by Alex P. Berg
I followed my gut. The door stood open when I arrived, and though on first glance Simon wasn’t in, someone was. Someone heavy enough to make the floorboards creak in a decidedly thunderous manner.
“How stupid are you people?” I said as I walked into the chamber. “Does no one around here bother to lock doors, or even close them?”
Fezig—or maybe Vezig, it was impossible to tell—spun from his position hunched over Simon’s desk, slamming shut the desk’s central drawer as he did so.
“Huh? What are you doing here?”
“I’m investigating Mrs. Vanderfeller’s disappearance. The real question is what you’re doing? Trying to set Simon up for a fall?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Give it a break, Fezig. Or should I say Big J. I found your boy Caleb with the face scruff trying to sneak off through the trees. I know he’s been selling you dope.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Fezig frowned and took a step toward the door. I intercepted him, blocking his path.
“I think you do,” I said. “What do you suppose I’ll find if I open up that drawer there? Crank? Reefer? A designer drug? What do you have against Simon, anyway?”
Fezig glanced toward the desk. He swallowed. “I…ah…”
I lunged toward him, grabbing him by his jacket’s lapel. I felt crazy doing it, but it had worked with Vezig and I’d lived to tell the tale. “Spill it, Fezig. What’s the gambit?”
“Hey, cool it, man.” He brushed me off. “It’s not what you think, okay?”
“I’m listening.”
Fezig adjusted his jacket. He didn’t look like a man about to resort to violence. “I’m not a drug dealer, and I don’t have it out for anyone. I’m an intermediary, that’s it. I take the drugs from that dealer and I make sure Simon gets them. He likes to enhance his party experiences. Liquor alone doesn’t do the job for him. End of story.”
“And what about Lothorien? Are you his intermediary, too?”
Fezig’s eyes widened. “What? How do you know about him?”
“Answer the question, Tall and Large.”
“Okay. Yes, I am,” said Fezig, sputtering. “So what? He likes to experiment, too.”
“The ‘so what’ is that drug dealing is a crime, even by any other name. But I’m willing to let it slide, just as I did for your hookup. The coercion, on the other hand, I’m less willing to overlook.”
“Coercion? What the hell are you talking about? I told you, I don’t have it in for anyone.”
“Don’t lie to me, big guy. I found the letter in Lothorien’s wastebasket. Why are you blackmailing him?”
“Blackmail?” Fezig blinked, and a light seemed to go on in his round melon.
“Are you telling me that lovely, flowing script wasn’t yours?”
“Hey, man, I didn’t write that letter. I promise.”
“But you know who did. And I’m willing to bet you delivered it.”
“Uh…well…”
“By the gods, Fezig, don’t make me beat it out of you. You may be bigger than me, but trust me, I’ve got loads of experience fighting guys twice my size.”
Fezig held up his hands. “Okay. Just because I’m a big security guard doesn’t mean I want to pick fights. Certainly not with cops. It was Sydney.”
“And why’d you deliver it? You were being nice? Or does she have something on you, too?”
“No. I work for her.”
I blinked. “Like some sort of double agent?”
“No, like, I just work for her. She keeps the books. The money flows through her. Literally. She delivers the paychecks. I’m not stupid. I don’t bite the hand that feeds me.”
“But what about Marcus?”
Fezig shrugged. “What about him?”
“He’s the head of the estate, isn’t he? Are you telling me nobody here takes orders from him?”
“Of course we do,” said Fezig. “Now I can only speak for myself, but all I’m saying is that if push comes to shove, I’d stick with the person who’s actually paying me. And Sydney takes far more interest in me than Mr. Vanderfeller does. That’s all.”
I narrowed an eye. “What else has she ordered you to do?”
“Nothing creepy having to do with Mrs. Vanderfeller, if that’s what you’re insinuating. I took the note to Lothorien. That’s all. I’m telling you, I didn’t have any idea what she’d written on it.”
“Why would she want to blackmail the butler?”
