“I really appreciate your help,” I told him as I got ready to leave.
I was nearly to the door when he called out, “Nancy, just so you know, we did do a background check on the Olsens and their two employees and came up with nothing. No criminal records. Not even a speeding ticket,” he added with a shrug.
“Thanks again,” I replied. “If I turn up anything, I’ll let you know.”
“You do that,” the chief replied, but I had the feeling he didn’t expect me to turn up anything important.
I hurried back to my car, reflecting on what Chief McGinnis had just told me. Emily Spradling and Juan Tabo did not have criminal records, but that didn’t mean they weren’t capable of mean tricks. They could even be con artists who’d never been caught. And if someone was trying to run the Olsens out of business, they might have bribed Emily or Juan to help them. I’d even considered the possibility that the gardener and maid may have hatched a plot together—to get revenge on the Oslens, maybe? I decided to stop briefly at Ms. Waters’s house to discuss these possibilities with her.
I found her in the garden. She wore gardening gloves, a smock, and a broad hat to protect her face from the sun. She was kneeling beside a flower bed filled with yellow and purple pansies.
“Good morning, Nancy,” she called out. I raised my hand and smiled.
“When I see your garden, I know where the old saying ‘April showers bring May flowers’ comes from,” I said, walking through the gate.
She chuckled and stood up slowly. “Last night was more of a downpour than a shower. I was afraid I’d lost most of my new blooms,” Ms. Waters said.
“Everything looks beautiful,” I declared.
She smiled.
“I’m in charge of bouquets for the tables,” she said, “so I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my flowers—if there’s still going to be a tea party,” she added hesitantly.
“Everything will go as planned if I have anything to say about it,” I assured her.
“Agnes Mahoney called me last night,” she said. “She told me what happened at the Olsens’. Thank goodness you were there, Nancy! Karl Olsen could have had a serious accident.”
When I presented my various theories to her, including the one about Emily and Juan Tabo possibly getting revenge on the Olsens, Ms. Waters opened and shut her mouth a couple of times before saying, “Wait! I think I need a cup of tea. Come into the house.”
Following her to the living room, I couldn’t help noticing the book on a large, overstuffed chair near the window: Lady Susan by Jane Austen. Who else? Everyone in town was reading one of the author’s novels, it seemed.
“You know, tea wasn’t such a social ceremony in Jane Austen’s day as it was years later when Victoria was queen of England,” Ms. Waters told me. She poured a cup of steaming hot tea for each of us.
“Still, Agnes insisted we call the fund-raiser the Jane Austen Tea Party because Miss Austen is so popular,” she added.
I only nodded. I didn’t know much about the history of tea drinking. Frankly I didn’t care. I had a mystery to solve and wanted to get it done quickly. I tried to steer my hostess back on track.
“What if someone is trying to get the Olsens to leave Cardinal Corners?” I suggested as I picked up my teacup and looked at her expectantly.
“Nancy, I would never have thought of anything like that. No wonder Mrs. Fayne wanted to call you in on the case. You’re so clever!” She beamed at me approvingly.
“Well, it’s only a theory,” I admitted. “I’m going out there again this afternoon. But I’m trying to explore all the possibilities. Someone may want to scare the Olsens out of business. That’s the likely truth behind Emily Spradling’s ghost story.”
Ms. Waters shook her head slowly and muttered something that sounded like “That silly woman.”
“Could you do me a favor?” I asked. “It relates to the case, of course.”
“Of course,” Ms. Waters replied. “What can I do?”
“Would you contact Luther Eldridge and find out if there are any old ghost stories about the Rappapport place, or stories of hidden treasure or anything like that?” I asked.
Mr. Eldridge was a reclusive amateur historian. There’s not an old story or anecdote about River Heights that he doesn’t know. Between his knowledge of local history and what Ms. Waters has learned from a lifetime of working with books in the local library, they were bound to uncover any little-known tale that might help me with the case.
“I have so much to do today,” I explained to Ms. Waters. “I just won’t have time to stop by to see him, and I need all the help I can get.”
