"Mayhem and mischief return to the Pennyfoot Hotel!"
Reviewed by Sharon Galligar Chance
Posted January 5, 2011
Mystery Cozy
No one does Christmas quite like the staff of the Pennyfoot
Hotel, where excitement and intrigue are always around
every corner.
This year, as friends, family and guests converge on the
Pennyfoot for the holiday season, Cecily Sinclair Baxter is
up to her ears in preparations to make this Christmas
special. Cecily is especially excited for her best friend,
Madeline, will be joining them for the holidays with her new
baby. But as in years past, bad luck seems to be a constant
visitor to the Pennyfoot, especially during the Yuletide
season, and this year is no exception. Although kissing
under the mistletoe is a centuries-old tradition, at the
Pennyfoot, people who are spied kissing under the merry
bough keep turning up dead, and it's up to Cecily to figure
out who the killer is before more deaths and additional
fears ruin the Christmas holidays. And if that's not enough
mayhem to keep Cecily busy, Madeline's sweet baby turns up
missing, and time is running out to find the baby, solve the
crimes, and reign in the chaos before Christmas is upon them.
Kate Kingsbury is the Queen of English cozy mysteries and
her special Pennyfoot Christmas editions are always a
special treat! She incorporates a lively cast of characters
into her stories that fans of her novels will enjoy
getting an update on, and her gift of storytelling keeps the
action and suspense moving along at a quick pace that
always includes a delicious cliff-hanger ending that will
have fans impatiently waiting for more!
SUMMARY
This holiday season there'll be murder under the mistletoe
at the Pennyfoot Hotel...
As friends, family, and guests gather at the Pennyfoot Hotel
to share the joys of the season, Cecily Sinclair Baxter and
her staff are hustling and bustling more than ever. Cecily's
friend Madeline arrives with her new baby and adds a kissing
bough to the decorations. Cecily believes that the holiday
couldn't get off to a better start...
But after a footman and a new maid are seen kissing under
the bough and then turn up dead afterwards, the downstairs
staff is convinced a serial killer is among them...perhaps
the mysterious guest known only as J. Mortimer. When
Madeline's baby disappears, Cecily desperately tries to find
the child. If she doesn't catch this killer in time,
everyone's cheer will quickly turn to fear.
ExcerptChapter 1
The chill wind from the ocean had brought gray skies and
the threat of rain earlier that morning. In fact, the
Pennyfoot’s chief housemaid thought she smelled snow in the
salty air as she stepped out into the kitchen yard.
Above Gertie McBride’s head, seagulls circled in search
of food, their shrill cries echoing across the smoking
chimneys. It wasn’t the hungry gulls that caught her
attention, however. It was the sound of raised voices, one
shrill, the other harsh and grating.
Gertie recognized them both. The high-pitched voice
belonged to the new maid, Ellie. Gertie didn’t like
Ellie. She was the sort that acted sweet and innocent in
front of Mrs. Chubb, but behind her back was as saucy as a
concubine.
Gertie, on the other hand, believed in saying what she
thought, no matter who could hear her. All that putting on
airs and graces was nothing better than lying, and Gertie
couldn’t stand a liar.
The other voice, even harsher now, Gertie knew belonged
to the coalman, Stan Whittle. She’d recognize his Scottish
accent anywhere. She’d been married to a Scot, and knew
what one sounded like. From the sound of it, Stan was
really angry with Ellie, for some reason.
The maid, however, seemed more than capable of holding
her own. Her voice rising, she shouted words that made
even Gertie blush. Deciding that the last thing she wanted
to do was get in the middle of an argument, Gertie decided
that the wine cellar could wait. They wouldn’t need the
sherry for another two hours. She’d come back later.
Leaving the two voices to their battle, she turned
around and went back inside the kitchen.
#
No one would ever guess, when first glimpsing the red
roofs of the Pennyfoot country club, that the sparkling
white walls hid a dark and menacing secret. Indeed, upon
first sight, the tastefully decorated foyer offered a warm
welcome to all who ventured inside.
