Make-Believes & Lost Memories Page 3

  “And that’s a problem?” Bernice asked, her round cheeks looking deflated. Clearly, she’d been hoping for something juicier.

  “No, but our events room is booked for Saturday night so the only other option would be to hold it in the main dining hall and invite all of you to join them.”

  Bonita sat up straight in her chair, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “That doesn’t sound like a problem to me,” she said. “We wouldn’t mind at all!”

  Mallory swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “There is one other tiny detail. It’s a theme party. Have any of you ever seen the television show Game of Thrones?”

  Bonita took a bite of her dessert. “Is that the historical show that features the incestuous royals?”

  “Which one—weren’t all royals incestuous back then?” Bernice asked.

  Eve chimed in before anyone could answer, “I remember reading years ago that Emperor Franz II married his first cousin and their son, Ferdinand I, was born with a hydrocephalic head, shrunken body, and epilepsy.

  Bonita curled her lip in distaste. “I read that too. Is that the one who liked to wedge his bottom in a wastebasket and roll around the floor on it?”

  “Wait a minute. Wasn’t Ferdinand I an emperor for like eighteen years or something?” Mallory asked, curiosity overriding her need to get the conversation back on track.

  Bernice pulled a silk hand fan from her purse, opened it with a practiced flick of her wrist, and began to wave it in front of her face. “You had a cousin who liked to do that, didn’t you, Kirstie? Wasn’t the brightest bulb in the shed if I remember correctly,” she stopped her narrative and cocked her head like an inquisitive bird. “Jojo, wasn’t it? Whatever happened to him? Boy, was he aggressive. Didn’t his weird infatuation with underwear end in a lawsuit?”

  “I did not have a cousin like that. You’re starting rumours!”

  “Oh lord, here we go,” Bonita said. She patted Mallory’s arm. “Just ignore them. Of course, we’ve heard of that show, honey. We might be old but we’re not dead.”

  “I sure wouldn’t mind a run at that Snow fella. Will there be one there? I could teach him a thing or two about just ‘what he doesn’t know’.” Kirstie grinned.

  “Settle down, Jezebel. Remember what happened to Joanne in Vegas when she pinched the bottom of that Sheriff fella from the zombie convention?” Michelle said.

  “What?” Kirstie asked, “Did he turn around and yell at her?”

  “I don’t think I’ve heard this story,” Bonita said. “Did he hurt her?”

  “Now come on, ladies, you know hurting Joanne is practically impossible,” Bernice said. “She’s six feet two and looks like Balboa after a bad fight.”

  “Well? What then?” Kirstie prompted. “What happened to her?”

  Eve nodded. “I heard he liked her costume.”

  Mallory frowned. She was more confused than ever.

  “Oh, yes!” Bernice’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Well . . .” She paused theatrically and lowered her fan. Casting a surreptitious glance at the group, she leaned closer to Mallory and whispered, “She wasn’t wearing a costume! She’d done her own makeup that day—a little heavy handed, I might add, with the green eyeshadow—and accidentally wandered into the wrong convention.” Michelle gave us both a wink.

  Mallory looked over at Bonita, but she didn’t appear any more informed. “So, he liked her weird transvestite makeup, so what?” Eve ventured.

  “Inappropriate,” Bonita fake coughed into her hand.

  Eve glanced at Bonita and, without the slightest hint of shame, said. “Do you need a cough drop or some cold medicine?” She pulled a wrapped lozengier lollipop from her giant yellow purse and held it out.

  Bonita frowned and shook her head which Mallory was happy about because she was pretty sure it was one of Eve’s homemade cannabis candies.

  “No,” Bernice went on. “He thought she was dressed up as a zombie—a walker, dear… you know, like that TV show.”

  Mallory cringed.

  “Ah,” Bonita said, “ouch.”

  Eve raised an eyebrow. “She’d even put on Spanx that day.”

  “Exactly,” Bernice said. “Moral of the story—don’t go hitting on anyone at this party.”

  “Well,” Kirstie said, “in all fairness, I’m not quite Joanne Munster.”