Ms. Waters agreed to talk with Luther. “I’ll even invite him for lunch,” she said. “But to be honest, Nancy, I have a hard time imagining Emily Spradling being a part of any dishonest scheme. She’s too high-strung.”
I laughed and said, “I know what you mean. But here’s my dilemma.” Holding up a finger, I continued. “One, she’s faking the whole scaredy-cat bit and is part of a scheme against the Olsens, or two”—and I held up a second finger—“she really thinks she’s heard a ghost, which means someone wants to scare her out of her wits and that someone is using Emily for his—or her—own purposes.”
“That would be easy,” Ms. Waters said with an emphatic nod. “Emily would make a very convenient pawn. Any little thing would frighten her. She’s not a very sensible woman, I’m afraid.”
I nodded. “That’s just what Hannah told me. Do you know anything about her husband?” I asked. “She mentioned him last night.”
“Doug? He works as an orderly at the nursing home, Fern Terrace, I believe,” Ms. Waters said. “Big strapping fellow, but not the brightest crayon in the box,” she added, with a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
I grinned. “So, not a likely pair to attempt to run the Olsens out of business?”
Ms. Waters shrugged. “Why should they want to?” she asked, leaning slightly forward.
“It’s only another idea that needs exploring,” I replied. “And at this point, I’m open to all possibilities.” Glancing at my watch, I realized I needed to get going. “I’m going to be late for my fitting with Julia Jute if I don’t hurry,” I said. I thanked Ms. Waters for the tea and for her help.
Ms. Waters smiled and said, “I’ll call you later this evening about my conversation with Luther Eldridge.”
It was a little after eleven when I parked my car near the curb and dashed up the sidewalk to ring Julia’s doorbell. I found the front door standing open, however, and after tapping tentatively, I let myself in.
I could hear voices—all female—coming from a room down the hall, and I made my way toward them. Stopping on the threshold of the first bedroom on the right, I was amazed by something I’d never seen before: my friend George in a long, old-fashioned white dress with puffy sleeves. She was standing on a stool, looking annoyed.
“Nancy, you’re late!” she snapped.
6
Pride and Prejudice
Late again!” Bess Marvin declared, emerging from the bathroom. She wore a blue dress similar to her cousin’s white one. It made Bess’s blue eyes seem even bluer and complemented her blond hair and rosy complexion to perfection.
“Nancy, come in,” Julia said. She glanced up from George’s hem to greet me with a warm smile. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Julia Jute is about the same age as my father. Her short dark hair, streaked with gray, is always stylishly cut. She does tailoring for several department stores in town and a couple of the dry cleaners, too. When she heard about the Jane Austen Tea Party, she volunteered to alter the Regency-style dresses donated by the local theater group for those of us serving at the event.
“The gowns are beautiful!” I declared. “George, you look like a different person all dressed up like that.” George, who towered over me on the stool, simply scowled.
Then, turning to Bess, I added, “And you’re supermodel gorgeous, as always, Bess
. That’s such a lovely shade of blue.” I started to say something about how authentic the costumes appeared to be when I heard someone stepping up behind me in the doorway. I turned and was slightly surprised to see Deirdre Shannon.
“Nancy, you’re late,” she mimicked.
George’s scowl deepened, and she muttered something under her breath. She was in a sour mood because of Deirdre, I guessed. George doesn’t like her one bit. None of us really like her. And to be honest, Deirdre doesn’t like us, either. Come to think of it, she doesn’t like very many people at all. Still, I try to be nice whenever we meet. We’ve known her since elementary school—back then everyone called her DeeDee.
Stepping aside so she could enter the room, I said, “That soft green color is a very becoming shade on you, DeeDee. It really brings out the color of your eyes.”
Deirdre snorted at my compliment and shrugged past me. “It’s Deirdre, not DeeDee,” she corrected in a haughty tone. “And it’s a frock, not a dress. Julia says that’s what they were called in Jane Austen’s time.”
