The Marsh Madness Read online

  I got that.

  “If it’s any consolation,” I said, “they’re going to a good home. My employer collects first editions. I can’t afford that, but I have my own little collection. And every book in it gets treated like a fine first.”

  “That’s a relief,” she said with a wan smile.

  I checked out the other boxes of books, in case there were volumes we needed or with good resale prospects. Nothing wrong with funding future projects with a quick flip. I found some likely candidates and put them aside, before I opened the two Marsh boxes to check the condition of the books. I may have purred with delight as I inspected each book. I loved how the covers reflected the style of the era. Many of the Fontana reprints even had a charming little inset with a painting of Inspector Alleyn on the back and some details about him. “Educated at Eton and moulded in the diplomatic service,” I noted and in my opinion both environments had served him well.

  I checked inside and, sure enough, several had maps and floor plans of the grand house in that book. I loved that. Most had the cast of characters before the first chapter. I’d appreciated those lists when I first discovered Marsh. The device hadn’t lost its charm. I wished more authors would give their readers a break by doing this.

  I chuckled over the names in the lists: Cressida and Cuthbert, Nigel, Peregrine and Sir Hubert, Chloris and Aubrey, Sebastian, Barnaby and Hamilton, Cedric, Desdemona and Millamant! I thought they were all delicious. A new batch of names in every book. Of course, there’d be crowds of butlers and footmen, cooks and maids. Some staff would rate a name, but not all.

  I looked forward to meeting more of Marsh’s characters. Some would die in the interests of the story. In most cases, the death would be grisly and possibly bloody, but it would get our attention and teach us that this was a murderer who meant business and would stop at nothing. Ruthlessness can keep us turning pages. Never fear, Roderick Alleyn would put things right again.

  I was counting on it. I noticed Larraine grinning at me. “You seem to appreciate them. I hate to give them up. It’s like letting go of friends. So I’m glad you’ve discovered Ngaio Marsh.”

  “Rediscovered.” I couldn’t resist telling her about our luncheon at Summerlea.

  “That sounds amazing.”

  I grinned. “I’m lucky to be along for the ride. It’s all between my employer and Chadwick Kauffman. But I can’t wait to soak up that ambiance. It will be almost like stepping into one of the great estates in these books.”

  “I’m jealous.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. It’s work too. I’m one of the nameless servants on this character list.”

  Larraine said. “Did you say you collect first editions?”

  “Yes.” I was glad I’d left Vera out of the story, as she was generally loathed in our part of the world, and anyway, the Van Alst name might be enough to raise the prices.

  “Oh well, have a look at some of Doug’s books. You may find something you like.” A wicked smile played around her full, bright lips.

  I glanced up the stairs, where there was a certain amount of crashing about and huffing going on.

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  A half hour later, I had another pair of boxes with hardbacks, including a few firsts in quite decent shape. A Hammett. A Chandler. Some John D. MacDonalds. Vera had all those, but I’d invest my own money and they’d make me a few pennies on the side.

  I could hear Doug carrying on about finally getting rid of those dusty old Christmas decorations. But that wasn’t enough for him. “And who needs four closets for their clothes?”

  “Leave my closets alone. I’ll take care of them!”

  “At least can I pitch these theater souvenirs. It’s bad enough you have seen every play on and off Broadway—no matter how short the run—but do you have to keep this junk? You never look at it.”

  She glanced up the stairs. I foresaw stormy weather coming for Doug. A small nerve flickered under Larraine’s eye. “My playbills stay. End of discussion.”

  I decided it was time to make tracks. Larraine and I settled on a price for Doug’s books, for the other mysteries I’d found and for the Marshes.

  As I picked up the first box, she glanced sadly at the box and reached out. “I love the theatricality of the Inspector Alleyn novels. I did a lot of theater in college and that really appealed.”

  No wonder we’d hit it off. “Me too. I remember that. I read Death in a White Tie first and felt as if I was actually watching it play out on a stage. How people came and went within scenes, the way the dialogue propelled the story forward was three-dimensional. They’re so much fun and now I’ll get to read them all.”