Met with bright crimson ribbons, boughs of holly and
wreaths of lush, green fir adorning the staircase, not to
mention the graceful Christmas tree glowing with white lace
angels and silver balls, one was immediately engulfed in
the best of the Edwardian Christmas spirit.
A tantalizing aroma of spicy, boiled Christmas puddings,
tangy mince pies and roasting chestnuts lured the visitor
even deeper into the hallways, where anxious staff members,
eager to please, extended a guiding hand.
Since long before the turn of the century, the Christmas
season at the Pennyfoot had offered its visitors an
enjoyable week or so of appetizing food, warm hospitality
and exciting entertainment.
Perhaps too much excitement for some, as a few previous
guests might have attested. For all who entered the
Pennyfoot’s walls in December did so at the risk of falling
prey to the infamous Christmas curse.
Not that such misfortunes were ever advertised, of
course. In fact, everyone employed at the club looked
forward to the Christmas season with the firm belief that
this year would prove to be the exception.
Cecily Sinclair Baxter was especially determined that no
misfortune such as the Christmas curse should mar the
festivities. Having once owned the Pennyfoot when it was a
hotel, she had sold it to her cousin who had then turned it
into the country club.
Cecily had taken over the management and now it was her
job to see that each and every guest enjoyed a pleasant and
rewarding visit and returned home with many happy memories
that would last a lifetime.
She would allow no forbidding thoughts to surface, in
the hopes that an optimistic outlook would bring positive
results. Nevertheless, her resolve was somewhat shaken
when her husband arrived home that evening from his office
in London with an ominous declaration.
"He has struck again," Baxter announced, throwing his
Homburg onto the bed in the boudoir.
Seated at her dressing table, Cecily stared at his image
in the mirror. "Who has struck what, darling?"
"Not what. Whom." Baxter pulled off his cravat and ran
a finger around his starched collar. "Another young girl,
brutally slain. It‘s disgusting. You’d think Scotland
Yard could have caught the scoundrel by now."
Cecily felt a shiver of fear. "Oh, dear. You’re
talking about London’s latest serial killer."
"I am, indeed." Baxter sank heavily onto the
bed. "He’s got most of the city terrified out of their
wits."
"Are they so sure it’s a serial killer? Couldn’t it
just be more than one murderer?"
"Unlikely. The victims are all young women and all
similar in appearance. The trademark of a serial killer.
Not only that, with each victim the murderer has left a
memento behind."
"Memento?"
"Yes. You know, the sort of badge that distinguishes
him as the perpetrator of the crime."
Cecily shuddered. "As if he’s proud of his gruesome
handiwork."
"He usually is," Baxter muttered darkly.
"So what kind of memento is he leaving?"
"No one knows. Scotland Yard refuses to disclose a
description. They call him the Mayfair Murderer.
Apparently all the bodies have been found on or close by
Savile Row."
"Good heavens." She sat up. "That is a very nice part
of town. Whatever is the city coming to, harboring mass
murderers in such a respectable area?"
"Which makes one wonder what it was about that place the
killer hated so much." The clip clop of horses hooves and
the rumble of carriage wheels outside caught his
attention. He rose and walked over to the window. "Looks
as if some more guests are arriving."
"Most of them are here now." Cecily leaned forward and
dabbed at her nose with her powder puff. "The honeymoon
couple arrived first. Geoffrey and Caroline Danville.
They are such a precious couple and so obviously in love.
The very first thing they did was kiss under the kissing
bough. Just so adorable."
Baxter raised his eyebrows. "Kissing bough?"
"Yes, dear. That big round ball of greenery hanging in
the foyer. Surely you must have seen it? It’s enormous!"
Baxter merely grunted. "Another of Madeline’s works of
art, I presume."
"You presume right, dear." Cecily decided to ignore the
hint of derision in her husband’s tone. Madeline Pengrath
Prestwick was one of Cecily’s best friends.
