Part 14 – Which Is Far Too Full Of Washing

Sebastian, standing at the end of the drive under a black umbrella, was the most welcoming thing I had seen all day. When I neared, he handed me the umbrella, wrapped a large towel around my slumped shoulders, recollected the umbrella and  lead me up the drive.

“There is hot cocoa and a fire waiting for you inside.” The man soothed.

I shivered.”Th-thanks.”

Squeezing my shoulder warmly, he inquired: “Where has Master Waif gone off to?”

I knew he was only teasing, but I lost it. I blubbered.

“He’s gone.” Sniffle – slurp! “He ran away.” Oh great. A snivelling wail and a snot-dribbling nose. Perfect end to a great day.

Sebastian produced a handkerchief out of nowhere. “Do not fret, Ms. Baxter. All will be well soon.”

I hoped so.

~*~

Once we entered the foyer, we found the entire house in an uproar. Apparently the “predicament” with the washing machines had grown completely out of proportion. And when I say “out of proportion,” I mean I’ve never seen the meaning of the term so literally. It was everywhere. Laundry bags were stacked, one on top of the other, in tower-of-piza-like fashion, all around the entryway. Relatives waded through piles of soiled attire. Garments and insults flew back and forth. Things like T-shirts, pajamas, and ‘please settle down’s, as well as trousers and “WHO THREW THOSE PANTIES?”

“I’m afraid ‘soon’ will have to be slightly postponed.” Sebastian commented warily.

“No kidding.” If it was possible, my heart sunk even further. Aunts Bonny and Bethany both cackled and waved, swan diving through the heaps. Their youth was… inspiring.

As if things could get any worse, Basil waded through the upheaval towards me. “Geewiz!” He whistled. “This sure is a party. Is it always like this now?” A pair of spiderman underwear landed on my shoulder, and before I could react, Basil plucked it off and chucked it back in the direction it had come from. “Keep your repulsive undergarments to yourself! Hey Bridie, mind if I stay for the rest of the show.”

I sighed grudgingly. “Well, since you’re already here -”

“Superb!” He snapped his fingers and scrambled off. “Now, where did I see that br-”

“Basil!” I frowned. “How did this happen?”

Shrugging as he continued to walk away, he shouted: “I dunno. I just came when I heard the screams.”

Julia and her father appeared just then. “You’re here to fix this, are you?”  Despite the havoc, Uncle Christopher was completely pristine from head to toe. Even his top hat was perfectly aligned. He looked… stately. With his usual brooding manner, he hung over me, waiting.

“Um…” I blinked. “Ow!”

That’s right ladies and gentleman, I had just been pinched by my own butler. Sebastian gave me cheeky grin. He made a motion with his hands. Go on.

“I mean of course.” Throwing back my shoulders I marched into the throng. I had not waded two steps when a run-away laundry bag bowled me over. Cousin Angus chased after it, cackling, a laundry basket over his head.

Gasping like a fish, I managed to wheeze: “Help. Oxygen… necessary… for life!”

Two strong hands grasped me by the waist and righted me. Hale. The room suddenly went from stuffy to suffocating. He had seen that.

A smile. “Let’s get this cleaned up, shall we?” He brushed a stray sock off my shoulder.

” ‘Kay.” Getting harder to breath. I took a shaky step forward to address the room. “Um, hallo everyone?”

I caught Hale attempting to stifle a smile.

A sound shattered the chaos, and every motion stopped as a voice that chilled every bone screeched: “ICE CREAM!”

The silence was so this you could cut it with a knife. Everyone headed for the kitchen. I’ve never seen such a somber precession headed towards frozen treats.

As he passed, I grabbed Basil by the shirt. “You’re sticking around.” I said, firm. “And what on earth have you got on your head?”

Basil righted the long johns wrapped around his cranium. “It’s a turban. I wear a turban now. Turbans are -”

“To whom does it belong?” I growled.

He frowned, scratching under the butt flap. “Judging by who was running after me, it was probably one of the fat octopus ladies.”

“Great. We’re going to give that back once we’re finished, but now I am in need of your assistance.”

Basil’s bottom lip protruded. “But I was gonna get some ice cream.”

“Not now. This is important and a part of agreement.”

“Oh yes I need to talk to you about that.”

“Good. Stick around. Besides, I’m pretty sure Mrs. Post’s homemade ice cream contains a certain red species of round vegetation.

~*~

Once what could be managed was sent to the Roseville Laundromat, and the washing machine mechanic was notified, we set to work. Every available tub was filled with hot water and soap. The maids had been sent outdoors with a mile of clothesline, to be used once we had finished washing. Irons sat at the ready.

