In Like Flynn (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #4)

Meaning that the room needed a lot of black swathing and lackof light to perform their tricks, I decided. I was interested to see what they would do in a room that had not been rigged up first.

I sat beside Belinda and Clara in the backseat, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. I was wearing one of those instruments of female torture called corsets. Unfortunately Theresa had sent the maid, Alice, up to help me dress for the occasion. Since I didn't want the maid to swoon at the sight of an uncorseted woman, I had had toendure holding onto the bedpost while she tugged at various lacesas if wrestling with a reluctant stallion and finally brought my waistline down to acceptable standards. Not without criticism, however.

“Why, miss, your waist is almost as broad as my own,” she said in a disapproving voice. “The mistress’s waist can be spanned by the master’s hands, and she has delivered two children, you know.”

“We don't go in for corsets much in Ireland,” I said. “We find them too restricting.”

“Mercy me. You just run around with your insides flopping all over the place?” She finished hooking the low back of my ball gown. “It must indeed be a wild, heathen place.”

So now I was sitting in the car, trying hard to breathe. I certainly wouldn't be able to eat a morsel at dinner. And the corset was just the latest in a line of faux pas committed this day. I had been summoned to play croquet and had appeared on the lawn—gasp—without a parasol.

“Molly!” Theresa had exclaimed. “You'll get freckles.” As if I didn't have enough already from a lifetime in the open air. Then I had whacked the croquet ball in an unlady like manner and—gasp again—sat on the grass, where I should surely get a chill and die of pneumonia. As we bumped up the driveway in the automobile,I found myself very glad that I was not a conventional young lady and that I had grown up wild and heathen!

All in all it had been a frustrating day. I was itching to get to work and question anyone who might have known Bertie Morell, or even do some snooping in the Sorensen Sisters' cottage, but Theresa had kept me close beside her every moment. She had babbled incessantly about plans for dressmakers and what colors really did justice to red hair, making me so hot and uncomfortable that I could hardly endure another moment. But she seemed so lively and animated that I hadn't the heart to stop her. Barney had hoped I'd be doing her some good and it seemed as if this was indeed so. I just wasn't doing the job for which I was being paid.

The driveway went on and on, with the dark shapes of trees looming on either side of us before we came to the gate—a tall, wrought-iron structure that was opened for us by the a burly gatekeeper. Then another half mile of darkness bouncing down an unpaved road with not a single light visible until we turned in at another fortresslike gateway to Riverside, the Van Gelders' mansion. Riverside had none of its neighbor’s extravagance of design. It was a square brick residence, with simple eighteenth-century lines and white shutters. As our wraps were being taken from us, Mrs. Van Gelder came out into the hallway to meet us.

“I am so delighted that you have agreed to grace our home, Mrs. Flynn,” she said, embracing Theresa. “And you, Senator. We are honored.”

While Theresa was presenting the rest of us, Mrs. Van Gelder’s eyes were darting around. “You didn't bring the rest of your party? The Misses Sorensen are not coming after all?”

“We've sent the auto back for them,” Theresa said. “It only seats five at the most and they were not quite ready”

“Ah, splendid. Do come and meet my husband. Theo—our neighbors are here!”

She led us through to a rather austere reception room where Roland Van Gelder and his father waited. The elder Mr. Van Gelder’s face seemed to be frozen in a severe and permanent scowl. The scowl didn't waver as we came in.

“Mrs. Flynn. Senator,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “Good to have you here. How’s the reelection campaign going?”

“Hasn't really started yet,” Barney said, “and how about you? Will you be running again, or are you thinking of handing your seat over to the younger generation?”

“Roland?” Van Gelder glared at his son. “He couldn't run an egg-and-spoon race.”

“Really, Father, I must protest,” Roland said. “You haven't exactly educated me for much, have you? If I'd studied law at Harvard—”

“You need brains to study law. Unfortunately, you've inherited your mother’s scatterbrain mentality. Not your fault, I suppose, but not the stuff that politicians are made of.”

Roland frowned at his father, helped himself to a generous amount of whiskey, and made his way over to Belinda. The rest ofis stood around awkwardly.