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Gladys glanced over her right shoulder as the door opened. “How’s it going?”
Aggie Roque walk past the pantry and into the kitchen proper. She stopped abruptly.
When the older woman said nothing, but stared at Gladys, she returned her attention back to arranging sliced strawberries on a flan base.
“What is that on your head?” Mrs. Roque demanded.
“A headlamp, Aggie. Welcome to the twenty-first century.” She smiled to soften her response. “These high-arched windows don’t let in much light. And I find those windup lanterns next to useless.” The headlamp actually belonged to her friend, Arlie Birch. He’d dropped by the big house kitchen briefly after the power had gone out. Partly, she suspected to check on her and partly to give her the light. His excuse had been to get her keys to check on her cat. She let him have his little fiction, it touched her the man was concerned for her. It was also cute how he’d gently adjusted the lamp so her curly grey hair was out of the way, and not caught under the strap. “All is going well?”
Mrs. Roque shook her head slightly at the sight of Gladys’ head gear. “Yes, as good as I anticipated.” The other woman sounded neutral if not pleased. “The lunch is going fine. Maisy and Tiffany work well together.” She took the salad dishes over to the dishwashing counter and deposited the load to be dealt with later.
Gladys made agreeing noises and slid the plate of sliced kiwi closer to the dessert construction. Deftly, she arranged the green fruit to allow the red strawberries to peek through.
Aggie Roque could be a tough taskmaster, so any type of praise was a good thing. Gladys planned to share the compliment with the girls later.
Straightening from leaning over the kitchen island Gladys walked over to the washing up sink. Put in the plug and turned on the water. “Maisy is grateful for the opportunity to work with you.” She nudged the lantern on the counter, to shine on to the running tap.
“I wish I could get by with just myself and one other, but it’s a lot of work looking after this many people for three days.”
Gladys added liquid soap to the sink. “Especially now the electricity is out. You’re also not as spry as you used to be either.”
“True, and Tiffany has good references and a good work ethic like Maisy. She’s great with the paperwork, Tiffany got all the registrations processed before the power went out. Efficiency is important too.”
“Yes, exactly.” Gladys rinsed a dish.
The housekeeper sighed causing Gladys to glance her way. Mrs. Roque had begun the process of setting up the manual perk coffee pot to be ready before the dessert went out.
“Problem?” Gladys prompted. She went back to the kitchen island to begin ferrying bowls and utensils to load into the sink.
“I’d like to ask the girls to shut off their phones while they are working. Those devices are so disruptive, and they distract them from their work. We need this weekend to run smoothly.”
Gladys lifted her eyebrows but didn’t remark on the royal ‘We’ she heard in Aggie’s tone. God love her, Aggie Roque liked to put on airs of importance once in a while. No doubt because she worked for ‘the family’ in the ‘big house’.
Instead, Gladys focused on the mild criticism. “If you told them to shut off their phones, I doubt you’d get anyone to work here at all. These days most people feel they have to keep in touch at all times. It’s just a fact of life now.”
“Mobile phones do have an off button, you know.” The housekeeper’s tone was lofty. Coffee made, Mrs. Roque crossed to the gas stove and put the pot on a back burner to percolate. She then went to the island to inspect the newly assembled dessert. “But you’re right about the phones, I suppose.” She gave each round platter a turn. “These are lovely, Gladys.”
“Thank you.”
“The most I insist upon is their devices must run on quiet mode. I don’t want to hear a bunch of pings and pongs while they are serving our guests.”
“Mm, I understand, and I completely agree.” Gladys began rinsing dishes in the first sink and then dropped them into the second with hot water and soap. “Jane has the same rule.”
“Are these desserts ready now?”
Gladys returned to the work area and gave the displayed fruit selection one more final tweak and called it good. “Yes, the flans are ready to be served whenever you want them taken to the dining room.”
“Good, I’ll just whip the cream to put on top. The diners are still on their soup course. We have lots of time yet.” The housekeeper snagged the lantern off the counter and placed it beside the commercial stand-mixer.