Tall and slim, Madeline resembled a woodland nymph
rather than a doctor’s wife. Her frocks were of the finest
linen, but flowed to her bare feet without any of the
confining tucks and seams that fashion demanded. With
great disregard to protocol, she often left her black hair
unbound, allowing it to fall to her waist. It pained
Cecily that not one hint of grey appeared in the gleaming
locks. In fact, Madeline had not seemed to age at all in
the years Cecily had known her.
That her perpetual youth was due to her mysterious
powers with herbs and wild flowers was never in question,
and Cecily had often been tempted to ask for a bottle of
whatever magical potion kept her friend looking twenty
years younger than her age.
Only pride had kept her tongue still. Pride and the
knowledge that if Baxter were to ever find out, she would
never hear the last of it. Madeline was considered a witch
and feared by many of the inhabitants of Badgers End.
Baxter shared in that belief. He tolerated the woman
solely because she was a beloved friend of his wife’s.
Cecily leaned forward and studied her face in the
mirror. No matter how much cold cream she smeared on her
skin at night, the little lines at the sides of her eyes
seemed to grow deeper every day. Just a few short years
now until her fiftieth birthday, and the closer she got,
the less she liked it.
She glanced at her husband’s image again. Baxter looked
no older than the day she’d met him. Drat the man. Why
was it that men appeared better-looking with age, while
women just became old and decrepit?
"Isn’t that in questionable taste?"
Having forgotten the point of their discussion, Cecily
blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"The kissing ball thing. Do you really want people to
put on a public exhibition in the foyer? Don’t you think
that might give the Pennyfoot a somewhat unsavory image?"
Cecily swung around on her stool. "Bax! How terribly
unromantic of you! The kissing bough has been an English
Christmas tradition for hundreds of years. Besides, we’ve
always had a sprig of mistletoe hanging in the foyer.
You’ve never found that unsavory."
Baxter shrugged. "Maybe because it wasn’t quite so
obvious as a monstrous ball of the stuff. I have visions
of our guests fighting to slobber all over each other in
full view of the front door. I can’t imagine that would
enhance our reputation."
"In case you haven’t noticed, the Pennyfoot’s reputation
has never been exactly pristine. It’s common knowledge
that the aristocracy uses our facilities for illicit
relationships, and may I remind you that it’s only recently
that we have had a license to conduct card games. Until
then, if you remember, we were forced to keep our illegal
card rooms underground. I hardly think a kissing bough
compares to any of that."
He must have heard the resentment in her voice, as he
moved over to her and laid a warm hand on her
shoulder. "Forgive me, my dear. I’m being overly
critical."
"Yes, you are." She peered up at him. "Are you,
perhaps, not well?"
Shaking his head, Baxter walked over to the wardrobe and
opened it. "I am disturbed, that is all. I happened to see
a picture this morning of the Mayfair Murderer’s latest
unfortunate victim."
Cecily was surprised to see her husband visibly
shudder. Baxter was usually complacent in the face of
adversity, and it troubled her to see him so upset. "That
must have been quite horrifying."
"It was." Pulling a black dress coat from the wardrobe,
Baxter muttered, "Diabolical. I hope they catch the wretch
before he butchers someone else."
Cecily ignored her little flutter of
apprehension. "Well, thank goodness we are far from the
city. We have no such worries here."
"Not that far. After all, most of our guests have
traveled here from London."
Cecily managed a nervous laugh. "Well, I’m sure we
won’t be offering hospitality to a serial killer."
"I sincerely hope not." Baxter moved closer and reached
for the white bow tie lying on the dresser. "I don’t know
why you insist we join the guests for the welcome banquet.
All those introductions, small talk and hand-shaking - not
to mention that fussy little photographer getting in
everyone’s way. By the time we’re done with it the food
will have grown cold."
Cecily rose from her seat to assist her husband with his
tie. "Hush, dear. You know quite well that we always
personally greet our guests at the welcome banquet and that
you always enjoy conversing with the ladies. As for the
photographer, just think of the memories we’ll have to look
back on when we are too old to manage the country club
anymore."
