Chapter 3
Silver-haired and some would say silver-tongued Spenser McAdoo looked through his luncheon list while twirling his silvery handlebar mustache. It was his one affectation and no matter how ridiculous it was he could not get rid of it. He firmly believed that everyone was entitled to some kind of eccentricity. That was one thing among many things that he had learned running mystery vacations all these years. Everyone was an eccentric most especially those who attended these events. Unlike past events, he noted, this mystery had many more first time participants. Usually, he could count on at least a handful of old hands but not this time around.
"Well, this makes for an interesting pickle, don't it?" he muttered.
"What was that, luv?" asked Patricia Welborn, the hotel's concierge and combination house mother and agony aunt to staff and guests alike. She was inspecting the luncheon tables making sure everything was as it should be. Besides the head table with three chairs there were two circular tables with seven seats apiece.
"Nothin', Patty. There's a wee bit more first timers than usual, is all," McAdoo answered. He would have said more but he saw that Mr. Wright had entered. He could always count on this one to be early, methodical and predictable. He smiled brightly, slipped into genial host mode and extended his hand. "Good to see you, Mr. Wright. How has your stay been?"
"Exemplary, Mr. McAdoo." Wright nodded at McAdoo but saved a charming half smile for the concierge. "Mrs. Welborn runs a fine hotel here."
"T'would that all our guests were as fine as you. I mean ... I mean as agreeable as yourself, Mr. Wright." Mrs. Welborn patted her bun and preened a bit. "You've been no trouble at all."
Mr. Wright had made an indelible impression upon the staff. One of the maids had come in early to take care of Mr. Wright's room. Unbeknownst to her at the time, he had been in the shower. She heard him singing the Rolling Stones song Don't Stop at the top of his lungs and made to leave. She was making her way to the door when he stepped out of the bath in the all together toweling his hair dry. Realizing he was not alone in his room, Mr. Wright had covered himself up immediately. He had gone so far as to have a bouquet of flowers delivered to the housekeeping staff in way of apology. Since then, housekeeping was treated to daily fights on who would get his room assignment for the day. It made for some excitement in the staff room.
"Now, Mrs. Welborn, I did ask you to call me David, did I not? For your unforgivable faux pas, I insist that you sit beside me for lunch." said Wright taking the now flustered woman's hand and kissing it lightly as a gentleman would. "Mr. McAdoo, surely that would be permissible?"
"Certainly, certainly," McAdoo agreed. He watched as Mrs. Welborn showed Wright his seat and promptly moved a placard elsewhere so she could take the seat next to him. He was amazed at the completely in character Mr. Wright. He must have been practicing since the last event. And what a dramatic change in appearance. The voice is nearly the same if a bit higher pitched than the normal bass.
A movement by the door caught Mr. McAdoo's eye. Another early bird it seems.
If she had been a bird, he thought, she would have been categorized as an exotic bird of paradise. She approached McAdoo with poise and confidence, regal as royalty. The fall of raven black hair accentuated a face of classic English heritage. Luminous green eyes made the vision complete. McAdoo did not mark her as one of the regulars.
Her voice when he heard it sounded younger than her appearance would suggest but the unmistakable undercurrent of authority under the playful tone made him take notice immediately. "Mr. McAdoo, I presume? I'm Diana Stevens."
"Yes, yes, of course, Ms. Stevens, this is a pleasure, my pleasure, indeed," Up close, he saw that she was not stunningly beautiful but there was something about her that made you notice her whether you wanted to or not. "We'll be starting as soon as all the guests are present. Have you met Mr. Wright?"
"No, not yet. I just arrived this morning," Hermione explained. McAdoo led her towards Mr. Wright and Mrs. Welborn.
McAdoo knew the second Mr. Wright noticed their advance because Mr. Wright did an almost unnoticeable double take. McAdoo imagined that the young man must feel like he had when noticing the graceful young lady for the first time. The aptly descriptive word dumbfounded came to mind. With this kind of a distraction, it may take Mr. Wright more than three days to solve this mystery if at all.
"Mrs. Welborn, Mr. Wright, may I introduce Ms. Stevens," said McAdoo.
Snape stood, shook her hand and moved to pull out the empty chair next to him. Mrs. Welborn indicated that Ms. Stevens was seated at another table per the seating chart. Snape bit back an acid comment about the bloody seating chart. Instead, he stayed standing and looked as attentive as he could.
"Are your rooms to your satisfaction, Ms. Stevens, " asked Mrs. Welborn ever the concierge.
"They're lovely. The views are breathtaking," answered Hermione. "I can't wait to explore the beach a little later."
"I would be happy to join you on your explorations, Ms. Stevens. There is a particularly scenic spot on the far end." Snape offered. He toned down his look to mild but positive interest. It wouldn't do to look too desperate or too fascinated. But he couldn't deny the woman was setting his pulse to racing just by standing there.