  “Yes, but you’re also no queen of the realm!” Eve said. “Maybe you can go as a white walker.”

  Bonita, Bernice and Michelle all chuckled. Mallory wasn’t sure whether they were more surprised by the insult or the fact that Eve was a GOT fan.

  Mallory had almost made it back to reception to let Nana know that the ladies had agreed when Danior shifted her position on the ladder in front of the book shelves.

  “What’s wrong?” Danior asked.

  “Nothing and good morning to you, to,” Mallory said. “Why do you think something is wrong?”

  “You look tired,” Danior said honestly.

  “I just need to get an espresso. My head is spinning.” Mallory grimaced. “I just met with the Victorian Ladies Society.”

  “Oh, no wonder! Have mine,” Danior said and pointed to the cup and saucer. “You can have my Danish, too, if you’d like—freshly baked this morning. I already had eggs, bacon and a chocolate croissant.”

  “Are you going through another growth spurt?” Danior was seventeen, but she was already taller than Mallory. “What are you doing, anyway? Shouldn’t you be in the kitchen with Nataliya, cooking and baking and doing all of those assistant chef things that you do?”

  “It’s a buffet-style breakfast today so prep is done and I did all my baking at 4am like most bakers. Anyway, Nana asked me to shelve the books for you. She said you would steal half of them for your own library if you did it.”

  Mallory took the shot of caffeine and downed it like a drunk at a bar, then laughed as she handed her up a stack of books. “She wasn’t wrong, although I can still steal them from here.”

  Mallory picked up the Danish and licked the lemon filling from her fingers.

  “You really need to stop feeding me these sweets. I don’t need anymore curves.” Mallory said, without conviction as she took a bite and moaned. “Where did these books come from, anyway?”

  “Donation. Another rich widow left part of her estate to Nana including these first edition mysteries.” She rolled her eyes. “How does she do that? People are always leaving her things.”

  Mallory laughed. “She is a charming woman.”

  “You mean she works charms on poor old unsuspecting women,” a voice said from behind them. Mallory’s hackles stood while her skin tingled. She sighed and shook her head. Mr. Raymond Weasel.

  “Nana would never do that,” Danior said, defiantly.

  Danior was a prime example of Nana’s hospitality. She’d been left on the Manor’s doorstep as an infant, no note, no belongings, just a baby with olive skin, black hair, light eyes and long dark eyelashes.

  Nana had taken her in without batting one of her own long lashes and Danior had been raised here at the manor alongside Mallory. Nana took care of her and everyone—her gift was in spells, potions and clairvoyance—she could see a person’s life as a complete movie and she knew just how and when to help them sort out their troubles. In return these people felt an open-ended gratitude toward her. They were always sending gifts and leaving her money.

  Mallory took in the man before her. Was it just her or was he looking grey? “Mr. Weasel, how are you feeling?”

  “Just fine, Ms. Vianu.”

  “Good.” Mallory said, although Mallory didn’t believe him. His aura was dark and chalky. Something was bothering him. “I spoke to the Victorian Ladies Society and they’ve agreed to your themed party.”

  “That’s great. I knew you could make it work. Were you able to get your diary translated?”

  “Yes, I’ve left it with the translator. She seemed quite capable.”

  “Well, if you need any further
help. Let me know.”

  “That’s very kind of you, and how is your own book coming along?”

  “I’ve just made a huge breakthrough.”

  “Really,” Mallory said, with a smile.

  “What is your book about, anyway? No one seems to know,” Danior commented.

  He gave a snarling look in her direction and then turned back to Mallory. “You should give her some of your manners, Mal, dear. It seems you’re the only one here with them.”

  Mallory bit her lip and smiled, hoping Danior’s temper would hold.

  “Anyway, I’m just looking for that blasted mystery society. They’re always changing their meeting times and places.”

  Mallory cleared her throat to offset the sound of Danior’s snickers. “Ahem. Do you know which workshop your group signed up for?” Mallory pulled out her smartphone and checked the agenda. “How to build your social audience is meeting in the ballroom, and Content and Social Media Trends is in the library/parlour.”