Gladys pursed her lips as she looked at the electric appliance but said nothing. The housekeeper wasn’t planning on using the appliance, surely.
The flans, one a medley of different fruit, the other was comprised of only strawberries with dark chocolate drizzled over them. These Gladys placed on the counter by the door which led up a series of five steps and the short hall to the dining room door.
The cheesecakes were waiting to be served after each of the two evening meals. No expense had been spared. Aggie’s guests might have to be rolled out the door at the end of the three days. At least the fruit would be a break from refined sugar.
Mrs. Roque went to a wall cupboard and extracted, what to Gladys looked like a medieval torture device of wire and stainless steel. She walked over to get a better look. “I haven’t seen one of those mechanical wire whisks in years. Decades.”
Sliding open the glass-front fridge, Mrs. Roque extracted a stainless-steel bowl of whipping cream. She placed the bowl on the counter next to a canister of icing sugar.
“Ah.” Gladys realized the housekeeper’s plan was. “Chantilly whipped cream, that’s a nice touch.”
“This hand mixer was my mother’s. I never throw away anything and with a power outage like this, it will come in handy.” The housekeeper dusted the liquid whipping cream with a quarter cup of the powdered sugar. “The Cuisinart is next to useless right now.”
“Too true.”
The two-way door opened as Maisy pushed it with her hip and came in with a tray of used soup plates and utensils. She saw her grandmother and smiled, then crossed to the dish sink.
Gladys went over to give her a hand with the chore.
“Well, it won’t be a boring weekend, I don’t think.” Maisy’s tone was understated as she began unloading her tray.
“Really?” Her grandmother began to rinse the new load of dishes. “What’s happening?”
Mrs. Roque had begun turning the crank on the manual beaters to whip the cream. The noise was significant and combined with the chugging of the coffee percolator, Gladys was sure their conversation was drowned out.
Maisy shook her head as the pair worked companionably together. “I don’t think any of those people like each other very much. Especially the brother and sister. Talk about snarky, nasty remarks, wow. I could put this all in a book.”
They both glanced at Mrs. Roque who was concentrating on her task.
“I suppose, as long as you change the names to protect the guilty.”
“Maybe.” Maisy gave her grandmother a wink and then exited with a clean tray.
Gladys took a white cotton cloth from the stack by the utility room door and the sanitizer spray bottle to clean the kitchen island countertop.
Seconds later, Tiffany entered the kitchen carrying in yet more plates and glasses.
Gladys crossed to the kitchen door to help the girl. She frowned, Tiffany’s pale complexion sported twin red spots, one for each cheek. “I can take that.” She moved to the counter next to the oversized sink and after setting down the tray, looked back at the young woman. “Is everything all right, Tiffany?”
She blinked, shook her head and mutely moved to the pantry.
Gladys' lips twisted in puzzlement, but she said nothing as she finished dealing with the last sandwich plates. It was a good job the big house used a propane water heater. The dishwasher was no use, and heating water on the stove was fiddly.
Gladys heard Tiffany heave a shaky sigh and glanced the young woman’s way.
Tiffany met Gladys’ eyes as she picked up a full crystal decanter of white wine. “Everything is going well.” Her tone sounded flat to Gladys’ ear.
Determining the plates could soak for a moment, Gladys walked over to the pantry. She looked up at the tall redhead. “I meant with you. You seem a bit upset. Did someone say something to you?”
Dark brown eyes blinked, and Tiffany shook her head. “No, nothing like that. The power is out at home too. I was thinking about my family, my mother is on oxygen.” Her voice trailed away.
Gladys scoured her memory but couldn’t recall exactly what Belinda Zach’s illness was. Not that it mattered. “You should give them a call, make sure everything is all right then.”
Tiffany shifted her eyes sideways to where Mrs. Roque was in a whipping cream frenzy. “We aren’t supposed to make personal calls during work hours.”
“You never mind Mrs. Roque’s rules. Sometimes she forgets we are human beings and not just employees, or in my case, contractors.” Gladys sniffed. “Go call your family. I’ll cover for you.” Gladys put her hand out for the wine decanter.
