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Continent.”
    All eyes moved to our host.
    I was feeling quite proud of myself and my
knowledge of all things Christie until Mandrake lunged forward and
pulled something out of my cleavage. At least it looked like the
small folded note he held between two upraised fingers had come
from my cleavage. I didn’t remember placing anything there and I
hadn’t felt him pull anything out from that space either.
    I placed my hands over my recently assaulted
breasts.
    “What is this?” the butler asked, waving the
note in the air. Slowly and with every eye watching him, he
unfolded the paper.
    I had an irrational urge to throw myself at
him, grab the note and devour it before he could read one word.
Peter gave me a sideways look and then pulled Kiska to his side,
reminding me that Kiska had destroyed evidence in a similar manner
not all that long ago.
    Not wanting to establish a pattern of
behavior, I gritted my teeth and pasted a bored superior look on my
face.
    “It’s a will!” Mandrake declared with enough
melodrama to make even me suck in a breath.
    “Hold on a second,” Sir Arthur declared.
“You probably shouldn’t be handling that. Fingerprints, don’t you
know.” He pulled a pocket square out of his jacket and carefully
took the note from the butler.
    When the note was spread out flat on the
kitchen countertop, the party gathered around.
    Emily Brent, who had somehow wedged her way
into the front of the pack, began reading.
    It wasn’t a will at all. It was instead some
kind of a poem about a maid who was tired of digging potatoes and
“spudding up docks,” whatever that was.
    I gave Mandrake a sideways look. He’d seemed
nice enough when we were eating dinner, but now everything he said
and did seemed pointed at directing blame to me.
    Peter leaned in and whispered in my ear.
“Play-acting, Lucy.”
    I blinked. Oh, yeah. Mandrake was in
character. I really needed to work on being less sensitive.
    I also, however, wanted to win, and if
Mandrake the character was working this hard to cast suspicion on
Ann the Maid, there had to be a reason.
    I pulled out my handy notebook and scribbled
down my thoughts.
    “It’s Thomas Hardy,” Miss Claythorne
announced.
    I looked around, thinking for a second that
someone new had joined us.
    “The poet,” she clarified. “It’s his poem, The Ruined Maid .”
    Of course . I nodded my head and tried
to look educated, only to realize everyone was once again looking
at me.
    “I’m not ruined,” I declared, maybe a little
too defensively.
    Miss Brent lifted a brow and stared
pointedly at my too short skirt.
    I tugged it down, revealing my note-hiding
cleavage again.
    Peter smiled and then pulled my lace runner
over my front before returning to character and facing the group.
“We should give Maid Ann a chance to explain why she had the
poem... tucked away.”
    His lip quirked.
    I opened my mouth to announce Mandrake’s
duplicity, but was cut short by Lady York raising her hand and
declaring the mystery party done for the evening.
    “We’ll pick up again tomorrow at brunch.
Ann, Mandrake, I’ll need you to come in a half an hour earlier than
the other guests.” The words were brisk and her face drawn. She
snatched the poem up from the counter, folded it back into its
previous discreet shape and concealed it in her fisted hand.
    Mr. Blore in particular did not look pleased
with the announcement. “Done? But it’s only...”
    Dr. Armstrong and Emily Brent chimed in too,
adding their voices to Mr. Blore’s and increasing the tension I
could feel building in the air.
    Lady York, however, had regained her
composure. “Don’t fret. Your mystery hasn’t been cut short. In
fact, you’ll be getting more mystery for your money.”
    Mrs. Peabody moved into the space beside me.
She held a full martini glass in her hand and sipped happily as the
others argued. “Usually, the only things we do the next day
mystery-wise are the accusations and final unveiling. Guess