Baxter grunted again and dropped a light kiss on his
wife’s forehead. "If you say so, my dear."
"You’ll enjoy meeting Sir Walter and Lady Hayesbury.
He’s a baronet and such a charming man. He was most
understanding when I explained about the roof."
"The roof?"
"Yes, dear. Ellie, the new maid, noticed the bed in
room four was quite damp. When Mrs. Chubb went up to
inspect it she saw the roof had been leaking. She summoned
the roofers, and they arrived this afternoon. I had to
explain to Sir Walter that there might be some noise while
the repairs are going on, and he was most accommodating. A
very engaging man."
"Hmmph. Not too engaging, I hope."
Cecily smiled. "Never fear, my dear one. No one will
ever take your place in my heart."
"I’m happy to hear it." He peered in the mirror to
inspect her handiwork. "Who else do I have to worry might
steal my wife’s affections?"
She laughed out loud. "Well, there is one particular
gentleman. Mr. Mortimer. He will be spending Christmas
here alone, so I feel rather sorry for him."
Baxter straightened. "It always amazes me how some
people can run away to a strange place to be alone,
especially at Christmastime."
"Sometimes it’s easier than being surrounded by the
familiar." Cecily frowned. "I can’t help feeling that
this gentleman has suffered some kind of tragedy. He
barely speaks and keeps his face hidden by one of those
awful slouch hats that painters wear. He didn’t even sign
his first name, just an initial, J. Mortimer. A very
unhappy man, I would say."
"I do hope you are not going to spend the entire
Christmas season worrying over a complete stranger who
might simply be suffering from a bilious stomach."
"No, dear. Of course not. I shall be far too busy."
She held up the two ends of a string of pearls. "Would you
be an angel and fasten these for me, please?"
His fingers fumbled at the back of her neck, sending
delicious little tingles down her spine. "It sounds as if
we have a mixed bag of guests as usual."
"We also have two children staying with us. Lord and
Lady Millshire have brought their son, Wilfred, and their
daughter, Harriet. Rather rambunctious, I’m afraid. "
His hands stilled. "There goes the peace and quiet.
Young children?"
"About the same age as Gertie’s twins. It’s too bad the
twins are in London until Christmas Eve. They could have
played together."
"I hardly think our guests would allow their children to
associate with the offspring of a housemaid."
"Chief housemaid." Once more Cecily gave her husband a
worried look. "Good heaven’s, Hugh, the twins are your
godchildren. You didn’t have to sound so derisive. Gertie
has been with us since she was a child herself. She’s part
of our family, as is all our staff. You’re not usually so
contemptuous. You really must be out-of-sorts." She
rarely called her husband by his first name, and usually
did so when she was annoyed with him.
Apparently acknowledging this, Baxter was immediately
contrite. "I’m sorry, dearest. I shall make no more
comments, I promise, until I’m in a better frame of mind."
"That would be wise." She pulled open a dresser drawer
to retrieve a white lace-edged handkerchief. Tucking it
into her sleeve, she murmured, "Perhaps we should join our
guests for dinner. Maybe they can improve your
disposition."
She led him from the room, feeling a deep sense of
foreboding. Something had greatly upset her husband. If
it were
indeed the picture of the slain girl that had generated
such concern, then she shuddered to think what the poor
woman had suffered at the hands of such a beast. In light
of that, it was difficult to hold forbidding thoughts at
bay.
Descending the gaily decorated staircase, she sent up a
silent prayer that the Christmas curse be forever banished
from the Pennyfoot country club. May this be the first
year they could escape such tragedy and simply enjoy the
happiest season of all.
#
Mrs. Chubb, the Pennyfoot’s industrious housekeeper, was
in a particularly good mood. She had received news that
her daughter was expecting an addition to the family, and
she was already planning her summer visit.
Much as she loved living in the tiny village on
England’s southeast coast, there were times when she missed
her daughter dreadfully, and lived for the excuse to make
the long journey north.