The young woman hesitated for only a moment, then she thrust the drink into Gladys’ hands and bolted for the back doorstep.
Smoothly, Gladys glided past Mrs. Roque and out the door leading to the dining room. She wasn’t exactly dressed for serving guests, in her flour sack apron over her usual jeans and flowered top. Still, most people ignored the staff in her experience anyway.
As she reached for the push plate of the other two-way door into the dining room, it swung opened and she had to jump back, or the wine would have gone sailing out of her hands.
“Oh, good.” Maisy took the wine from her grandmother. “Mr. Nutt has run dry again. I don’t think he knows the wine is non-alcoholic,” she said in a low whisper and then gave her grandmother an impish grin. “And I’m not going to tell him either.”
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At three o’clock, Maisy was directed to serve refreshments to the guests. As she approached the library, she could hear raised voices. She couldn’t make out what was being said, but the volume could not be ignored. Could they still be arguing about the same topic from lunch?
Straightening her spine, Maisy quietly opened the library door wide and entered pushing the tea cart. The smell of the oiled leather, beeswax, and ancient paper greeted her. So too, the cozy aroma of the burning fire.
Briefly she wondered what it would be like to curl up with a book on the settee and absorb the heat as she closed the door. A log shifted and the wood crackled behind the massive brass firedogs in the grey slate fireplace. It was noticeably warmer in the dining room, kitchen, and here in the library, but the halls were at least five degrees colder.
Maisy rubbed her hands together to warm them up. She had been instructed to get in and get out as quickly as possible, unless she was asked to stay and serve. Otherwise, the guests could look after themselves. There was still a lot to do with regard to the evening’s dinner prep.
Her grandmother had stayed and helped clean up after lunch, since washing dishes had reverted to the old school method but was now gone.
Mrs. Roque had given both her and Tiffany detailed instructions on how to comport themselves around the guests. Eyes downcast and don’t speak unless spoken to.
Sure, like this was the 1900’s or something.
Maisy kept this thought to herself in front of Mrs. Roque. No point in rocking the boat, as Arlie had told her. “It’s important in your work life to learn how to ‘play the game’. Each employer has rules and opinions you might not agree with, but you still have to follow. When you are the boss, you can change the rules.” Arlie always had good advice.
Not that it mattered in front of these people. The heated conversation kept going as Maisy pushed the wheeled trolley into the room. She continued with the cart of hot and cold beverages along with plates of cookies, small cakes, and scones over to the sideboard along the windows.
Rain cascaded down the large windowpanes in a never-ending waterfall. It was brighter in here, and easy to see the storm’s full strength as it bashed itself against the rocks along shore.
There was only so much light the windup LED lanterns could give out. One sat in the middle of the table between the couches and another on the mantel.
The windows had their drapes open, allowing defused light to streamed in. The dark black clouds were effectively blocking the fading December sun.
Maisy glanced across the room and found Ziola, Hazel, Angela, and Bertram clustered around the fireplace sitting on two couches or what her grandmother sometimes called davenports.
While Max Lintlaw and Kent Westham had repositioned a pair of scarlet winged-back chairs to one end of the settees to form a horseshoe around the fireplace.
Mrs. Roque would not be happy about the guests moving the antique Queen Anne chairs, let alone the drag marks across the red and gold Persian carpet. Normally, the matched set bracketed a round table and fit into the niche in front of the bay window. Not that Maisy was going to say anything to anyone. As long as nothing was ruined, why did it matter?
“What do you mean you’re changing the royalty percentages?” Max was leaning forward in his chair, long fingered hands resting on his knees as he pinned the publisher in the corner of the settee with his frown. Or rather tried too. Ziola Nutt’s look completely unmoved by his glower.
Ah, so a new topic. Maisy began moving teacups and saucers from the bottom shelf and placing them on the crisp white fabric runner on the sideboard.
“I just can’t believe this.” Angela was shaking her head. Her green-streaked and black hair swung over her shoulders. “It’s too high handed, even for you, Ziola.” Maisy noticed for the first time Ms. Oakla had painted her fingernails a dark green too. She decided she like the shade.
