sorts ever since Mark died.”

  “Her and Butler both. He has been positively spiraling. I haven’t seen him this bad since the time he saw… her.”

  Marguerite shot Cook a sharp look, and the woman blanched and glanced at me where I stood loading the dishwasher. “Laura Lee! Can you be a love and slip outside and bring me some basil? It’s just in the back herb garden.”

  “Of course. How much do you need?”

  “A handful will do. Thank you, dear.”

  I dried my hands, and then headed into the butler’s pantry for the side door. As I opened the door, I heard Marguerite whisper, “We don’t speak of her. Not ever.”

  “It was a slip. You know it won’t happen again.”

  “Follow the rules. Salt on the table? Throw it over the shoulder. Ladder against the wall? Walk around. Same with this situation. We don’t speak,” her voice lowered to the barest whisper. “Of the ghosties.”

  I had to learn more, that’s for sure. But after Marguerite’s harsh reaction, who was safe to ask?

  Outside it was a gorgeous summer morning, the kind where the sun bathed the hills with warmth like pajamas fresh from the dryer, and the air swirled with the scents of honeysuckle and freshly mowed grass.

  I closed the door behind me and shielded my eyes. “Basil, basil, where is the basil?” I half-sang.

  After that, I couldn’t pretend to be looking for the herb. The vibrant garden wrapped around me with bursts of purple, pink, and orange flowers. A stone wall kept this miniature world safe, watched over by towering rose bushes that sprinkled red petals like a blessing.

  I walked toward the wall and caught the scent of the roses’s fragrance. The breeze picked at the fat blooms, teasing them, as a small bumble bee backed out of one of the flowers. His legs were coated with little yellow pollen pants.

  I stood very still and held my breath.

  I was allergic to bees. A bee had landed on me when I was a child, crawled up my shirt and stung me on the neck. I remember my cousin racing away, screaming, “Help! Her lips are blue!” The next memory was being carried in my mom’s arms as my mother ran. My head and legs had bobbed like heavy weights in air that darkened more and more with every second.

  I’d opened my eyes to the brilliance of the room at the hospital. The nurse patted my leg while the doctor told my mom how she must carry an Epi-pen.

  The bee hovered near my face now as if studying me—weighing my fear. A current of air grabbed at the tendrils framing my face. The wind caught the insect as well, and the bee swept away as if enjoying the ride. I last saw it by the pink forsythia that clung to the side of the stony wall.

  A branch cracked.

  It was at that moment I realized I wasn’t alone in the garden. Someone out there watched me.

  The skin on my neck crawled, and I spun around to look. Where were they now?

  The rose bushes shivered.

  I held my breath to listen.

  Another crack, this time from the other side of the wall. It sounded deliberate. As though they were listening for my reaction.

  “Hello?” I called out. I hated how my voice quaked. The bee had shaken me, that was all. Not stories of ghosts and goblins. Silly fairy tales, really.

  Straightening my shoulders, I spoke more firmly this time. “I’m looking for the basil. Can you help me?”

  The forsythia rustled, but there was no wind. The vine quivered and shivered like a tiny fairy climbed it, kicking her bitty flower boots.

  I walked closer, my gaze tracing the plant in search of a frog, a mouse, a bird— something that could explain the movement.

  There was nothing. I reached to touch the vine, my fingertips grazing one small leaf. The sun heated the outer foliage, lighting their life blood in maps of veins of pale-green freshness.

  “Hello?” I whispered, softly parting the greenery.

  Whatever it was, it had disappeared. The only movement now came as a result of my contact.

  I glanced down. There in a bed at the base of the wall fat leaves crowded around a hand-painted sign. In bright white letters, the sign read, Basil.

  The sound had led me right to them. Puzzled, I leaned over and plucked the top leaves, each snip sounding immensely loud. My mind spun, trying to figure it out.

  “There you are!”

  I whirled around. Too late, I remembered to protect the handful of herbs. Basil leaves fluttered everywhere.

  Cook stared at me with hands on her hips. “What on earth is taking you so long?”

  Flustered, I bent to pick up the leaves. “I couldn’t find the basil.”

  “Well, there it is. In the herb garden like I told you. Come along.” Cook turned and marched away. Her broad hips swayed under her skirted uniform, the material softened from years of washing.

  I sped after her. At the door, I turned back round for one more look.

  Nobody was there. Just the buzzing of bees.

  “Hurry up now. We have no time to waste. Tonight’s a big night!”

  I entered the kitchen to set the herbs in a wilted pile on the counter.

  Cook shooed me with a towel. “Take that tea tray to Miss Janice in her sitting room. It’s been waiting for you.”

  Hands sweaty, I headed for the pristine tray at the end of the counter. A china cup, delicately painted with blue florals, a matchi
ng teapot, and a bowl of sugar with a tiny silver spoon rested on top of the lace napkin. Before picking it up, I wiped my palms on my skirt. I grimaced to see how my hands marred the silver surface. Nothing to do about it now.

  “Hurry along.” Cook pursed her lips impatiently.

  I passed through the kitchen doors and walked down the hall. The cup rattled on the tray, forcing me to make my steps shallow. My shoes scuffled against the worn carpet. Around the corner I went, through the brightly lit foyer and then I paused outside the sitting room. I juggled the tray until I could balance it against my hip for long enough to knock on the door.

  There was silence and then the sounds of shuffling. Finally, “Come in.”

  Miss Janice eyed me as I walked in. “So, I see you’ve discovered the garden.”

  I abruptly stopped, causing the lid on the teapot to chatter.

  “Your hands.” She waved her own in boredom. “They’re green from the herb garden. Now tell me, while you were out there did you see our special friend?”

  Chapter Seven

  “Special friend, Ma’am?” I asked, my mouth suddenly dry.

  “The mint for my mojitos. One of my favorite friends.” She smiled then, brief but warm. She took the spoon from the tray and lifted it to her face, checking her teeth and wiping at a smudge of lipstick. “So, tonight the jackals come, hmm?”

  I waited to see if she would explain, and when she didn’t, I asked if there was anything more. When she said no, I hurried out.

  In just the short time I’d been away, a nervous energy filled the kitchen as people hustled about with silver chafing dishes and champagne flutes. Everyone rushed to finish the job, and finish it well, the air heady with the scents of magnolias, roasted lamb and rich seasonings. Delivery people dropped off mountains of flowers like the service entrance had transformed into a revolving door. Marguerite stood like a conductor, directing a team to form bouquets in the giant crystal vases.