If she had been a witch, he thought, she would have looked stunning in Slytherin colors. No wedding or engagement rings, tall, about five seven or five eight with a figure that had curves in the right places or at least the places he preferred and legs that seemed endless. He approved of her attire a business suit over a micro mini and shoes that screamed a subdued yet obvious "Bite Me!" For a fashion designer he had expected something more outlandish but she was dressed very tastefully - fashionable but still with exquisite taste. It was the way she carried herself that made people take notice, he decided. Severus reasoned that he had to find out more about her. After all she was a probable suspect, mistress or not.
"Thank you, Mr. Wright, was it? Perhaps I shall take you up on it. I'll let you know." Hermione replied and smiled rather prettily. "Mr. McAdoo, could you point me to my seat, please."
Once she was seated, Hermione congratulated herself on her admirable self restraint as her eyes and thoughts drifted to the oh-so-disturbingly delectable Mr. Wright. She had been a hair's breadth from accepting his offer but had pulled back just in time. His height, windswept but well coiffed, short sandy blond hair, soulful brown eyes, aquiline nose, thin sensuous lips, distinguished trimmed beard and very pleasant baritone voice made him hard to ignore. He hovered around forty she would guess. A barrister she remembered and, from the sharp cut of his clothes and the way he carried himself, a successful one. The black pants, black shirt and tan overcoat complemented his lean frame.
He was very attractive for a muggle. The little voice interjected that she had left the wizarding world behind her in London for at least a week give the man a chance already. His mere presence was doing too many things to her peace of mind as it was and he wasn't even her usual type - tall, dark and poetically brooding. Am I here to solve a mystery or land a man?
She hummed to herself to drown out the persistent voice that kept insisting she was there for the latter. Find a live one, put him through his paces then drag the man off to bed letting him come up for air or sustenance every other hour. You only live once after all! The detective in her reminded her to pay attention. No matter how drool-worthy Mr. Wright might be, he was still a likely suspect. The man is a total stranger. Behave yourself!
Other people started coming in. Some chatted with Mr. McAdoo but most wandered around greeting others while looking for their seats. A tall, athletic, black haired man talking animatedly with Mr. McAdoo caught Hermione's attention. She immediately noticed the expensive camera slung carelessly about one shoulder which only lent credence to his general air of easygoing affluence. There was another man distinctive in his bulk and tartan plaid kilt standing by Mr. Camera. Her gaze swept across the room. A hard-faced woman came to sit at her table. She was of medium height with light brown hair and dark eyes. She introduced herself as Ms. Cynthia McFadden. Despite several attempts at conversation, Hermione found that Ms. McFadden was either not naturally talkative or just was not in the mood for idle chit chat.
On the other side of the room, Severus was having a problem commonly known in bachelor parlance as "the clinging vine." Ms. Amanda Danforth had arrived and attached herself to Snape's arm draping herself all over him whenever an excuse presented itself. The blonde was attractive enough in a brittle sort of way. Her beauty was bought at the cost of several pounds of cosmetics, he estimated. Her figure was encased, that really was the best word for it, in a one-piece sheath dress which was at least one size too small for her and, worse, its unflattering color made her skin look washed out.
Mrs.. Welborn was chatting up the American couple John and Emily Moss and the architect Michael Levinson. Severus half dragged Ms. Danforth to her seat which was thankfully far opposite his own. Her outfit he could forgive. Her badly done attempts at being a wanton he found amusing. But her voice was his undoing. It was whispery soft, breathy and childlike with a tendency towards squeakiness. A few minutes of hearing that and he was more than ready to throw her off a cliff.
"Mr. Levinson, may I introduce you to the delightful Ms. Danforth," Snape very deliberately removed Ms. Danforth's claw from his arm and placed it on her lap.
"Oh, you're the architect. Can I call you Michael? No need to be formal surely," cooed Ms. Danforth.
The object of her attention Mr. Levinson fidgeted in his seat. He was of medium, wiry build and his receding hairline contrasted with his boyish countenance. His blue eyes were merry and mischievous. But he seemed to share Ms. Danforth's horridly out of place fashion sense. He was dressed in scuffed brown cowboy boots, faded blue jeans, a white oxford in need of a pressing, a garish orange and blue tie and topped by a crisp blue blazer.
"Call me Mike, miss," Mr. Levinson said with a hint of a Cockney accent. "Nice place here. Have you ..."
Mr. McAdoo had a problem himself. One known in event planner circles as "the mouth." Mr. Jack Ironside would not stop talking about the photos he had taken of the area, how perfect the natural light was or how he was planning to tour the nearby Eden Project.
Mr. McAdoo bided his time until Ironside had to take a breath and plunged in with "Now, Mr. Ironside, Mr. Maclemore let me show you to your seats, shall I?"
Hermione found Mr. Camera/Ironside seated on her left with Mr. Highlander/Maclemore seated to Ms. McFadden's right across the table. She and Ironside had immediately gotten on and started a conversation about photography. Physically attractive but she took him off her potential man list as she perceived that he was a homosexual. Across the table, Maclemore was having better luck coaxing some idle chit chat from Ms. McFadden. They were sitting there joking and at ease with each other. In fact, Hermione could have sworn she'd heard a feminine giggle or two from the taciturn Ms. McFadden.