  Larraine said, “Apparently, theater was Ngaio Marsh’s first love, and it showed in the way those characters and settings with a theatrical connection rose from the page.”

  “I was involved in theater too. Every year in college I worked on at least one production.”

  “Onstage?”

  “Sometimes onstage, or behind the scenes with wardrobe or makeup or as a production assistant. I enjoyed everything about each production, from the first read-through to the feel of the costumes, the smell of the theater, the buzz of excitement when you step in front of the lights.”

  “Why didn’t you pursue it?”

  “If I hadn’t been so in love with English literature, maybe I would have switched to a drama degree. What about you?”

  “I did go that route. Never really succeeded, although I was in a number of productions and some of my friends went on to success. Now I’m here, teaching. It has its good points too. But you know . . .”

  “I hear you. There are such great bonds in theater. Wonderful friendships.” Lance and Tiff had been part of all the productions.

  Tiff had been reluctant. In her own words: “So I won’t be forced to listen to Jordan blab on endlessly about something I’m not involved in.”

  Not so for Lance. He was born for the stage. These days his performances were reserved for his permanent audience in the reference department or in a presentation to the library board for funding or service enhancements. Still, he’d been a big hit in some Harrison Falls Theater Guild’s performances. People were still talking about his Stanley Kowalski.

  “Some of those friends will break your heart. Until you end up happily ever after.” She laughed and pointed upstairs where Doug was thundering about.

  I said, “Only one of them broke my heart. He also cleaned out my bank account and maxed out my credit cards.”

  “Ouch. Hope you’re over him.”

  “Yup. With lots of help.” Lance and Tiff and a raft of redheaded Kellys. And we move on, as my uncles had taught me early and well.

  “I’m so glad to hear it.” She beamed at me, and I knew where I’d seen her before.

  “I just realized why you look familiar. Are you part of Harrison Falls Theater Guild? I saw you in Steel Magnolias. You were an awesome Truvy! That was one of our college productions. We could have used you.”

  “You should come and try out. I can let you know when there are auditions. Give me your number.”

  “Sure thing.” I headed out with the box and thought about her offer. I loved the idea of auditioning for one of HFTG’s productions too, but I always seemed to be knee-deep in murder when the call went out.

  When I came back for the second box, Larraine was still in a mood to chat. “I think Marsh is brilliant. You’d better run before I change my mind.”

  From up the stairs a bellow from Doug: “Since we’re getting rid of some of my books, who needs seventy-five pairs of shoes?”

  Larraine chuckled. “I can’t wait to get back to normal. Doug has already taken the TVs and radios to the new place. He claims they’re too distracting here. I’ll need a week of theater to get me back to normal. Oh, and by the way, I try to catch everything I can on and off Br
oadway. And off-off-off. As you could probably tell, Doug’s not so keen on it. I often meet up with old friends to go. But I like you too. Maybe you and I could attend a couple of performances together.”

  “That would be great.” I was still grinning as I drove away. It would be nice to stay in touch with her. But I realized that I’d paid cash and forgotten to give her my name or my number, even though we’d talked about getting together. And I didn’t know where she was moving. Oh well. I could probably track her down through the Harrison Falls Theater Guild. An occasional trip to catch a live performance in the city sounded wonderful.

  I took a couple of minutes to drop the long white florist’s box (still containing the offending dead roses), with a note, at Tyler’s neat little brick home. It was easier than chasing him around town on his shift, and I did have a key.

  Now, I had a lot of reading to catch up on.

  * * *

  AT HOME, I lugged the boxes up to the third floor and set out the books on my Lucite coffee table. With their bright colors and similar styles, my new finds brought some extra life to the space. Of course, there wasn’t much time to read before our lunch tomorrow at Summerlea, but I wanted to use what I had. I chose A Man Lay Dead, partly because it was the first and partly because it took place in a stately home. How much fun was that? Inspector Alleyn was a suave and elegant upper-class character. He practically reeked dignity and elegance, but right from the beginning he managed to avoid being stuffy or arrogant.