“I don’t know. I’m not in on some grand conspiracy, no matter how much you might want to believe I might be. I just work here.”
His reassurances did nothing to convince me. I took a step back and lowered my hackles. “So where’s Sydney now?”
“I assume in her office. That’s were I saw her earlier.”
I snapped a finger and wagged it at Fezig a few times, but instead of saying anything, I opted to spin and leave in a rush. It had worked with Thaddy, after all. Better to leave my suspects in suspense rather than let them know I still couldn’t make heads or tails of what was going on.
27
I busted into Sydney’s office, which thankfully was as unsecure as the rest of the Aldermont’s bedrooms, servant’s rooms, and guest quarters. I encountered only two problems upon entering. First, Sydney was nowhere to be found. Second, while she hadn’t taken the time to lock her door, she’d seen to it the drawers on her desk had been, both the central drawer over her seat and the large ones to the sides. I tried to force them open, but given that I had a truncheon in my possession instead of a crowbar and that my fingernails weren’t made out of a high-strength steel alloy, the desk’s polished hardwood thwarted my best efforts.
I went ahead and poked around the rest of Sydney’s study, flipping through her books and checking out her baubles, but nothing of note presented itself. I didn’t find any drug paraphernalia or booze or rambling manifestos among the built-in cabinets that comprised the lower half of her bookshelves, just reference texts and folders of sheet music that I assumed was intended for a harp. If Sydney had in her possession any incriminating ledgers or blackmail or files that suggested involvement in the disappearance of her mother, she’d either locked them up tight in her desk or hidden them carefully, perhaps outside her office.
I grabbed the marble globe Sydney had fingered earlier and hefted it in my hand as I paced, trying to think things through. Sydney had admitted in our conversation that she handled the Vanderfeller’s finances, something Fezig had recently confirmed, but if the big ogre was telling the truth, Sydney had more control over the household staff and the course her family had set than she’d admitted. Could she have influenced one of the staff members to kill her mother? Perhaps Lothorien? She seemed to be blackmailing him, though the intent of the letter she’d sent him was unclear.
I shook my head. That line of thinking was pure speculation, and fruitless besides. What I needed to do was consider Sydney’s motivations. Would she have had a reason to kill her mother? When I’d posed the question of Clarice’s demise earlier, she’d said she suspected her mother was dead, but she’d pointed the finger—with little reluctance—at her father, implying he wanted to liquidate the Aldermont for financial reasons. But if Sydney was in charge of the family finances and with making associated fiscal decisions, could she have known something that might spur her to eliminate her mother? Some cash-flow based reason for her demise?
On first thought, it didn’t seem that way. As a result of their marriage, Marcus and Clarice would own the estate jointly. In the event of Clarice’s death, or her permanent disappearance, Marcus would inherit everything. If Marcus did wish to sell the Aldermont, that would solve both his and Sydney’s money problems—assuming they could find a buyer. But would that be enough for Sydney? It didn’t seem a strong motive for murder.
Of course, there were Marcus’s ulcers, which I suspected were only a portion of his
medical problems. What if his overall condition was worse than he let on? He might’ve let Sydney know, given that she ran so much of the house, and Sydney might’ve astutely realized that if he should pass, the entirety of the estate would be in the hands of her reclusive, potentially mentally-compromised mother, who by her own account harbored ties to the estate that couldn’t be severed. Sydney might never escape, then, and having Clarice disappear after her father’s death when she stood to inherit the whole fortune would immediately cast suspicion on her. If she were to dispose of her mother, the time would be now, before her father died.
Of course, that was all speculation, too. Besides, wouldn’t Simon be first in line to inherit the money? Or, like their squabbling grandparents, they’d end up splitting the estate three ways. If I really wanted to know what the possibilities were, I’d need a copy of Marcus and Clarice’s will.
I paused, staring at the marble globe. Rolling it in my hand as Sydney had done had jostled my mind into action, but I couldn’t help but feel there was some important point I was forgetting. Some other avenue I should’ve been pursuing.