"I've always wanted to tour Scotland. But I never get around to it," said Cynthia warming up to the jovial Bruce Maclemore.
"Well, seeing as you've said you're a horsewoman, ya musta come to the Selkirk annual Common Ground festival." said Maclemore his brogue thick and soothing to the ears. "Tis a fine display of horsemanship and the festivities go on fer a few days. Yeh really must come."
Hermione felt more than saw the chair to her right acquire an occupant. She glanced over to see a tall, spare man with military cut red hair and attire all in black take the seat. She said with a smile "Mr. Timmons, I presume."
"You presume right, Ms. Stevens. I saw Mrs. Welborn putting together the seating chart yesterday," said Mr. Timmons charmingly. "I traded seats with Claymore here."
He gestured to another man, Adam Claymore, seated to his left who was scanning the room. Timmons clapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. "Hey, Claymore, may I introduce the lovely Ms. Stevens."
Claymore turned his attention and Hermione was treated to an angelic face - intense blue eyes, wavy dark blond hair, firm jaw, full lips and a nose that was strong without overwhelming the rest of his face. "Ms. Stevens, a pleasure. I don't have Timmon's memory of the seating chart. Quite a group here. Please call me Adam."
Please, please call me pleaded Hermione inner's voice. Was it ever a good idea to come here! Two definite entries in her man list and it was only the first day. She tore her eyes away from his face and looked at the rest of the impressive Mr. Claymore. He had on shiny shoes, black pants and a chambray blue shirt unbuttoned at the collar that showed off his blond hair and blue eyes. Her detective voice spoiled her fun though by reminding her that he was probably a red herring meant to act as a distraction.
Joining McAdoo at the head table were two other men. One was quite young probably in his mid twenties in a conventional gray suit with a name badge identifying him as a Mystery Events Inc employee. The other gentlemen was older and very distinguished. He did not have a name badge but his clothes marked him as well to do.
Mr. McAdoo stood up at the head table and made his usual announcement. "While we enjoy this fine luncheon, Oswald Dunvey, my assistant will be passing out your mystery packets around dessert time. Please read it. After lunch we will be going by bus to Marazion then by ferry to the scene of the crime - the island of St. Michael's Mount. Our guest speaker is the owner of the Mount, Sir Anthony Renville, and he will be giving us a brief talk about his home's history during dessert. In the meantime, let's eat and get to know one another."
As dessert was being served, their guest speaker and began to speak. "When I was approached to host this event, I was thrilled. My wife Portia and myself are avid mystery fans."
"Let me tell you about St. Michael's Mount. St. Michael's Mount has been a pilgrim's shrine, a Benedictine priory, a trading post, a military garrison and finally a home to my wife's family for several generations. The castle was built in 1135 as a daughter house of Mont St. Michel in Normandy by Abbot Bernard Le Bec under a charter issued by Edward the Confessor. But earlier than that about 350 BC the island itself was home to traders and sea faring merchants who used the island as a natural harbor for their ships sailing away laden with Cornish tin and copper. The Romans routed the merchants and the island was abandoned to hermits and the wilderness."
"In 495 AD a group of fishermen of the island spoke of seeing an apparition of St. Michael standing high on the cliff arms outstretched or walking on the waters of the bay. The island then became a site for medieval pilgrimages. The abbey was built thereafter. In the 15th century, the monks of St. Michael's Mount were forced to end their association with Mont St Michel by Henry the Eight who annexed the island for his own. During the years of war between England, Spain and France the island garrisoned troops and English ships docked there in safety. It last saw military action in 1646 during the English Civil War when it was taken over by the Royalists who were routed by the Parliamentarians."
"Milton immortalized the Mount in his poem Lycidas about a friend who drowned on a trip from Chester to Cornwall while sailing on the Irish seas. In the poem, he referred to the Mount as "the great vision of the guarded mount." And the Mount has not escaped the fancies of folklore. A story is told that the island was built by a giant named Cormoran. This giant would come ashore and steal the settlement's cattle and sheep. Fed up, a boy named Jack rowed to the island and in the cover of night dug a deep pit. At dawn, the boy blew his horn awakening the grumpy giant who lumbered half asleep down the hillside falling to his death into the pit. The rhyme goes "Here's the valiant Cornishman who slew the Giant Cormoran." There is today a large well by the walkway leading to the castle which is supposed to mark the location of Jack's pit."
"Thank you to Mr. McAdoo and Mystery Event Planners for letting me participate. I welcome you to my home and I will be most delighted to act as your tour guide on the ferry."
The buzz of conversation was replaced by silent mutterings and whispers as the "detectives" were given their packets. These packets were quickly unwrapped and all got to the business of reading up on the Mount and the area of Cornwall. No one knew what the crime was. They would find that out later today. But one thing was certain, the culprit or culprits was in attendance at the luncheon. But who was it?