  I sifted through the other books, with flickering memories of the ones I’d read seven or eight years earlier. I read quickly, so I figured I could whip through them again.

  I hadn’t wanted to put my foot in it at lunch, so I’d made sure to brush up a bit on Marsh’s history too. What do people talk about at luncheon in places like Summerlea? I felt I could at least chat about the books and their author. It seemed that theater was indeed the grand dame’s first love and crime fiction second. I thought that explained a lot. I could see characters coming and going almost as though on a stage. The image of the scene rose from the page. But best of all was the dialogue, sharp and astute. You got to hear the English dialects from the various settings. I remembered reading these bits out loud. More than once, I’d thought, I wish I’d said what she’d written.

  You couldn’t gloss over a character who wandered onto one of these pages. We readers were able to check them out as if they’d been under a particularly heartless microscope trained on their less attractive attributes. She didn’t mind laying her characters bare. With the exception of Alleyn, of course, who remained the perfect gentleman, irritatingly aristocratic, brilliant and unflappable. It appeared he never failed to solve a crime, with his small coterie of helpers to follow along, speaking in accents that were far less elegant. Once again, I knew if I’d been in one of these dramas, it would have been as the perky little Irish maid, who was maybe a bit too uppity for her own good.

  I hadn’t found myself yet, no dark-haired twenty-something woman with blue eyes “put in with a sooty finger.” But with thirty-two books, anything was possible. Maybe I’d show up as a Bridget or a Molly with a brogue that Marsh would capture phonetically.

  With the other characters, I had decided that Sergeant Fox was my favorite, large, occasionally burly, ginger haired (a good thing), solid in a crisis, he was the right-hand man. He reminded me of Uncle Mick, although clearly on the other side of the law. At least one of the Kelly family was on those pages. I loved the running gag about Fox studying French, which the upper-class Alleyn spouted effortlessly. There were clownish types flitting through the pages too. I wondered what Ngaio Marsh would have made of Uncle Kev.

  Smiling, I dressed for dinner.

  * * *

  WE DINE AT eight at a splendid Sheraton table in the formal dining room. Vera at one end, me at the other, Kev halfway between us. We are not late if we know what is good for us. I wore my knee-high boots to prevent Bad Cat from giving me some new scars. Tall boots were a wise choice, because Bad Cat’s claws raked at my ankles from the moment I took my seat. Good Cat watched benignly from the black walnut sideboard. Whenever the signora left the room, Good Cat would join Vera.

  Signora Panetone was ready for an army even though we were only three. The signora never joins us. She’s too busy serving, fussing and hovering. I’ve learned to accept this as the way it is and stay in my seat.

  Tonight the signora had promised tiramisu for dessert, my favorite.

  She began by serving homemade spinach fettuccine with a mild but savory tomato sauce and lots of fresh Parmesan. Kev and I each accepted a small mountain of it. Vera took a tablespoon, if that. The signora uttered her familiar bleats. “Eat, Vera! You need to eat.”

  Vera has selective hearing, and she never seemed to hear a word the signora said. Kev eased the situation by asking for seconds before I’d finished my first mouthful.

  Conversation turned to Ngaio Marsh and her work.

  Vera said, “Alleyn is the finest of all the detectives, in my opinion.”

  I was mindful of what happened not that long ago when I’d yanked Vera’s chain over Archie Goodwin from the Nero Wolfe books. Suggesting they should have been the Archie Goodwin books had been painful.

  “Mmmm,” I said. “I thought Marsh glorified the upper classes. The totally perfect Inspector Roderick Alleyn is proof of that in book after book.” I chose not to add that I thought he was a bit too upper class, too constrained, far too elegant, not to mention annoyingly calm. Of course, I liked Alleyn as a detective, but he didn’t have enough flaws for me to fall for him.

  Vera shot me a venomous look. “Absurd, even from you, Miss Bingham.”

  “I like his wife, the painter Agatha Troy, more.” I ignored the dirty look. “She’s a bit messy, compared to Inspector Perfection.”