“Dunn Wolf Publishing is already taking fifty-five percent of our sales now. Increasing your cut to sixty doesn’t make financial sense for most of us. We might as well go the self-publishing route.” Max’s distain for this business decision was evident.
“It’s a good thing most writers have day jobs.” Bertram’s glum face perked up when he spied Maisy at the other end of the room. No doubt the prospect of further refreshments did the trick.
“Go ahead and self-publish.” For her part, Ziola Nutt seemed unconcerned with the anger swirling around her. “You won’t do any better than staying with me. In fact, you’ll do much worse. I have the distribution contracts. I have the network platform built to leverage my relationship with each vendor. You won’t be able to get into bookstores without me.” If anything, she was smug. “Besides, it isn’t me who is demanding the increase.” Ziola Nutt waved away Lintlaw’s argument. “It’s the other partner in Dunn Wolf. They say we aren’t covering our costs.”
“Is it possible to see Dunn Wolf’s financial statements?” Kent asked. “Maybe there is something I can do.”
Ziola gave him a long quizzical look. “No, and no there isn’t.” She turned her head to look the group of authors over with a disdainful eye. “Dunn Wolf is a business, not a charity.” These words were said with a patronizing tone, like none of the other authors could understand anything she was saying.
“I really think we need to stop—” Hazel interjected.
“Stop Ziola? Good luck.” Bertram tucked away his silver flask as he rose to his feet. The author's face was flushed, his nose was a particularly reddish hue. The argument must have been going on for some time.
“You stop, Bertram. Your manners are insufferable,” his sister snapped.
Maisy hated to interrupt the conversation, this was private business, and she could just leave them to get their own refreshments.
Bertram sent a dismissive wave toward Ziola. He turned and wandered over to Maisy and she took the opportunity to ask for direction. “I hope it’s all right that I brought in the tea and coffee?” Maisy asked, looking at first Bertram and then at Ziola Nutt.
“Of course, of course, I was becoming peckish myself anyway. Your timing is very near perfect.” Bertram folded his hands behind his back to peruse the offered refreshments. Maisy handed him a small plate to collect some treats.
“Anything to warm us up. This place is a refrigerator.” The publisher’s tone was cutting as she wiggled herself forward on the settee in preparation for rising to her feet.
Bertram slowly pivoted his bulk toward his sister. “For you, that would be impossible. Your heart is as cold as a ditch digger’s well. You should be the soul of generosity. You’ve had every advantage.” Then he shook his head, lips curled back into an unpleasant expression. Bertram walked stiffly away to the bay window to look out at the storm as he nibbled one of the cookies he'd selected.
Ziola lifted her chin in an arrogant manner and turned her head away from her brother.
Maisy swallowed but felt something had to be said. “I’m sorry if you are cold. The power outage is village wide. It’s worse on Vancouver Island, there are thousands of people without electricity.”
Tiffany had brought her and Mrs. Roque up to date after her call home to her father. The widespread storm had knocked power out in most major centres. The worst was the smaller areas who relied on power lines strung on poles for electricity. The massive trees the area boasted were the culprits. With the rocky soil, shallow roots had let go. Many giant cedars had fallen to block roads and pulled down the power lines.
The utility had told Mrs. Roque it could be days before electricity was restored. Crews had to get the trees out of the way first before the lines could be repaired.
Maisy was not going to mention any of this to the guests. There was enough anger in the room as it was. So, she smoothly continued to set out the tea things on the sideboard.
“It’s the storm.” Angela said nodding knowingly at the other writers.
“Yes, thank you Angela, we’d about figured that out.” Ziola’s tone was dry as she pushed her bulk out of the cushions and made her way forward to the refreshments. “Miss,” Ziola addressed Maisy. “Will there be any problem with dinner tonight?” The publisher’s eyes drilled into Maisy, and she froze for a moment.
Then the younger woman lifted her chin. “None at all. Our kitchen appliances are run off propane. Dinner will be served at seven. Drinks will be available in here, at six. The library has the largest fireplace, and our groundskeeper will keep the wood box well stocked.”