Deirdre immediately made her way to the long mirror on the far side of Julia’s sewing room. She practically pushed Bess out of the way so she could admire her own reflection. Even though Deirdre isn’t a very nice person, she is quite pretty with her long, curly dark hair, green eyes, and very fair skin.
“Dress, frock, whatever! This is so humiliating,” George moaned. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this, Bess.”
“Oh, stop whining,” Bess ordered, inspecting the puffed sleeves of her own frock. “You look like you stepped right out of the pages of one of Jane Austen’s novels.”
“You’ll like the jacket, Georgia,” Julia said.
Deirdre snorted at the seamstress’s use of George’s full name, but I noticed that her green eyes widened with envy when Julia retrieved a smart red jacket from the back of a nearby chair.
“Step down and try this on,” Julia said to George. “This is called a spencer. Your cousin said you preferred a more tailored style in clothes, so I thought I’d include this as part of your costume.”
George stepped down from the stool and slipped on the jacket. It was ruby red and short waisted with long sleeves. “I do like this,” George admitted.
“So do I,” Deirdre spoke up. “I want one just like it.”
“You can hardly wear a red spencer with your green frock,” Bess said, rolling her eyes and emphasizing the word frock. “You’d look like a Christmas tree. Nancy, this one’s yours.” Bess held up a creamy apricot-colored frock. “Go slip it on so Julia can pin up the hem.”
“You’re next, Deirdre,” the seamstress said. “Up on the stool, please.”
While Julia turned her attention to Deirdre, I took my dress—I mean, frock—and slipped into the bedroom to try it on. After a minute or so, Bess poked her head around the door.
“Need someone to zip you up in the back?” she asked.
I nodded. “This is beautiful and surprisingly comfortable,” I said, smoothing out the skirt of the gown with one hand.
“Nancy, stand up straight,” Bess ordered, fussing with my zipper. “I knew this color would be perfect for you. It brings out the reddish gold highlights in your hair,” she added.
When we stepped out of the bedroom and joined the others, Bess added, “This style was all the rage in Jane Austen’s day. But of course, back in 1806, there would have been dozens of little buttons up the back instead of a zipper.”
“Have you altered a gown for yourself?” I asked Julia.
“Yes,” Julia replied after removing a pin from her mouth. “And one for Mrs. Mahoney, Ms. Waters, and even Mrs. Olsen. I took that one out to her on Sunday and made her try it on, just to be sure everything fit comfortably.” Then, raising her eyebrows a bit, she added chattily, “There was quite an argument going on in the kitchen when I was there.”
“Between Mr. and Mrs. Olsen?” I asked, intrigued.
“No, Karl was arguing with the gardener, who had insisted on a raise. Karl told him no. Apparently the gardener has quite a temper,” she added with a knowing wink.
“Hmm, that’s interesting,” I said. I recalled the expensive watch Juan had been wearing the day before.
“Carol Olsen was embarrassed, of course,” Julia chattered on as she returned attention to Deirdre’s hem.
“Did you hear what they said exactly?” George asked.
“No, but Nancy could find out easily enough,” the seamstress replied, looking over at me with a smile. “You’re so clever.”
Deirdre snorted then and rolled her eyes. With a touch of impatience, she said bluntly, “I want a jacket like the one you’ve picked out for George.” She stood on the stool holding her arms out to the side and looking down at Julia Jute with something between a glare and a smirk.
Seeing the seamstress blush with discomfort, I hastened to change the subject. “I sure hope we don’t have to wear high-heeled boots with lots of buttons on the side. We’ll be on our feet most of the afternoon. I want to be comfortable.”
“I don’t want to twist an ankle or slosh cups of hot tea all over,” George added.
I chuckled. I’d been worrying a little about the same thing. “I can be kind of a klutz too,” I admitted.
“So we’ve noticed,” Deirdre commented dryly.
Both Bess and George gave Deirdre a dirty look. I chose to ignore her.
“I suggest you wear ballerina flats, if you have them,” Julia said, looking up from Deirdre’s hem. “Or even a pretty pair of slippers.”
“We can all be thankful none of us have to wear pattens,” Bess put in.
