Fleeced: A Regan Reilly Mystery by Carol Clark (grave mercy txt) 📗

of Mount Rushmore were permanently sculpted into her face. “And?”

“It looks like the Settlers’ Club is in worse shape than we dared hope.”

“How wonderful,” Vernella replied in her almost guttural tone. “That club has gotten on my nerves ever since the sixties, when they let in those hippies who pranced around the park in their flower-power tee shirts. What ever happened to good breeding? Good taste? ‘Pioneering people’ my foot! The Settlers’ Club has been on a crusade to disgrace Gramercy Park for the past thirty years.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, my darling,” Archibald advised. “Down at the bank I was told that the anniversary party they’re having is a sorry attempt to recruit new members. But it’s a hopeless situation, and it won’t be long before I can buy the building.”

“Buy the building?”

“Yes. Cousin Thorn needs a home in New York for his butler school. It would be the perfect spot. Then we, along with dear cousin, will help bring about a return of class to New York City. Thanks to Thorn’s school, good butlers will once again be available. Unfortunately that profession has suffered a sad decline. That needs to be changed.”

“We need a butler ourselves.”

“It’s so hard to keep help. They always leave. But we will have first dibs on Thorn’s graduates and, of course, hire the best one. As you know, Thorn will be arriving late tonight.”

“The guest bedroom is prepared.”

“Tomorrow night we will dine here with Thorn and toast not only the destruction of the Settlers’ Club as their party fails miserably, but also the demise of Maldwin Feckles’s butler school, which is a disgrace to every self-respecting butler.”

Vernella giggled, something she rarely did. “I wish it stayed light longer,” she said. “We could get our binoculars out.”

“You are a devil,” Archibald said as he grabbed her bony hand. “You are the devil I fell in love with.”

“Oh, Archie,” Vernella said coquettishly. “I’m not a devil. I’ve been saying my prayers.”

“And just what have you been praying for?”

“Just that the party tomorrow night over there”-she pointed with disgust at the Settlers’ Club-“is a complete and utter disaster.”

Archibald clapped his hands. “This is going to be such fun.”

35

When Clara got home from her day of scrubbing the Settlers’ Club, she was so darn glad she couldn’t believe it. I’m going to get out of this uniform and put on my robe, she thought as she unlocked the door to her apartment in Queens. It had been some day. Here I was trying to help, and Thomas goes crazy when I show him the red box. She shrugged as she took off her coat.

Maybe I’ll take a bath, she thought, but then remembered Nat’s fate. Probably not a good idea, she decided as she went into the bedroom, undressed, and put on the fleece-lined bathrobe her sister had given her for Christmas.

“That’s better,” she said aloud. She pulled open a drawer and grabbed a pair of her woolly socks. “Now I’ll be all comfy and cozy.”

In the kitchen, she heated up some chow mein and poured herself a glass of wine. She carried a tray into the living room, sat down in her favorite chair, put her feet up on the hassock, and turned on the television with the remote control.

“Thank God it’s the weekend,” she said to the weatherman who was reporting on possible snow showers for the next couple of days. “I don’t care what the weather’s going to be, because I’m just going to veg out.”

She gobbled her chow mein and downed the glass of wine.

The phone rang. It was her sister Hilda who lived in the Bronx. They talked every night.

“What’s doing?” Clara asked.

“Not much. What’s doing with you?”

“A little excitement at the club today. One member was found dead in the tub last night.”

“Oh my.”

“And then some jewelry is missing, but I found the red box it had been in.”

“Oh my. You’d better watch out.”

“My favorite show is coming on.”

“The one about those crimes nobody can figure out?”

Clara smiled. “That’s the one. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Okeydoke.”

Clara hung up and eagerly turned up the volume on the remote control. As usual, she watched the program with interest, getting herself another glass of wine during the commercial. By the end of the program, when they made their daily announcement about being sure to call in if you had a weird crime to report, Clara was ready to dive for the phone.

“1-800…” she said aloud as she dialed. When she was put through, she announced, “My name is Clara, and I work as a maid at the Settlers’ Club in Gramercy Park in New York City. Today I found a red box that four-million-dollars’ worth of diamonds is missing from. And the man who owned the diamonds slipped in the tub and died last night.”

“Hold on, Clara, we’re going to put you on the air. Can you repeat that for us?”

“Sure!”

A moment later, Clara was saying, slowly and deliberately, “My name is Clara, and I work as a maid at the Settlers’Club…” as it was broadcast to thousands of homes in the New York area.

36

When Regan got back to the club, it was nearly six-thirty. Lydia’s party was starting at eight, and there were still some things Regan wanted to get done beforehand. She found Thomas in his office, looking pale.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Janey’s been out of touch since she left here this morning. It’s totally unlike her.”

“You’ve tried to call her?”

“Of course I have!”

Regan felt sorry for him. He had been worried before, but the expression on his face now showed total distress.

“She was going to come over this afternoon for tea. Something must have happened to her, Regan. She would have called if she couldn’t make it.?”

“Do you have a key to her apartment?” Regan asked quietly.

“I do.”

“Should we go over there now?”

“Yes,” Thomas said simply. With great dignity he stood up and reached for his coat. “If she’s