Ziola sniffed and filled a plate to overflowing from the offered baking.
Max Lintlaw walked over to the sideboard and selected a teacup and saucer combination from the tray. “Tea for me, please.” He gave Maisy a pleasant smile as she took his cup and filled it. She breathed shallowly through her mouth around the man. He used way too much cologne, and the scent made her nose itch.
Completely unaware of her reaction, she watched him take a cake plate and add selected treats, one of each, of the Victorian sponge cake and cookies before taking a serviette. Finally, he took the china cup Maisy had filled for him from the large black and white china teapot. “Thank you.” He returned to his chair to enjoy his laden plate.
“Upstairs will be freezing.” Hazel leaned back in her seat. “There aren’t any fireplaces in the rooms.”
“I am sorry, no, not anymore.” Maisy poured coffee for Angela who had come up next. “All the bedrooms had been converted to electric heat some time back.” Well before Maisy came to Musgrave Landing if the size and construction of the floorboard heaters were any clue. “The house was built in 1908, when coal boilers were the main method for heating.”
“Gang, maybe we should just go home?” Hazel addressed the other authors. Her tone was full of concern.
“What time is the next ferry?” Kent offered Maisy his teacup for filling.
“I’m sorry, all ferries are cancelled. Probably until after the storm has passed. We were told the service will be back in operation as soon as BC Ferries can. We are all in the same boat, I’m afraid.”
Everyone now had a cup of something in their hands, even Bertram, although he’d topped his tea up with the contents of his flask.
The others also held a cake plate or balanced it on the arm of a chair or on their knee. Maisy edged toward the door hoping to make her escape.
“You can stay to top us up as needed.” Ziola was holding her cup out to Maisy and waved it at the large teapot. “Same again, milk, no lemon.”
“Of course.” Maisy so wanted to roll her eyes at the woman’s attitude. She went to the trolley to pick up the teapot and began refills, offering the milk and sugar from a small tray as she went.
No wonder Mrs. Roque said to keep their eyes downcast when dealing with the guests. “Don’t make eye contact, girls. It makes things easier all round.”
“What did you mean, Bertram?” Kent stood and crossed the room to stand a few feet from the man. “You’ve intrigued me. Earlier you said Ziola should be generous. Tell us why you think that should be the case?”
Kent had abandoned his dishes on the seat of the Queen Anne chair. Maisy walked over and extracted them for placement on the bottom of the tea trolley. She looked back to see what the man had done with his napkin but realized he still held the thing. Rolling the paper into a ball between his palms as he waited for the publisher’s brother to answer him.
Bertram grunted. “Not my story to tell.” Although he sounded like he wanted to be prodded into it.
“If you know what’s going on, you need to tell us,” Angela said to Bertram.
He waggled his bald head side to side and then pivoted on his heel to take in the room.
Maisy quietly collected used plates and listened with interest. No way was she leaving now.
“Ziola has some smashing news.” Distain and bitterness coated Bertram’s words. “Aren’t you going to tell everyone your news, Pet?” He waved the flask about has he spoke.
“I was waiting for an opportune moment.” Ziola selected a third lemon filled delight from her plate, ignoring her brother’s suggestion, stalling.
Bertram lifted his chin and breathed in deeply. His exhale was harsh. “Let me help you then. Everyone, pay attention.”
The other four people focused on the large man. “Ziola has been approached by Aticus Blackwing of WingDing Productions.” It took Bertram a second attempt to put the silver cap decorative cover back over the inner white which sealed his flask. “She is currently in negotiations to turn the Pacific Strangers books into a streaming series.” He made to slip the flask into his jacket pocket and gave the group of authors an owlish slow blink.
Max was on his feet and moved forward to grab Bertram by the arm. “Are you completely serious?”
“Of course I’m completely serious.” Bertram extracted his sleeve from the other man’s grasp. “We are all owed a substantial amount of money from this deal in my mind.”
The other three by the fireplace began to comment on this bit of news, however Bertram held up his hands for silence. “Unfortunately for us, Ziola has no plans to share the royalties with the likes of us.”
