Death by Pumpkin Spice (12 page)

12

Despite hosting the party, Margaret Yarborough wasn't in the ballroom and no one seemed to know where she was. I roamed around, hoping to catch a glimpse of our elder Audrey Hepburn, so I could talk to her, report back to Paul, and then spend the rest of the party with Will. Meeting his parents had definitely solidified my feelings for him. I wanted to make sure he knew it, too, and running around the party alone wasn't the way to do it.

After about ten minutes of getting nowhere, I finally did what I should have done from the start and pulled aside one of the maids dressed in the old-style waitress outfits. She was middle aged and pretty, though the heavy bags under her eyes and the frown lines on her face told of how hard she'd been working. She frowned at me and said, “Can it wait? I'm busy,” when I stopped her.

“This will take just a sec,” I said, putting on my best smile. “I'm looking for Mrs. Yarborough but can't seem to find her.” I glanced around the ballroom as if to prove my point.

The woman sighed and jerked a thumb toward one of the exits in the back of the room. “She went to the kitchen to check on the status of the wine.”

“Thank you.”

The maid grunted and hurried across the room to where Igor stood, looking bored and tired. I turned away and headed for the indicated hallway. It was busy with help who were carrying food and drinks to and from the ballroom. Say one thing for the guests, a murder sure didn't dampen their appetites. Almost everyone I saw was dressed as a waitress; no males in evidence. I slipped past them with mumbled apologies and passed a large dining hall that was being used as a place where the help could take a few minutes to rest. A handful of them looked up wearily as I passed. I waved and smiled and continued on toward the kitchen.

Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was decorated with Halloween and horror firmly in mind. The knife block was in the shape of a human head. The butcher knife was slotted into the open mouth, which gave me the shivers. The curtains over the windows were of a cobweb design and were colored red and black. Severed fingers and ears lay forever beneath the surface of the clear counter, swimming in what appeared to be blood. It was enough to curdle my stomach and I wondered how anyone could be hungry after coming in here to get their food.

I made a quick scan of the room, doing my best to ignore the horrible imagery, and quickly deduced Margaret was nowhere in sight.

“Well, darn,” I said. I hadn't passed her on the way in, and she definitely wasn't in the ballroom, so it looked like my search would continue.

“May I help you?” A man dressed as a chef approached. “You look lost.”

“Maybe,” I said with a sigh. “Krissy Hancock.” I held out a hand, figuring it best to get introductions out of the way. If the chef could help me, I wanted to know his name so I could thank him later.

The man looked startled before shaking my hand. “Mitchel Riese.”

“Are you . . . ?” I looked him up and down, not quite sure if I'd offend him by asking if he was part of the kitchen staff, or if he was one of the exploring guests.

He chuckled in understanding. “I am. I cook for Mrs. Yarborough; have for the last fifteen years.” He sounded proud. His hair was graying at the temples and his eyes were pinched, but he looked happy. “I hope everything has been to your liking thus far?”

“It has,” I said, painfully aware that I hadn't had anything to eat yet. My stomach grumbled in protest, drawing a smile from him. “Do you like working for Mrs. Yarborough?”

There was the slightest of hesitations before Mitchel answered. “It's good work. It took some getting used to.” He gestured around the macabre kitchen. “But once you do, you hardly see it anymore.”

I had a hard time believing that, but the other help working in the kitchen didn't seem bothered by the atmosphere. One man was cutting a carrot on a cutting board that looked like spilled blood.

“It's a shame about Mr. Yarborough,” I said. “I heard he was eccentric and had come up with all of this himself. I would have loved to meet him. This is my first time here.”

“He was definitely eccentric.” A sad smile lit the corners of Mitchel's mouth. His eyes glazed over for a second, as if remembering good times with the former head of the household before they firmed on me again. “He was a kind, generous man. We all miss him quite dearly.”

