No Clue at the Inn (Pennyfoot Hotel Mystery Book 13) (2 page)

Cecily stiffened her spine. "I think not, my dear husband. This is as much my decision as yours, and at the very least, we can discuss it."

Baxter's face, when he so desired, could be as cold and as impervious as an iceberg. "May I remind you that you are my wife, and as such, I have a responsibility for your health and well-being."

"You may remind me all you like," Cecily said evenly. "Nevertheless, you are very well aware of the contempt with which I hold such old-fashioned notions. I am your wife, undoubtedly, but I am also your partner. My wishes are every bit as important as yours. I was under the impression we had agreed upon that before our wedding."

"You agreed. I simply neglected to raise an objection."

"Because you knew very well I would not have married you had you done so."

Baxter's features relaxed just a little bit. "Perhaps so. Very well then, I shall rephrase my words. I'm far too fond of you to allow you to risk bodily harm in the pursuit of what could possibly turn out to be another of your pesky investigations. Not to mention the risk of inciting the wrath of Police Inspector Cranshaw, who no doubt is under the blissful, if sadly mistaken, assumption that you had left your nefarious past behind you forever."

Cecily allowed him to finish, then folded her hands and regarded him with her brows drawn together. "You know, Bax, sometimes I think I liked you better when you were a man of few words."

After a long moment, Baxter's mouth twitched into a reluctant smile. "Indubitably, my dear madam."

"The fact remains, Edward is in dire need of someone to take care of the Pennyfoot while he is away. You and I share a vast amount of experience and knowledge that is simply going to waste right now. It would be criminal to refuse Edward the benefit of our administration, particularly since he hasn't been able to find anyone to replace his manager. You know as well as I do how crucial the Christmas Season is to a hotel in a place like Badgers End. He cannot simply close the place down. It would likely ruin him."

"It's not a hotel. It's a country club."

"I'd prefer it, dearest, if you didn't split hairs."

"It's not exactly splitting hairs. One has to be a member to stay at a country club, and members are bound by certain rules and regulations. We shall have to learn those rules and see that our patrons abide by them."

"You always did enjoy flaunting your authority. You'll be in your element."

Conflicting expressions flitted across his face, and taking advantage of his indecision, Cecily pressed her argument home. "Besides," she added quietly, "you know very well that James would never forgive us."

It was a low blow, and one that she knew would strike home. Baxter owed his life to her dead husband, and vice versa. As he lay dying, James had thought enough of his friend to extract a promise from Baxter to take care of his wife in the event of his death.

Baxter had fulfilled that promise with loyalty, integrity, and commitment. The sole uncertainty he had confessed to on the eve of their wedding was that James might not approve of their marriage.

Cecily had settled his doubts on that score. Now she waited, holding her breath, wondering if the memory of James could still influence the decisions of this resolute and beloved man who had taken her as his wife.

It seemed a long time before Baxter answered her. The clock ticked loudly in the otherwise silent room, while outside a dog barked at a passing horse and carriage, and the faint roar of a motor car—a sound Cecily would never get used to—signaled yet another roadhog about to invade the fashionable street.

Finally, Baxter heaved a sigh, rose from his chair, and moved to her side. He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, before murmuring, "You make it difficult for me to refuse. If I agree to this, however, I must ask two things."

She eyed him warily. "And they are?"

"First, since I am well aware it is futile to forbid you to poke your nose into what doesn't concern you, I must insist that you swear you will not take a step in any direction without informing me of your intentions."

She nodded in relief. "Done. And the second?"

"That at all times, while in public, you call me by my given name, Hugh. I refuse to answer to Baxter. It gives one the impression I'm still your underling."

She could feel her grin stretching her mouth. "I have a confession to make. Even while I was the owner of the Pennyfoot, and you were my manager, never once did I ever think of you as my underling. I was always in awe of you."

Baxter grunted, though she could tell he was pleased. "Then, my dear madam, you had a remarkable way of concealing your reverence." He bent down and brushed her lips with his. "You will call me Hugh?"

"I will call you anything you want, as long as we are together again at the Pennyfoot Hotel."

"The Pennyfoot Country Club."

