part0022

The Rigby library, in case you’re wondering, is humongous and grand. Lush velvet draperies in a deep burgundy adorn the bay window overlooking one of the gardens. Sporting the same upholstery, are twenty or so chairs scattered around this and that desk, occasional table, bookcase, and cabinet.

One such cabinet—cherrywood, I believe—houses Isobel Rigby’s Faberge Egg collection—Pierpont’s mother’s most cherished possession according to the house tours. Various antique clocks collected by Pierpont’s father Linus also feature prominently, but my favorite feature of library has always been the mile-high Italianate ceiling fresco. I fluttered a few fingertips to the cherubs overhead and made a bee-line for the Hemingway bookcase.

I was interested, of course, in uncovering that secret room Wilson had so adamantly poo-pooed. But first things first. Back on Friday, Coco had mentioned checking for Karen on top of the bookcase, and luckily I’m not afraid of heights. I climbed the rolling ladder attached to the monstrosity to take a look. And luckily I was holding on tight when Linus Rigby’s clocks chimed the hour.

Taken one at a time, each clock likely made far less noise than the grandfather clock in the drawing room. But as an ensemble? I endured the cacophony. Then I climbed down, wheeled the ladder a few yards farther along, and took another peek. I repeated this maneuver four times.

No Karen. But while I was up there, I tried to determine if any of the joists or brackets holding the bookcase to the wall might be linked to the workings of a secret doorway. Nothing that mechanically-uninclined Jessie Hewitt noticed. Ironically, the person who could have helped me with this was Karen.

“I miss you,” I whispered into the thin air.

I climbed down to study the bookcase from ground level. I scowled at the bookcase, I frowned at the bookcase, and inspired by Lucy and Goosie, I even took a good long whiff of the bookcase. “No stone left unturned,” I told the bookcase.

No book left unturned?

“A fake book!” I exclaimed and yanked the largest book from the shelf in front of me.

“In the movies that would definitely open Sesame,” I informed the bookcase, and calling my sanity even further into question, began pulling books out willy-nilly. I wasted a solid ten minutes in this fruitless endeavor, and another twenty returning everything to its proper place.

And speaking of fruitless, I backed up and flung my arms out wide. “Open, Sesame!” I demanded.

Sesame, in case you’re wondering, failed to obey.

Deciding there must be a better way to spend my time, I scanned the room for other options. The Chippendale desk in front of the bay window caught my attention, and lo and behold, none of the drawers were locked.

“Piers really needs to consider security,” I mumbled as I dove in.

I found a few hand-drawn charts and graphs scribbled on Rigby Enterprises stationary. “Are you important?” I asked the figures before turning my focus to the computer on top of the desk. “How about you?”

“Hello, Ms. Hewitt.”

I jumped ten feet and dropped the stationary.

“Abigail!” I tried smiling. “How nice to see you! I umm. I umm—” I decided to shut up.

A metal dish in one hand and her feather duster in the other, the housekeeper glided across the Turkish rug, skipped only the slightest beat avoiding the paperwork I had dropped, and placed the dish below the window. “Water for those infernal hounds,” she said as she stood up. “Gerald said you were in here.” She raised an eyebrow. “Reading.”

“Where is Gerald?” I asked all breezy-like and learned he was following the “infernal” hounds at a safe distance so as not to distract them .

Abigail’s eyebrow shot up another milli-inch. “And what have you been up to?”

I pointed down. “Snooping,” I said.

Was that a smile? “You’re as nosy as my husband,” she told me.

I sighed and bent down to pick up the papers, but Abigail insisted that was her job.

“Second drawer on the left,” I mumbled.

“I know.” She put the papers away, returned to her feather duster, and commenced dusting the clocks.

“Do you always dust on Sunday?” I asked.

“I always dust.”

“Were you dusting on Wednesday?”

“I always dust.” She moved to her right.

“Even when Pierpont isn’t here?” I persisted. “I understand he wasn’t home on Wednesday.”

She stopped dusting. “I do my job, whether or not Mr. Rigby is here.”