There was something in his voice that drew my attention. I wasn't sure what it was exactly, but it made me feel that now that Mr. Yarborough was gone, Mitchel wasn't feeling the generosity he had before. Could Margaret be harder to work for than her husband? Was it simply the fact that Howard was such a good man, nothing else could compare?

Either way, it did remind me of the reason I'd come back here.

“I don't want to take up much of your time,” I said. “I'm looking for Mrs. Yarborough. Someone told me she'd come back to the kitchen, but obviously, she isn't here. Do you happen to know where I can find her?”

“You just missed her by a few minutes,” Mitchel said. “She'd come back to check on things, but someone drew her away.”

“Do you know who it was?”

He shook his head. “I didn't pay attention. I try not to get involved with her guests. She doesn't approve.”

Interesting. Was it because she didn't think the help was worthy of knowing her friends and colleagues, or was it because there were people she didn't want others to know about, people who were of a more seedy element?

“Can you tell me which way they went?” I asked. “I was sent to find her by the police officer in charge of the investigation,” I added, so as not to appear too nosy.

Mitchel turned and pointed toward a side exit. “She went down that hall,” he said. “It was five minutes before you arrived at the most.”

“Thank you.”

Mitchel beamed at me. “It's my pleasure. It's terrible about what happened and I hope it gets figured out soon.” He shuddered. “It's a shame it had to happen tonight of all nights.” He sighed, shrugged, and then turned to talk to one of the female waitresses who was about to carry a tray of cheeses out of the room.

I left them to it and headed down the hall Mitchel had pointed me toward. Faces stared down at me from the ceiling, carved and lit to appear demonic. I quickened my pace, unsettled. With their inanimate eyes staring at me, I was seriously getting creeped out.

I'd gone only a short distance down the hall before I heard a raised voice, followed by a hushed murmur. I couldn't make out what was being said, but I recognized Margaret's whispered voice. The louder voice was male.

I inched closer to a door that was hanging open two inches. The argument was taking place inside, but I couldn't quite see who was inside yet.

“You owe it to me,” the man said, voice lowered. “Don't you dare try to deny it.”

I moved a little closer and caught a glimpse of Margaret Yarborough standing next to a zombie who was hunched over onto the floor with an ax embedded into its head. She was using its back to prop up her arm. She was holding a wineglass that was nearly empty. Her face was flushed red as she said something back to the man. I couldn't tell if it was from the wine, or if she was angry.

I couldn't see the man from my angle, though I did see his arms raise as if in exasperation before dropping back down to his side.

“How was I to know?” he asked.

Margaret huffed and rolled her eyes, as well as her head, turning it toward the doorway. I tried to jump back, but I was too slow. She tensed when she saw me, but it quickly faded and was replaced by a smile as she turned back to the man.

“I'll speak to you later, Philip.” She spoke at a normal volume as she nodded toward the door and where I was hiding.

The man with the horn-rimmed glasses leaned forward and peered out at me. I waved at him and smiled, which earned me an annoyed frown. “We're not done talking about this,” he told Margaret, before pushing open the door and storming out. He shouldered past me—bumping me intentionally if I wasn't mistaken—and strode angrily toward the kitchen.

“Is there something you needed, dear?” Margaret asked, taking a sip from her wineglass. She didn't seem the slightest bit perturbed I'd caught her arguing with the man she'd called Philip.

I hesitated just outside the room, not because I was worried about talking to Margaret—Paul
had
wanted me to find her—but because of the decorations. I don't know what the room was supposed to be, other than a zombie slaughterhouse. There were bodies everywhere, most of them in some form of frozen animation. The carpet was blood red in splotches, white in others, as if the massacre had only recently taken place.

“I didn't mean to eavesdrop,” I said, easing into the room.

“Of course you did, dear. It's what people do when they hear people arguing.”

“Okay.” I cleared my throat. She was taking it pretty well, almost too well, if you asked me.

She sighed and once again rolled her eyes. “Philip is angry with me. It seems he always is lately.”