  “No, it was something about copywrite.”

  “Ahh, that would be, Defamation, Copywrite and legalities, then. They’re meeting in the gardens this morning, out the French doors and to your left. Follow the path. Also, there’s an itinerary posted at the front in case you get separated from your group again.”

  Raymond Weasel grunted his thanks and walked away.

  “What a bad-mannered persnickety man,” Danior said with a grin.

  Mallory nodded. “He’s somehow managed to tick off every person here in just a matter of days.”

  “You can add Nana to the list. He claims to be writing a novel, but I just overheard a few of the vloggers gossiping about him. They said he’s here to write a nasty piece on the manor. We should put rat poison in his dinner.”

  Mallory grinned, despite the serious look Danior was giving Mallory. She could be a hot head but she was harmless. Mostly.

  “I’m serious.” Danior said. “I’m not the only one who’s thinking that. Have you seen the way people look at him? Mark my words, someone’s going to pop that Weasel.”

  “Oh goodness, Danior,” Mallory laughed. “No one vacationing at the Manor is going to pop anyone.”

  “Who are they popping off? I want in.” Nana materialized out of practically nowhere and smiled mischievously.

  Danior climbed down from the ladder, the box that had contained the books now empty.

  “We are not popping off anyone.”

  “That sounds so dirty when you say it.” Danior chuckled.

  Mallory glared at Danior, before turning back to Nana, “Danior was just commenting on Mr. Weasel’s ability to make enemies.”

  “That’s the truth. I’d like to teach that miserable old coot a lesson. He has got to be the most cantankerous person I’ve ever encountered.”

  “Keyword here is that you’ve ever encountered.” Danior mumbled.

  “Are you gonna be a problem today?” Nana growled back at her.

  “No, ma’am.” Danior bit down on her lip to hide her smirk.

  “Good. Cause it’s been almost two months of those. Damn Springtime lovebirds. Every year it’s the same thing—women and their man troubles. Seems like every reading I do from Valentines day until May revolves around a bad relationship.”

  Mallory almost suggested that she should perhaps stop her matchmaking — or match meddling as Mallory liked to call it—but then again, she had introduced Mallory to Daemon Wraith. So far, things looked promising. If Daemon would ever get back from his ghost hunting trips. Nana gave her a pointed look like she knew what she was thinking and turned on her heel, stalking out of the room.

  Once she was gone, Danior and Mallory began sorting through the inventory for medieval and period themed costumes and related accessories. Danior was in charge of props and decor. Mallory moved around the backroom and collected elements that they could use for the actual costumes: fur coats, armour, capes, camo, and medieval gowns.

  It was getting late when Mallory heard the reception door chime. She popped her head out and looked left and right. No one was in the foyer aside from Lise who was taking selfies or possibly a video using her phone. Their smoke-grey cat, Bakalo followed Mallory out of the stockroom as if he sensed her need for companionship.

  Lise leaned forward and snapped a photo of Mallory. “Are you having fun yet?” She stared at Mallory for a few seconds and then pointed to her hair.

  Mallory caught her reflection. She’d forgotten she was wearing a silly blonde wig.

  “What were you doing?”

  “Oh, I hope you don’t mind. I’m doing this micro-influencer thing to make some cash on the side. I didn’t take a lunch so that I could take a few 10-minute breaks throughout the day.”

  Mallory squinted as Lise held up her phone, displaying a picture of Lise’s feet, clad in bright yellow high heels and propped on the desk. “Sorry, I know I’m lame but what does a micro influencer do?”

  “I post Snapchat content and Instagram engagement. So, like, for Snapchat, I Snap my outfit, what I’m eating, my latest blog post, and/or any other promotional things that need attention—you know, like, if I’m going on Facebook live or doing a giveaway.”

  Mallory nodded as she took off the wig and sprayed it with fabric spray to freshen it up, then attached it to the Mother of Dragons costume with a chuckle. “I see and who left while you were on the phone?”

  “What do you mean?”

  It sounded like footsteps and the front door chimed.