“What?” Max rounded on Ziola. “We all worked on those books. We have a right to the profits too.”
“I own the rights.” Ziola calmly licked frosting off her index finger. She kept her eyes averted from the five authors. To Maisy it seemed as though the publisher wasn’t in the least worried about the others reaction. As if she couldn’t be bothered with the rest of them, the group of lesser beings were of no consequence to her.
“You can’t do that. She can’t do that, can she?” Angela looked to Max.
“I’ll be contacting my agent.” Max gave Ziola a pointed look which she waved away. “You should too, Angela. We all need to.” He stepped close to the fire, putting his back to the flames.
“I’ll be contacting my lawyer, for sure.” Hazel took a drink from her coffee cup.
Kent strode over to stand in front of Ziola. He gave her a narrowed-eye look. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us.”
She gave him a bored sigh. “There is nothing you can do about it. I own the controlling interest in the company, I own the contracts, and I own the video rights to my books.” She looked pointedly at Hazel. “You were all merely consultants.”
In a quiet intense voice Kent stated, “Even if we weren’t credited for our work, you still owe us.”
“Bertram,” Hazel got to her feet and slowly advanced across the carpet to stand beside Max as though they were in solidarity. “When did you find out about this deal?”
For the briefest of moments Bertram looked uncomfortable. Then he cleared his throat and continued with forward momentum. “I found out by accident. Ziola was dining with Blackwing at the Shipping News restaurant two nights ago. I was in the bar. He passed her a bunch of papers.” He shrugged beefy shoulders. “I got curious.”
Maisy refilled the serving plates of scones, biscuits, and cookies from the lower tray of the trolley. At the mention of the exclusive restaurant in Victoria, she picked up the larger pot and walked around to refill cups for those who had coffee and allowed her to stretch out her time in the room. Things were getting interesting.
Bertram turned his frosty gaze on his sister. “I saw you.”
“So what?” Ziola snagged another frosted sugar cookie. “My deal has nothing to do with you.”
“I made my way over to speak to Blackwing while you were trying to get chatty with Imogen McKnight. Why you’d want to waste your time with an internet gossip blogger is beyond me.”
“Bertram, focus.” Hazel snapped her fingers at him and advanced on the man to poke him in the shoulder. “What did Blackwing tell you?”
The bald man compressed his lips as he frowned at Hazel. He moved back a step from Ziola’s assistant, to take command of the room again.
Apparently, Bertram liked dramatics the same as his sister. Maisy moved past them both and took up her station by the cart where she had the best view of all of the guests.
Bertram cleared his throat; he wasn’t happy to have his story interrupted. “Just what I said, try and keep up.” Once he had everyone’s attention he continued, “As well as taking an option out on the film rights, his company has contracted Ziola to be the on-set consultant for the initial thirteen-episode season. With an option to expand the contract after the series is picked up by Netflix or Prime or some other streaming service.”
After a brief shocked silence, these words caused a new wave of outrage from the rest.
“The amount of money this means is...it’s huge.” Angela flung up her hands.
“I know there is a copy of the contract in her immense handbag. She was reading it while we drove here.” A gleam entered Bertram’s eyes. He was pleased to have upstaged his sister.
Ziola was busy glaring daggers back at her brother. “This wasn’t your story to tell. You are always stealing my thunder. I planned to make the announcement at dinner.”
“At least I don’t steal from you.”
A gasp of outrage expelled from Ziola’s massive chest. She gained her feet and stalked up to him and hissed in his face. “I have never stolen—”
“You did, and you know it.” He shook his beefy index finger in front of her nose. “You stole my work from me!”
Hazel crossed to Ziola’s former seat. The mentioned bag was on the floor, propped up against the sofa. She rummaged around inside the purse. “Ah ha!” She extracted a sheaf of papers. “Two hundred thousand dollars.” Hazel shook the paperwork at Ziola.
Ziola swung around and bared her teeth at her assistant. “How dare you?” She marched back to Hazel and snatch the bag and contract out of her assistant’s hands.
As bedlam erupted, Maisy made a discrete getaway.
