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Aggie Roque expected to be exhausted from the long day’s preparations and serving the guests. If anything, she felt energized.
The housekeeper was grateful the beef Wellington had been an unqualified success. Gladys had done an amazing job with the main course. The results of the vegetable ravioli were fair to middling the housekeeper judged. Not her best attempt to be sure. Still, Hazel sampled the dish and told Maisy she liked it so well she wanted the recipe, so that was something.
Sylvia finally called to touch base with the housekeeper twenty minutes before Mrs. Roque was about to serve the entrée.
“I’m not going to be able to make it over there until they restart the ferries.” The young woman sounded flustered and annoyed.
“Better to be late and still be, dear.”
Sylvia grunted a resigned response. The sound reminded Mrs. Roque of Seymore.
“At this rate, Ziola Nutt will be long gone before I get there, and I’ll miss my chance to pitch my book. I thought giving her a sample of my writing would be a sure way to get Dunn Wolf to publish my novel.”
“As far as I can ascertain, Ms. Nutt and her writers have only discussed matters pertaining to the business side of Dunn Wolf Publishing. Maisy said something about only the authors discussing next years new releases, but I’ll have to ask her for specifics. Hopefully by tomorrow, the storm will have passed, and you can get over here.”
“I hope so too, but I’m not holding my breath. I might have to come up with a new plan.” Mrs. Roque could just see Sylvia narrowing her eyes as she thought of some new strategy for getting her manuscript in front of the publisher.
The trouble was, the youngest Highmere couldn’t seem to focus on anything for more than a couple of months. If Sylvia put half this effort into her academic career, she would have achieved some sort of success by now. Come January, Mrs. Roque was sure Sylvia will have moved on to some other pet project. It was a good thing she received a living allowance from her sister.
“If they do restart the ferries tomorrow morning, make sure all your devices are charged and bring a car charger. We still don’t have any electricity.”
“Oh, good to know. Thanks Mrs. R.”
“You are welcome, dear.” She'd ended the call an left the kitchen to supervise dinner service.
Hours later, the rain had turned to a snow and sleet mix. The flashlight the housekeeper carried picked out the path to the carriage house. Mrs. Roque sighed as she walked across the yard to the wrought-iron gate. She travelled the brick walk slower than normal even though Seymore had the path shovelled free of snow. One could not be too careful when it came to ice buildup.
Maybe she was getting too old to handle all the cooking for large events? Her self-doubt had been the reason she’d asked Gladys to assist with the luncheon tasks and so on. She would continue to factor in the need for extra help in the budget, Aggie decided. It made for a less frantic time in the kitchen, and everything flowed smoothly for the staff and ultimately for their guests.
Tomorrow’s roast chicken was still a go, the chiller in the walk-in cooler was propane fueled so no food was spoiled. She also had an eggplant dish planned for Hazel and the evening meal. And Sylvia if she made it over.
These ferry cancellations were nothing if not inconvenient. They would have to make do with the fruit and vegetables on hand. There would be no delivery tomorrow from the market in Duncan.
Maybe she should ask Gladys to make up croissants for Monday’s breakfast. She’d have to run that by Gladys and Jane in the morning but didn’t think there would be any problem.
Jane’s cheesecakes had been well received too. Mrs. Roque had smiled when the empty dessert dishes had returned downstairs to the kitchen, all but licked clean. They wouldn’t ply the guests with intoxicants, but sugar was still available.
Mrs. Roque knew the reason behind Alicia’s stipulation on no alcohol to be served on the premises. It wasn’t about licencing; it was about addictions some of the family had fallen into. No matter what anyone, including herself, said publicly about what caused Olivia Frost-Highmere’s death, the family knew it was from alcohol abuse. No doubt partly, a causal influence in Sylvia’s addiction problem. However as far as Mrs. Roque knew, the youngest Highmere had been clean for almost two years.
Still, it was good this day was over. After dinner had been served, their guests moved back to the library. This gave the girls a chance to clean up and to prepare the breakfast room next door for tomorrow, while the housekeeper handled serving the guests coffee.
At least the gaggle of writers had behaved, and no fights broke out. The authors appeared to be on their best behaviour, even if some treated Ms. Nutt rather frostily.
Mrs. Roque had been quite shocked to hear about the behaviour Maisy had witness earlier and wondered at the thoroughness of Mr. Byrce’s background check into Dunn Wolf Publishing. Something to mention at the next monthly meeting.
There had been lots of ravioli left over. The three of them had taken turns at eating dinner. Mrs. Roque had gone so far as to let the girls finish the last two pieces of chocolate cheesecake as a bit of a treat.