Some may think it out of the question that the head of such a mansion should help with the laundry, but this was a special crisis. Every hand was needed to aid the household. Except the guests, who had proved their usefulness in the foyer incident. Besides, I had never tried it, but I’m pretty certain that ‘Death-by-Tomato’ wasn’t among my favorite ice cream flavors.

This day wasn’t about to get any easier.  Before the first load even made it into the tub, I had soap suds in my hair and sleeves soaked to my elbows. Basil insisted on having facial hair composed of bubbles, simply to torment me, and wouldn’t take of his turban until I reminded him it needed to be cleaned for a reason, and he had no idea where it had been. He doused it quite thoroughly. During his violent washing he also managed to soak me from head to toe. Darcy returned just as I was preparing to place Basils head in the washtub and hold it there.

“Whoa, Bridie, enough homicide.” She held me back by my soggy sweater. “Ew, you’re wet! What happened?”

“He did.” I growled.

A smirk came from Basil.

Breath, Bridie, breath. “How did you get home?” I asked. “Did you get caught in the storm?”

“What storm?”

Hale burst through the back door of the laundry room with mock enthusiasm. “The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and the laundry is hanging out to dry!”

Basil stopped creating a bubble wig long enough to notice Hale. He frowned. “Who are you?”

Was it my imagination, or had Hale’s prevailing grin faded just a little?

“If you’ll remember correctly, my name is Hale.”

Basil crossed his arms over his chest. “Never heard of you.”

“I’m Darcy’s brother. Bridie’s friend.”

I was given an unintelligible glance from Basil. “Bridie’s neighbour.” A blob fell from Basil’s wig. “Not related to Darcy in any way.”

“Good to know.”

The boys partook in a greeting of the common kind: they shook hands.

I was afraid that this exchange would turn into a staring contest, but fortunately the washing continued.

“Hey Bridie,” Hale said, a while later, amidst idle chitchat. “What are you planning on doing this week?”

Oh you know, solve a murder mystery; avenge my grandfather. “I’m not sure yet.”

“Well, Darcy and I need to take a trip to the city in a couple days, to pick up some things. Would you like to come?” His hands paused in the wash tub, waiting. An uneasy smile played across his lips.

“Sure.” I heard myself say. At least, I think it’s my voice I hear, but it’s suddenly so small.

The smile reached his eyes then, sincere. “Great.”

“We’ll let you know when we plan on going, as soon as the week clears up a bit.” Darcy splashed soap suds in my direction. I splashed back. “Okay.” Hale flicked water at both of us.

Bubbles flew, water splashed, and clothing got soaked, washed, washed, and hung to dry.

We stopped for dinner, which consisted of tomato soup, then set to ironing straight afterwards.

Darcy set to it like a pro, and Hale with surprising ease, but Basil turned a single shirt inside and out five times before beginning to iron — holding the appliance backwards.

“At least you haven’t burned yourself yet.” I sigh, finally moving over to help. Before I can grab the shirt, Basil deftly turns the shirt right side out and begins ironing properly. “Ah.” He smirks at my dumbfounded expression. “I thought you’d never come over to help me.” This he whispers secretively, leaning over the ironing board.

“So you don’t need my help.” I say. Basil whips through another shirt like he’s been ironing his whole life.

“Pff, naw.” He scoffs. “I’ve been helping my aunt iron my whole life.” Folding the shirt that had taken him fifteen minutes just to start, he begins on the next one, obviously entirely capable. “I just needed to speak to you privately.” I follow his wary glance around the room. Darcy and Hale dutifully iron nearby, and the maids and staff hurry about, washing the few last filthy garments, folding what didn’t need to be ironed, and helping to iron what did. Everyone was busy. No one seemed to notice the troublesome boy from next door speaking in undertones over an ironing board to the girl who despised him.

“You see,” He continued. The iron moved a little to close to my finger and he gives me a cocky grin when I meet his gaze. “I’m not sure I’m sold on this whole thing.”

I purse my lips angrily. “You’re backing out.”

“Nah-ah-ah-ah!” He wags a finger at me. “Not so fast. I just want to remind you that you still owe me something.”

Darcy is suddenly beside me, as though she knew all along what he was saying. “What do you want?” She asks, business-like. Like I’m about to make an important deal and she’s my ever-advising secretary. Which is pretty close.

Basil stroked his chin. “I don’t know… what do you think is a good exchange?”

“We’ll pay you.” Then she coughs. “She’ll pay you.”

Grabbing he by the elbow, I pulled her aside, hissing. “Darcy, I don’t even have a job.”

