Mum's the Word (24 page)

“Precisely! We soap him up and he slides right out. And afterward, Ellie,” he said, gently touching my hair, “when the search is called off, there is something I must tell you.”

Bingo was returned to his mother and Valicia X declared the event cause for celebration. The afternoon session was postponed to the evening, which had originally been designated for free time. Pepys with a snarl on his lips and Jeffries with a flounce to her skirts went in search of champagne. The rest of us (except Mary, who had gone upstairs when Bingo came down) herded into the Red Room. Ben and I had yet to have our moment alone. And I was not sorry when the comte requested a moment's conversation with my husband. Something to do with truffles. I donned my best smile and wished them
bon gossip
.

My thoughts as I milled among the group were not totally engrossed with my marital problems. I found respite in thinking about the fable I had told on Bingo's behalf. Better to blame a bird than a ghost for luring him to the tower, especially when Bingo may have invented or imagined his encounter with Dame Gloom, but I did hope the lie would not unravel.

My eyes found Ben over at the library end of the room, still in conversation with the comte. Why couldn't I have yesterday back again?

“Hey, there, m'hearty!” Marjorie Rumpson touched my arm. She still sported the hat with felt fish on the brim, and the expression on her baggy face remained as worried as when Bingo was missing. “See here, m'girl, Aunty Marge
owes you a favour. Several of them, in return for last night. And I know just the jobbie.”

“Really?” She was comforting as a big stuffed animal, the kind children take to bed at night.

“Plain as the nose on your face, and the tears in your eyes! You're afraid your husband doesn't love you any more. Not to worry! Help is just outside the kitchen door, in the herb garden. I can give you a recipe, tell you what plants to pull and how long to steep the brew.”

“You mean to be kind,” I lowered my voice because the Browns and Solange had moved close, “but I don't believe in love potions.”

“M'dear,
mine
work.”

“That's not what I meant.” I cast a furtive glance around to make sure Valicia X wasn't listening. “If Ben only loved me because he was under the influence, it wouldn't be the same.”

Miss Rumpson didn't answer because we—meaning the entire room—were galvanized into silence by the sudden arrival of Jeffries and Pepys. Both carried silver trays. She had wine glasses on hers. His held several bottles of champagne and … one pigeon. Could Salome have felt any more ashamed when beholding John the Baptist's head …?

“Is that the one?” Marjorie nudged me.

“I'm not sure. All pigeons look alike to me.”

Ben's mirthful mocking gaze burned my skin. He knew I had lied, because he had made it his devilish business to really know me during our marriage. I smiled brightly at Bingo, looking well-scrubbed in a fresh shirt and jeans, he stood next to his mother.

The pigeon slithered and slid, while retaining a toe hold on its dignity as Pepys set down the tray on the liquor table.

“He's one of a pair,” Lois Brown said to her husband. “Completely devoted to each other I understand. They are carrier birds, presented to Miss Theola Faith by a doting fan.” Pigeon, having hopped onto a chair, permitted her to stroke him, while ogling Valicia X with its beady eyes.

“Careful, Lois!” Henderson raised his worry-worn face from the paperback he'd been pretending to read. “Pigeons breed disease.”

Valicia X laughed musically. “I think he's sweet!” She
extended a finger. The bird turned his beak away. He must have just eaten.

“He's a she.” Pepys didn't add the word “dummy!” But it was there in his voice. Not much deference for his fellow Mangé as far as I could see.

As for Jeffries, I was sure she feared neither man nor bird. “Back up all of you!” She shooed back the crowd with a champagne bottle. “This ain't no petting zoo.”

“Did someone say her name is Joan?” I asked. Anything to keep my mind off Ben, heading my way with a glass in each hand.

Pepys kept splashing out the bubbly. “Has her mate Derby henpecked something wicked.”

“What I call wicked …” Ernestine was decidedly hot under the collar of her mustard frock. “What I call outrageous is allowing that fistful of feathers into this room after all my Bingo has been through.”

Sullen glare from her pride and joy. “Oh, Mom! I do not have pigeon phobia.”

She rounded on him. “Don't you Oh, Mom! me. You may be smarter than your dad and me put together, but when it comes to knowing what's best for you, I'm the one!” Her fist thumped her chest. Her frog green beads bounced once … twice. I didn't like the ugly light in her eyes. For some reason, I thought of the mysteriously departed Mr. Grogg and his Divonne.

“Think I don't know what's going on here! When I saw the awful room they put you in.” She clamped Bingo to her side. “You're a threat to the other candidates. They've reached the top of their ladders and there's no place for them to go but down. Maybe things would be different if you had a phoney baloney title or were the winner of a rinky-dink cookery contest, or better yet were tall, dark and handsome.”

Ben's breathing was ambiguous. He could have been furious or battling a laugh.

“Mrs. Hoffman,” Valicia said, her face as silky smooth as the scarf at her throat, “I must caution you that should you continue to comment on Mangé business, your son will suffer. The Society encourages spousal and parental involvement as the best means of ascertaining drawbacks.” Behind her back Jeffries had produced a notebook and was scribbling grimly away. This celebration was going downhill fast.

“See, Mother, see what you've done?” Arms folded, Bingo stood over Ernestine as she sank into a chair.

“Phony titles!” Very much the comtesse, Solange headed toward them with a slash-slash of taffeta. “Madame will translate,
s'il vous plâit
.”

A shattering silence, followed by a thunder clap as Henderson tossed his book on a table. In a mental aside I noticed the title:
The Captive Bride
. His expression wrenched from gloom to anger. “Rinky-dink cooking contests! I tell you every time my wife puts my meal on the table, she wins the one that rates.”

From across the room I could see the shine of Lois Brown's tears. “Henny, hon!”

