The Marsh Madness

“Indeed,” I said and left it at that.

All the time we were talking, the signora was beckoning me to the dining room. I was dead beat after the days we’d had and the relief of Lucas’s capture. My black clothes were muddy from the ravine. My hair was a mess from the balaclava. And I was pretty fried from the encounter with Lucas and his gun.

“Stop fussing, Fiammetta. Let her take a breath. We are not going to the dining room. Have a bath, Miss Bingham,” Vera said. “Relax. Fiammetta will bring your meal to your room. This once we can dispense with protocol and, please, don’t feel you must eat anything.”

The signora crossed herself.

Vera added, “But I should warn you: Fiammetta will not rest until you do.”

“Thank you, Vera.” I was proud that I didn’t make a single remark about the fact it was three in the morning. Not a time to eat, you might think, but then you might not have quite the same delivery service.

She added, “I don’t think it will be necessary for you to arrive for breakfast at eight. Whenever you’re ready will be fine.”

I managed not to fall over at that. But it was good. I decided that Uncle Kev hadn’t filled Vera in on the particulars of my connection to the killer. Just as well. I’d have to own up soon enough, once I’d had some sleep. At that moment, all I could do was grin like a fool.

“And Miss Bingham.”

“Yes, Vera?”

“You know, I really do believe that this all calls for a party. Fiammetta has enough to feed the multitudes between one freezer and the other.”

Maybe I was already dreaming.


*

THE EVENING MOOD was festive, in the way that the dropping of criminal charges and getting a murderer locked up can lift the spirits. I’d had a happy week to recover, catching up on my sleep with Walter, Good Cat and—although that may have been a dream—even Bad Cat.

Although we usually dine at eight (and not one minute later, Miss Bingham), tonight we were in a formal mood. Our dinner would take place at nine, and we were enjoying what Vera referred to as preprandial libation in the rarely used parlor next to the dining room. The evening light added a glow to the proceedings, as did the blaze in the fireplace. Tonight Vera had pulled out all the stops. As a rule, on a cool April evening, we’d be bundled up in Van Alst House, but you’d never have known it on this occasion.

Vera seemed marginally less grumpy than usual, which is her way of showing euphoria. It seemed that the executor of the estate had agreed to let Vera have the Marsh books once they were no longer required as evidence. The executor felt this would be an appropriate expression of gratitude for our part in catching Chadwick’s killer and his accomplices. Vera had on the blue silk blouse I had purchased for her to celebrate an earlier narrow escape. I think she was wearing it to send a message to me. The message was received with pleasure. The fact our troubles had been caused by a person from my past was not a problem.

“Let us not forget Muriel Delgado, Miss Bingham,” she had said by way of absolution.

I was not likely to forget our nemesis from last fall.

Kev was buzzing about like a demented wasp. He’d just finished showing Cherie every nook and cranny of the house. I was pretty sure she already knew the place, but why rain on his parade? I hoped she’d enjoyed the dumbwaiter and the spiders in the attics.