  Vera scowled as I spoke. The signora edged closer to try to slide a bit more fettuccine onto the plate.

  I kept going. “And I like his mother. Alleyn had a warm relationship with her. I was kind of happy that he had a mother. Not enough detectives have mothers. Imagine her dining with the Dowager Duchess of Denver.”

  Even from the length of the table, Vera’s stare was chilly. “We read stories, Miss Bingham. We don’t make them up.”

  “But the Dowager Duchess is Lord Peter Wimsey’s mother and—”

  Vera sighed dramatically. “I know who she is. Sometimes you are too fanciful, silly, even. It’s all about Roderick Alleyn. He is the glue that holds the books together. I believe he was the love of her life.”

  “Even more than the theater? Do you think?”

  I imagined Alleyn looking a bit like Cary Grant (my mother’s favorite actor from back in the day): laid-back, elegant and intelligent. Not only was the gentleman detective soigné, he was very nice to his mother. It would be pretty easy to spend time with a sleuth like that. I could see an author being in love. But I couldn’t resist teasing Vera a bit. You’d think I’d learn.

  “I don’t know. Sergeant Fox also won me over, especially with his brave attempts to master the French language. Imagine how frustrating it would be, struggling with a language that came effortlessly to Alleyn.”

  “For heaven’s sake. Fox is an . . . afterthought.”

  “Oh, hardly.”

  “Cela suffit, Miss Bingham.”

  Maybe Vera thought that would do, but I couldn’t resist another little verbal engagement. “Poor Fox. I feel his pain. But should we be jealous of Agatha Troy, Alleyn’s wife? I think I might be, even if she’s a bit untidy and—”

  “I do not have emotions about fictional characters.”

  I was wise enough not to mention Nero Wolfe again.

  The signora arrived with pollo al limone served with rice and peas. “Not too much, thanks, Signora. I’m saving room for the tiramisu.”

  She inhaled sharply.

  The room went quiet. />
  “What?” I said.

  “Domani!” she said. “Tiramisu domani.”

  “But I saw it in the kitchen earlier. Why not tonight?”

  Vera stared at Good Cat. Kev stared at his feet. The signora said, “You eat lotsa fettucine! Spinach. And chicken. Very good.”

  “Let me guess. Something happened to the tiramisu.”

  “No, no, no, no!” The signora did a mad little dance around.

  Vera muttered, “Let it go, Miss Bingham.”

  Kev said, “It was an accident.”

  Of course.

  “An accident? Did it fall on the floor?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Did you accidentally eat it all?”

  He flashed his Kelly grin.

  “These things happen, Miss Bingham,” Vera said.

  “More tomorrow night,” the signora said, slapping several more pieces of chicken on my plate. “Tonight, cookies.”

  This all should prove my point about Kev.

  * * *

  AFTER DINNER, I returned to my Ngaio Marsh reading project on my cozy bed. The gently used paperbacks I’d located were not good enough for Vera, but perfect for me. I hoped that I’d get enough of a sense of the Roderick Alleyn stories to hold up my end of the conversation about the series at our coming luncheon. Someone would have to. Vera usually offered nothing more than a grunt for an entire meal, regardless of who she was dining with. Soon I was lost in A Man Lay Dead. Time flies when you’re having fun.

  * * *

  I COULDN’T BELIEVE how late it was. I needed to get a good night’s sleep. I cleaned my face and teeth, and I took a peek out the dormer window. This was one of my favorite things to do at bedtime when I was a child and watched the night sky with my uncles. From my little pink-and-white bedroom over Uncle Mick’s shop (Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques), the stars were magical and powerful. Uncle Mick could weave stories about the constellations. Looking back, I now think my uncles wanted to keep me from having nightmares. After all, I was a small girl whose mother had vanished and I lived with my bachelor uncles who were adorable, although undeniably crooked. I didn’t care. I loved it when Mick would point and have me do my five-year-old best to say Cassiopeia. The night might have been overcast with not a star in view, but I still had happy memories of watching the sky.