By eight-thirty the housekeeper was dead on her feet, and she knew it. She departed for her apartment in the carriage house half an hour later. She left Maisy collecting the used dish clothes and kitchen towels for the laundry while Tiffany collected the coffee things from the library.
Once the kitchen cleaning was complete, and the girls ensured the china, and serving dishes were put away in their proper places, then Tiffany would be on her way home. She was scheduled to be back at six in the morning to let Maisy go home and help to serve breakfast. Both breakfast and lunch tomorrow were to be buffet affairs to lessen the need for both young women to be onsite at the same time. The stainless-steel chafing dishes were already set up in the breakfast room.
The pair would clock off a lot of hours this weekend, but it was a temporary thing. Someone had to be on the premises, at all times. The original plan had been to use the small office off the adjacent reception area and cloak room. Unfortunately, with no heat available in there, the kitchen was the best second option. It held the days heat, and the stove would be useful to make a hot drink if needed. In addition, as the heart of the house, it was easy to gain access to any area via the back stairs.
Mrs. Roque planned to be back at the main house kitchen for six o’clock the next morning too, to cook the breakfast buffet. The guests would expect the meal to be ready for eight o’clock. Gladys was coming over around ten o’clock to make the lemon mousse which was the alternate dessert for dinner that evening along with the remaining cheesecake selections. Sunday would be the big finale, the guests’ last meal together. There were still some details for resolve for the roasted pork tenderloin and baked salmon dishes. Monday, the group was scheduled to leave after breakfast. God willing, the ferries would be running by then.
Tomorrow, apparently there was some kind of writing workshop planned for the authors.
The gate did not squeak as she opened it. Seymore must have gotten around to oiling the thing’s hinges. Sand crunched under foot here too.
At some point Mrs. Roque hoped to run the kitchen and supply all the meals herself, but if the operating budget spread to having fresh baking and desserts from Jane’s café, why not? Also, why not employ the staff required when needed? In the past, the estate contributed as much as it could to the local economy of the village. And Mrs. Roque’s goal was to continue the tradition.
While this power outage was annoying, she was not going to let it sink her. If anything, this little bit of adversity would test her mettle and show Alicia she could handle the running of the house as a conference and event facility. With more than a touch of pride in her step, Mrs. Roque walked around to the side door of the carriage house.
She was met with an inquiring meow and a large damp calico.
“I wondered where you’d gotten to, Missy.” She let herself into her studio apartment and the cat followed. “You didn’t stop by the kitchen for your treat. Well, never mind you can have it now.”
Missy kept up a running commentary as Aggie led the cat into the mud room and filled her dishes with food and water. “I’m pleased you didn’t steal into the main house today.” A spoonful of wet cat food landed with a plop in the clean white ceramic dish. She added the small portion of roast beef shavings she’d saved for the feline too. Missy tucked into the food with no ceremony.
“It’s cold in here. We’ll have to turn on the gas fireplace to take the chill off.”
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Bertram Nutt descended the grand staircase with the help of the thick oak banister and a small pen light. He paused on the landing and freed up one hand so he could suck back a long swig from his silver flask.
As he swallowed the calming mouthful of gin elixir, he cast his gaze back up to the corridor which led to the east wing. Bertram had just come from that direction. He shook his head and let the light trail back down to the carpeted stairs he had yet to tackle.
He knew there would be no reasoning with Ziola, even before he’d made the final effort for a private chat in her room about her schemes. Her heart had always been too black for compromise, and nothing could change that fact now. He released a small sigh as his hand found the missive he’d taken from her bag. The streaming deal contract was tucked into his left breast pocket, next to the flask. He planned to read it over at his leisure.
Briefly, Bertram paused once more and contemplated doing something about the situation but decided against it. He didn’t carry a mobile phone, never seeing the need.
There was no love lost between him and his sister, and nothing over the years changed that fact either. They weren’t really family. Their relationship was that of boss and employee. He could make a fuss but decided to let everyone sleep instead.
Even now, at this point in his life, he couldn’t let go of the deep resentment he harboured toward Ziola. He despised her utterly, if he were honest.
As he thought about it, Ziola had never liked him much either. He’d wanted his big sister’s attention growing up, he’d idolized her for a time. However, she soon put shot to that. Any remaining attachment to her as family, dissolved when she’d stolen his first manuscript. It was funny, the incident was over twenty-five years ago, but he felt the betrayal like it was yesterday.
His sister had been the experienced writer back then. She offered to help him as his editor and beta reader rolled into one. At the time, her offer to review his documented history of Vancouver Island pleased him. His older sister was taking him seriously at last.
She was supposed to mark up the non-fiction work for edits and give him some advice on how to better frame the information to make it an interesting story. Not steal it from him.