She looked at me seriously, placing her hand on my shoulders, and says quietly and slowly, “Bridie, you’re a millionaire.”

There was a moment of complete silence, as though even the washing had gone quiet in a moment of solemnity for my stupidity, which was only broken by Basil’s howling and spirited thigh slapping.

“Oh.” Was all I could manage through mortal embarrassment. “I forgot.” Breathing seems impossible through the heat that creeps through my body. I send what I hope is a deathly glare in Basils direction. I’m unable to meet his gaze. He’s laughing so hard his eyes are mostly closed anyway.

Once he manages to compose himself, wiping away a tear, he says: “I don’t want your money anyway.”

I let out an impatient huff. Breathe, Bridie, breathe. “What do you want then. What. Are. You. Here. For.” I want to scream. Maybe cry. His bruise has faded a little. I could darken it.

“I dunno.” He shrugs, then looks me dead in the eye. “I’ll think of something.”

What does that mean? I hope he doesn’t see me shiver.

“You’re in then?” Darcy asks. “For sure?”

He cocks his head and gives me a smug grin. “For the laughs.”

So he can laugh at me, I think. This is all at my expense. Who got the better end of the deal, I wonder?

He’s laughing at me now, I see. That classic smile, laughing down at me He’s so tall, like he always was. I was always short. So small. The room feels suffocating now. Too full of people. I’m so small.

“Bridie, are you going to help more?” Darcy sounds distant.

“No!” I don’t mean to shout. What’s wrong with me? I say it again, quieter this time. “No.”

Darcy and Hale look surprised, concerned. Basils eyes are on me, calculating. Judging.

I need to leave. Now. Before I have a meltdown. Again. For everyone to see. Gathering what’s left of my dignity I hold my head high. “If you’ll forgive me,” I manage to say. “I will be retiring. I never quite got my hot cocoa.”

~*~

December 2, 2004

My Dear Bridie,

Today was a busy day. Many people underestimate the capabilities of a six year old. You withstood endless amounts of Christmas shopping, the loss of a most beloved stuffed rabbit, hours of snow-play, the bullying of older children, and suffered through a breakdown as soon as we made it home. I don’t blame you. Even I felt especially grumpy after today. There is only so much a person can take. I hope that in the future, both you and I will become more aware of how much we can handle. To think our only reward for such agony was a cup of hot cocoa.

Part 7 – In Which the Guests Arrive

The suspects (I mean guests.) began to arrive the next day. Darcy and I insisted on being at the front door to greet them all. The foyer was one of the many rooms of the mansion that fascinated me. For hours as I child I would examine every inch of the vaulted ceiling and intricate marble floor. As we waited now I had to resist the urge to kick off my shoes and slide around the polished floors. But my willingness to please Darcy and Sebastian kept me in check. It couldn’t have been too soon for the family to arrive.  They came in bustling, demanding groups.

The great aunts came first. They all wore demure dresses and sort of blended together in an elderly lump. Sebastian, in all gentleman fashion,  greeted every one as they entered. The porters whizzed about,  grabbing the ladies’  bags and suitcases. Sifting through them, I tried to pick out the most suitable suspects.

Tall, withered and dark, Aunt Beatrice approached me first, looking me up and down with a sniff. I smiled politely. “Nice to see you, Aunt Bea.” Nodding curtly she brushed past.

Aunts Bethany and Bonny came next, ever plump and boisterous. They pinched my cheeks and patted my head. “Where’s the guest rooms?” They crowed. Bonny stumped her cane with impatience. “I’m hungry. How soon is supper?” I greeted them both briskly and they hobbled off, cackling.

Lingering a while was Aunt Betsy. She seemed timid and small. She shook my hand without a smile or a single word and followed her sisters.

The Aunts were not yet settled when the entire rest of the family managed to arrive at the exact same time. They literally drove up in a honking, budging mess of taxis, yet some how strangely synchronized. Then every single on of the taxi doors burst open at the same moment and people flooded towards the mansion. The Relative Apocalypse had begun. If the the porters had been in a hurry before, at that moment they must have been experiencing utter panic. Darcy and I only managed  to greet a handful of the family. Darcy must have seen my desperate look, but nothing could stop the constant flow of relatives.

As quickly as they had come, they were gone, and my friend and I were left standing in the empty foyer. Down the hall could be heard the sound of many men, women and children.

Slumping against the wall, I let out a sigh. Darcy crossed her arms and chewed her lip, looking somewhat stunned.

“Now what?” My question echoed off the vaulted ceiling and hung there, unanswered.

~*~

December 20th 2003

My Dear Bridie,

This morning my sisters arrived. Obviously overwhelmed with the amount of new ladies you turned to me and asked, not at all quietly: “When can we bring the grouchy old hags back?”