Of course she did. I apologized for insulting her work ethic, and Abigail asked me point blank what I wanted.

“I want to find Karen,” I said.

“And I want to help.” She waved to Lucy’s impromptu water dish. “Doesn’t that prove it?”

Good point. I explained the significance of the previous Wednesday, and Abigail caught on immediately. “You want to know where I was dusting,” she said and informed me Wednesdays are devoted to the east wing bedrooms. “My girls and I were upstairs.”

I pointed outside. “Do those rooms overlook Caesar’s gardens?”

“All rooms overlook Caesar’s gardens,” she said, and enlightened me the east wing bedrooms overlook the front of the mansion.

“So you saw Caesar weeding that day.”

“I did. He and his crew work around that atrocious Cupid on Wednesdays.”

I leapt forward and blocked the feather duster from the next clock. “What else did you see? ”

“Nothing! For instance, I didn’t see an unmarked car pull up, and two masked men hop out and shove Karen into the back.”

Well, darn. I was stepping aside to let Abigail finish her job when we heard a neighing at the window.

Abigail ran to the window and rapped violently. “Get out of Caesar’s zinnias, you infernal beast!”

“What’s Maybelline doing out there?” I asked.

Abigail ignored me. “Scat!” She continued rapping on the window. “Scat! Scat!”

Maybelline looked up and blinked placidly, and the housekeeper growled.

“Why do I know this has something to do with those infernal hounds?” she asked just as the infernal clocks chimed in the noon hour.

That got Maybelline moving. And a moment later we spotted someone on another horse galloping after her.

Abigail sighed in relief. “Wayne will handle it.” She stepped toward the Faberge eggs and opened the cabinet, and I watched the duster veritably fly over the collection.

“Have the dogs broken anything?” I asked.

“Not that they’re telling me.” Dust, dust. “I will be happy when this day is over.”

“And it’s Sunday, isn’t it?” I said. “We can look forward to watching PBS tonight.”

“I hate that stupid show.”

I shook my head. “I thought you and Gerald were big fans.”

“Gerald,” she said. “Gerald is the fan.”

Duly incredulous, I asked what she could possibly have against such a terrific series, and she told me she takes it too much to heart.

“I know it’s pretend,” she said. “But I worry about the maids. How did they ever keep that house clean with no electricity and no modern appliances?” She jiggled her feather duster. “With just this?”

“That kind of thing doesn’t bother Gerald?” I asked, and she harrumphed .

“Sometimes I think Gerald would prefer the good old days of chamber pots and getting water from a well.”

Lucy and Goosie bounded in and lapped it up, and by the time Piers, Al, and Haird entered, the dogs were well underway sniffing, snorting, and drooling.

Pierpont located Abigail. “Perhaps you’d like to leave?” he asked gently.

Gerald appeared in the doorway. “Shall we go below stairs, Abigail?” He, too, spoke gently, and the housekeeper allowed herself to be led away.

Meanwhile, Lucy and Goosie discovered the Hemingway bookcase, and in fact, were taking inordinate interest in it.

“I didn’t know they liked readin’ so much,” Haird said.

“Maybe they’re picking up Karen’s scent,” I said hopefully, but all three men informed me the dogs had picked up Karen’s scent just about everywhere.

Eventually Lucy gave up the search. She sat down at Haird’s feet and let out a wail that had to be the saddest thing I ever heard.

Haird knelt down. “We’d best be getting along,” he told us, “Lucy needs her pups.”

“Goosie, too,” Al agreed, and knees cracking, he knelt before the daddy.

I noticed Pierpont’s frown. Nevertheless he made an effort to sound upbeat as he thanked everyone for their efforts. “I’ll see you out,” he said, and Lucy sprang up. Goosie joined her, as did Haird, and even Al got there eventually.

“I’m leaving anyway,” he told Piers. “I’ll walk them out.” He turned to me. “You can come, too.”

I cleared my throat. “No thank you,” I said. “I’ll just stay and keep Piers company.”

Al may have been inclined to argue, but by then Lucy had lost all patience. She offered another heart wrenching howl, Goosie joined in, and Haird opened the library door.