So it was that when Ellie, the new maid hired for the
busy holidays, had alerted her that one of the ceilings on
the top floor had sprouted a leak, soaking the bed beneath
it, Mrs. Chubb had viewed the calamity with less concern
than she might have done normally. After all, what was a
wet bed compared to a new life on the way? She had simply
rung the roofing company and demanded they start work that
very afternoon.
Even when her chief housemaid, Gertie, charged into the
kitchen with her usual lack of grace and decorum, cap askew
and strands of dark hair flying, Mrs. Chubb resisted the
temptation to scold her and made do with a loud sigh
instead. "One of these days, Gertie, my girl, you’ll rush
in here like that and do some real damage. Then you’ll be
sorry, mark my words."
Gertie grinned. "Sorry, Chubby. I was in a hurry.
Pansy forgot to bring the shakers up to the dining room."
She rushed over to the dresser and grabbed up the tray of
silver salt and pepper shakers. "She’ll forget her bloody
head one day, that girl."
"How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t call me
Chubby." The housekeeper wagged a finger at her
unrepentant maid. "I don’t know what you and Pansy get up
to in that dining room, but you were both supposed to be
back here half an hour ago. Michel will be in any minute
and you know he throws a fit if his potatoes aren’t peeled."
Gertie wrinkled her nose. "Michel throws a bleeding fit
over nothing. All that crashing and banging around gives
me a headache. You’d think he was the king of England
instead of a blinking chef. I don’t know why madam ever
hired him. He’s nothing but a big ponce with a bad temper."
"Gertie Brown McBride!" Mrs. Chubb dug her fists into
her ample hips. "Hold your tongue! Calling people such
names, indeed."
"All right, all right. Keep your bloomin’ hair on."
Gertie stomped over to the door with the tray. "I’ve got
to get back to the dining room with the shakers, or we’ll
never have the tables ready for the welcome banquet."
Mrs. Chubb held up her hand. "Just a minute! As soon
as you’ve finished up there, tell Pansy she’s to boil up
some water for hot water bottles."
Gertie raised her eyebrows. "We already aired all the
beds."
"Yes, well, one of them’s soaking wet, so we’re going to
need hot water bottles and warming pans to get it dry."
"Someone wet the bed? How could they? We haven’t had
any guests until this afternoon." Gertie widened her
eyes. "It weren’t Mr. Baxter, was it?"
All of Mrs. Chubb’s patience evaporated. It was one
thing to insult the chef, but to cast aspersions on madam’s
husband was something she simply would not tolerate.
Raising her voice, she barked, "No, it wasn’t Mr. Baxter!
It was a leak in the roof. Get up there right now so you
can both get back here and get that water boiled and the
warming pans filled with coals."
"All right, all right. I’m going." Gertie bashed the
door open with her knee and disappeared, though she could
be heard muttering to herself all the way down the corridor.
Letting out her breath, Mrs. Chubb turned to Ellie, who
had been cowering in the pantry throughout the
exchange. "What are you doing in there? Come on out
here. I need you to get the hot water bottles and warming
pans from the laundry cupboard. Right this minute."
Ellie scurried to the door and pushed it open. "Yes,
Mrs. Chubb. Right away, Mrs. Chubb."
The housekeeper watched the door swing to behind her.
If only Gertie and Pansy were half as obedient and
respectful. This new maid was such a polite little thing.
Maybe a bit too jumpy and nervous at times, but always
willing to please. With that flaxen hair and blue eyes, at
times she looked like a little angel.
Mrs. Chubb’s lips twitched. There was no possible way
Gertie could ever look like an angel. Not only was she as
dark-haired and dark-eyed as the devil, she had the build
and constitution of a bull. And every bit as stubborn.
Still, she had to admit, the Pennyfoot would be a dull
place without Gertie McBride and her runaway tongue. Not
that working in the club was ever dull. Especially at
Christmastime. Her stomach gave a little flip. No, not
this year. This year there would be no nasty business.
This year was going to be different. She’d bet her best
bonnet on it.
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