It came to me in a rush, and I wondered how I ever managed to solve cases with my goldfish-like memory. I returned the globe to its pedestal, exited the office, and headed down the stairs.
When I arrived at the kitchen, I found it empty except for LeBeau, who was kneading dough over the huge butcher block.
“Pierre. Have you seen Steele recently?”
He looked up. “Ah. Detective Daggers. No, I’ve not zeen Miss Steele zince ze morning, which is a shame because I zink she would appreciate what I am making. An orange sugar-crusted brioche with a zestful swirl on ze inside. I don’t zuppose you’d be interested in helping?”
“Sorry, Pierre. I don’t suppose you know where she went?”
“She zaid she was hoping to speak with ze Misses Streamshine, Opal and Iolite. But I do not know where to find zem, if zat is what you ask. Ze schedules, I do not know zem.”
I grunted.
“Are you certain you do not want zome of ze bread? You did not ztop for breakfast. I myself would be famished.”
I waved him off. I had other things on my mind besides food. “You have a larder, right?”
“Yes. In ze cellar.”
“Excellent,” I said. “I’m going to need you to show me the way.”
28
I stumbled through the darkness, the light from the small flame at the end of my candlestick barely penetrating four or five feet before disappearing into the shadows. Pillars popped out at me like bogeymen, thick columns of brick and coarsely-laid mortar above which hovered heavy arches of the same. Old, packed dirt covered the floor. Add a few walls of femurs and skulls and some assorted religious symbols and I easily could’ve imagined myself in a crypt.
I shivered. It was even chilly. Wonderful.
Of course, I’d expected that. Where else would the manor’s larder be other than underground? Admittedly, the larder hadn’t provided me direct access to the subbasement, but it had led me to the wine cellar which in turn had yielded an opening to the tomb I now found myself in. Surprisingly enough, LeBeau had deigned not to join me in my quest into the underworld. Maybe if we’d managed to find a lantern instead of the puny candlestick I now held his decision would’ve been different, but I doubted it.
Either way, I made doubly sure LeBeau knew that if the passage between the wine cellar and the subbasement miraculously collapsed on me mid-search as the hatch in the attic had, my ghost would torment him mercilessly for the rest of his days. I also checked to make sure the door didn’t latch from the wine cellar side. I’m smart like that.
Still, knowing that I’d be able to get out when I wished didn’t make my excursion into the wannabe sepulcher any less unnerving. LeBeau hadn’t been of any use when I’d asked him where, exactly, I might find Bertrand, and to make matters worse, I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to find my way back out given the space’s cavernous design. Perhaps I should’ve snagged a box of bread crumbs from the larder…
I skirted around another pillar and spotted something in the distance. A point of light. No. Several.
I approached them cautiously, calling out in what I hoped was a gentle, non-threatening tone. “Hello? Anyone there? I’m Detective Daggers, with the NWPD. I have some questions about Mrs. Vanderfeller.”
No one answered, but on the bright side, a foaming half-man half-gremlin dressed in tattered rags didn’t jump on me from the shadows and sink his fangs into my neck, either. Small victories.
As I walked, the light resolved into a half dozen points. Flames from candles like my own, and the remains of hundreds upon hundreds more. Puddles of wax with charred wicks lay strewn over an area amidst the columns, perhaps twenty feet on each side, many of them on the floor but others across the tops of assorted scraps of furniture. A small, splintered table had been mostly covered by their vestiges, as were several shelves of a bookcase filled to the brim with advanced texts: atlases and encyclopedias, dictionaries and thesauruses, famous literary works that could knock somebody out when thrown. I even found melted wax along the edges of a bed, spilling onto the mattress and bed slats within, which seemed exceedingly unsafe given the resultant proximity of the candles’ flames. Two dozen plates and countless pieces of silverware had been stacked beside another column. Their odor indicated their age, but the lit candles proved someone had been by recently.