  Lise shrugged her shoulders. “I didn’t see anyone.”

  5

  E MBERS crackled and popped from behind the fireplace grate, breaking the silence, and a log fell forward in a rain of sparks as Elsa sat at her desk and made the call.

  A bead of sweat formed on Elsa’s forehead as she sipped her tea and waited for Mallory to answer.

  “Elsa? That was fast. Have you completed the translation already?” The girl’s voice came through loud and cheery.

  Elsa did her best to steady her voice. “I’m not quite done but I’ve come across something about your mother. I think I may have discovered—” her words failed her.

  “What is it?” Mallory asked.

  Elsa glanced around her study. “This is rather sensitive.” She tugged at the fur collar of her sweater.

  “What did you find?” she persisted.

  “Well, if what I think I have uncovered is true, this could be a find of historical importance.” She gulped in a wheezy breath. “Not to mention financial significance. It’s really quite miraculous.” Elsa closed the journal in front of her and her heart skittered in anticipation. “Miss Vianu, could you come over immediately?”

  “Of course. I’ll be right there.”

  “Good. Just come in the front door. I’ll be straight down the hall in my study.”

  Elsa hung up the phone and walked down the hall to replace the journal in the hidey-hole she used for sensitive documents, then made herself a good stiff drink. She needed it for what she was about to tell Mallory Vianu. As she replaced the cap on the scotch and closed the bar’s lid, she knocked against one of the piano keys, but of course no sound came out. The piano hadn’t been played in years. She returned to her favorite leather chair in front of the fire in the study where she’d left her translated notes.

  She’d just sat down and looked them over when she heard a thumping sound from the front of the house. Probably just Shakespeare—that silly cat was always knocking things over. Still, she’d told Mallory the door would be unlocked, so she hurried back to the front door and switched open the lock. As she passed through the front room, she noticed the sheers were blowing. How strange that the window was cracked. She didn’t remember opening it. Still the cleaner had been in today, she’d probably aired out the place and forgot to close it all the way. She slammed the window into place and returned to her seat and drink in front of the fire.

  The flames bent and bloomed, spreading out their warmth, but suddenly Elsa could feel only coldn
ess. Her heart slowed and beat out of time, making each breath more difficult to take. Something was amiss. The glass of Scotch slipped from her hand and tumbled across the carpet. Unable to call out from her chair in the study, she looked toward the table beside her and gripped her cell phone. The muscles of her heart closed tightly like a fist and squeezed until her body began to tremble. Panic consumed her as her mind rode the pain to its pinnacle. She needed to tell Mallory what she’d found. She needed to tell Mallory what to do—to warn her. She slid from her chair, taking the cell phone with her. With a gasp, she searched her call history and clicked on Mallory’s number. Mallory’s voicemail picked up only moments later.

  “Miss Vianu, it seems—”

  Her eyes grew wide, and she jerked her hand away to clutch at her chest. Her eyes bulged in their sockets and she slumped over sideways.

  She tried to speak—to warn the poor girl. Someone was in the house. Someone wanted this knowledge. Thank goodness, she’d hidden the journal. After reading it, she knew Mallory was a finder and she would figure out the truth on her own. The certainty calmed Elsa. She crawled forward on her knees to the fireplace gripping the translated pages the best she could. Relinquishing her last hold on life, she released the pages into the fire just as her eyes glazed over. Her spirit departed like smoke out the chimney, leaving the secret she’d uncovered behind like the wood ash in the hearth.

  ***

  Elsa’s house was one of several charming 1920s Dutch colonials that sat on a tree lined street in Bohemian Lake. The street lights were all on but the front of the house was dark. Mallory parked in the driveway and approached from the walkway. Her stomach tightened when no one answered the door. She looked up and down the street and then recalled how Mrs. Dustfeather had said she’d leave the door unlocked.

  She twisted the knob and stepped inside, feeling mildly strange at the idea of simply entering a stranger’s dark house, and yet Elsa was expecting her, after all.

  “Elsa?” Mallory’s lips were pressed in a thin line as she called out.