How stupidly trusting he’d been. He’d ask her for an update every couple of weeks, and she would assure him she was slogging through the manuscript even with the constant delays she said got in the way. There was always some handy excuse as to why she wasn’t finished with the manuscript. Everything from dentist visits for a bad tooth, to the internet in her area was out, or a close friend was sick. Her lists of excuses were as long as both his arms.
And then, when the first book in the Pacific Strangers series was released, she tried to argue it was a collaboration between them. Wasn’t this a wonderful surprise? She adored working with him. He should be happy; they both would benefit.
Except Ziola held all the rights. He was named as a ‘contributor’ thus only receiving a pittance for his three years of research and painstaking documentation. And now the film rights were sold. Or video rights? He wasn’t sure about the nomenclature, but he did know he was out a bushel of money.
With the flask tucked into the inside pocket of his tweed coat, he continued down the last set of steps still clutching the railing, a touch unsteady.
Even now Bertram tightened his jaw at Ziola’s deception. And truthfully at his own gullibility. The streaming series option agreement, that was what it was called.
The actual full value of the agreement was over half a million dollars. He’d scanned the pages from Ziola’s giant purse before tackling the stairs. Not the only event to make him mildly ill upon discovery. Even so, he’d taken the document.
The lemon enhanced gin sloshed appallingly in his stomach. Suddenly he wished he hadn’t had seconds of the beef Wellington, although the meat had been superbly cooked.
Bertram wandered into the foyer. Setting his flashlight on the table beneath the mirror to shine upward, he checked the line of his jacket in the ornate antique reflection to the right of the staircase. Nothing gave away the fact he had a fifth of gin concealed about his person, nor the contract. Just as well he’d brought his own liquor supply, this place was as dry as the proverbial popcorn fart.
His own inspection of likely locations like the globe-shaped drinks cabinet in the library proved futile.
The red-head, Tiffany? He’d followed her back to the kitchen after everyone else had gone upstairs. She’d caught him in the pantry and ordered him out of the kitchen. He’d done some fast talking about trying to find the ground level washroom and was confident he’d fooled her.
Bertram tried to get into the wine cellar too, when he noticed the small brass plate above the doorway, but that room was locked. Inspired, he’d asked the formidable manager, Mrs. Roque if he could explore the lower levels of the house, as research. This idea was met with a firm, no.
Trust Hazel to find the only business conference centre which served non-alcoholic beverages. Ridiculous, in his opinion.
Of course, this place could have been Ziola’s idea. She sneered at him constantly for his occasional tipple. She, who also liked to buy her Merlot by the case. He raised his chin in a defiant manner. That woman was the cause a much of his life’s disappointment.
Just let her make a comment now, hah. Bertram sniffed with distain as he fluffed the yellow silk in his breast pocket and leaned forward to look at his face.
His eyes showed bloodshot lines around his irises, and his proud nose was a shade red. He could explain the eyes, reading too late. His nose was red from the cold, that was it.
Shoulders square, Bertram picked up his light. He did an about face and strolled to the library. The double doors were open, and the fireplace was still lit. At least he’d be warmer in the library. This room was more comfortable than his own in the west wing.
The grandfather clock along the north wall chimed the half-hour after nine as he crossed the room to one of the settees. He landed in the corner closest to the fireplace. Everyone had voted to turn in early so they could try to stay warmer in their rooms under the covers. Well, most of them anyway. Some of the writers had been moving around, of that he’d been certain. A door closing gave him the idea to drop in on his sister for a chat.
The help was no doubt ensconced in the kitchen. Staying warm and well fed by the propane stove which cooked that amazing roast beef. Vaguely, he wondered if there were any leftovers. His stomach released a gurgle, a warning not to even think about it. Best not to risk indigestion or worse. He glanced upward briefly.
Bertram rubbed his hands together to create some warmth. This barn of a house did not heat up much from the couple of fireplaces in operation. His fingers were numb, clumsy. He was tempted to close the pocket doors and keep what heat the fire created to himself but couldn’t be bothered to get up again.
With a sigh he settled in front of the fire. With one foot, he dragged the low table over in front of his bulk and extended his legs on top. Instantly the warmth sank in.
Bertram crossed his ankles and folded his hands over his paunch. Might as well grab a snooze while he waited.
He planned to stay put until someone found the body.
Just as Bertram was drifting off into a lovely comfortable slumber, there was a noise from upstairs. Not quite a shout, but close enough.
“Ah,” the man muttered to himself. “Here we go.”
His lips twitched and he sat forward on the couch, but he did not move to get up.
Not yet, he decided. He pulled out his flask and removed the plastic white cap.
One for the road. He swallowed and looked at the flask. Where had the outer silver cap gone?
