“He’ll show up.” I spoke with awful certainty.
Mr. Plunket’s eyes widened. “Are you one of those, Mrs. Halibut…?”
“Haskell.”
He nodded. “One of those with psychotic tendencies?”
It took a second for the penny to drop, at which point I saw no harm in giving him the response he wanted without lying. “I don’t claim to be psychic, but I do have feelings.” The air around us hummed portentously. “My husband calls me a sensitive.” True. Ben said something to this effect every time I presented him with his missing watch or reading glasses.
“Then you think Whitey is all right?” Mr. Plunket’s voice throbbed with hope.
“I’m certain,” I closed my mind to the thought, “that in the very near future he will make a grand reentrance. “Speaking of my husband…”
Mr. Plunket displayed a clairvoyance of his own by finishing my sentence: “… he was in the kitchen less than five minutes ago serving Monsieur LeBois his lunch. Tadpoles in some savory sauce, I think it was. Perhaps, if you won’t mind me saying so,” he stared through me, “it’s the house.”
“What is?” I was struggling to think what Ben could possibly have cooked. It would serve Georges right if it really was something scooped out of an algae-covered pond with a net. Let him stick that in his bouche. Sometimes nastiness is good for the soul, especially when one’s heart is aching for a black Lab.
“Sending you messages about Whitey. And who knows what else.” Suddenly, a shadow overlaid the enthusiasm, succeeded by a look of dread.
“Oh, I wouldn’t think there’ll be anything more! One premonition a day… a week… a month is the most I, a rank amateur, can produce.” I hated to leave him standing there, but my powers were sufficient for me to realize he wanted me gone, preferably from the face of the earth. So I headed for the kitchen.
Did he fear that those supposed powers would produce a meeting between myself and a visitor from beyond the grave? One who would impart information amidst much moaning and shimmering of vapors that Giles Belfrey had murdered his young wife, and then lead me to where Eleanor’s remains had been concealed all these years. His concern of course would be for Lord Belfrey. Perhaps he was unaware that these days it is not considered politically correct to judge people by their relatives. And a good thing, too, considering most of us have ones that would make the devil blush. But his lordship was a stranger to each of his prospective brides, and perhaps only a woman madly in love could be expected not to wonder if there might be a family tendency to do away with wives who forgot to say please when asking to have the butter passed.
I had not expected to be thrilled at the sight of Georges LeBois. But seeing him pulled up in his wheelchair to the kitchen table countered the ache I was feeling. He had a giant-sized serviette (possibly a tea towel) tucked into the neck of his waistcoat, while he chomped down on what I hoped were not tadpoles-however wondrous the savory sauce.
“So you’re back,” not bothering to look up. “Find the owners of that dog you had stitched to your leg?”
“I did. What are you devouring?”
“Baby frog legs in a Champagne reduction. Care to join me in a spoonful?” He flourished a paw, indicating any of the available chairs.
“I’d rather die in the clutches of the Metal Knight.” Seating myself across from him, I watched him close his eyes in ecstasy. “Apparently you are satisfied with my husband’s services as temporary personal chef.”
“Ma chèr enfante, I would marry him had you not beaten me to punch.” He raised his lids to survey me sorrowfully. “And do you, naive creature that you appear to be, appreciate his gift to the world? Do you worship at his sautéing pan? Do you so much as know the difference between a flan and a crème caramel?”
I ignored this. “Where is my husband? I hope you haven’t got him locked up in a cellar until he promises never to leave you.”
“Gone to search his lordship’s desk. He needs to check some malfunction inside the cooker and I remembered seeing a red torch in one of the drawers. As a boy I longed for a pair of bicycle clips, a paper punch, and a red torch. Those ambitions, simple as they may sound, shaped my life-drove me to succeed. I do hope our mutual friend won’t be long.” Georges set aside his empty plate with one last, lingering look. “I am aquiver with anticipation to know what he has planned for dessert. A white chocolate mousse Grand Marnier would do very well, although my hopes are set on an old-fashioned bread and butter pudding, with lots of raisins and a thick hot custard on top.”
Either would have suited me down to the ground, but I hardened my heart against any prospect of emotional bonding with the awful man. “What of the peasants?” I asked.
He removed the napkin from his neck and dabbed his lips. “Who?”
“The contestants. Do they get to scuffle around the scraps from your table or have they been assigned kitchen time to prepare their own meals?”
“Your husband has a fault-an affinity for the common man, or in this case woman. He discussed the matter with his lordship and it has been agreed that for today at least he will also prepare their meals. All six will shortly gather in the dining room for a simple-though assuredly delectable-luncheon of soup, salad, and I believe blackberry and apple pie.”
Feeling starved to death, I reached for the bread plate and lavished a slice with butter. “How did this morning’s filming go?”
“Reasonably well. Lord Belfrey did all that was required, looking handsome and making a graceful welcoming speech. Among the women, Judy Nunn responds the most naturally to the camera. Livonia Mayberry isn’t as stiffly timid as I thought she’d be and of course your friend Mrs. Malloy is the consummate scene-hogger.”
“Good for her,” I responded stoutly. “Who else?”
Georges gusted a sigh. “There is a Mrs. Wanda Smiley, who unfortunately smiles too much and is altogether full of herself; an Alice Jones equally enchanted with her post-hippie self; and a Molly Duggan who doesn’t have a self. I have yet to pull the takes up on-screen in the inner room off his lordship’s study. You’re about to say you didn’t notice any such door when you went in against written instructions. Oh, fear not! No one informed against you. I know a born snooper when I see one.” He smiled smugly and I started to munch. “There’s a sliding panel behind the desk. Mucklesfeld boasts several such cunning devices.”
“Oh, Monsieur LeBois,” I pressed a hand to my throat, “pray do not fail to make use of them!”
The bird eyes twinkled nastily above the Roman nose. “Trust me to do my worst, dear lady. Do come to the inner sanctum, only when I am there, of course, and take a look at what we have before the editing.”
“That’s a lovely invitation, but I’ve been thinking I may go home and return for Ben… and possibly Mrs. Malloy… at the end of Here Comes the Bride. After all, there is nothing for me to do here.” Before I could make a fool of myself by explaining that it would surely be easier to recover from the loss of Thumper away from Mucklesfeld, Georges pounced as if I were a baby frog leg materializing on the empty plate.
“Leave? My dear, you must do nothing of the sort. I’m sure your husband depends on you to fire his culinary genius, and if such obligations do not move you, I require your presence.”
“Why?”
“To keep your friend Mrs. Malloy from disrupting the cordial relationship that seems presently to exist between the other five contestants. That woman is a cat amongst the pigeons if ever I saw one. It is clear she has taken a dislike to Judy Nunn and Livonia Mayberry and is itching to set the feathers of the other three flying.”