My mind immediately went to Jessica Fairweather, who, at the time of her death, had been wearing the exact same costume as Margaret Yarborough. Could Philip have been so angry with Margaret that he'd gone to kill her, only to mistake the much younger girl for her?

“I know what you are thinking and you can stop right there,” she said, holding up her free hand. “Philip wouldn't have tried to hurt me. He is angry, but he still loves me. We were together when she was murdered, if you must know.”

Together how?
I thought, before asking, “If you don't mind me asking, what was it you were arguing about?”

A coy smile quirked the corners of her mouth. “Inquisitive, aren't we?”

I went on the defensive. “I'm helping the police solve the murder. I'm asking just in case it is important to the investigation.”

“Are you now?” Margaret took a sip from her wineglass. “I guess you have been helping.” She glanced toward the window, which had fake blood splattered across it. “If you must know, Philip and I were lovers.”

I coughed, startled by the declaration. “You were what?” I had to have heard her wrong.

“Now, don't get all flustered on me,” Margaret said. “We all do it, you know?”

I was assuming she meant her circle of friends, because I, for one, didn't have a lover. With the way things were going, it was looking like it might be a very long time until I did. And here was Margaret, talking about sleeping with another man when her husband had just died. It seemed callous.

“Did Howard know?” I asked, unable to stop myself.

“Of course he did. Not only that, but he had his own fair share of lovers on the side. It wasn't a secret or anything.”

I couldn't even imagine. I mean, they were married, and were sleeping with other people? I couldn't do something like that. I'd completely lost it when I'd found out Robert had been cheating on me, and we'd only been dating. If we'd been married, I probably would have killed the man.

Which, of course, made me think of the rumors of Margaret killing her husband. I wasn't sure how that played into Jessica Fairweather's demise, but if he'd been sleeping with her and Margaret hadn't approved, it would have given her a pretty good motive.

“You see, dear, we all need a release sometimes,” Margaret explained, unperturbed by what she was saying. “Things can get tedious otherwise. Try being with the same person for years upon years, and you'll understand. These dalliances mean nothing, other than a way to try something different. Most of the men I've been with understand that.”

“But some don't?”

Margaret shrugged. “Philip thought we were going to run off together. Now that Howard is gone, he sees no reason why I shouldn't sell this place and find somewhere more suitable for a woman of my stature. He wants to come with me, give me the life he thinks I deserve.”

“But you don't want to do that?”

“No, I suppose not.” She sighed, as if disappointed in herself. “Philip has his benefits, but isn't my type. Not long term, anyway.”

And he was young enough to be her grandson. I never did understand how people could look past such a large age difference. I didn't hold it against anyone who was happy in those situations; it just wasn't my thing.

“What about the girls your husband, uh . . .” I couldn't bring myself to say “slept with” or worse, “had sex with.” It felt wrong on so many levels.

“What about them?”

“Were any of them too attached to him?”

Margaret looked into her wineglass and I thought I caught a glimmer of sadness in her eyes. Was it for her late husband? Was it regret surfacing now that he was gone and they both shared too much with so many other people? Or was it for herself, for her current situation? There was no way of knowing without asking, which I wasn't about to do.

“Some came asking for money when he passed,” she said. “One of his favorites demanded it. She came right up to my front door and declared she was owed it.”

“Is she here tonight?” Or perhaps lying dead in a room filled with pumpkins?

Margaret waved a hand as if shooing away a fly. “She wouldn't come near here after I turned her away and slapped her with a restraining order. If she thinks she is owed something, she should wait until we process the will. I doubt Howard would have included her in it, but if she is, I will give her what she is due. Otherwise, I don't care what happens to her, just as long as she stays away from me.”

My mind was awhirl. I was trying to figure out if Jessica Fairweather's death could have been because the Yarboroughs had slept around. If she'd been one of Howard's girls, could she have come asking for money? Or what if her boyfriend had been with Margaret? Could that have been why she rejected him?