Distracted by the sudden offer of a bit of ham, Diesel wasn’t looking as I slipped out the back door and into the garage.
Helen Louise was ready when I reached her house several blocks away. She lived in her late parents’ home, a lovely two-story brick house that dated from the early twentieth century.
“You look terrific,” she said as I stepped into the entryway. “Très formidable.” She kissed me, then stood back so I could get the full effect of her ensemble.
She had decided to model herself on Zoë Wanamaker’s portrayal of Ariadne Oliver in the television series. Her below-the-knee-length dress sported a multitude of colors in an abstract pattern. Three long necklaces with beads of varying sizes circled her neck and dangled down her chest. Her hat—well, her hat sported enough flowers to fill three or four bouquets. She carried a handbag, and she opened it to show me several apples inside it. “So what do you think?”
“Magnificent, and beautiful as always.”
That earned me another, longer kiss, and when we drew apart her cheeks glowed pink. Mine probably did as well.
“We should get going,” I said, a little out of breath. “Too bad we can’t enter the contest, because I think we could win.” I opened the door.
“I’m sure we could,” Helen Louise said as she stepped outside. I waited while she locked the door, then escorted her down the walk and to my car.
“I hope everything goes smoothly tonight,” I said as I fastened my seat belt.
“It will,” Helen Louise replied, her tone firm. “Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“It’s not them I’m worried about.”
“Stop scowling, Charlie. Your mustache will fall off.” Helen Louise laughed. “Vera wouldn’t dare pull anything tonight of all nights. It’s a perfect chance for her to be the grande dame, so she’ll be on good behavior, just you wait and see.”
The sun had been setting the past few days at just about five o’clock, but the twilight would persist awhile yet. Traffic was sparse on the way to River Hill. Most of the guests wouldn’t arrive for a good half hour or more, and by then it would be dark.
Lanterns lit the driveway to the estate, and Morty Cassity’s valet-parking staff—employees from his car dealerships dragooned into service—stood ready to go into action as I pulled the car up in front of the house. I handed my keys over to a uniformed young man and received a plastic disk in return. He nodded as I thanked him, and one of his coworkers held the door for Helen Louise. As we climbed the steps to the verandah, I glanced back to see my car disappear down a gravel road to the east of the house.
A butler in Edwardian dress greeted us at the door and, in the posh tones of an Oxbridge graduate, informed us we would find the Misses Ducote in the kitchen and ushered us there.
The sounds of clinking china and utensils greeted us, along with the voices of the catering and serving staff who swarmed like bees under the basilisk gazes of the elder Ducote sister and her housekeeper, Clementine.
“Good evening, my dears.” Miss An’gel motioned for us to precede her back into the hallway. “Everything is under control here. Clementine is in charge, and I think we’d probably better get out of the way.”
We stood aside to let Miss An’gel lead us to the front parlor. The house glowed with light, and the mingled scents of vanilla and lavender emanated from the candles.
“This is going to be such a wonderful night, don’t you think?” Miss An’gel turned to smile at us, and now I had time to take in her costume.
I should have guessed that Miss An’gel would choose to portray one of the most indomitable females in all of mystery fiction. “Amelia Peabody Emerson. You look marvelous.”
Indeed, the elder Ducote sister made a splendid Amelia. She had the outfit down to the smallest detail, except for the umbrella the intrepid Egyptologist usually brandished. The split skirt, the pith helmet, the belt of tools, the sturdy boots—all perfect.
“Thank you, M’sieur Poirot. And how clever of you to bring Mrs. Oliver with you.” Miss An’gel’s aristocratic Mississippi drawl didn’t fit, but that didn’t matter. She had the grand manner down pat.
“Hello, everyone.” Miss Dickce spoke from behind us, and I did my best not to gawk when I turned to greet her. Beside me I heard Helen Louise turn a startled gasp into a more polite and genteel cough.
Red hair piled into a bun on the top of her head, a pencil sticking out of it, an overlarge handbag on her arm, and a pantsuit in neon shades of green and blue—the only thing missing was a cigarette. Miss Dickce was every bit as big a fan of Elizabeth Peters as her sister, and her portrayal of Jacqueline Kirby revealed an impish side to her character that I’d not suspected before now.
I bowed over her extended hand and brushed the knuckles with a light kiss. “Enchanté, madame.”
Miss Dickce giggled as I released her hand. “Merci, Hercule.” She clapped her hands, the handbag wobbling on her arm. “Isn’t this a hoot? We’re going to have a blast tonight. I can just feel it.”
“And no one is going to spoil the fun.” Miss An’gel regarded Helen Louise and me with a grim smile. “Vera won’t dare. She won’t bother either of you, I promise you that.”
“Thank you,” Helen Louise said. “I was doing my best to reassure Charlie of that on the way here.”
Miss Dickce moved to stand beside her sister. They exchanged a glance that seemed laden with meaning before she spoke. “An’gel and I have taken care of everything. After tonight, Vera won’t be in a position to bother anyone ever again.”
TEN
All my earlier worries about tonight returned. Miss Dickce spoke lightly, but the import of her words chilled me. What on earth were the sisters planning to do to Vera?
Helen Louise squeezed my arm as she whispered, “Don’t look so alarmed, Charlie.”
I gave her a weak grin. “I’ll do my best,” I responded in an undertone.
The attention of the sisters shifted toward the parlor door, and Helen Louise and I turned to see the new arrivals.
“Sissy, dear, and Hank. Don’t you both look wonderful.” Miss An’gel stepped forward and held out both hands as the Beauchamp siblings neared her.
Sissy grasped one hand and Hank the other as they murmured their responses. I speculated on the identities of the fictional characters they represented. Sissy’s was easy to discern, but Hank’s puzzled me. They certainly presented sharp contrasts, one to the other.
Sissy wore a tight red dress that left little to the imagination, and her high-spiked heels caused her to thrust her two major assets forward at a dangerous angle. A black and red shawl that looked like cashmere draped her shoulders. One hand clutched a red silk purse, the small kind that women brought to parties. She had a stuffed dog, a Yorkie, by the look of it, attached to her other wrist, like a corsage. The dog’s head was near her hand, and its tail almost to her elbow. It looked awkward to me, but I supposed it was easier than carrying it around all evening.
The Yorkie, Chablis, offered the telling clue. Sissy had to be none other than Tinkie Bellcase Richmond, sidekick to Carolyn Haines’s heroine Sarah Booth Delaney. If anyone was ever reared to be a “daddy’s girl,” it was Sissy.
Her brother surely wasn’t dressed as Oscar Richmond, Tinkie’s husband. That would be creepy. No, Hank’s dark suit looked severely Victorian rather than contemporary and bankerish, but his appearance was on the untidy side. His hair was not as carefully groomed as usual, and his pants pockets bulged under the contours of his jacket. His handkerchief straggled out of the breast pocket, and surely that was a pencil beside it. If he was going for messy, he’d achieved it. The suit looked like he had been wearing it for days.
“Good evening.” Hank turned to me and Helen Louise and inclined his head. “Thomas Pitt, at your service.”