I set my candlestick on the table and took a look around. In addition to the furniture, a soot-darkened shovel leaned against a column. In the distance, I spotted another orange glow, and although it might’ve been my imagination, I thought I felt a radiant warmth emanating from it. The furnace, perhaps? Would I find Bertrand there? Probably not, otherwise he would’ve brought his shovel. But if not there, where was the lad?
I glanced at the plates again. The food residue on the topmost one appeared wet and sticky. No more than a day old at most. He couldn’t have disappeared alongside Clarice.
I heard something distant, like the squeal of a rusty gate. For once I was able to pinpoint the source, toward my back and into the dark. I gathered my candlestick, my hand itching as I contemplated snatching Daisy from her home. Not more than two dozen paces away, with the light of Bertrand’s candle collection still burning behind me, I reached a wall, but not one as solid as I’d expected. A hole gaped in the side of it, with more bricks and mortar peeking through the gloom on the other side. What was it? An alcove? A passage of some sort? Darkness loomed to the left and right.
A dark figure turned the corner and bounced off me. I cried out as I rebounded, the figure falling to the ground and shrieking. My candle fell to the floor, fluttering and dimming before blazing back to life.
The figure scrambled back on all fours toward the wall, sputtering and stammering and staring at me with a mixture of shock and terror. He slowly coalesced into focus as the candle brightened. Dark hair a hand span in length framed his face. A similarly colored beard covered his cheeks, patchy but better than the sixteen-year-old drug dealer’s by a country mile. His blue eyes shone bright despite his fear, hovering over his hooked nose and strong cheekbones. Despite his spooked deer look, he was handsome, and beyond that, his features were undeniably familiar. Strikingly so, and not simply because I’d seen a portrait of him in Angela’s studio.
At least now Sophie’s unmarried motherhood made more sense.
I pushed my surprise aside. “Bertrand? I don’t mean you any harm. The name’s Daggers. I’m with the police.”
The young man kept stammering for a good five seconds. “I… Ah… But… Uh…”
I held my hands up. “Look, I understand you’re not much of a people person, but I’m here at the behest of Mr. Vanderfeller investigating his wife’s disappearance. I’m assuming you’d heard about that?”
Bertrand reached the wall. He leaned against it, eyeing me like he might a dwarven moneychanger. “Ah…yes. Yes, I’m…aware of that
. Of her, and…you.”
“You’re aware of me? And my partner Steele? Oh. Good. Lothorien told you?”
“I…heard.”
It wasn’t exactly an affirmation. Still, perhaps I wouldn’t have to beat on Lothorien for this particular oversight.
Bertrand kept looking at me as if he wasn’t sure I was real. I might have to take things slow with him. “This your place?”
“The basement?”
I shot a thumb at the collection of furniture and candle remains. “The room-like area here.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s nice.”
Bertrand blinked, clearly confused. “You think?”
“Yeah. It’s cozy. Confined. Those can be good things. Especially if you prefer your privacy. Might get lonely at times, though. You read?”
“Sometimes…”
“Me, too. Mysteries, mostly, though I’ve been trying to get into more non-fiction. Expand my horizons.”
“Mysteries are good, I guess…” Bertrand had finally stopped boring holes into me with his eyes, though I could tell my presence still had his skin crawling.
“I guess it makes sense I like mysteries, seeing as I’m a detective. I mentioned that right? That I’m with the police, here to look into Mrs. Vanderfeller’s disappearance?”
The stammering returned, and he averted his eyes. “I…don’t know anything. How would I? I…don’t go anywhere. I don’t have any reason to.”
“I needed to ask, that’s all. You said you’d heard about me. Perhaps you heard something about Mrs. Vanderfeller.”
He didn’t take the bait. He didn’t even look at me.
“It’s alright. We can come back to that. Maybe in the meantime you can tell me about the fire.”
His eyes shot up. “Fire?”
“Yes. The one seven years ago. The one your mother perished in.”
He leveraged himself up, using the wall to steady himself. “Why are you asking about that?”