From here on forward I’m going to have to watch what I say.

Part 1 – In Which Bridie Inherits the Baxter Mansion

How many times can one say: “I’ve inherited my dead relative’s possessions.”

I, Bridie Baxter, have said this not once — not twice — but three times in my short sixteen years.

The first time, I received my great aunt Jessica’s sweater collection, consisting of three-hundred-plus articles ranging in fabric and color. (Which I use extensively.)

The second, it was my parents, who left me everything they owned. (But apparently they had a large amount of both debts and enemies who willed their poverty, as I ended up just as poor as before they died.)

But neither prepared me for what came next.

As soon as I could walk and speak, my parents dumped me into the unexpecting arms of Grandpa Baxter. Loving me dearly, but not fully knowing what to do with a child, he sent me off to boarding school for most of my short years. I stayed with him during vacation breaks until the age of thirteen, when my parents decided I had become old enough to accompany them on their eccentric world travels. After that, I never saw Grandpa Baxter ever again.

But now as I sat in the pews of the old Roseville church, surrounded by cranky relatives, I barely heard the balding preacher say:

“And to his granddaughter Bridie Baxter, his Roseville estate, his fortune, and belongings.”

Most girls might laugh, scream, or even cry. But I only sat in horrified silence as every head turned to me with a look of jealous hatred.

I was rich.

I was socially secure.

I was dead meat.

~*~

The mystery surrounding Grandpa Baxter’s death was, well… just that. A mystery.

No one knew how he died, much less why such a healthy man could suddenly drop dead. There were no wounds on the body. The police came to the conclusion of poison. Possibly suicide.

But I knew better. There  was no reason for his death except–possibly–

Murder.

~*~

Gazing out the window of a 50’s limo, I looked up at the welcoming sight before me.

Ivy climbed the walls of the old Baxter mansion, shadowing the red brick walls and caressing the peeling white trim and tacky evergreen shutters. The rounding driveway brought us up to the tall, dark doors, which immediately opened as I placed a sneakered foot on the gravel driveway. A familiar face greeted me in the doorway.

“Miss Baxter, it is a pleasure to see you again.” The old butler smiled. “My, you have grown in to a fine lass.”

Tucking a raven lock behind my ear I smiled back, though rather shyly. “Thank you, Sebastian. Though I’m afraid I haven’t grown much taller.”

“Beautiful all the same, lassie.” Sebastian bent to take my suitcases. “Right this way and I will show you to your room.”

Feeling a delightful sense of deja-vu, I pulled my hands even farther into the sleeves of my over-sized sweater and followed my old friend. (Not unlike the way I did when I was six.)

I smiled at the bedroom Sebastian placed my belongings in. Everything was the way I had left it: my stuffed kitty (Suzie) placed lovingly on the frilly, cream canopy bed; drawings littered the vintage wallpaper; two sweater-filled wardrobes stood on either side of the bay window seat; hardwood toy chest sat in the corner.

“I will leave you to get comfortable.” Sebastian said, bowed, and left.

The rest of my chests (mostly sweaters) had already been placed in the middle of my room.  All of the chests were the same: black, metal, paper lined, filled with three-hundred-plus sweaters.

All except one.

I knelt beside the wooden chest. Taking the key off the chain around my neck, I unlocked and lifted the lid. breathing in the scent of African sand, Mexican spices and English tea, I surveyed the treasures of my adventures. Atop the pile sat an album. I didn’t need to open it to know what lay inside: Pictures and keepsakes from Paris, London, Rome, Madagascar — You name it, me and my parents had been there. Each page was a collage of far off places. All but the last page, which was filled only with pictures of me and Grandpa Baxter.

“Breakfast is ready, Ma’am.” A familiar voice said.

“Darcy.” I turned with a smile, then frowned, confused. “You’re a maid?”

Some how Darcy looked like a supermodel, even in her classic maid uniform. She was much taller than I remembered, and not only because of her three inch heels. (Which were no doubt not part of the official uniform.)  One thing hadn’t changed though. I was still jealous as ever of her beautiful blonde hair.

Cocking a hip, Darcy smiled. “Of course. It runs in the family, remember?” (It did. Eighty-seven years, in fact.) “Now are you hungry or not?”

I was, and my stomach rumbled in response.

With a light laugh, Darcy turned on a black heel. “Come on, Birdy.”

Smiling, I didn’t argue.

As the smell of Mrs. Post’s famous German Pancakes wafted through the halls of Baxter Mansion, I began to feel more at home than I had in three long years.

There was only one thing missing.