Cecily sighed. "Very well, but it will always be a hotel to me, no matter what changes Edward may have wrought." She caught his hand and clung to it. "Oh, Bax, think of it. Badgers End at Christmastime. It always was my favorite time of the year there."

His eyes mirrored his concern. "You have missed it that much?"

She pressed his hand to her cheek. "I can be happy anywhere with you, you must know that. But Badgers End is special. It's where we fell in love. It will always be my favorite place to be with you."

He squeezed her hand, then let it go. "I can only hope, my love, that we are not making a mistake. It will be difficult enough after all this time to fall back into the managing duties of a large establishment. But if there is a potential crime complicating matters, I dread to think what might happen."

"You always did worry too much." Cecily rose from her chair. "There could be nothing more to this man's death than a simple accident."

"And if it's not an accident?"

She smiled blithely at him. "Then, dear Hugh, I imagine we will be reliving more than our managerial duties."

"And that," Baxter said heavily, "is exactly what worries me."

CHAPTER

2

Ten days later, Cecily alighted from the carriage, her heart too full to speak as she gazed at the impressive facade of the Pennyfoot Country Club. She noticed at once that the front entrance had been refurbished, the new double doors making the approach to the hotel even grander.

Memories crowded her mind—faces, voices, laughter, and tears. Visions of elegant women in magnificent gowns floating across the sprung floor of the vast ballroom while musicians filled the air with stirring melodies. Memories of nimble waiters weaving between tables bearing trays loaded with sumptuous meals.

In its heyday the Pennyfoot had been the most renowned hotel on the southeast coast. His Majesty Edward VII had stayed there many times, and the celebrated composer,
Jerome Kern, had paid them a visit from America, though no one had known who he was until much later. Aristocrats, gamblers . . . even smugglers . . . had been signed into the guest books, and more than one philanderer had whiled away a weekend in pleasurable pursuit of a comely maiden.

Cecily's eyes misted as she remembered Gertie, her chief housemaid, enormous in her pregnancy, heaving huge pots of water to the stove, while frail little Doris stoked the coals. She could picture Mrs. Chubb, the belligerent housekeeper, arms folded across her bountiful bosom, face smudged with flour, glaring at Michel, the French chef, whose accent disappeared with a full glass of excellent brandy. How she missed them all.

"Hope you had a pleasant journey on the way down from the Smoke, m'm."

Cecily tucked her hands inside her muff, and smiled at the eager young man who had met them at the railway station and driven them with such gusto down her beloved Esplanade. "Yes, thank you. Raymond? Is that your name?"

The young man nodded, his dark eyes narrowed against the stiff, salty breeze from the sea. "Yes, m'm. I'm the stable manager, though now it's horses
and
motor cars. Raymond Stebbings at your service." He touched the brim of his cap. "Welcome back to Badgers End, Mrs. Baxter."

"Thank you, Raymond. It's very good to be back." She took a deep, cleansing breath of the fresh sea air and let it out on a sigh. Although thick clouds had turned the water a dark gray, the ocean seemed fairly calm, with only a few white flecks of foam here and there.

How clearly she remembered the sharp smell of salty brine, the fierce chill of the wind on her cheeks, the mournful cries of hungry seagulls wheeling above the gentle waves. Caught up in nostalgia, she was speechless again.

Baxter moved to her side. "I, for one, Raymond, will feel a good deal more welcome once we are enclosed inside the warm walls of this establishment instead of freezing out here on the oceanfront."

Raymond gave him a smart salute. "Sorry, sir. If you'll come this way, I'll take you into the club. I'll see to your luggage later."

Baxter nodded and, grasping Cecily's arm, followed the lithe young man up the sparkling steps of the Pennyfoot to the enormous double doors, upon which hung a pair of lush holly wreaths, trimmed with red and gold velvet ribbon.

Raymond opened the door with a sweeping gesture that narrowly missed knocking Cecily off her feet. Baxter clicked his tongue in annoyance, but Cecily hurried into the foyer, anxious to see what changes Edward had made to the interior.

To her immense satisfaction, everything looked much the same, though the blue Axminster had been replaced by plush gold and green carpeting that just about covered the entire floor of the foyer and swept grandly up the curving staircase.

The grandfather clock still stood in the corner, partially obscured by a small Christmas tree. The long desk where the guests were registered seemed to have been unaltered by Edward's renovations.