“What are pattens?” I asked, studying my reflection in front of the long mirror.
“That’s what they wore on rainy days in Jane Austen’s time to keep their shoes dry and the hems of their long dresses from dragging in the mud,” Bess said. “They were overshoes with thick wooden soles supported by large metal rings on the bottom. They raised you off the ground a few inches, out of the puddles. Just imagine all those women going cling-clang down the muddy streets of London and Bath,” she added.
Leave it to Bess to know about fashion trends—even the ones that were in hundreds of years ago!
“You may step down now, Deirdre,” Julia said. “Your frock fits perfectly.”
“What about a jacket like the one George is wearing?” Deirdre asked again.
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence before Julia said, “There’s only one like it in the collection the theater group gave me. But perhaps you’d like to wear this.” She retrieved a garment from the closet. It was made from some gauzy white material and looked like a long sleeveless vest.
“Is that a pelisse?” Bess asked.
“It is,” Julia admitted. “It was a very popular clothing accessory in Jane Austen’s day.”
“I don’t like it,” Deirdre said with a pout.
“But I do!” Bess exclaimed. She shot Deirdre a scathing scowl and then turned to admire the pelisse. Her cheeks were bright red. I could tell that Bess was angry. She’s a very tenderhearted person, and I knew she was afraid that Deirdre had hurt Julia’s feelings.
“May I try it on?” Bess asked politely.
“Certainly,” Julia said. She helped Bess slip the pelisse over her blue frock. She looked quite stunning. With her blond hair and sparkling blue eyes, Bess is a head turner, that’s for sure—even in old-fashioned clothes.
While we oohed and aahed over the addition to Bess’s costume, Deirdre flounced out of the room. She doesn’t like anyone being the center of attention—unless, of course, it’s her.
“Your turn, Nancy,” Julia said, turning to me with a smile. Her face was slightly flushed. I felt embarrassed by Deirdre’s rudeness, but I could tell that Julia was pleased that Bess liked the pelisse.
I was standing on the stool having my hem measured when Deirdre came back in wearing a pair of flared jeans and a pink and orange peasant blouse.
“When can I com
e back to pick up my frock?” she asked Julia.
“Any time Thursday afternoon or Friday,” Julia replied. “I’ll have your gown hemmed, washed, and pressed by then.”
“Thanks,” Deirdre said—rather curtly, I thought. She turned to go and then suddenly stopped.
Placing her hands on her hips, she said to no one in particular, “Is it true that women in Jane Austen’s time used to wet down their dresses and the slips underneath so the fabric would be more clingy?”
I glanced down at Julia, who looked up at me with wide, astonished eyes. I raised my eyebrows questioningly and she shrugged.
“Some women did that,” Bess spoke up, stepping away from the mirror where she’d been admiring her pelisse. “But it was considered quite scandalous. I mean, look how thin this material is!” She indicated the length of blue material that draped in front of her. “If it gets wet, you can practically see thought it.”
Deirdre laughed. “I might just have to try it. A damp, clingy frock would certainly show off my figure,” she added with a giggle.
“You wouldn’t dare!” George taunted.
“Of course I would,” Deirdre said. “I want to look particularly alluring on Saturday. I have a date for the tea.” She looked up at me and smiled in a smug sort of way.
“I thought you were serving, like the rest of us,” Bess said.
“I am,” Deirdre replied, her green eyes never leaving mine. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t have a date, too.”
“So who’s the lucky guy?” George asked, in a sarcastic tone.
Deirdre gave me a coy smile. Then, turning to the door, she said over her shoulder, “Ned Nickerson.”
7
Bullet Pudding, Anyone?
We’d left Julia Jute’s house and were munching chips and salsa at my favorite Mexican restaurant, waiting for our order of cheese enchiladas, before Bess and George said anything about Deirdre.
“Nancy, I hope you don’t believe what Deirdre said about going to the tea with Ned,” Bess said, shaking her head. “I sure don’t.” She stabbed a tortilla chip into the salsa bowl.