Whatever else might have been said wasn't. The pigeon chose that moment to light on Valicia's golden head. For one evil moment I hoped it would make a public statement. But it was not to be. Before Ben could brace for the rescue, she calmly reached up and chucked it under the chin. That woman had everything—my husband and
savoir faire
. Curses! The bird actually suited her. The chug-a-lug of voices could not drown out the words going around inside my head … 
Ellie, I have something to tell you … tell you …

Without disrupting the give and take of ill will, Pepys and Jeffries proceeded on their merry way with the champagne. The comtesse declined, but Miss Rumpson availed herself of a glass. In the manner of a doggy mum rounding up her pups, she barked a toast. “To Sportsmanship, m'hearties.”

A shriek of laughter from Jeffries—more startling than one of her primal screams. Several people slopped their drinks. Picking up his, Ben twirled the stem. “With respect to Ms. X,” he said, “I believe allowances should be made for Mrs. Hoffman. She has been through a rough time this afternoon, and as an expectant father, I …”

He was drowned out by the pigeon taking to the air again, but all on its own my hand reached to touch his. I was reaching toward hope. Then Ms. X smiled at him and his generosity of spirit turned to dust. What did I care if he won Mr. Congeniality! The comte, who must have felt his Mangé chances slipping away, offered to pluck a trick or two from his repertoire in hopes that a little entertainment would restore good cheer.

“I don't see why not.” Valicia sat on the sofa arm, short skirt riding above her lovely knees. “No food involvement, please.”

“Madame X”—the comte brushed a hand over his Grecian Formula hair and swept her a bow—“I do desire use of zee pigeon, but I swear on the honour of France I will not turn him into
pâté
.”

“I should hope not!” Bingo scowled. “That's my specialty.”

The comte puffed up his cravat and flourished a hand toward his wife. “Solange,
ma chérie
! If you love me with half a heart, respond with zee assistance!”

“Non, non! Mon angel!”
She crossed to his side, more courtesan than wife, the beauty spots and décolletage much in evidence. “I am not in the costume, also I am rusted through.”

“Hush,
ma fleur!
Get the damn bird!” The comte whipped a black handkerchief and a large penknife from his pocket and borrowed a lacquer box from the mantel. “Perceive! Nothing hides away inside.” Flapping open the lid, he flashed the box as the group closed in for the fun and games to begin.

I sat down on the closest chair.

The pigeon, certainly a quick study, preened upon Solange's wrist like a royal falcon, while the comte with the requisite hoopla explained that he would put Madame Joan in the box, cover it with the black handkerchief and make the slice in two.

“I don't like this one bit, I don't,” Pepys quavered. His face was grey.

“For once I agree with the old gizzard!” Jeffries banged down her tray. “That bird is the property of Miss Theola Faith. Harm one feather on its head and we'll all be
pâté
.”

Serenely, Valicia X waved her down. “I take full responsibility.”

The pigeon was duly in the box, the box was covered in black and the penknife clove the air. I closed my eyes. Bingo grumbled that this was kid stuff.

“Voila! I remove the shroud, hand it to my trusty assistant, the lid it rises slowly … slowly …” The suspense was too much. I cracked open an eye, in time to see triumph fade from the comte's face to be replaced by perplexity as he
stared down at the lacquer box.
“Mon Dieu
!” he whispered. “What have I done? What went wrong?”

Ben sat on the arm of my chair and pressed my face to his shoulder. “My pregnant wife must not see carnage.”

“You mistake the seriousness!” The voice of Solange. “The bird it is in one piece, but so still! A petite matter of being dead of the fright.”

Mandatory primal scream from Jeffries.

Valicia stood up. “I suggest we stay calm!”

Lois Brown began to cry. Ernestine was trying unsuccessfully to cover Bingo's eyes.

Pepys' voice, along with his legs, turned tottery. “Derby and his Joan! They were everything to each other. One of the great love matches of all time.” A tear trickled down one of the cracks in his face. “Who will break it to her?”

Sound of door opening. And Mary Faith entered. “Break what? Who will break what to me?”

A silence almost as unpleasant as the moment of death. The copy of
Monster Mommy
on the coffee table suddenly dominated the room.

“Madame”—The comte hid the lacquer box behind his back—“I throw myself on your mercy.”

Mary stood, back hugging the door, her narrow mouth uncertain whether to smile or frown. “Has something been broken?”

“Yes, in a manner of speaking.” Valicia X, her beauty undeniably ennobled by tragedy, led her to a chair. “No need for you to demand that Comte Vincent be dropped from the Mangé interrogatories. He is in violation of Code 3936, Section M. And is thus …”

Mary resisted being eased into the chair.

Jeffries stood like a feather duster with a talking head. “Ain't no nice way to slice—sorry—say it, Ms. Faith. Pigeon Joan is dead.”

So many expressions chased across Mary's face, her features blurred. The communal voice elaborated on the tragedy, culminating in Bingo's ghastly
faux pas:
“Do I get to make
pâté
?”

“Honey!” admonished Ernestine.

“If he were my kid …” Ben's outburst was silenced by Mary—lashing out with hands and voice.

Somehow Mary seemed the wilder because every hair was in place and she was defined by her wing-tipped glasses and prison grey dress as a woman of some restraint. “Oh, why in mercy's name did I let you in my house? You are monsters, all of you! Feeding on the helpless. This is how it was at my mother's orgies. No perversion too vile!”

“Madame, please.” Handing the lacquer box to Solange, the comte knelt at Mary's feet, clutching her ankles. “I would give my life, even my wife, to bring back the bird. I have tried the artificial respiration, the kiss of life! Ah, if I could but hear those words—she is not dead but sleeps!”

“Get him out of here!” Mary's voice ripped the air. Wrenching her skirt from the comte's clutching hands, she backed into Henderson Brown.