In front of the desk, a tall, boney-faced woman in a
black afternoon dress and frilly white apron stood between two nervous-looking housemaids.

Raymond stood back, allowing Cecily and Baxter to approach, and the woman bustled forward, dipping a slight curtsey as she reached them.

"Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, in the absence of Mr. Sandringham, who regrets he was unable to wait for your arrival, it is my extreme pleasure to welcome you to the Pennyfoot Country Club. My name is Miss Bunkle, I'm the Pennyfoot's housekeeper, and I'd like to introduce two of our housemaids, Jeanette and Moira." She beckoned with a sharp movement of her hand. "Come forward, girls."

In their navy blue ankle-length dresses and white aprons, the two maids looked somewhat alike. Both of them seemed impossibly thin, with dark hair scraped back from their scrubbed faces. The difference was in the eyes. Jeanette's confident brown eyes sparkled with mischief, while those of the younger girl, Moira, were lighter gold in appearance and clouded with anxiety, as if she were terrified she would make a mistake.

Both maids darted forward and dropped a curtsey, muttering, "Good morning, madam. Good morning, sir."

"Should you require a personal maid," Miss Bunkle said, "Jeanette will be most happy to oblige."

"Thank you, Miss Bunkle, but I doubt that will be necessary." Cecily gave the maid an encouraging smile.

Jeanette seemed disappointed, while Miss Bunkle appeared a trifle put out. "Very well, madam," she said, her expression suggesting that Cecily had made a grave error in declining a personal maid.

Cecily turned her attention to the housekeeper, noting
with some surprise the knitting needle securing the tight bun on top of her head. Apparently Miss Bunkle was not one to observe traditional costume. "My husband and I are happy to be back in the Pennyfoot Hot . . . Country Club. As soon as we are settled, we'll schedule a meeting and familiarize ourselves with our duties."

"Very well, madam." Miss Bunkle flicked her fingers at Jeanette. "Take Mr. and Mrs. Baxter to their suite and see that they have everything they need. Then I'll see you in the kitchen. Raymond, fetch the luggage and bring it up to the suite right away."

"Right ho!" Raymond winked at Moira, earning a frown from Miss Bunkle, before disappearing through the front doors.

Jeanette headed for the stairs and Cecily followed, conscious of Miss Bunkle's sharp gaze on their backs as she and Baxter ascended to the first floor.

"You'll be in Mr. Sandringham's suite," Jeanette explained as she led them down the hallway to what used to be Cecily's rooms. "He's done it up a bit since you was here, m'm. Got it all posh, he has."

She paused at the door, unlocked it, and pushed it open. Cecily walked in, her eyes widening at the sight that met her eyes. The wall between the sitting room and the room next door had been removed, doubling the space. Sleek settees and armchairs replaced her Queen Anne furniture, and the chaise longue had been relegated to the bedroom, where, much to her astonishment, a private and quite modern water closet had been installed.

"Oh, my." She clutched her throat at the sight of
gleaming brass fixtures above a marble basin, and a footed tub that looked big enough to hold two people. "I've never seen anything quite like this."

Baxter, staring over her shoulder, seemed dumbfounded.

"Only one like it on this part of the coast, m'm," Jeanette informed her. "Even the hotels in Wellercombe don't have private WCs like this."

"I say," Baxter murmured, "Sandringham certainly does well for himself."

Cecily dropped her muff on the bed. "This is all very nice. Tell me, Jeanette. How do you like working at the Pennyfoot Country Club?"

Jeanette seemed surprised at the question. "I like it very well, m'm. Miss Bunkle can be a bit of an old biddy at times, and Frenchie gets on my nerves with his banging and shouting, but—"

Baxter frowned. "Frenchie?"

"Yes, sir. Frenchie. The chef."

Cecily hid a smile. "She's referring to Michel," she said solemnly.

"Oh, good Lord. I'd forgotten he was still here."

"Well, he's still in the kitchen," Jeanette said with a smirk, "but I wouldn't say he's all there, if you get my meaning. Especially when he's been at the brandy."

Cecily saw Baxter's frown of disapproval and hurriedly asked, "What about the manager, Mr. Wrotham? Was he a good man to work for?"