Chesapeake Crimes: Invitation to Murder. Donna Andrews

would go.

      * * * *

      Thursday afternoon was dark and rainy. Miss Grayling wore her green woolen suit with the short tailored jacket. She believed in buying quality, classic clothing. Fashions come and go, hemlines rise and fall, but this suit was always in good taste. She checked her hat in the mirror, adjusted its feather to a more jaunty angle.

      She frowned. When had her hair, always fine, become so wispy? When had it lost its color so completely, appearing translucent?

      No time to be concerned about that now. She picked up her purse, gloves, and umbrella, and headed out her front door.

      For several days, uncouth workmen had been laboring in front of the house and in the side yard, digging a massive trench, pulling up sections of old clay pipe. Today they were nowhere to be seen. The trench was still there, covered by a tarpaulin. Perhaps the inclement weather precluded the possibility of outdoor work.

      A section of the sidewalk had been left intact, flanked on either side by crude barriers. Miss Grayling stepped carefully while unfurling her umbrella.

      So much of the sidewalk had been torn up that Miss Grayling was sometimes forced to walk in the street. She tried to avoid stepping in puddles and muddying her shoes. They, too, were of classic design, laced black shoes of fine leather with sturdy two-inch heels.

      Mrs. Bellingsworth’s house, similar to Miss Grayling’s own, was an ornate Victorian with stained-glass windows, festooned with gingerbread and covered with white clapboard siding. On the front porch, Miss Grayling shook off the drops of water and carefully furled her umbrella and fastened the strap around it before ringing the doorbell.

      The door was opened by a maid in uniform, who relieved Miss Grayling of her umbrella and stepped aside so Miss Grayling could enter.

      Miss Grayling’s family had employed housemaids when she was young. There had been a nursemaid whose job it was to see to the children’s welfare until they were old enough to leave home. Her brothers went off to boarding school. Miss Grayling herself never left, so the nursemaid eventually gave way to a governess, who finally moved on, too.

      Who had maids nowadays? Obviously, Mrs. Bellingsworth did.

      The well-lit entry way was every bit as grand as Miss Grayling remembered. No floating dust motes or faded carpet here. But now there was a chairlift snaking up the rail that curled along the staircase.

      “Good afternoon, Miss Grayling.” The maid gave a little curtsy. She indicated the entry to the parlor. “Please be seated. Mrs. Bellingsworth will join you shortly.”

      What kind of a greeting was that? Miss Grayling was responding to an invitation, not calling unexpectedly. Was she to wait for her hostess to appear? Most unseemly. Perhaps Mrs. Bellingsworth was making a statement about whose time was more valuable? She was tempted to reclaim her umbrella and leave.

      Then again, the delay could be inadvertent. Miss Grayling recalled the chairlift. Perhaps Mrs. Bellingsworth suffered from physical infirmities that did not respond to a convenient schedule.

      Still, she could have been offered refreshment while she waited.

      As the minutes ticked by—fifteen of them according to the clock on the mantel over the blazing gas fireplace—Miss Grayling began to worry if she had misread the time on the invitation, or mistaken the day.

      Just as she was about to summon the maid, a door opened and a woman in a wheelchair rolled through.

      Could this be Mrs. Bellingsworth? She looked so old! It had been years since they had seen one another. Miss Grayling was pleased that she herself had not aged so.

      “Good afternoon.” Mrs. Bellingsworth raised a lace-trimmed handkerchief to her mouth and coughed lightly. “I am delighted that you were able to make it this afternoon.”

      Miss Grayling sat stiffly. “Good afternoon. Thank you for the invitation.”

      “Ah, I do love a good, proper tea, don’t you?” Mrs. Bellingsworth took a small bell from among her skirts and rang it gently.

      A pocket door slid open and the maid stepped through.

      “You may serve tea now, Beatrice,” Mrs. Bellingsworth said.

      The maid nodded and withdrew, reappearing a few seconds later pushing an elaborate tea cart.

      “Please pour, Beatrice.” She turned to Miss Grayling. “I’m afraid my arthritic hands make some tasks difficult.”

      The maid proceeded to pour a cup of tea, add milk, and pass the cup and saucer to Mrs. Bellingsworth, who took a sip and placed it on a small side table.

      Didn’t Beatrice realize that guests should be served first, and that no one should taste the tea until everyone had been served?

      Mrs. Bellingsworth gave no indication that she was aware of such niceties.

      Beatrice poured another cup and looked at Miss Grayling. “Milk?” she inquired.

      “No, thank you. Have you any lemon?” Miss Grayling asked.

      “I’m sorry, no,” Beatrice said, not looking in the least bit sorry. “Sugar?”

      “Yes, please.”

      Beatrice lifted the lid off the sugar bowl and reached for the sugar tongs. “One lump or two?”

      “Two, please.”

      The maid drew out a misshapen lump of sugar and dropped it into Miss Grayling’s tea. When she attempted to extract a second lump the tongs slipped. The rest of the sugar appeared to have solidified. Beatrice pried at it, then hammered it with a side of the tongs.

      “One is plenty,” Miss Grayling assured her, wondering how long it had been since anyone had asked for sugar.

      Beatrice handed her the cup and picked up a plate of sandwiches, which she offered first to Mrs. Bellingsworth, who selected two.

      Hostess before guest? Most unconventional!

      Ignoring Miss Grayling, Beatrice set the plate down on the cart and reached for a plate of frosted tea cakes.

      Once again, she offered the plate to Mrs. Bellingsworth, then placed the tea cakes on the cart. She backed up a step, her hands folded behind her.

      This was too much for Miss Grayling. “May I have a sandwich, please?”

      Beatrice didn’t move, but her eyes flickered over to Mrs. Bellingsworth, who nodded. “But of course! Beatrice, pass the sandwiches to our guest.”

      Miss Grayling selected a single cucumber sandwich. What a strange affair this was turning out to be.

      The ladies sipped their tea in silence.

      Finally Mrs. Bellingsworth turned to Beatrice. “I know you have family matters to attend to, Beatrice. Go home now. You may clean up in the morning.”

      “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.” Beatrice gave a half curtsy, turned, and fled through the pocket door.

      Mrs. Bellingsworth watched her go, then put her cup down firmly in its saucer. “Now, Miss Grayling, perhaps we can get down to business.”

      “Oh?” Miss Grayling was not aware of any business to which they needed to attend.

      “Perhaps you are aware that I follow closely what is happening in our neighborhood. I have done so for many years.”

      “Indeed?” Miss Grayling was not aware of any such thing.

      “Oh, yes. Often I acquire bits of information that I don’t use at the time, but I keep them in mind. As a matter of fact, I keep notes. Dates, newspaper articles, scraps of conversation. I file them away. I have several file cabinets full, in fact. People have secrets, you know.”

      What a busybody! Miss Grayling wondered what Mrs. Bellingsworth had in the files about her family, most of whom were deceased.